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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

1. WORLDLY HONORS.    Not a man, for being simply man,    Hath any honor; but honor for those honors    That are without him, as place, riches, favor,    Prizes of accident as oftas merit;    Which when they fall, as being slippery standers,    The love that leaned on them, as slippery too,    Do one pluck down another, and together    Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me.        Troilus and Cressida -- III. 3. End of Project Gutenberg's Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare, by E. Nesbit*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BEAUTIFUL STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE ******** This file should be named 1430-0. txt or 1430-0. zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:        http://www. gutenberg. org/1/4/3/1430/Produced by Morrie Wilson and James RoseUpdated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed. 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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver. 04. 29. 93*END*Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie of HamletExecutive Director's Notes:In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think allthe spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time havebeen corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as theyare presented herein:  Barnardo. Who's there?  Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfoldyour selfe   Bar. Long liue the King***As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain wordsor letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . . this is theoriginal meaning of the term cliche. . . and thus, being unwillingto unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutionsthat look very odd.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It is not meet you know how Caesar loved you. You are not wood, you are not stones, but men;And being men, hearing the will of Caesar,It will inflame you, it will make you mad. ’Tis good you know not that you are his heirs;For if you should, O, what would come of it? FOURTH CITIZEN. Read the will! We’ll hear it, Antony;You shall read us the will, Caesar’s will! ANTONY. Will you be patient? Will you stay awhile? I have o’ershot myself to tell you of it. I fear I wrong the honourable menWhose daggers have stabb’d Caesar; I do fear it. FOURTH CITIZEN. They were traitors. Honourable men! CITIZENS. The will! The testament! SECOND CITIZEN. They were villains, murderers. The will! Read the will! ANTONY. You will compel me then to read the will? Then make a ring about the corpse of Caesar,And let me show you him that made the will. Shall I descend? and will you give me leave? CITIZENS. Come down. SECOND CITIZEN. Descend. [_He comes down. _]THIRD CITIZEN. You shall have leave. FOURTH CITIZEN. A ring! Stand round. FIRST CITIZEN. Stand from the hearse, stand from the body. SECOND CITIZEN. Room for Antony, most noble Antony! ANTONY. Nay, press not so upon me; stand far off. CITIZENS. Stand back; room! bear back. ANTONY. If you have tears, prepare to shed them now. You all do know this mantle. I rememberThe first time ever Caesar put it on;’Twas on a Summer’s evening, in his tent,That day he overcame the Nervii. Look, in this place ran Cassius’ dagger through:See what a rent the envious Casca made:Through this the well-beloved Brutus stabb’d;And as he pluck’d his cursed steel away,Mark how the blood of Caesar follow’d it,As rushing out of doors, to be resolv’dIf Brutus so unkindly knock’d, or no;For Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel. Judge, O you gods, how dearly Caesar lov’d him. This was the most unkindest cut of all;For when the noble Caesar saw him stab,Ingratitude, more strong than traitors’ arms,Quite vanquish’d him: then burst his mighty heart;And in his mantle muffling up his face,Even at the base of Pompey’s statueWhich all the while ran blood, great Caesar fell. O, what a fall was there, my countrymen! Then I, and you, and all of us fell down,Whilst bloody treason flourish’d over us. O, now you weep; and I perceive you feelThe dint of pity. These are gracious drops. Kind souls, what weep you when you but beholdOur Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors. FIRST CITIZEN. O piteous spectacle! SECOND CITIZEN. O noble Caesar! THIRD CITIZEN. O woeful day! FOURTH CITIZEN. O traitors, villains! FIRST CITIZEN. O most bloody sight! SECOND CITIZEN. We will be revenged. CITIZENS. Revenge,—about,—seek,—burn,—fire,—kill,—slay,—let not a traitor live! ANTONY. Stay, countrymen. FIRST CITIZEN. Peace there! Hear the noble Antony. SECOND CITIZEN. We’ll hear him, we’ll follow him, we’ll die with him. ANTONY. Good friends, sweet friends, let me not stir you upTo such a sudden flood of mutiny. They that have done this deed are honourable. What private griefs they have, alas, I know not,That made them do it. They’re wise and honourable,And will, no doubt, with reasons answer you. I come not, friends, to steal away your hearts. I am no orator, as Brutus is;But, as you know me all, a plain blunt man,That love my friend; and that they know full wellThat gave me public leave to speak of him. For I have neither wit, nor words, nor worth,Action, nor utterance, nor the power of speech,To stir men’s blood. I only speak right on. I tell you that which you yourselves do know,Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor poor dumb mouths,And bid them speak for me. But were I Brutus,And Brutus Antony, there were an AntonyWould ruffle up your spirits, and put a tongueIn every wound of Caesar, that should moveThe stones of Rome to rise and mutiny. CITIZENS. We’ll mutiny. FIRST CITIZEN. We’ll burn the house of Brutus. THIRD CITIZEN. Away, then! come, seek the conspirators. ANTONY. Yet hear me, countrymen; yet hear me speak. CITIZENS. Peace, ho! Hear Antony; most noble Antony. ANTONY. Why, friends, you go to do you know not what. Wherein hath Caesar thus deserved your loves? Alas, you know not; I must tell you then. You have forgot the will I told you of. CITIZENS. Most true; the will! —let’s stay, and hear the will. ANTONY. Here is the will, and under Caesar’s seal. To every Roman citizen he gives,To every several man, seventy-five drachmas. SECOND CITIZEN. Most noble Caesar! We’ll revenge his death. THIRD CITIZEN. O, royal Caesar! ANTONY. Hear me with patience. CITIZENS. Peace, ho! ANTONY. Moreover, he hath left you all his walks,His private arbors, and new-planted orchards,On this side Tiber; he hath left them you,And to your heirs forever; common pleasures,To walk abroad, and recreate yourselves. Here was a Caesar! when comes such another? FIRST CITIZEN. Never, never. Come, away, away! We’ll burn his body in the holy place,And with the brands fire the traitors’ houses. Take up the body. SECOND CITIZEN. Go, fetch fire. THIRD CITIZEN. Pluck down benches. FOURTH CITIZEN. Pluck down forms, windows, anything. [_Exeunt Citizens, with the body. _]ANTONY. Now let it work. Mischief, thou art afoot,Take thou what course thou wilt! Enter a Servant. How now, fellow? SERVANT. Sir, Octavius is already come to Rome.

ANTONY. Where is he? SERVANT. He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house. ANTONY. And thither will I straight to visit him. He comes upon a wish. Fortune is merry,And in this mood will give us anything. SERVANT. I heard him say Brutus and CassiusAre rid like madmen through the gates of Rome. ANTONY. Belike they had some notice of the people,How I had moved them. Bring me to Octavius. [_Exeunt. _]SCENE III. The same. A street. Enter Cinna, the poet, and after him the citizens. CINNA. I dreamt tonight that I did feast with Caesar,And things unluckily charge my fantasy. I have no will to wander forth of doors,Yet something leads me forth. FIRST CITIZEN. What is your name? SECOND CITIZEN. Whither are you going? THIRD CITIZEN. Where do you dwell? FOURTH CITIZEN. Are you a married man or a bachelor? SECOND CITIZEN. Answer every man directly. FIRST CITIZEN. Ay, and briefly. FOURTH CITIZEN. Ay, and wisely. THIRD CITIZEN. Ay, and truly, you were best. CINNA. What is my name? Whither am I going? Where do I dwell? Am I a marriedman or a bachelor? Then, to answer every man directly and briefly,wisely and truly. Wisely I say I am a bachelor. SECOND CITIZEN. That’s as much as to say they are fools that marry; you’ll bear me abang for that, I fear. Proceed, directly. CINNA. Directly, I am going to Caesar’s funeral. FIRST CITIZEN. As a friend, or an enemy? CINNA. As a friend. SECOND CITIZEN. That matter is answered directly. FOURTH CITIZEN. For your dwelling, briefly. CINNA. Briefly, I dwell by the Capitol. THIRD CITIZEN. Your name, sir, truly. CINNA. Truly, my name is Cinna. FIRST CITIZEN. Tear him to pieces! He’s a conspirator. CINNA. I am Cinna the poet, I am Cinna the poet. FOURTH CITIZEN. Tear him for his bad verses, tear him for his bad verses. CINNA. I am not Cinna the conspirator. FOURTH CITIZEN. It is no matter, his name’s Cinna; pluck but his name out of his heart,and turn him going. THIRD CITIZEN. Tear him, tear him! Come; brands, ho! firebrands. To Brutus’, toCassius’; burn all. Some to Decius’ house, and some to Casca’s, some toLigarius’. Away, go! [_Exeunt. _]ACT IVSCENE I. Rome. A room in Antony’s house. Enter Antony, Octavius and Lepidus, seated at a table. ANTONY. These many then shall die; their names are prick’d. OCTAVIUS. Your brother too must die; consent you, Lepidus? LEPIDUS. I do consent,—OCTAVIUS. Prick him down, Antony. LEPIDUS. Upon condition Publius shall not live,Who is your sister’s son, Mark Antony. ANTONY. He shall not live; look, with a spot I damn him. But, Lepidus, go you to Caesar’s house;Fetch the will hither, and we shall determineHow to cut off some charge in legacies. LEPIDUS. What, shall I find you here? OCTAVIUS. Or here, or at the Capitol. [_Exit Lepidus. _]ANTONY. This is a slight unmeritable man,Meet to be sent on errands. Is it fit,The three-fold world divided, he should standOne of the three to share it? OCTAVIUS. So you thought him,And took his voice who should be prick’d to dieIn our black sentence and proscription. ANTONY. Octavius, I have seen more days than you;And though we lay these honours on this man,To ease ourselves of divers sland’rous loads,He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold,To groan and sweat under the business,Either led or driven, as we point the way;And having brought our treasure where we will,Then take we down his load, and turn him off,Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears,And graze in commons. OCTAVIUS. You may do your will;But he’s a tried and valiant soldier. ANTONY. So is my horse, Octavius; and for thatI do appoint him store of provender. It is a creature that I teach to fight,To wind, to stop, to run directly on,His corporal motion govern’d by my spirit. And, in some taste, is Lepidus but so:He must be taught, and train’d, and bid go forth:A barren-spirited fellow; one that feedsOn objects, arts, and imitations,Which, out of use and stal’d by other men,Begin his fashion. Do not talk of himBut as a property. And now, Octavius,Listen great things. Brutus and CassiusAre levying powers; we must straight make head. Therefore let our alliance be combin’d,Our best friends made, our means stretch’d;And let us presently go sit in council,How covert matters may be best disclos’d,And open perils surest answered. OCTAVIUS. Let us do so: for we are at the stake,And bay’d about with many enemies;And some that smile have in their hearts, I fear,Millions of mischiefs. [_Exeunt. _]SCENE II. Before Brutus’ tent, in the camp near Sardis. Drum. Enter  Brutus, Lucilius, Titinius and Soldiers; Pindarus meeting them; Lucius at some distance. BRUTUS. Stand, ho! LUCILIUS. Give the word, ho! and stand. BRUTUS. What now, Lucilius! is Cassius near? LUCILIUS. He is at hand, and Pindarus is comeTo do you salutation from his master. [_Pindarus gives a letter to Brutus. _]BRUTUS. He greets me well. Your master, Pindarus,In his own change, or by ill officers,Hath given me some worthy cause to wishThings done, undone: but, if he be at hand,I shall be satisfied. PINDARUS. I do not doubtBut that my noble master will appearSuch as he is, full of regard and honour. BRUTUS. He is not doubted.

A word, Lucilius;How he received you, let me be resolv’d. LUCILIUS. With courtesy and with respect enough,But not with such familiar instances,Nor with such free and friendly conference,As he hath us’d of old. BRUTUS. Thou hast describ’dA hot friend cooling. Ever note, Lucilius,When love begins to sicken and decayIt useth an enforced ceremony. There are no tricks in plain and simple faith;But hollow men, like horses hot at hand,Make gallant show and promise of their mettle; [_Low march within. _]But when they should endure the bloody spur,They fall their crests, and like deceitful jadesSink in the trial. Comes his army on? LUCILIUS. They meant this night in Sardis to be quarter’d;The greater part, the horse in general,Are come with Cassius. Enter Cassius and Soldiers. BRUTUS. Hark! he is arriv’d. March gently on to meet him. CASSIUS. Stand, ho! BRUTUS. Stand, ho! Speak the word along. FIRST SOLDIER. Stand! SECOND SOLDIER. Stand! THIRD SOLDIER. Stand! CASSIUS. Most noble brother, you have done me wrong. BRUTUS. Judge me, you gods; wrong I mine enemies? And if not so, how should I wrong a brother? CASSIUS. Brutus, this sober form of yours hides wrongs;And when you do them—BRUTUS. Cassius, be content. Speak your griefs softly, I do know you well. Before the eyes of both our armies here,Which should perceive nothing but love from us,Let us not wrangle. Bid them move away;Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs,And I will give you audience. CASSIUS. Pindarus,Bid our commanders lead their charges offA little from this ground. BRUTUS. Lucilius, do you the like; and let no manCome to our tent till we have done our conference. Lucius and Titinius, guard our door. [_Exeunt. _]SCENE III. Within the tent of Brutus. Enter Brutus and Cassius. CASSIUS. That you have wrong’d me doth appear in this:You have condemn’d and noted Lucius PellaFor taking bribes here of the Sardians;Wherein my letters, praying on his sideBecause I knew the man, were slighted off. BRUTUS. You wrong’d yourself to write in such a case. CASSIUS. In such a time as this it is not meetThat every nice offence should bear his comment. BRUTUS. Let me tell you, Cassius, you yourselfAre much condemn’d to have an itching palm,To sell and mart your offices for goldTo undeservers. CASSIUS. I an itching palm! You know that you are Brutus that speak this,Or, by the gods, this speech were else your last. BRUTUS. The name of Cassius honours this corruption,And chastisement doth therefore hide his head. CASSIUS. Chastisement! BRUTUS. Remember March, the Ides of March remember:Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake? What villain touch’d his body, that did stab,And not for justice? What! Shall one of us,That struck the foremost man of all this worldBut for supporting robbers, shall we nowContaminate our fingers with base bribes,And sell the mighty space of our large honoursFor so much trash as may be grasped thus? I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,Than such a Roman. CASSIUS. Brutus, bait not me,I’ll not endure it. You forget yourself,To hedge me in. I am a soldier, I,Older in practice, abler than yourselfTo make conditions. BRUTUS. Go to; you are not, Cassius. CASSIUS. I am. BRUTUS. I say you are not. CASSIUS. Urge me no more, I shall forget myself;Have mind upon your health, tempt me no farther. BRUTUS. Away, slight man! CASSIUS. Is’t possible? BRUTUS. Hear me, for I will speak. Must I give way and room to your rash choler? Shall I be frighted when a madman stares? CASSIUS. O ye gods, ye gods! Must I endure all this? BRUTUS. All this? ay, more: fret till your proud heart break;Go show your slaves how choleric you are,And make your bondmen tremble. Must I budge? Must I observe you? Must I stand and crouchUnder your testy humour? By the gods,You shall digest the venom of your spleen,Though it do split you; for, from this day forth,I’ll use you for my mirth, yea, for my laughter,When you are waspish. CASSIUS. Is it come to this? BRUTUS. You say you are a better soldier:Let it appear so; make your vaunting true,And it shall please me well. For mine own part,I shall be glad to learn of noble men. CASSIUS. You wrong me every way, you wrong me, Brutus. I said, an elder soldier, not a better:Did I say better? BRUTUS. If you did, I care not. CASSIUS. When Caesar liv’d, he durst not thus have mov’d me. BRUTUS. Peace, peace! you durst not so have tempted him. CASSIUS. I durst not? BRUTUS. No. CASSIUS. What? durst not tempt him? BRUTUS. For your life you durst not. CASSIUS. Do not presume too much upon my love. I may do that I shall be sorry for. BRUTUS. You have done that you should be sorry for. There is no terror, Cassius, in your threats,For I am arm’d so strong in honesty,That they pass by me as the idle wind,Which I respect not. I did send to youFor certain sums of gold, which you denied me;For I can raise no money by vile means:By Heaven, I had rather coin my heart,And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wringFrom the hard hands of peasants their vile trashBy any indirection. I did sendTo you for gold to pay my legions,Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius? Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so? When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous,To lock such rascal counters from his friends,Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts,Dash him to pieces! CASSIUS. I denied you not. BRUTUS. You did. CASSIUS. I did not. He was but a foolThat brought my answer back. Brutus hath riv’d my heart. A friend should bear his friend’s infirmities;But Brutus makes mine greater than they are. BRUTUS. I do not, till you practise them on me. CASSIUS. You love me not.

BRUTUS. I do not like your faults. CASSIUS. A friendly eye could never see such faults. BRUTUS. A flatterer’s would not, though they do appearAs huge as high Olympus. CASSIUS. Come, Antony, and young Octavius, come,Revenge yourselves alone on Cassius,For Cassius is a-weary of the world:Hated by one he loves; brav’d by his brother;Check’d like a bondman; all his faults observ’d,Set in a note-book, learn’d and conn’d by rote,To cast into my teeth. O, I could weepMy spirit from mine eyes! There is my dagger,And here my naked breast; within, a heartDearer than Plutus’ mine, richer than gold:If that thou be’st a Roman, take it forth. I, that denied thee gold, will give my heart:Strike as thou didst at Caesar; for I know,When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him betterThan ever thou lovedst Cassius. BRUTUS. Sheathe your dagger. Be angry when you will, it shall have scope;Do what you will, dishonour shall be humour. O Cassius, you are yoked with a lambThat carries anger as the flint bears fire,Who, much enforced, shows a hasty spark,And straight is cold again. CASSIUS. Hath Cassius liv’dTo be but mirth and laughter to his Brutus,When grief and blood ill-temper’d vexeth him? BRUTUS. When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too. CASSIUS. Do you confess so much? Give me your hand. BRUTUS. And my heart too. CASSIUS. O Brutus! BRUTUS. What’s the matter? CASSIUS. Have not you love enough to bear with me,When that rash humour which my mother gave meMakes me forgetful? BRUTUS. Yes, Cassius; and from henceforth,When you are over-earnest with your Brutus,He’ll think your mother chides, and leave you so. Enter Poet, followed by Lucilius, Titinius and Lucius. POET. [_Within. _] Let me go in to see the generals,There is some grudge between ’em; ’tis not meetThey be alone. LUCILIUS. [_Within. _] You shall not come to them. POET. [_Within. _] Nothing but death shall stay me. CASSIUS. How now! What’s the matter? POET. For shame, you generals! What do you mean? Love, and be friends, as two such men should be;For I have seen more years, I’m sure, than ye. CASSIUS. Ha, ha! How vilely doth this cynic rhyme! BRUTUS. Get you hence, sirrah. Saucy fellow, hence! CASSIUS. Bear with him, Brutus; ’tis his fashion. BRUTUS. I’ll know his humour when he knows his time. What should the wars do with these jigging fools? Companion, hence! CASSIUS. Away, away, be gone! [_Exit Poet. _]BRUTUS. Lucilius and Titinius, bid the commandersPrepare to lodge their companies tonight. CASSIUS. And come yourselves and bring Messala with youImmediately to us. [_Exeunt Lucilius and Titinius. _]BRUTUS. Lucius, a bowl of wine. [_Exit Lucius. _]CASSIUS. I did not think you could have been so angry. BRUTUS. O Cassius, I am sick of many griefs. CASSIUS. Of your philosophy you make no use,If you give place to accidental evils. BRUTUS. No man bears sorrow better. Portia is dead. CASSIUS. Ha? Portia? BRUTUS. She is dead. CASSIUS. How ’scap’d I killing, when I cross’d you so? O insupportable and touching loss! Upon what sickness? BRUTUS. Impatient of my absence,And grief that young Octavius with Mark AntonyHave made themselves so strong; for with her deathThat tidings came. With this she fell distract,And, her attendants absent, swallow’d fire. CASSIUS. And died so? BRUTUS. Even so. CASSIUS. O ye immortal gods! Enter Lucius, with wine and a taper. BRUTUS. Speak no more of her. Give me a bowl of wine. In this I bury all unkindness, Cassius. [_Drinks. _]CASSIUS. My heart is thirsty for that noble pledge. Fill, Lucius, till the wine o’erswell the cup. I cannot drink too much of Brutus’ love. [_Drinks. _] [_Exit Lucius. _] Enter Titinius and Messala. BRUTUS. Come in, Titinius! Welcome, good Messala. Now sit we close about this taper here,And call in question our necessities. CASSIUS. Portia, art thou gone? BRUTUS. No more, I pray you. Messala, I have here received letters,That young Octavius and Mark AntonyCome down upon us with a mighty power,Bending their expedition toward Philippi. MESSALA. Myself have letters of the selfsame tenor. BRUTUS. With what addition? MESSALA. That by proscription and bills of outlawryOctavius, Antony, and LepidusHave put to death an hundred Senators. BRUTUS. Therein our letters do not well agree. Mine speak of seventy Senators that diedBy their proscriptions, Cicero being one. CASSIUS. Cicero one! MESSALA. Cicero is dead,And by that order of proscription. Had you your letters from your wife, my lord? BRUTUS. No, Messala. MESSALA. Nor nothing in your letters writ of her? BRUTUS. Nothing, Messala. MESSALA. That, methinks, is strange. BRUTUS. Why ask you?

Hear you aught of her in yours? MESSALA. No, my lord. BRUTUS. Now as you are a Roman, tell me true. MESSALA. Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell,For certain she is dead, and by strange manner. BRUTUS. Why, farewell, Portia. We must die, Messala. With meditating that she must die once,I have the patience to endure it now. MESSALA. Even so great men great losses should endure. CASSIUS. I have as much of this in art as you,But yet my nature could not bear it so. BRUTUS. Well, to our work alive. What do you thinkOf marching to Philippi presently? CASSIUS. I do not think it good. BRUTUS. Your reason? CASSIUS. This it is:’Tis better that the enemy seek us;So shall he waste his means, weary his soldiers,Doing himself offence, whilst we, lying still,Are full of rest, defence, and nimbleness. BRUTUS. Good reasons must of force give place to better. The people ’twixt Philippi and this groundDo stand but in a forced affection;For they have grudg’d us contribution. The enemy, marching along by them,By them shall make a fuller number up,Come on refresh’d, new-added, and encourag’d;From which advantage shall we cut him offIf at Philippi we do face him there,These people at our back. CASSIUS. Hear me, good brother. BRUTUS. Under your pardon. You must note besides,That we have tried the utmost of our friends,Our legions are brim-full, our cause is ripe. The enemy increaseth every day;We, at the height, are ready to decline. There is a tide in the affairs of men,Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;Omitted, all the voyage of their lifeIs bound in shallows and in miseries. On such a full sea are we now afloat,And we must take the current when it serves,Or lose our ventures. CASSIUS. Then, with your will, go on:We’ll along ourselves, and meet them at Philippi. BRUTUS. The deep of night is crept upon our talk,And nature must obey necessity,Which we will niggard with a little rest. There is no more to say? CASSIUS. No more. Good night:Early tomorrow will we rise, and hence. Enter Lucius. BRUTUS. Lucius! My gown. [_Exit Lucius. _]Farewell now, good Messala. Good night, Titinius. Noble, noble Cassius,Good night, and good repose. CASSIUS. O my dear brother! This was an ill beginning of the night. Never come such division ’tween our souls! Let it not, Brutus. Enter Lucius with the gown. BRUTUS. Everything is well. CASSIUS. Good night, my lord. BRUTUS. Good night, good brother. TITINIUS and MESSALA. Good night, Lord Brutus. BRUTUS. Farewell, everyone. [_Exeunt Cassius, Titinius and Messala. _]Give me the gown. Where is thy instrument? LUCIUS. Here in the tent. BRUTUS. What, thou speak’st drowsily? Poor knave, I blame thee not, thou art o’er-watch’d. Call Claudius and some other of my men;I’ll have them sleep on cushions in my tent. LUCIUS. Varro and Claudius! Enter Varro and Claudius. VARRO. Calls my lord? BRUTUS. I pray you, sirs, lie in my tent and sleep;It may be I shall raise you by-and-byOn business to my brother Cassius. VARRO. So please you, we will stand and watch your pleasure. BRUTUS. I will not have it so; lie down, good sirs,It may be I shall otherwise bethink me. Look, Lucius, here’s the book I sought for so;I put it in the pocket of my gown. [_Servants lie down. _]LUCIUS. I was sure your lordship did not give it me. BRUTUS. Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful. Canst thou hold up thy heavy eyes awhile,And touch thy instrument a strain or two? LUCIUS. Ay, my lord, an’t please you. BRUTUS. It does, my boy. I trouble thee too much, but thou art willing. LUCIUS. It is my duty, sir. BRUTUS. I should not urge thy duty past thy might;I know young bloods look for a time of rest. LUCIUS. I have slept, my lord, already. BRUTUS. It was well done, and thou shalt sleep again;I will not hold thee long. If I do live,I will be good to thee. [_Lucius plays and sings till he falls asleep. _]This is a sleepy tune. O murd’rous slumber,Layest thou thy leaden mace upon my boy,That plays thee music? Gentle knave, good night;I will not do thee so much wrong to wake thee. If thou dost nod, thou break’st thy instrument;I’ll take it from thee; and, good boy, good night. Let me see, let me see; is not the leaf turn’d downWhere I left reading? Here it is, I think. Enter the Ghost of Caesar. How ill this taper burns! Ha! who comes here? I think it is the weakness of mine eyesThat shapes this monstrous apparition. It comes upon me. Art thou anything? Art thou some god, some angel, or some devil,That mak’st my blood cold and my hair to stare? Speak to me what thou art. GHOST. Thy evil spirit, Brutus. BRUTUS. Why com’st thou? GHOST. To tell thee thou shalt see me at Philippi. BRUTUS. Well; then I shall see thee again? GHOST. Ay, at Philippi. BRUTUS. Why, I will see thee at Philippi then. [_Ghost vanishes. _]Now I have taken heart, thou vanishest. Ill spirit, I would hold more talk with thee. Boy! Lucius! Varro! Claudius! Sirs, awake!

Claudius! LUCIUS. The strings, my lord, are false. BRUTUS. He thinks he still is at his instrument. Lucius, awake! LUCIUS. My lord? BRUTUS. Didst thou dream, Lucius, that thou so criedst out? LUCIUS. My lord, I do not know that I did cry. BRUTUS. Yes, that thou didst. Didst thou see anything? LUCIUS. Nothing, my lord. BRUTUS. Sleep again, Lucius. Sirrah Claudius! Fellow thou, awake! VARRO. My lord? CLAUDIUS. My lord? BRUTUS. Why did you so cry out, sirs, in your sleep? VARRO. CLAUDIUS. Did we, my lord? BRUTUS. Ay. Saw you anything? VARRO. No, my lord, I saw nothing. CLAUDIUS. Nor I, my lord. BRUTUS. Go and commend me to my brother Cassius;Bid him set on his powers betimes before,And we will follow. VARRO. CLAUDIUS. It shall be done, my lord. [_Exeunt. _]ACT VSCENE I. The plains of Philippi. Enter Octavius, Antony and their Army. OCTAVIUS. Now, Antony, our hopes are answered. You said the enemy would not come down,But keep the hills and upper regions. It proves not so; their battles are at hand,They mean to warn us at Philippi here,Answering before we do demand of them. ANTONY. Tut, I am in their bosoms, and I knowWherefore they do it. They could be contentTo visit other places, and come downWith fearful bravery, thinking by this faceTo fasten in our thoughts that they have courage;But ’tis not so. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Prepare you, generals. The enemy comes on in gallant show;Their bloody sign of battle is hung out,And something to be done immediately. ANTONY. Octavius, lead your battle softly onUpon the left hand of the even field. OCTAVIUS. Upon the right hand I. Keep thou the left. ANTONY. Why do you cross me in this exigent? OCTAVIUS. I do not cross you; but I will do so. [_March. _]Drum. Enter Brutus, Cassius and their Army; Lucilius, Titinius, Messalaand others. BRUTUS. They stand, and would have parley. CASSIUS. Stand fast, Titinius; we must out and talk. OCTAVIUS. Mark Antony, shall we give sign of battle? ANTONY. No, Caesar, we will answer on their charge. Make forth; the generals would have some words. OCTAVIUS. Stir not until the signal. BRUTUS. Words before blows: is it so, countrymen? OCTAVIUS. Not that we love words better, as you do. BRUTUS. Good words are better than bad strokes, Octavius. ANTONY. In your bad strokes, Brutus, you give good words;Witness the hole you made in Caesar’s heart,Crying, “Long live! Hail, Caesar! ”CASSIUS. Antony,The posture of your blows are yet unknown;But for your words, they rob the Hybla bees,And leave them honeyless. ANTONY. Not stingless too. BRUTUS. O yes, and soundless too,For you have stol’n their buzzing, Antony,And very wisely threat before you sting. ANTONY. Villains, you did not so when your vile daggersHack’d one another in the sides of Caesar:You show’d your teeth like apes, and fawn’d like hounds,And bow’d like bondmen, kissing Caesar’s feet;Whilst damned Casca, like a cur, behindStruck Caesar on the neck. O you flatterers! CASSIUS. Flatterers! Now, Brutus, thank yourself. This tongue had not offended so today,If Cassius might have rul’d. OCTAVIUS. Come, come, the cause. If arguing makes us sweat,The proof of it will turn to redder drops. Look, I draw a sword against conspirators. When think you that the sword goes up again? Never, till Caesar’s three and thirty woundsBe well aveng’d; or till another CaesarHave added slaughter to the sword of traitors. BRUTUS. Caesar, thou canst not die by traitors’ hands,Unless thou bring’st them with thee. OCTAVIUS. So I hope. I was not born to die on Brutus’ sword. BRUTUS. O, if thou wert the noblest of thy strain,Young man, thou couldst not die more honourable. CASSIUS. A peevish school-boy, worthless of such honour,Join’d with a masker and a reveller. ANTONY. Old Cassius still! OCTAVIUS. Come, Antony; away! Defiance, traitors, hurl we in your teeth. If you dare fight today, come to the field;If not, when you have stomachs. [_Exeunt Octavius, Antony and their Army. _]CASSIUS. Why now, blow wind, swell billow, and swim bark! The storm is up, and all is on the hazard. BRUTUS. Ho, Lucilius! Hark, a word with you. LUCILIUS. My lord? [_Brutus and Lucilius talk apart. _]CASSIUS. Messala. MESSALA. What says my General? CASSIUS. Messala,This is my birth-day; as this very dayWas Cassius born. Give me thy hand, Messala:Be thou my witness that against my willAs Pompey was, am I compell’d to setUpon one battle all our liberties. You know that I held Epicurus strong,And his opinion. Now I change my mind,And partly credit things that do presage. Coming from Sardis, on our former ensignTwo mighty eagles fell, and there they perch’d,Gorging and feeding from our soldiers’ hands,Who to Philippi here consorted us. This morning are they fled away and gone,And in their steads do ravens, crows, and kitesFly o’er our heads, and downward look on us,As we were sickly prey: their shadows seemA canopy most fatal, under whichOur army lies, ready to give up the ghost. MESSALA.

Believe not so. CASSIUS. I but believe it partly,For I am fresh of spirit, and resolv’dTo meet all perils very constantly. BRUTUS. Even so, Lucilius. CASSIUS. Now, most noble Brutus,The gods today stand friendly, that we may,Lovers in peace, lead on our days to age! But, since the affairs of men rest still incertain,Let’s reason with the worst that may befall. If we do lose this battle, then is thisThe very last time we shall speak together:What are you then determined to do? BRUTUS. Even by the rule of that philosophyBy which I did blame Cato for the deathWhich he did give himself, I know not how,But I do find it cowardly and vile,For fear of what might fall, so to preventThe time of life, arming myself with patienceTo stay the providence of some high powersThat govern us below. CASSIUS. Then, if we lose this battle,You are contented to be led in triumphThorough the streets of Rome? BRUTUS. No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman,That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome;He bears too great a mind. But this same dayMust end that work the Ides of March begun;And whether we shall meet again I know not. Therefore our everlasting farewell take. For ever, and for ever, farewell, Cassius. If we do meet again, why, we shall smile;If not, why then this parting was well made. CASSIUS. For ever and for ever farewell, Brutus. If we do meet again, we’ll smile indeed;If not, ’tis true this parting was well made. BRUTUS. Why then, lead on. O, that a man might knowThe end of this day’s business ere it come! But it sufficeth that the day will end,And then the end is known. Come, ho! away! [_Exeunt. _]SCENE II. The same. The field of battle. Alarum. Enter Brutus and Messala. BRUTUS. Ride, ride, Messala, ride, and give these billsUnto the legions on the other side. [_Loud alarum. _]Let them set on at once; for I perceiveBut cold demeanor in Octavius’ wing,And sudden push gives them the overthrow. Ride, ride, Messala; let them all come down. [_Exeunt. _]SCENE III. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter Cassius and Titinius. CASSIUS. O, look, Titinius, look, the villains fly! Myself have to mine own turn’d enemy:This ensign here of mine was turning back;I slew the coward, and did take it from him. TITINIUS. O Cassius, Brutus gave the word too early,Who, having some advantage on Octavius,Took it too eagerly: his soldiers fell to spoil,Whilst we by Antony are all enclos’d. Enter Pindarus. PINDARUS. Fly further off, my lord, fly further off;Mark Antony is in your tents, my lord. Fly, therefore, noble Cassius, fly far off. CASSIUS. This hill is far enough. Look, look, Titinius;Are those my tents where I perceive the fire? TITINIUS. They are, my lord. CASSIUS. Titinius, if thou lovest me,Mount thou my horse and hide thy spurs in him,Till he have brought thee up to yonder troopsAnd here again, that I may rest assur’dWhether yond troops are friend or enemy. TITINIUS. I will be here again, even with a thought. [_Exit. _]CASSIUS. Go, Pindarus, get higher on that hill,My sight was ever thick. Regard Titinius,And tell me what thou notest about the field. [_Pindarus goes up. _]This day I breathed first. Time is come round,And where I did begin, there shall I end. My life is run his compass. Sirrah, what news? PINDARUS. [_Above. _] O my lord! CASSIUS. What news? PINDARUS. [_Above. _] Titinius is enclosed round aboutWith horsemen, that make to him on the spur,Yet he spurs on. Now they are almost on him. Now, Titinius! Now some light. O, he lights too. He’s ta’en! [_Shout. _]And, hark! they shout for joy. CASSIUS. Come down; behold no more. O, coward that I am, to live so long,To see my best friend ta’en before my face! [_Pindarus descends. _]Come hither, sirrah. In Parthia did I take thee prisoner;And then I swore thee, saving of thy life,That whatsoever I did bid thee do,Thou shouldst attempt it. Come now, keep thine oath. Now be a freeman; and with this good sword,That ran through Caesar’s bowels, search this bosom. Stand not to answer. Here, take thou the hilts;And when my face is cover’d, as ’tis now,Guide thou the sword. —Caesar, thou art reveng’d,Even with the sword that kill’d thee. [_Dies. _]PINDARUS. So, I am free, yet would not so have been,Durst I have done my will. O Cassius! Far from this country Pindarus shall run,Where never Roman shall take note of him. [_Exit. _] Enter Titinius with Messala. MESSALA. It is but change, Titinius; for OctaviusIs overthrown by noble Brutus’ power,As Cassius’ legions are by Antony. TITINIUS. These tidings would well comfort Cassius. MESSALA. Where did you leave him? TITINIUS. All disconsolate,With Pindarus his bondman, on this hill. MESSALA. Is not that he that lies upon the ground? TITINIUS. He lies not like the living. O my heart! MESSALA. Is not that he? TITINIUS. No, this was he, Messala,But Cassius is no more. O setting sun,As in thy red rays thou dost sink to night,So in his red blood Cassius’ day is set. The sun of Rome is set. Our day is gone;Clouds, dews, and dangers come; our deeds are done. Mistrust of my success hath done this deed. MESSALA. Mistrust of good success hath done this deed. O hateful Error, Melancholy’s child! Why dost thou show to the apt thoughts of menThe things that are not? O Error, soon conceiv’d,Thou never com’st unto a happy birth,But kill’st the mother that engender’d thee! TITINIUS. What, Pindarus! where art thou, Pindarus? MESSALA. Seek him, Titinius, whilst I go to meetThe noble Brutus, thrusting this reportInto his ears. I may say thrusting it;For piercing steel and darts envenomedShall be as welcome to the ears of BrutusAs tidings of this sight. TITINIUS. Hie you, Messala,And I will seek for Pindarus the while. [_Exit Messala. _]Why didst thou send me forth, brave Cassius? Did I not meet thy friends? And did not theyPut on my brows this wreath of victory,And bid me give it thee? Didst thou not hear their shouts? Alas, thou hast misconstrued everything!

But, hold thee, take this garland on thy brow;Thy Brutus bid me give it thee, and IWill do his bidding. Brutus, come apace,And see how I regarded Caius Cassius. By your leave, gods. This is a Roman’s part. Come, Cassius’ sword, and find Titinius’ heart. [_Dies. _] Alarum. Enter Brutus, Messala, young Cato, Strato, Volumnius and Lucilius. BRUTUS. Where, where, Messala, doth his body lie? MESSALA. Lo, yonder, and Titinius mourning it. BRUTUS. Titinius’ face is upward. CATO. He is slain. BRUTUS. O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet! Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swordsIn our own proper entrails. [_Low alarums. _]CATO. Brave Titinius! Look whether he have not crown’d dead Cassius! BRUTUS. Are yet two Romans living such as these? The last of all the Romans, fare thee well! It is impossible that ever RomeShould breed thy fellow. Friends, I owe more tearsTo this dead man than you shall see me pay. I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. Come therefore, and to Thassos send his body. His funerals shall not be in our camp,Lest it discomfort us. Lucilius, come;And come, young Cato; let us to the field. Labeo and Flavius, set our battles on. ’Tis three o’clock; and Romans, yet ere nightWe shall try fortune in a second fight. [_Exeunt. _]SCENE IV. Another part of the field. Alarum. Enter fighting soldiers of both armies; then Brutus, Messala, young Cato, Lucilius, Flavius and others. BRUTUS. Yet, countrymen, O, yet hold up your heads! CATO. What bastard doth not? Who will go with me? I will proclaim my name about the field. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! A foe to tyrants, and my country’s friend. I am the son of Marcus Cato, ho! [_Charges the enemy. _]LUCILIUS. And I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I;Brutus, my country’s friend; know me for Brutus! [_Exit, charging the enemy. Cato is overpowered, and falls. _]LUCILIUS. O young and noble Cato, art thou down? Why, now thou diest as bravely as Titinius,And mayst be honour’d, being Cato’s son. FIRST SOLDIER. Yield, or thou diest. LUCILIUS. Only I yield to die:There is so much that thou wilt kill me straight; [_Offering money_]Kill Brutus, and be honour’d in his death. FIRST SOLDIER. We must not. A noble prisoner! SECOND SOLDIER. Room, ho! Tell Antony, Brutus is ta’en. FIRST SOLDIER. I’ll tell the news. Here comes the General. Enter Antony. Brutus is ta’en, Brutus is ta’en, my lord. ANTONY. Where is he? LUCILIUS. Safe, Antony; Brutus is safe enough. I dare assure thee that no enemyShall ever take alive the noble Brutus. The gods defend him from so great a shame! When you do find him, or alive or dead,He will be found like Brutus, like himself. ANTONY. This is not Brutus, friend; but, I assure you,A prize no less in worth. Keep this man safe,Give him all kindness. I had rather haveSuch men my friends than enemies. Go on,And see whether Brutus be alive or dead;And bring us word unto Octavius’ tentHow everything is chanc’d. [_Exeunt. _]SCENE V. Another part of the field. Enter Brutus, Dardanius, Clitus, Strato and Volumnius. BRUTUS. Come, poor remains of friends, rest on this rock. CLITUS. Statilius show’d the torch-light; but, my lord,He came not back: he is or ta’en or slain. BRUTUS. Sit thee down, Clitus. Slaying is the word;It is a deed in fashion. Hark thee, Clitus. [_Whispering. _]CLITUS. What, I, my lord? No, not for all the world. BRUTUS. Peace then, no words. CLITUS. I’ll rather kill myself. BRUTUS. Hark thee, Dardanius. [_Whispers him. _]DARDANIUS. Shall I do such a deed? CLITUS. O Dardanius! DARDANIUS. O Clitus! CLITUS. What ill request did Brutus make to thee? DARDANIUS. To kill him, Clitus. Look, he meditates. CLITUS. Now is that noble vessel full of grief,That it runs over even at his eyes. BRUTUS. Come hither, good Volumnius; list a word. VOLUMNIUS. What says my lord? BRUTUS. Why, this, Volumnius:The ghost of Caesar hath appear’d to meTwo several times by night; at Sardis once,And this last night here in Philippi fields. I know my hour is come. VOLUMNIUS. Not so, my lord. BRUTUS. Nay I am sure it is, Volumnius. Thou seest the world, Volumnius, how it goes;Our enemies have beat us to the pit. [_Low alarums. _]It is more worthy to leap in ourselvesThan tarry till they push us. Good Volumnius,Thou know’st that we two went to school together;Even for that our love of old, I pr’ytheeHold thou my sword-hilts, whilst I run on it. VOLUMNIUS. That’s not an office for a friend, my lord. [_Alarums still. _]CLITUS. Fly, fly, my lord! there is no tarrying here. BRUTUS. Farewell to you; and you; and you, Volumnius. Strato, thou hast been all this while asleep;Farewell to thee too, Strato. —Countrymen,My heart doth joy, that yet in all my lifeI found no man but he was true to me. I shall have glory by this losing dayMore than Octavius and Mark AntonyBy this vile conquest shall attain unto.

So fare you well at once; for Brutus’ tongueHath almost ended his life’s history. Night hangs upon mine eyes; my bones would rest,That have but labour’d to attain this hour. [_Alarums. Cry within, “Fly, fly, fly! ”. _]CLITUS. Fly, my lord, fly! BRUTUS. Hence! I will follow. [_Exeunt Clitus, Dardanius and Volumnius. _]I pr’ythee, Strato, stay thou by thy lord. Thou art a fellow of a good respect;Thy life hath had some smatch of honour in it. Hold then my sword, and turn away thy face,While I do run upon it. Wilt thou, Strato? STRATO. Give me your hand first. Fare you well, my lord. BRUTUS. Farewell, good Strato. —Caesar, now be still:I kill’d not thee with half so good a will. [_He runs on his sword, and dies. _] Alarum. Retreat. Enter Antony, Octavius, Messala, Lucilius and the Army. OCTAVIUS. What man is that? MESSALA. My master’s man. Strato, where is thy master? STRATO. Free from the bondage you are in, Messala. The conquerors can but make a fire of him;For Brutus only overcame himself,And no man else hath honour by his death. LUCILIUS. So Brutus should be found. I thank thee, Brutus,That thou hast prov’d Lucilius’ saying true. OCTAVIUS. All that serv’d Brutus, I will entertain them. Fellow, wilt thou bestow thy time with me? STRATO. Ay, if Messala will prefer me to you. OCTAVIUS. Do so, good Messala. MESSALA. How died my master, Strato? STRATO. I held the sword, and he did run on it. MESSALA. Octavius, then take him to follow thee,That did the latest service to my master. ANTONY. This was the noblest Roman of them all. All the conspirators save only he,Did that they did in envy of great Caesar;He only, in a general honest thoughtAnd common good to all, made one of them. His life was gentle, and the elementsSo mix’d in him that Nature might stand upAnd say to all the world, “This was a man! ”OCTAVIUS. According to his virtue let us use himWith all respect and rites of burial. Within my tent his bones tonight shall lie,Most like a soldier, order’d honourably. So call the field to rest, and let’s away,To part the glories of this happy day. [_Exeunt. _]*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK JULIUS CAESAR ***Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions willbe renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U. S. copyrightlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,so the Foundation (and you! ) can copy and distribute it in theUnited States without permission and without paying copyrightroyalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use partof this license, apply to copying and distributing ProjectGutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tmconcept and trademark. 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Box 2782               Champaign, IL 61825This "Small Print! " by Charles B. Kramer, AttorneyInternet (72600. 2026@compuserve. com); TEL: (212-254-5093)****   SMALL PRINT! FOR __ COMPLETE SHAKESPEARE ****["Small Print" V. 12. 08. 93]<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>1596KING RICHARD THE SECONDby William ShakespeareDRAMATIS PERSONAE  KING RICHARD THE SECOND  JOHN OF GAUNT, Duke of Lancaster - uncle to the King  EDMUND LANGLEY, Duke of York - uncle to the King  HENRY, surnamed BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford, son of    John of Gaunt, afterwards King Henry IV  DUKE OF AUMERLE, son of the Duke of York  THOMAS MOWBRAY, Duke of Norfolk  DUKE OF SURREY  EARL OF SALISBURY  EARL BERKELEY  BUSHY - favourites of King Richard  BAGOT -     "      "   "     "  GREEN -     "      "   "     "  EARL OF NORTHUMBERLAND  HENRY PERCY, surnamed HOTSPUR, his son  LORD Ross                             LORD WILLOUGHBY  LORD FITZWATER                        BISHOP OF CARLISLE  ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER                  LORD MARSHAL  SIR STEPHEN SCROOP                    SIR PIERCE OF EXTON  CAPTAIN of a band of Welshmen         TWO GARDENERS  QUEEN to King Richard  DUCHESS OF YORK  DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER, widow of Thomas of Woodstock,    Duke of Gloucester  LADY attending on the Queen  Lords, Heralds, Officers, Soldiers, Keeper, Messenger,    Groom, and other Attendants<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>SCENE:England and WalesACT 1 SCENE 1London. The palace[Enter RICHARD, JOHN OF GAUNT, with other NOBLES and attendants]  KING RICHARD. Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster,    Hast thou, according to thy oath and band,    Brought hither Henry Hereford, thy bold son,    Here to make good the boist'rous late appeal,    Which then our leisure would not let us hear,    Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?  GAUNT. I have, my liege.  KING RICHARD. Tell me, moreover, hast thou sounded him    If he appeal the Duke on ancient malice,    Or worthily, as a good subject should,    On some known ground of treachery in him?  GAUNT.

As near as I could sift him on that argument,    On some apparent danger seen in him    Aim'd at your Highness-no inveterate malice.  KING RICHARD. Then call them to our presence: face to face    And frowning brow to brow, ourselves will hear    The accuser and the accused freely speak.    High-stomach'd are they both and full of ire,    In rage, deaf as the sea, hasty as fire.        [Enter BOLINGBROKE and MOWBRAY]  BOLINGBROKE. Many years of happy days befall    My gracious sovereign, my most loving liege!  MOWBRAY. Each day still better other's happiness    Until the heavens, envying earth's good hap,    Add an immortal title to your crown!  KING RICHARD. We thank you both; yet one but flatters us,    As well appeareth by the cause you come;    Namely, to appeal each other of high treason.    Cousin of Hereford, what dost thou object    Against the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray?  BOLINGBROKE. First-heaven be the record to my speech!    In the devotion of a subject's love,    Tend'ring the precious safety of my prince,    And free from other misbegotten hate,    Come I appellant to this princely presence.    Now, Thomas Mowbray, do I turn to thee,    And mark my greeting well; for what I speak    My body shall make good upon this earth,    Or my divine soul answer it in heaven-    Thou art a traitor and a miscreant,    Too good to be so, and too bad to live,    Since the more fair and crystal is the sky,    The uglier seem the clouds that in it fly.    Once more, the more to aggravate the note,    With a foul traitor's name stuff I thy throat;    And wish-so please my sovereign-ere I move,    What my tongue speaks, my right drawn sword may prove.  MOWBRAY. Let not my cold words here accuse my zeal.    'Tis not the trial of a woman's war,    The bitter clamour of two eager tongues,    Can arbitrate this cause betwixt us twain;    The blood is hot that must be cool'd for this.    Yet can I not of such tame patience boast    As to be hush'd and nought at all to say.    First, the fair reverence of your Highness curbs me    From giving reins and spurs to my free speech;    Which else would post until it had return'd    These terms of treason doubled down his throat.    Setting aside his high blood's royalty,    And let him be no kinsman to my liege,    I do defy him, and I spit at him,    Call him a slanderous coward and a villain;    Which to maintain, I would allow him odds    And meet him, were I tied to run afoot    Even to the frozen ridges of the Alps,    Or any other ground inhabitable    Where ever Englishman durst set his foot.    Meantime let this defend my loyalty-    By all my hopes, most falsely doth he lie  BOLINGBROKE. Pale trembling coward, there I throw my gage,    Disclaiming here the kindred of the King;    And lay aside my high blood's royalty,    Which fear, not reverence, makes thee to except.    If guilty dread have left thee so much strength    As to take up mine honour's pawn, then stoop.    By that and all the rites of knighthood else    Will I make good against thee, arm to arm,    What I have spoke or thou canst worst devise.  MOWBRAY. I take it up; and by that sword I swear    Which gently laid my knighthood on my shoulder    I'll answer thee in any fair degree    Or chivalrous design of knightly trial;    And when I mount, alive may I not light    If I be traitor or unjustly fight!  KING RICHARD. What doth our cousin lay to Mowbray's charge?    It must be great that can inherit us    So much as of a thought of ill in him.  BOLINGBROKE. Look what I speak, my life shall prove it true-    That Mowbray hath receiv'd eight thousand nobles    In name of lendings for your Highness' soldiers,    The which he hath detain'd for lewd employments    Like a false traitor and injurious villain.    Besides, I say and will in battle prove-    Or here, or elsewhere to the furthest verge    That ever was survey'd by English eye-    That all the treasons for these eighteen years    Complotted and contrived in this land    Fetch from false Mowbray their first head and spring.    Further I say, and further will maintain    Upon his bad life to make all this good,    That he did plot the Duke of Gloucester's death,    Suggest his soon-believing adversaries,    And consequently, like a traitor coward,    Sluic'd out his innocent soul through streams of blood;    Which blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries,    Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth,    To me for justice and rough chastisement;    And, by the glorious worth of my descent,    This arm shall do it, or this life be spent.  KING RICHARD. How high a pitch his resolution soars!    Thomas of Norfolk, what say'st thou to this?  MOWBRAY. O, let my sovereign turn away his face    And bid his ears a little while be deaf,    Till I have told this slander of his blood    How God and good men hate so foul a liar.  KING RICHARD. Mowbray, impartial are our eyes and ears.    Were he my brother, nay, my kingdom's heir,    As he is but my father's brother's son,    Now by my sceptre's awe I make a vow,    Such neighbour nearness to our sacred blood    Should nothing privilege him nor partialize    The unstooping firmness of my upright soul.    He is our subject, Mowbray; so art thou:    Free speech and fearless I to thee allow.  MOWBRAY. Then, Bolingbroke, as low as to thy heart,    Through the false passage of thy throat, thou liest.    Three parts of that receipt I had for Calais    Disburs'd I duly to his Highness' soldiers;    The other part reserv'd I by consent,    For that my sovereign liege was in my debt    Upon remainder of a dear account    Since last I went to France to fetch his queen:    Now swallow down that lie. For Gloucester's death-    I slew him not, but to my own disgrace    Neglected my sworn duty in that case.    For you, my noble Lord of Lancaster,    The honourable father to my foe,    Once did I lay an ambush for your life,    A trespass that doth vex my grieved soul;    But ere I last receiv'd the sacrament    I did confess it, and exactly begg'd    Your Grace's pardon; and I hope I had it.    This is my fault. As for the rest appeal'd,    It issues from the rancour of a villain,    A recreant and most degenerate traitor;    Which in myself I boldly will defend,    And interchangeably hurl down my gage    Upon this overweening traitor's foot    To prove myself a loyal gentleman    Even in the best blood chamber'd in his bosom.    In haste whereof, most heartily I pray    Your Highness to assign our trial day.  KING RICHARD. Wrath-kindled gentlemen, be rul'd by me;    Let's purge this choler without letting blood-    This we prescribe, though no physician;    Deep malice makes too deep incision.    Forget, forgive; conclude and be agreed:    Our doctors say this is no month to bleed.    Good uncle, let this end where it begun;    We'll calm the Duke of Norfolk, you your son.  GAUNT. To be a make-peace shall become my age.    Throw down, my son, the Duke of Norfolk's gage.  KING RICHARD. And, Norfolk, throw down his.  GAUNT. When, Harry, when?    Obedience bids I should not bid again.  KING RICHARD. Norfolk, throw down; we bid.    There is no boot.  MOWBRAY. Myself I throw, dread sovereign, at thy foot;    My life thou shalt command, but not my shame:    The one my duty owes; but my fair name,    Despite of death, that lives upon my grave    To dark dishonour's use thou shalt not have.    I am disgrac'd, impeach'd, and baffl'd here;    Pierc'd to the soul with slander's venom'd spear,    The which no balm can cure but his heart-blood    Which breath'd this poison.  KING RICHARD. Rage must be withstood:    Give me his gage-lions make leopards tame.  MOWBRAY. Yea, but not change his spots. Take but my shame,    And I resign my gage. My dear dear lord,    The purest treasure mortal times afford    Is spotless reputation; that away,    Men are but gilded loam or painted clay.    A jewel in a ten-times barr'd-up chest    Is a bold spirit in a loyal breast.    Mine honour is my life; both grow in one;    Take honour from me, and my life is done:    Then, dear my liege, mine honour let me try;    In that I live, and for that will I die.  KING RICHARD. Cousin, throw up your gage; do you begin.  BOLINGBROKE. O, God defend my soul from such deep sin!    Shall I seem crest-fallen in my father's sight?    Or with pale beggar-fear impeach my height    Before this outdar'd dastard? Ere my tongue    Shall wound my honour with such feeble wrong    Or sound so base a parle, my teeth shall tear    The slavish motive of recanting fear,    And spit it bleeding in his high disgrace,    Where shame doth harbour, even in Mowbray's face.                                                     [Exit GAUNT]  KING RICHARD. We were not born to sue, but to command;    Which since we cannot do to make you friends,    Be ready, as your lives shall answer it,    At Coventry, upon Saint Lambert's day.    There shall your swords and lances arbitrate    The swelling difference of your settled hate;    Since we can not atone you, we shall see    Justice design the victor's chivalry.    Lord Marshal, command our officers-at-arms    Be ready to direct these home alarms.                [Exeunt]SCENE 2London. The DUKE OF LANCASTER'S palace[Enter JOHN OF GAUNT with the DUCHESS OF GLOUCESTER]  GAUNT. Alas, the part I had in Woodstock's blood    Doth more solicit me than your exclaims    To stir against the butchers of his life!    But since correction lieth in those hands    Which made the fault that we cannot correct,    Put we our quarrel to the will of heaven;    Who, when they see the hours ripe on earth,    Will rain hot vengeance on offenders' heads.  DUCHESS. Finds brotherhood in thee no sharper spur?    Hath love in thy old blood no living fire?    Edward's seven sons, whereof thyself art one,    Were as seven vials of his sacred blood,    Or seven fair branches springing from one root.    Some of those seven are dried by nature's course,    Some of those branches by the Destinies cut;    But Thomas, my dear lord, my life, my Gloucester,    One vial full of Edward's sacred blood,    One flourishing branch of his most royal root,    Is crack'd, and all the precious liquor spilt;    Is hack'd down, and his summer leaves all faded,    By envy's hand and murder's bloody axe.    Ah, Gaunt, his blood was thine! That bed, that womb,    That mettle, that self mould, that fashion'd thee,    Made him a man; and though thou livest and breathest,    Yet art thou slain in him.

Thou dost consent    In some large measure to thy father's death    In that thou seest thy wretched brother die,    Who was the model of thy father's life.    Call it not patience, Gaunt-it is despair;    In suff'ring thus thy brother to be slaught'red,    Thou showest the naked pathway to thy life,    Teaching stern murder how to butcher thee.    That which in mean men we entitle patience    Is pale cold cowardice in noble breasts.    What shall I say? To safeguard thine own life    The best way is to venge my Gloucester's death.  GAUNT. God's is the quarrel; for God's substitute,    His deputy anointed in His sight,    Hath caus'd his death; the which if wrongfully,    Let heaven revenge; for I may never lift    An angry arm against His minister.  DUCHESS. Where then, alas, may I complain myself?  GAUNT. To God, the widow's champion and defence.  DUCHESS. Why then, I will. Farewell, old Gaunt.    Thou goest to Coventry, there to behold    Our cousin Hereford and fell Mowbray fight.    O, sit my husband's wrongs on Hereford's spear,    That it may enter butcher Mowbray's breast!    Or, if misfortune miss the first career,    Be Mowbray's sins so heavy in his bosom    That they may break his foaming courser's back    And throw the rider headlong in the lists,    A caitiff recreant to my cousin Hereford!    Farewell, old Gaunt; thy sometimes brother's wife,    With her companion, Grief, must end her life.  GAUNT. Sister, farewell; I must to Coventry.    As much good stay with thee as go with me!  DUCHESS. Yet one word more- grief boundeth where it falls,    Not with the empty hollowness, but weight.    I take my leave before I have begun,    For sorrow ends not when it seemeth done.    Commend me to thy brother, Edmund York.    Lo, this is all- nay, yet depart not so;    Though this be all, do not so quickly go;    I shall remember more. Bid him- ah, what? -    With all good speed at Plashy visit me.    Alack, and what shall good old York there see    But empty lodgings and unfurnish'd walls,    Unpeopled offices, untrodden stones?    And what hear there for welcome but my groans?    Therefore commend me; let him not come there    To seek out sorrow that dwells every where.    Desolate, desolate, will I hence and die;    The last leave of thee takes my weeping eye.         [Exeunt]SCENE 3The lists at Coventry[Enter the LORD MARSHAL and the DUKE OF AUMERLE]  MARSHAL. My Lord Aumerle, is Harry Hereford arm'd?  AUMERLE. Yea, at all points; and longs to enter in.  MARSHAL. The Duke of Norfolk, spightfully and bold,    Stays but the summons of the appelant's trumpet.  AUMERLE. Why then, the champions are prepar'd, and stay    For nothing but his Majesty's approach.     [The trumpets sound, and the KING enters with his nobles,     GAUNT, BUSHY, BAGOT, GREEN, and others. When they are set,     enter MOWBRAY, Duke of Norfolk, in arms, defendant, and     a HERALD]  KING RICHARD. Marshal, demand of yonder champion    The cause of his arrival here in arms;    Ask him his name; and orderly proceed    To swear him in the justice of his cause.  MARSHAL. In God's name and the King's, say who thou art,    And why thou comest thus knightly clad in arms;    Against what man thou com'st, and what thy quarrel.    Speak truly on thy knighthood and thy oath;    As so defend thee heaven and thy valour!  MOWBRAY. My name is Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk;    Who hither come engaged by my oath-    Which God defend a knight should violate! -    Both to defend my loyalty and truth    To God, my King, and my succeeding issue,    Against the Duke of Hereford that appeals me;    And, by the grace of God and this mine arm,    To prove him, in defending of myself,    A traitor to my God, my King, and me.    And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!   [The trumpets sound. Enter BOLINGBROKE, Duke of Hereford,            appellant, in armour, and a HERALD]  KING RICHARD. Marshal, ask yonder knight in arms,    Both who he is and why he cometh hither    Thus plated in habiliments of war;    And formally, according to our law,    Depose him in the justice of his cause.  MARSHAL. What is thy name? and wherefore com'st thou hither    Before King Richard in his royal lists?    Against whom comest thou? and what's thy quarrel?    Speak like a true knight, so defend thee heaven!  BOLINGBROKE. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,    Am I; who ready here do stand in arms    To prove, by God's grace and my body's valour,    In lists on Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,    That he is a traitor, foul and dangerous,    To God of heaven, King Richard, and to me.    And as I truly fight, defend me heaven!  MARSHAL. On pain of death, no person be so bold    Or daring-hardy as to touch the lists,    Except the Marshal and such officers    Appointed to direct these fair designs.  BOLINGBROKE. Lord Marshal, let me kiss my sovereign's hand,    And bow my knee before his Majesty;    For Mowbray and myself are like two men    That vow a long and weary pilgrimage.    Then let us take a ceremonious leave    And loving farewell of our several friends.  MARSHAL. The appellant in all duty greets your Highness,    And craves to kiss your hand and take his leave.  KING RICHARD. We will descend and fold him in our arms.    Cousin of Hereford, as thy cause is right,    So be thy fortune in this royal fight!    Farewell, my blood; which if to-day thou shed,    Lament we may, but not revenge thee dead.  BOLINGBROKE. O, let no noble eye profane a tear    For me, if I be gor'd with Mowbray's spear.    As confident as is the falcon's flight    Against a bird, do I with Mowbray fight.    My loving lord, I take my leave of you;    Of you, my noble cousin, Lord Aumerle;    Not sick, although I have to do with death,    But lusty, young, and cheerly drawing breath.    Lo, as at English feasts, so I regreet    The daintiest last, to make the end most sweet.    O thou, the earthly author of my blood,    Whose youthful spirit, in me regenerate,    Doth with a twofold vigour lift me up    To reach at victory above my head,    Add proof unto mine armour with thy prayers,    And with thy blessings steel my lance's point,    That it may enter Mowbray's waxen coat    And furbish new the name of John o' Gaunt,    Even in the lusty haviour of his son.  GAUNT. God in thy good cause make thee prosperous!    Be swift like lightning in the execution,    And let thy blows, doubly redoubled,    Fall like amazing thunder on the casque    Of thy adverse pernicious enemy.    Rouse up thy youthful blood, be valiant, and live.  BOLINGBROKE. Mine innocence and Saint George to thrive!  MOWBRAY. However God or fortune cast my lot,    There lives or dies, true to King Richard's throne,    A loyal, just, and upright gentleman.    Never did captive with a freer heart    Cast off his chains of bondage, and embrace    His golden uncontroll'd enfranchisement,    More than my dancing soul doth celebrate    This feast of battle with mine adversary.    Most mighty liege, and my companion peers,    Take from my mouth the wish of happy years.    As gentle and as jocund as to jest    Go I to fight: truth hath a quiet breast.  KING RICHARD. Farewell, my lord, securely I espy    Virtue with valour couched in thine eye.    Order the trial, Marshal, and begin.  MARSHAL. Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,    Receive thy lance; and God defend the right!  BOLINGBROKE. Strong as a tower in hope, I cry amen.  MARSHAL. [To an officer] Go bear this lance to Thomas,      Duke of Norfolk.  FIRST HERALD.

Harry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,    Stands here for God, his sovereign, and himself,    On pain to be found false and recreant,    To prove the Duke of Norfolk, Thomas Mowbray,    A traitor to his God, his King, and him;    And dares him to set forward to the fight.  SECOND HERALD. Here standeth Thomas Mowbray, Duke of Norfolk,    On pain to be found false and recreant,    Both to defend himself, and to approve    Henry of Hereford, Lancaster, and Derby,    To God, his sovereign, and to him disloyal,    Courageously and with a free desire    Attending but the signal to begin.  MARSHAL. Sound trumpets; and set forward, combatants.                                           [A charge sounded]    Stay, the King hath thrown his warder down.  KING RICHARD. Let them lay by their helmets and their spears,    And both return back to their chairs again.    Withdraw with us; and let the trumpets sound    While we return these dukes what we decree.    [A long flourish, while the KING consults his Council]    Draw near,    And list what with our council we have done.    For that our kingdom's earth should not be soil'd    With that dear blood which it hath fostered;    And for our eyes do hate the dire aspect    Of civil wounds plough'd up with neighbours' sword;    And for we think the eagle-winged pride    Of sky-aspiring and ambitious thoughts,    With rival-hating envy, set on you    To wake our peace, which in our country's cradle    Draws the sweet infant breath of gentle sleep;    Which so rous'd up with boist'rous untun'd drums,    With harsh-resounding trumpets' dreadful bray,    And grating shock of wrathful iron arms,    Might from our quiet confines fright fair peace    And make us wade even in our kindred's blood-    Therefore we banish you our territories.    You, cousin Hereford, upon pain of life,    Till twice five summers have enrich'd our fields    Shall not regreet our fair dominions,    But tread the stranger paths of banishment.  BOLINGBROKE. Your will be done. This must my comfort be-    That sun that warms you here shall shine on me,    And those his golden beams to you here lent    Shall point on me and gild my banishment.  KING RICHARD. Norfolk, for thee remains a heavier doom,    Which I with some unwillingness pronounce:    The sly slow hours shall not determinate    The dateless limit of thy dear exile;    The hopeless word of 'never to return'    Breathe I against thee, upon pain of life.  MOWBRAY. A heavy sentence, my most sovereign liege,    And all unlook'd for from your Highness' mouth.    A dearer merit, not so deep a maim    As to be cast forth in the common air,    Have I deserved at your Highness' hands.    The language I have learnt these forty years,    My native English, now I must forgo;    And now my tongue's use is to me no more    Than an unstringed viol or a harp;    Or like a cunning instrument cas'd up    Or, being open, put into his hands    That knows no touch to tune the harmony.    Within my mouth you have engaol'd my tongue,    Doubly portcullis'd with my teeth and lips;    And dull, unfeeling, barren ignorance    Is made my gaoler to attend on me.    I am too old to fawn upon a nurse,    Too far in years to be a pupil now.    What is thy sentence, then, but speechless death,    Which robs my tongue from breathing native breath?  KING RICHARD. It boots thee not to be compassionate;    After our sentence plaining comes too late.  MOWBRAY. Then thus I turn me from my countrv's light,    To dwell in solemn shades of endless night.  KING RICHARD. Return again, and take an oath with thee.    Lay on our royal sword your banish'd hands;    Swear by the duty that you owe to God,    Our part therein we banish with yourselves,    To keep the oath that we administer:    You never shall, so help you truth and God,    Embrace each other's love in banishment;    Nor never look upon each other's face;    Nor never write, regreet, nor reconcile    This louring tempest of your home-bred hate;    Nor never by advised purpose meet    To plot, contrive, or complot any ill,    'Gainst us, our state, our subjects, or our land.  BOLINGBROKE. I swear.  MOWBRAY. And I, to keep all this.  BOLINGBROKE. Norfolk, so far as to mine enemy.    By this time, had the King permitted us,    One of our souls had wand'red in the air,    Banish'd this frail sepulchre of our flesh,    As now our flesh is banish'd from this land-    Confess thy treasons ere thou fly the realm;    Since thou hast far to go, bear not along    The clogging burden of a guilty soul.  MOWBRAY. No, Bolingbroke; if ever I were traitor,    My name be blotted from the book of life,    And I from heaven banish'd as from hence!    But what thou art, God, thou, and I, do know;    And all too soon, I fear, the King shall rue.    Farewell, my liege. Now no way can I stray:    Save back to England, an the world's my way.           [Exit]  KING RICHARD. Uncle, even in the glasses of thine eyes    I see thy grieved heart. Thy sad aspect    Hath from the number of his banish'd years    Pluck'd four away. [To BOLINGBROKE] Six frozen winters spent,    Return with welcome home from banishment.  BOLINGBROKE. How long a time lies in one little word!    Four lagging winters and four wanton springs    End in a word: such is the breath of Kings.  GAUNT. I thank my liege that in regard of me    He shortens four years of my son's exile;    But little vantage shall I reap thereby,    For ere the six years that he hath to spend    Can change their moons and bring their times about,    My oil-dried lamp and time-bewasted light    Shall be extinct with age and endless night;    My inch of taper will be burnt and done,    And blindfold death not let me see my son.  KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, thou hast many years to live.  GAUNT. But not a minute, King, that thou canst give:    Shorten my days thou canst with sullen sorrow    And pluck nights from me, but not lend a morrow;    Thou can'st help time to furrow me with age,    But stop no wrinkle in his pilgrimage;    Thy word is current with him for my death,    But dead, thy kingdom cannot buy my breath.  KING RICHARD. Thy son is banish'd upon good advice,    Whereto thy tongue a party-verdict gave.    Why at our justice seem'st thou then to lour?  GAUNT. Things sweet to taste prove in digestion sour.    You urg'd me as a judge; but I had rather    You would have bid me argue like a father.    O, had it been a stranger, not my child,    To smooth his fault I should have been more mild.    A partial slander sought I to avoid,    And in the sentence my own life destroy'd.    Alas, I look'd when some of you should say    I was too strict to make mine own away;    But you gave leave to my unwilling tongue    Against my will to do myself this wrong.  KING RICHARD. Cousin, farewell; and, uncle, bid him so.    Six years we banish him, and he shall go.                                 [Flourish. Exit KING with train]  AUMERLE. Cousin, farewell; what presence must not know,    From where you do remain let paper show.  MARSHAL. My lord, no leave take I, for I will ride    As far as land will let me by your side.  GAUNT. O, to what purpose dost thou hoard thy words,    That thou returnest no greeting to thy friends?  BOLINGBROKE. I have too few to take my leave of you,    When the tongue's office should be prodigal    To breathe the abundant dolour of the heart.  GAUNT. Thy grief is but thy absence for a time.  BOLINGBROKE. Joy absent, grief is present for that time.  GAUNT. What is six winters? They are quickly gone.  BOLINGBROKE. To men in joy; but grief makes one hour ten.  GAUNT. Call it a travel that thou tak'st for pleasure.  BOLINGBROKE. My heart will sigh when I miscall it so,    Which finds it an enforced pilgrimage.  GAUNT. The sullen passage of thy weary steps    Esteem as foil wherein thou art to set    The precious jewel of thy home return.  BOLINGBROKE. Nay, rather, every tedious stride I make    Will but remember me what a deal of world    I wander from the jewels that I love.    Must I not serve a long apprenticehood    To foreign passages; and in the end,    Having my freedom, boast of nothing else    But that I was a journeyman to grief?  GAUNT. All places that the eye of heaven visits    Are to a wise man ports and happy havens.    Teach thy necessity to reason thus:    There is no virtue like necessity.    Think not the King did banish thee,    But thou the King. Woe doth the heavier sit    Where it perceives it is but faintly home.

Go, say I sent thee forth to purchase honour,    And not the King exil'd thee; or suppose    Devouring pestilence hangs in our air    And thou art flying to a fresher clime.    Look what thy soul holds dear, imagine it    To lie that way thou goest, not whence thou com'st.    Suppose the singing birds musicians,    The grass whereon thou tread'st the presence strew'd,    The flowers fair ladies, and thy steps no more    Than a delightful measure or a dance;    For gnarling sorrow hath less power to bite    The man that mocks at it and sets it light.  BOLINGBROKE. O, who can hold a fire in his hand    By thinking on the frosty Caucasus?    Or cloy the hungry edge of appetite    By bare imagination of a feast?    Or wallow naked in December snow    By thinking on fantastic summer's heat?    O, no! the apprehension of the good    Gives but the greater feeling to the worse.    Fell sorrow's tooth doth never rankle more    Than when he bites, but lanceth not the sore.  GAUNT. Come, come, my son, I'll bring thee on thy way.    Had I thy youtli and cause, I would not stay.  BOLINGBROKE. Then, England's ground, farewell; sweet soil,adieu;    My mother, and my nurse, that bears me yet!    Where'er I wander, boast of this I can:    Though banish'd, yet a trueborn English man.         [Exeunt]SCENE 4London. The court[Enter the KING, with BAGOT and GREEN, at one door;and the DUKE OF AUMERLE at another]  KING RICHARD. We did observe. Cousin Aumerle,    How far brought you high Hereford on his way?  AUMERLE. I brought high Hereford, if you call him so,    But to the next high way, and there I left him.  KING RICHARD. And say, what store of parting tears were shed?  AUMERLE. Faith, none for me; except the north-east wind,    Which then blew bitterly against our faces,    Awak'd the sleeping rheum, and so by chance    Did grace our hollow parting with a tear.  KING RICHARD. What said our cousin when you parted with him?  AUMERLE. 'Farewell. '    And, for my heart disdained that my tongue    Should so profane the word, that taught me craft    To counterfeit oppression of such grief    That words seem'd buried in my sorrow's grave.    Marry, would the word 'farewell' have length'ned hours    And added years to his short banishment,    He should have had a volume of farewells;    But since it would not, he had none of me.  KING RICHARD. He is our cousin, cousin; but 'tis doubt,    When time shall call him home from banishment,    Whether our kinsman come to see his friends.    Ourself, and Bushy, Bagot here, and Green,    Observ'd his courtship to the common people;    How he did seem to dive into their hearts    With humble and familiar courtesy;    What reverence he did throw away on slaves,    Wooing poor craftsmen with the craft of smiles    And patient underbearing of his fortune,    As 'twere to banish their affects with him.    Off goes his bonnet to an oyster-wench;    A brace of draymen bid God speed him well    And had the tribute of his supple knee,    With 'Thanks, my countrymen, my loving friends';    As were our England in reversion his,    And he our subjects' next degree in hope.  GREEN. Well, he is gone; and with him go these thoughts!    Now for the rebels which stand out in Ireland,    Expedient manage must be made, my liege,    Ere further leisure yicld them further means    For their advantage and your Highness' loss.  KING RICHARD. We will ourself in person to this war;    And, for our coffers, with too great a court    And liberal largess, are grown somewhat light,    We are enforc'd to farm our royal realm;    The revenue whereof shall furnish us    For our affairs in hand. If that come short,    Our substitutes at home shall have blank charters;    Whereto, when they shall know what men are rich,    They shall subscribe them for large sums of gold,    And send them after to supply our wants;    For we will make for Ireland presently.                     [Enter BUSHY]    Bushy, what news?  BUSHY. Old John of Gaunt is grievous sick, my lord,    Suddenly taken; and hath sent poste-haste    To entreat your Majesty to visit him.  KING RICHARD. Where lies he?  BUSHY. At Ely House.  KING RICHARD. Now put it, God, in the physician's mind    To help him to his grave immediately!    The lining of his coffers shall make coats    To deck our soldiers for these Irish wars.    Come, gentlemen, let's all go visit him.    Pray God we may make haste, and come too late!  ALL. Amen.                                             [Exeunt]<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>ACT 2 SCENE 1London. Ely House[Enter JOHN OF GAUNT, sick, with the DUKE OF YORK, etc. ]  GAUNT. Will the King come, that I may breathe my last    In wholesome counsel to his unstaid youth?  YORK. Vex not yourself, nor strive not with your breath;    For all in vain comes counsel to his ear.  GAUNT. O, but they say the tongues of dying men    Enforce attention like deep harmony.    Where words are scarce, they are seldom spent in vain;    For they breathe truth that breathe their words -in pain.    He that no more must say is listen'd more    Than they whom youth and ease have taught to glose;    More are men's ends mark'd than their lives before.    The setting sun, and music at the close,    As the last taste of sweets, is sweetest last,    Writ in remembrance more than things long past.    Though Richard my life's counsel would not hear,    My death's sad tale may yet undeaf his ear.  YORK. No; it is stopp'd with other flattering sounds,    As praises, of whose taste the wise are fond,    Lascivious metres, to whose venom sound    The open ear of youth doth always listen;    Report of fashions in proud Italy,    Whose manners still our tardy apish nation    Limps after in base imitation.    Where doth the world thrust forth a vanity-    So it be new, there's no respect how vile-    That is not quickly buzz'd into his ears?    Then all too late comes counsel to be heard    Where will doth mutiny with wit's regard.    Direct not him whose way himself will choose.    'Tis breath thou lack'st, and that breath wilt thou lose.  GAUNT. Methinks I am a prophet new inspir'd,    And thus expiring do foretell of him:    His rash fierce blaze of riot cannot last,    For violent fires soon burn out themselves;    Small showers last long, but sudden storms are short;    He tires betimes that spurs too fast betimes;    With eager feeding food doth choke the feeder;    Light vanity, insatiate cormorant,    Consuming means, soon preys upon itself.    This royal throne of kings, this scept'red isle,    This earth of majesty, this seat of Mars,    This other Eden, demi-paradise,    This fortress built by Nature for herself    Against infection and the hand of war,    This happy breed of men, this little world,    This precious stone set in the silver sea,    Which serves it in the office of a wall,    Or as a moat defensive to a house,    Against the envy of less happier lands;    This blessed plot, this earth, this realm, this England,    This nurse, this teeming womb of royal kings,    Fear'd by their breed, and famous by their birth,    Renowned for their deeds as far from home,    For Christian service and true chivalry,    As is the sepulchre in stubborn Jewry    Of the world's ransom, blessed Mary's Son;    This land of such dear souls, this dear dear land,    Dear for her reputation through the world,    Is now leas'd out-I die pronouncing it-    Like to a tenement or pelting farm.    England, bound in with the triumphant sea,    Whose rocky shore beats back the envious siege    Of wat'ry Neptune, is now bound in with shame,    With inky blots and rotten parchment bonds;    That England, that was wont to conquer others,    Hath made a shameful conquest of itself.    Ah, would the scandal vanish with my life,    How happy then were my ensuing death!    [Enter KING and QUEEN, AUMERLE, BUSHY, GREEN, BAGOT,                Ross, and WILLOUGHBY]  YORK. The King is come; deal mildly with his youth,    For young hot colts being rag'd do rage the more.  QUEEN. How fares our noble uncle Lancaster?  KING RICHARD. What comfort, man? How is't with aged Gaunt?  GAUNT. O, how that name befits my composition!    Old Gaunt, indeed; and gaunt in being old.    Within me grief hath kept a tedious fast;    And who abstains from meat that is not gaunt?    For sleeping England long time have I watch'd;    Watching breeds leanness, leanness is an gaunt.    The pleasure that some fathers feed upon    Is my strict fast-I mean my children's looks;    And therein fasting, hast thou made me gaunt.    Gaunt am I for the grave, gaunt as a grave,    Whose hollow womb inherits nought but bones.  KING RICHARD. Can sick men play so nicely with their names?  GAUNT.

No, misery makes sport to mock itself:    Since thou dost seek to kill my name in me,    I mock my name, great king, to flatter thee.  KING RICHARD. Should dying men flatter with those that live?  GAUNT. No, no; men living flatter those that die.  KING RICHARD. Thou, now a-dying, sayest thou flatterest me.  GAUNT. O, no! thou diest, though I the sicker be.  KING RICHARD. I am in health, I breathe, and see thee ill.  GAUNT. Now He that made me knows I see thee ill;    Ill in myself to see, and in thee seeing ill.    Thy death-bed is no lesser than thy land    Wherein thou liest in reputation sick;    And thou, too careless patient as thou art,    Commit'st thy anointed body to the cure    Of those physicians that first wounded thee:    A thousand flatterers sit within thy crown,    Whose compass is no bigger than thy head;    And yet, incaged in so small a verge,    The waste is no whit lesser than thy land.    O, had thy grandsire with a prophet's eye    Seen how his son's son should destroy his sons,    From forth thy reach he would have laid thy shame,    Deposing thee before thou wert possess'd,    Which art possess'd now to depose thyself.    Why, cousin, wert thou regent of the world,    It were a shame to let this land by lease;    But for thy world enjoying but this land,    Is it not more than shame to shame it so?    Landlord of England art thou now, not King.    Thy state of law is bondslave to the law;    And thou-  KING RICHARD. A lunatic lean-witted fool,    Presuming on an ague's privilege,    Darest with thy frozen admonition    Make pale our cheek, chasing the royal blood    With fury from his native residence.    Now by my seat's right royal majesty,    Wert thou not brother to great Edward's son,    This tongue that runs so roundly in thy head    Should run thy head from thy unreverent shoulders.  GAUNT. O, Spare me not, my brother Edward's son,    For that I was his father Edward's son;    That blood already, like the pelican,    Hast thou tapp'd out, and drunkenly carous'd.    My brother Gloucester, plain well-meaning soul-    Whom fair befall in heaven 'mongst happy souls! -    May be a precedent and witness good    That thou respect'st not spilling Edward's blood.    Join with the present sickness that I have;    And thy unkindness be like crooked age,    To crop at once a too long withered flower.    Live in thy shame, but die not shame with thee!    These words hereafter thy tormentors be!    Convey me to my bed, then to my grave.    Love they to live that love and honour have.                              [Exit, borne out by his attendants]  KING RICHARD. And let them die that age and sullens have;    For both hast thou, and both become the grave.  YORK. I do beseech your Majesty impute his words    To wayward sickliness and age in him.    He loves you, on my life, and holds you dear    As Harry Duke of Hereford, were he here.  KING RICHARD. Right, you say true: as Hereford's love, so his;    As theirs, so mine; and all be as it is.               [Enter NORTHUMBERLAND]  NORTHUMBERLAND. My liege, old Gaunt commends him to yourMajesty.  KING RICHARD. What says he?  NORTHUMBERLAND. Nay, nothing; all is said.    His tongue is now a stringless instrument;    Words, life, and all, old Lancaster hath spent.  YORK. Be York the next that must be bankrupt so!    Though death be poor, it ends a mortal woe.  KING RICHARD. The ripest fruit first falls, and so doth he;    His time is spent, our pilgrimage must be.    So much for that. Now for our Irish wars.    We must supplant those rough rug-headed kerns,    Which live like venom where no venom else    But only they have privilege to live.    And for these great affairs do ask some charge,    Towards our assistance we do seize to us    The plate, coin, revenues, and moveables,    Whereof our uncle Gaunt did stand possess'd.  YORK. How long shall I be patient? Ah, how long    Shall tender duty make me suffer wrong?    Not Gloucester's death, nor Hereford's banishment,    Nor Gaunt's rebukes, nor England's private wrongs,    Nor the prevention of poor Bolingbroke    About his marriage, nor my own disgrace,    Have ever made me sour my patient cheek    Or bend one wrinkle on my sovereign's face.    I am the last of noble Edward's sons,    Of whom thy father, Prince of Wales, was first.    In war was never lion rag'd more fierce,    In peace was never gentle lamb more mild,    Than was that young and princely gentleman.    His face thou hast, for even so look'd he,    Accomplish'd with the number of thy hours;    But when he frown'd, it was against the French    And not against his friends. His noble hand    Did win what he did spend, and spent not that    Which his triumphant father's hand had won.    His hands were guilty of no kindred blood,    But bloody with the enemies of his kin.    O Richard! York is too far gone with grief,    Or else he never would compare between-  KING RICHARD. Why, uncle, what's the matter?  YORK. O my liege,    Pardon me, if you please; if not, I, pleas'd    Not to be pardoned, am content withal.    Seek you to seize and gripe into your hands    The royalties and rights of banish'd Hereford?    Is not Gaunt dead? and doth not Hereford live?    Was not Gaunt just? and is not Harry true?    Did not the one deserve to have an heir?    Is not his heir a well-deserving son?    Take Hereford's rights away, and take from Time    His charters and his customary rights;    Let not to-morrow then ensue to-day;    Be not thyself-for how art thou a king    But by fair sequence and succession?    Now, afore God-God forbid I say true! -    If you do wrongfully seize Hereford's rights,    Call in the letters patents that he hath    By his attorneys-general to sue    His livery, and deny his off'red homage,    You pluck a thousand dangers on your head,    You lose a thousand well-disposed hearts,    And prick my tender patience to those thoughts    Which honour and allegiance cannot think.  KING RICHARD. Think what you will, we seize into our hands    His plate, his goods, his money, and his lands.  YORK. I'll not be by the while. My liege, farewell.    What will ensue hereof there's none can tell;    But by bad courses may be understood    That their events can never fall out good.             [Exit]  KING RICHARD. Go, Bushy, to the Earl of Wiltshire straight;    Bid him repair to us to Ely House    To see this business. To-morrow next    We will for Ireland; and 'tis time, I trow.    And we create, in absence of ourself,    Our Uncle York Lord Governor of England;    For he is just, and always lov'd us well.    Come on, our queen; to-morrow must we part;    Be merry, for our time of stay is short.                  [Flourish. Exeunt KING, QUEEN, BUSHY, AUMERLE,                                                GREEN, and BAGOT]  NORTHUMBERLAND. Well, lords, the Duke of Lancaster is dead.    Ross. And living too; for now his son is Duke.  WILLOUGHBY. Barely in title, not in revenues.  NORTHUMBERLAND. Richly in both, if justice had her right.  ROSS. My heart is great; but it must break with silence,    Ere't be disburdened with a liberal tongue.  NORTHUMBERLAND.

Nay, speak thy mind; and let him ne'er speakmore    That speaks thy words again to do thee harm!  WILLOUGHBY. Tends that thou wouldst speak to the Duke ofHereford?    If it be so, out with it boldly, man;    Quick is mine ear to hear of good towards him.  ROSS. No good at all that I can do for him;    Unless you call it good to pity him,    Bereft and gelded of his patrimony.  NORTHUMBERLAND. Now, afore God, 'tis shame such wrongs areborne    In him, a royal prince, and many moe    Of noble blood in this declining land.    The King is not himself, but basely led    By flatterers; and what they will inform,    Merely in hate, 'gainst any of us an,    That will the King severely prosecute    'Gainst us, our lives, our children, and our heirs.  ROSS. The commons hath he pill'd with grievous taxes;    And quite lost their hearts; the nobles hath he find    For ancient quarrels and quite lost their hearts.  WILLOUGHBY. And daily new exactions are devis'd,    As blanks, benevolences, and I wot not what;    But what, a God's name, doth become of this?  NORTHUMBERLAND. Wars hath not wasted it, for warr'd he hathnot,    But basely yielded upon compromise    That which his noble ancestors achiev'd with blows.    More hath he spent in peace than they in wars.  ROSS. The Earl of Wiltshire hath the realm in farm.  WILLOUGHBY. The King's grown bankrupt like a broken man.  NORTHUMBERLAND. Reproach and dissolution hangeth over him.  ROSS. He hath not money for these Irish wars,    His burdenous taxations notwithstanding,    But by the robbing of the banish'd Duke.  NORTHUMBERLAND. His noble kinsman-most degenerate king!    But, lords, we hear this fearful tempest sing,    Yet seek no shelter to avoid the storm;    We see the wind sit sore upon our sails,    And yet we strike not, but securely perish.  ROSS. We see the very wreck that we must suffer;    And unavoided is the danger now    For suffering so the causes of our wreck.  NORTHUMBERLAND. Not so; even through the hollow eyes of death    I spy life peering; but I dare not say    How near the tidings of our comfort is.  WILLOUGHBY. Nay, let us share thy thoughts as thou dost ours.  ROSS. Be confident to speak, Northumberland.    We three are but thyself, and, speaking so,    Thy words are but as thoughts; therefore be bold.  NORTHUMBERLAND. Then thus: I have from Le Port Blanc, a bay    In Brittany, receiv'd intelligence    That Harry Duke of Hereford, Rainold Lord Cobham,    That late broke from the Duke of Exeter,    His brother, Archbishop late of Canterbury,    Sir Thomas Erpingham, Sir John Ramston,    Sir John Norbery, Sir Robert Waterton, and Francis Quoint-    All these, well furnish'd by the Duke of Britaine,    With eight tall ships, three thousand men of war,    Are making hither with all due expedience,    And shortly mean to touch our northern shore.    Perhaps they had ere this, but that they stay    The first departing of the King for Ireland.    If then we shall shake off our slavish yoke,    Imp out our drooping country's broken wing,    Redeem from broking pawn the blemish'd crown,    Wipe off the dust that hides our sceptre's gilt,    And make high majesty look like itself,    Away with me in post to Ravenspurgh;    But if you faint, as fearing to do so,    Stay and be secret, and myself will go.  ROSS. To horse, to horse! Urge doubts to them that fear.  WILLOUGHBY. Hold out my horse, and I will first be there.                                                         [Exeunt]SCENE 2Windsor Castle[Enter QUEEN, BUSHY, and BAGOT]  BUSHY. Madam, your Majesty is too much sad.    You promis'd, when you parted with the King,    To lay aside life-harming heaviness    And entertain a cheerful disposition.  QUEEN. To please the King, I did; to please myself    I cannot do it; yet I know no cause    Why I should welcome such a guest as grief,    Save bidding farewell to so sweet a guest    As my sweet Richard. Yet again methinks    Some unborn sorrow, ripe in fortune's womb,    Is coming towards me, and my inward soul    With nothing trembles. At some thing it grieves    More than with parting from my lord the King.  BUSHY. Each substance of a grief hath twenty shadows,    Which shows like grief itself, but is not so;    For sorrow's eye, glazed with blinding tears,    Divides one thing entire to many objects,    Like perspectives which, rightly gaz'd upon,    Show nothing but confusion-ey'd awry,    Distinguish form. So your sweet Majesty,    Looking awry upon your lord's departure,    Find shapes of grief more than himself to wail;    Which, look'd on as it is, is nought but shadows    Of what it is not. Then, thrice-gracious Queen,    More than your lord's departure weep not-more is not seen;    Or if it be, 'tis with false sorrow's eye,    Which for things true weeps things imaginary.  QUEEN. It may be so; but yet my inward soul    Persuades me it is otherwise. Howe'er it be,    I cannot but be sad; so heavy sad    As-though, on thinking, on no thought I think-    Makes me with heavy nothing faint and shrink.  BUSHY. 'Tis nothing but conceit, my gracious lady.  QUEEN. 'Tis nothing less: conceit is still deriv'd    From some forefather grief; mine is not so,    For nothing hath begot my something grief,    Or something hath the nothing that I grieve;    'Tis in reversion that I do possess-    But what it is that is not yet known what,    I cannot name; 'tis nameless woe, I wot.                  [Enter GREEN]  GREEN. God save your Majesty! and well met, gentlemen.    I hope the King is not yet shipp'd for Ireland.  QUEEN. Why hopest thou so? 'Tis better hope he is;    For his designs crave haste, his haste good hope.    Then wherefore dost thou hope he is not shipp'd?  GREEN. That he, our hope, might have retir'd his power    And driven into despair an enemy's hope    Who strongly hath set footing in this land.    The banish'd Bolingbroke repeals himself,    And with uplifted arms is safe arriv'd    At Ravenspurgh.  QUEEN. Now God in heaven forbid!  GREEN. Ah, madam, 'tis too true; and that is worse,    The Lord Northumberland, his son young Henry Percy,    The Lords of Ross, Beaumond, and Willoughby,    With all their powerful friends, are fled to him.  BUSHY. Why have you not proclaim'd Northumberland    And all the rest revolted faction traitors?  GREEN. We have; whereupon the Earl of Worcester    Hath broken his staff, resign'd his stewardship,    And all the household servants fled with him    To Bolingbroke.  QUEEN. So, Green, thou art the midwife to my woe,    And Bolingbroke my sorrow's dismal heir.    Now hath my soul brought forth her prodigy;    And I, a gasping new-deliver'd mother,    Have woe to woe, sorrow to sorrow join'd.  BUSHY. Despair not, madam.  QUEEN. Who shall hinder me?    I will despair, and be at enmity    With cozening hope-he is a flatterer,    A parasite, a keeper-back of death,    Who gently would dissolve the bands of life,    Which false hope lingers in extremity.                   [Enter YORK]  GREEN. Here comes the Duke of York.  QUEEN. With signs of war about his aged neck.    O, full of careful business are his looks!    Uncle, for God's sake, speak comfortable words.  YORK. Should I do so, I should belie my thoughts.    Comfort's in heaven; and we are on the earth,    Where nothing lives but crosses, cares, and grief.    Your husband, he is gone to save far off,    Whilst others come to make him lose at home.

Here am I left to underprop his land,    Who, weak with age, cannot support myself.    Now comes the sick hour that his surfeit made;    Now shall he try his friends that flatter'd him.                  [Enter a SERVINGMAN]  SERVINGMAN. My lord, your son was gone before I came.  YORK. He was-why so go all which way it will!    The nobles they are fled, the commons they are cold    And will, I fear, revolt on Hereford's side.    Sirrah, get thee to Plashy, to my sister Gloucester;    Bid her send me presently a thousand pound.    Hold, take my ring.  SERVINGMAN. My lord, I had forgot to tell your lordship,    To-day, as I came by, I called there-    But I shall grieve you to report the rest.  YORK. What is't, knave?  SERVINGMAN. An hour before I came, the Duchess died.  YORK. God for his mercy! what a tide of woes    Comes rushing on this woeful land at once!    I know not what to do. I would to God,    So my untruth had not provok'd him to it,    The King had cut off my head with my brother's.    What, are there no posts dispatch'd for Ireland?    How shall we do for money for these wars?    Come, sister-cousin, I would say-pray, pardon me.    Go, fellow, get thee home, provide some carts,    And bring away the armour that is there.                                                [Exit SERVINGMAN]    Gentlemen, will you go muster men?    If I know how or which way to order these affairs    Thus disorderly thrust into my hands,    Never believe me. Both are my kinsmen.    T'one is my sovereign, whom both my oath    And duty bids defend; t'other again    Is my kinsman, whom the King hath wrong'd,    Whom conscience and my kindred bids to right.    Well, somewhat we must do. -Come, cousin,    I'll dispose of you. Gentlemen, go muster up your men    And meet me presently at Berkeley.    I should to Plashy too,    But time will not permit. All is uneven,    And everything is left at six and seven.                                          [Exeunt YORK and QUEEN]  BUSHY. The wind sits fair for news to go to Ireland.    But none returns. For us to levy power    Proportionable to the enemy    Is all unpossible.  GREEN. Besides, our nearness to the King in love    Is near the hate of those love not the King.  BAGOT. And that is the wavering commons; for their love    Lies in their purses; and whoso empties them,    By so much fills their hearts with deadly hate.  BUSHY. Wherein the King stands generally condemn'd.  BAGOT. If judgment lie in them, then so do we,    Because we ever have been near the King.  GREEN. Well, I will for refuge straight to Bristow Castle.    The Earl of Wiltshire is already there.  BUSHY. Thither will I with you; for little office    Will the hateful commons perform for us,    Except Eke curs to tear us all to pieces.    Will you go along with us?  BAGOT. No; I will to Ireland to his Majesty.    Farewell. If heart's presages be not vain,    We three here part that ne'er shall meet again.  BUSHY. That's as York thrives to beat back Bolingbroke.  GREEN. Alas, poor Duke! the task he undertakes    Is numb'ring sands and drinking oceans dry.    Where one on his side fights, thousands will fly.    Farewell at once-for once, for all, and ever.  BUSHY. Well, we may meet again.  BAGOT. I fear me, never.                                ExeuntSCENE 3Gloucestershire[Enter BOLINGBROKE and NORTHUMBERLAND, forces]  BOLINGBROKE. How far is it, my lord, to Berkeley now?  NORTHUMBERLAND. Believe me, noble lord,    I am a stranger here in Gloucestershire.    These high wild hills and rough uneven ways    Draws out our miles, and makes them wearisome;    And yet your fair discourse hath been as sugar,    Making the hard way sweet and delectable.    But I bethink me what a weary way    From Ravenspurgh to Cotswold will be found    In Ross and Willoughby, wanting your company,    Which, I protest, hath very much beguil'd    The tediousness and process of my travel.    But theirs is sweet'ned with the hope to have    The present benefit which I possess;    And hope to joy is little less in joy    Than hope enjoy'd. By this the weary lords    Shall make their way seem short, as mine hath done    By sight of what I have, your noble company.  BOLINGBROKE. Of much less value is my company    Than your good words. But who comes here?                [Enter HARRY PERCY]  NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my son, young Harry Percy,    Sent from my brother Worcester, whencesoever.    Harry, how fares your uncle?  PERCY. I had thought, my lord, to have learn'd his health ofyou.  NORTHUMBERLAND. Why, is he not with the Queen?  PERCY. No, my good lord; he hath forsook the court,    Broken his staff of office, and dispers'd    The household of the King.  NORTHUMBERLAND. What was his reason?    He was not so resolv'd when last we spake together.  PERCY. Because your lordship was proclaimed traitor.    But he, my lord, is gone to Ravenspurgh,    To offer service to the Duke of Hereford;    And sent me over by Berkeley, to discover    What power the Duke of York had levied there;    Then with directions to repair to Ravenspurgh.  NORTHUMBERLAND. Have you forgot the Duke of Hereford, boy?  PERCY. No, my good lord; for that is not forgot    Which ne'er I did remember; to my knowledge,    I never in my life did look on him.  NORTHUMBERLAND. Then learn to know him now; this is the Duke.  PERCY. My gracious lord, I tender you my service,    Such as it is, being tender, raw, and young;    Which elder days shall ripen, and confirm    To more approved service and desert.

BOLINGBROKE. I thank thee, gentle Percy; and be sure    I count myself in nothing else so happy    As in a soul rememb'ring my good friends;    And as my fortune ripens with thy love,    It shall be still thy true love's recompense.    My heart this covenant makes, my hand thus seals it.  NORTHUMBERLAND. How far is it to Berkeley? And what stir    Keeps good old York there with his men of war?  PERCY. There stands the castle, by yon tuft of trees,    Mann'd with three hundred men, as I have heard;    And in it are the Lords of York, Berkeley, and Seymour-    None else of name and noble estimate.                 [Enter Ross and WILLOUGHBY]  NORTHUMBERLAND. Here come the Lords of Ross and Willoughby,    Bloody with spurring, fiery-red with haste.  BOLINGBROKE. Welcome, my lords. I wot your love pursues    A banish'd traitor. All my treasury    Is yet but unfelt thanks, which, more enrich'd,    Shall be your love and labour's recompense.  ROSS. Your presence makes us rich, most noble lord.  WILLOUGHBY. And far surmounts our labour to attain it.  BOLINGBROKE. Evermore thanks, the exchequer of the poor;    Which, till my infant fortune comes to years,    Stands for my bounty. But who comes here?                    [Enter BERKELEY]  NORTHUMBERLAND. It is my Lord of Berkeley, as I guess.  BERKELEY. My Lord of Hereford, my message is to you.  BOLINGBROKE. My lord, my answer is-'to Lancaster';    And I am come to seek that name in England;    And I must find that title in your tongue    Before I make reply to aught you say.  BERKELEY. Mistake me not, my lord; 'tis not my meaning    To raze one title of your honour out.    To you, my lord, I come-what lord you will-    From the most gracious regent of this land,    The Duke of York, to know what pricks you on    To take advantage of the absent time,    And fright our native peace with self-borne arms.                [Enter YORK, attended]  BOLINGBROKE. I shall not need transport my words by you;    Here comes his Grace in person. My noble uncle!                                                     [Kneels]  YORK. Show me thy humble heart, and not thy knee,    Whose duty is deceivable and false.  BOLINGBROKE. My gracious uncle! -  YORK. Tut, tut!    Grace me no grace, nor uncle me no uncle.    I am no traitor's uncle; and that word 'grace'    In an ungracious mouth is but profane.    Why have those banish'd and forbidden legs    Dar'd once to touch a dust of England's ground?    But then more 'why? '-why have they dar'd to march    So many miles upon her peaceful bosom,    Frighting her pale-fac'd villages with war    And ostentation of despised arms?    Com'st thou because the anointed King is hence?    Why, foolish boy, the King is left behind,    And in my loyal bosom lies his power.    Were I but now lord of such hot youth    As when brave Gaunt, thy father, and myself    Rescued the Black Prince, that young Mars of men,    From forth the ranks of many thousand French,    O, then how quickly should this arm of mine,    Now prisoner to the palsy, chastise the    And minister correction to thy fault!  BOLINGBROKE My gracious uncle, let me know my fault;    On what condition stands it and wherein?  YORK. Even in condition of the worst degree-    In gross rebellion and detested treason.    Thou art a banish'd man, and here art come    Before the expiration of thy time,    In braving arms against thy sovereign.  BOLINGBROKE. As I was banish'd, I was banish'd Hereford;    But as I come, I come for Lancaster.    And, noble uncle, I beseech your Grace    Look on my wrongs with an indifferent eye.    You are my father, for methinks in you    I see old Gaunt alive. O, then, my father,    Will you permit that I shall stand condemn'd    A wandering vagabond; my rights and royalties    Pluck'd from my arms perforce, and given away    To upstart unthrifts? Wherefore was I born?    If that my cousin king be King in England,    It must be granted I am Duke of Lancaster.    You have a son, Aumerle, my noble cousin;    Had you first died, and he been thus trod down,    He should have found his uncle Gaunt a father    To rouse his wrongs and chase them to the bay.    I am denied to sue my livery here,    And yet my letters patents give me leave.    My father's goods are all distrain'd and sold;    And these and all are all amiss employ'd.    What would you have me do? I am a subject,    And I challenge law-attorneys are denied me;    And therefore personally I lay my claim    To my inheritance of free descent.  NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble Duke hath been too much abused.  ROSS. It stands your Grace upon to do him right.  WILLOUGHBY. Base men by his endowments are made great.  YORK. My lords of England, let me tell you this:    I have had feeling of my cousin's wrongs,    And labour'd all I could to do him right;    But in this kind to come, in braving arms,    Be his own carver and cut out his way,    To find out right with wrong-it may not be;    And you that do abet him in this kind    Cherish rebellion, and are rebels all.  NORTHUMBERLAND. The noble Duke hath sworn his coming is    But for his own; and for the right of that    We all have strongly sworn to give him aid;    And let him never see joy that breaks that oath!  YORK. Well, well, I see the issue of these arms.    I cannot mend it, I must needs confess,    Because my power is weak and all ill left;    But if I could, by Him that gave me life,    I would attach you all and make you stoop    Unto the sovereign mercy of the King;    But since I cannot, be it known unto you    I do remain as neuter. So, fare you well;    Unless you please to enter in the castle,    And there repose you for this night.  BOLINGBROKE. An offer, uncle, that we will accept.    But we must win your Grace to go with us    To Bristow Castle, which they say is held    By Bushy, Bagot, and their complices,    The caterpillars of the commonwealth,    Which I have sworn to weed and pluck away.  YORK. It may be I will go with you; but yet I'll pause,    For I am loath to break our country's laws.    Nor friends nor foes, to me welcome you are.    Things past redress are now with me past care.       [Exeunt]SCENE 4A camp in Wales[Enter EARL OF SALISBURY and a WELSH CAPTAIN]  CAPTAIN. My Lord of Salisbury, we have stay'd ten days    And hardly kept our countrymen together,    And yet we hear no tidings from the King;    Therefore we will disperse ourselves. Farewell.  SALISBURY. Stay yet another day, thou trusty Welshman;    The King reposeth all his confidence in thee.  CAPTAIN. 'Tis thought the King is dead; we will not stay.    The bay trees in our country are all wither'd,    And meteors fright the fixed stars of heaven;    The pale-fac'd moon looks bloody on the earth,    And lean-look'd prophets whisper fearful change;    Rich men look sad, and ruffians dance and leap-    The one in fear to lose what they enjoy,    The other to enjoy by rage and war.    These signs forerun the death or fall of kings.    Farewell. Our countrymen are gone and fled,    As well assur'd Richard their King is dead.            [Exit]  SALISBURY. Ah, Richard, with the eyes of heavy mind,    I see thy glory like a shooting star    Fall to the base earth from the firmament!    The sun sets weeping in the lowly west,    Witnessing storms to come, woe, and unrest;    Thy friends are fled, to wait upon thy foes;    And crossly to thy good all fortune goes.              [Exit]<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.

ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>ACT 3 SCENE 1BOLINGBROKE'S camp at Bristol[Enter BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY, ROSS,WILLOUGHBY,BUSHY and GREEN, prisoners]  BOLINGBROKE. Bring forth these men.    Bushy and Green, I will not vex your souls-    Since presently your souls must part your bodies-    With too much urging your pernicious lives,    For 'twere no charity; yet, to wash your blood    From off my hands, here in the view of men    I will unfold some causes of your deaths:    You have misled a prince, a royal king,    A happy gentleman in blood and lineaments,    By you unhappied and disfigured clean;    You have in manner with your sinful hours    Made a divorce betwixt his queen and him;    Broke the possession of a royal bed,    And stain'd the beauty of a fair queen's cheeks    With tears drawn from her eyes by your foul wrongs;    Myself-a prince by fortune of my birth,    Near to the King in blood, and near in love    Till you did make him misinterpret me-    Have stoop'd my neck under your injuries    And sigh'd my English breath in foreign clouds,    Eating the bitter bread of banishment,    Whilst you have fed upon my signories,    Dispark'd my parks and fell'd my forest woods,    From my own windows torn my household coat,    Raz'd out my imprese, leaving me no sign    Save men's opinions and my living blood    To show the world I am a gentleman.    This and much more, much more than twice all this,    Condemns you to the death. See them delivered over    To execution and the hand of death.  BUSHY. More welcome is the stroke of death to me    Than Bolingbroke to England. Lords, farewell.  GREEN. My comfort is that heaven will take our souls,    And plague injustice with the pains of hell.  BOLINGBROKE. My Lord Northumberland, see them dispatch'd.          [Exeunt NORTHUMBERLAND, and others, with the prisoners]    Uncle, you say the Queen is at your house;    For God's sake, fairly let her be entreated.    Tell her I send to her my kind commends;    Take special care my greetings be delivered.  YORK. A gentleman of mine I have dispatch'd    With letters of your love to her at large.  BOLINGBROKE. Thanks, gentle uncle. Come, lords, away,    To fight with Glendower and his complices.    Awhile to work, and after holiday.                   [Exeunt]SCENE 2The coast of Wales. A castle in view[Drums. Flourish and colours. Enter the KING, the BISHOP OFCARLISLE,AUMERLE, and soldiers]  KING RICHARD. Barkloughly Castle call they this at hand?  AUMERLE. Yea, my lord. How brooks your Grace the air    After your late tossing on the breaking seas?  KING RICHARD. Needs must I like it well. I weep for joy    To stand upon my kingdom once again.    Dear earth, I do salute thee with my hand,    Though rebels wound thee with their horses' hoofs.    As a long-parted mother with her child    Plays fondly with her tears and smiles in meeting,    So weeping-smiling greet I thee, my earth,    And do thee favours with my royal hands.    Feed not thy sovereign's foe, my gentle earth,    Nor with thy sweets comfort his ravenous sense;    But let thy spiders, that suck up thy venom,    And heavy-gaited toads, lie in their way,    Doing annoyance to the treacherous feet    Which with usurping steps do trample thee;    Yield stinging nettles to mine enemies;    And when they from thy bosom pluck a flower,    Guard it, I pray thee, with a lurking adder,    Whose double tongue may with a mortal touch    Throw death upon thy sovereign's enemies.    Mock not my senseless conjuration, lords.    This earth shall have a feeling, and these stones    Prove armed soldiers, ere her native king    Shall falter under foul rebellion's arms.  CARLISLE. Fear not, my lord; that Power that made you king    Hath power to keep you king in spite of all.    The means that heaven yields must be embrac'd    And not neglected; else, if heaven would,    And we will not, heaven's offer we refuse,    The proffered means of succour and redress.  AUMERLE. He means, my lord, that we are too remiss;    Whilst Bolingbroke, through our security,    Grows strong and great in substance and in power.  KING RICHARD. Discomfortable cousin! know'st thou not    That when the searching eye of heaven is hid,    Behind the globe, that lights the lower world,    Then thieves and robbers range abroad unseen    In murders and in outrage boldly here;    But when from under this terrestrial ball    He fires the proud tops of the eastern pines    And darts his light through every guilty hole,    Then murders, treasons, and detested sins,    The cloak of night being pluck'd from off their backs,    Stand bare and naked, trembling at themselves?    So when this thief, this traitor, Bolingbroke,    Who all this while hath revell'd in the night,    Whilst we were wand'ring with the Antipodes,    Shall see us rising in our throne, the east,    His treasons will sit blushing in his face,    Not able to endure the sight of day,    But self-affrighted tremble at his sin.    Not all the water in the rough rude sea    Can wash the balm off from an anointed king;    The breath of worldly men cannot depose    The deputy elected by the Lord.    For every man that Bolingbroke hath press'd    To lift shrewd steel against our golden crown,    God for his Richard hath in heavenly pay    A glorious angel. Then, if angels fight,    Weak men must fall; for heaven still guards the right.                [Enter SALISBURY]    Welcome, my lord. How far off lies your power?  SALISBURY. Nor near nor farther off, my gracious lord,    Than this weak arm. Discomfort guides my tongue,    And bids me speak of nothing but despair.    One day too late, I fear me, noble lord,    Hath clouded all thy happy days on earth.    O, call back yesterday, bid time return,    And thou shalt have twelve thousand fighting men!    To-day, to-day, unhappy day, too late,    O'erthrows thy joys, friends, fortune, and thy state;    For all the Welshmen, hearing thou wert dead,    Are gone to Bolingbroke, dispers'd, and fled.  AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege, why looks your Grace so pale?  KING RICHARD. But now the blood of twenty thousand men    Did triumph in my face, and they are fled;    And, till so much blood thither come again,    Have I not reason to look pale and dead?    All souls that will be safe, fly from my side;    For time hath set a blot upon my pride.  AUMERLE. Comfort, my liege; remember who you are.  KING RICHARD. I had forgot myself; am I not King?    Awake, thou coward majesty! thou sleepest.    Is not the King's name twenty thousand names?    Arm, arm, my name! a puny subject strikes    At thy great glory. Look not to the ground,    Ye favourites of a king; are we not high?    High be our thoughts. I know my uncle York    Hath power enough to serve our turn. But who comes here?                  [Enter SCROOP]  SCROOP. More health and happiness betide my liege    Than can my care-tun'd tongue deliver him.  KING RICHARD. Mine ear is open and my heart prepar'd.    The worst is worldly loss thou canst unfold.    Say, is my kingdom lost? Why, 'twas my care,    And what loss is it to be rid of care?    Strives Bolingbroke to be as great as we?    Greater he shall not be; if he serve God,    We'll serve him too, and be his fellow so.    Revolt our subjects? That we cannot mend;    They break their faith to God as well as us.    Cry woe, destruction, ruin, and decay-    The worst is death, and death will have his day.  SCROOP. Glad am I that your Highness is so arm'd    To bear the tidings of calamity.    Like an unseasonable stormy day    Which makes the silver rivers drown their shores,    As if the world were all dissolv'd to tears,    So high above his limits swells the rage    Of Bolingbroke, covering your fearful land    With hard bright steel and hearts harder than steel.    White-beards have arm'd their thin and hairless scalps    Against thy majesty; boys, with women's voices,    Strive to speak big, and clap their female joints    In stiff unwieldy arms against thy crown;    Thy very beadsmen learn to bend their bows    Of double-fatal yew against thy state;    Yea, distaff-women manage rusty bills    Against thy seat: both young and old rebel,    And all goes worse than I have power to tell.  KING RICHARD. Too well, too well thou tell'st a tale so ill.    Where is the Earl of Wiltshire? Where is Bagot?    What is become of Bushy? Where is Green?    That they have let the dangerous enemy    Measure our confines with such peaceful steps?    If we prevail, their heads shall pay for it.

I warrant they have made peace with Bolingbroke.  SCROOP. Peace have they made with him indeed, my lord.  KING RICHARD. O villains, vipers, damn'd without redemption!    Dogs, easily won to fawn on any man!    Snakes, in my heart-blood warm'd, that sting my heart!    Three Judases, each one thrice worse than Judas!    Would they make peace? Terrible hell make war    Upon their spotted souls for this offence!  SCROOP. Sweet love, I see, changing his property,    Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate.    Again uncurse their souls; their peace is made    With heads, and not with hands; those whom you curse    Have felt the worst of death's destroying wound    And lie full low, grav'd in the hollow ground.  AUMERLE. Is Bushy, Green, and the Earl of Wiltshire dead?  SCROOP. Ay, all of them at Bristow lost their heads.  AUMERLE. Where is the Duke my father with his power?  KING RICHARD. No matter where-of comfort no man speak.    Let's talk of graves, of worms, and epitaphs;    Make dust our paper, and with rainy eyes    Write sorrow on the bosom of the earth.    Let's choose executors and talk of wills;    And yet not so-for what can we bequeath    Save our deposed bodies to the ground?    Our lands, our lives, and all, are Bolingbroke's.    And nothing can we can our own but death    And that small model of the barren earth    Which serves as paste and cover to our bones.    For God's sake let us sit upon the ground    And tell sad stories of the death of kings:    How some have been depos'd, some slain in war,    Some haunted by the ghosts they have depos'd,    Some poison'd by their wives, some sleeping kill'd,    All murder'd-for within the hollow crown    That rounds the mortal temples of a king    Keeps Death his court; and there the antic sits,    Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp;    Allowing him a breath, a little scene,    To monarchize, be fear'd, and kill with looks;    Infusing him with self and vain conceit,    As if this flesh which walls about our life    Were brass impregnable; and, humour'd thus,    Comes at the last, and with a little pin    Bores through his castle wall, and farewell, king!    Cover your heads, and mock not flesh and blood    With solemn reverence; throw away respect,    Tradition, form, and ceremonious duty;    For you have but mistook me all this while.    I live with bread like you, feel want,    Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,    How can you say to me I am a king?  CARLISLE. My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes,    But presently prevent the ways to wail.    To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,    Gives, in your weakness, strength unto your foe,    And so your follies fight against yourself.    Fear and be slain-no worse can come to fight;    And fight and die is death destroying death,    Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.  AUMERLE. My father hath a power; inquire of him,    And learn to make a body of a limb.  KING RICHARD. Thou chid'st me well. Proud Bolingbroke, I come    To change blows with thee for our day of doom.    This ague fit of fear is over-blown;    An easy task it is to win our own.    Say, Scroop, where lies our uncle with his power?    Speak sweetly, man, although thy looks be sour.  SCROOP. Men judge by the complexion of the sky    The state in inclination of the day;    So may you by my dull and heavy eye,    My tongue hath but a heavier tale to say.    I play the torturer, by small and small    To lengthen out the worst that must be spoken:    Your uncle York is join'd with Bolingbroke;    And all your northern castles yielded up,    And all your southern gentlemen in arms    Upon his party.  KING RICHARD. Thou hast said enough.      [To AUMERLE] Beshrew thee, cousin, which didst lead meforth    Of that sweet way I was in to despair!    What say you now? What comfort have we now?    By heaven, I'll hate him everlastingly    That bids me be of comfort any more.    Go to Flint Castle; there I'll pine away;    A king, woe's slave, shall kingly woe obey.    That power I have, discharge; and let them go    To ear the land that hath some hope to grow,    For I have none. Let no man speak again    To alter this, for counsel is but vain.  AUMERLE. My liege, one word.  KING RICHARD. He does me double wrong    That wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.    Discharge my followers; let them hence away,    From Richard's night to Bolingbroke's fair day.      [Exeunt]SCENE 3Wales. Before Flint Castle[Enter, with drum and colours, BOLINGBROKE, YORK, NORTHUMBERLAND,and forces]  BOLINGBROKE. So that by this intelligence we learn    The Welshmen are dispers'd; and Salisbury    Is gone to meet the King, who lately landed    With some few private friends upon this coast.  NORTHUMBERLAND. The news is very fair and good, my lord.    Richard not far from hence hath hid his head.  YORK. It would beseem the Lord Northumberland    To say 'King Richard. ' Alack the heavy day    When such a sacred king should hide his head!  NORTHUMBERLAND. Your Grace mistakes; only to be brief,    Left I his title out.  YORK. The time hath been,    Would you have been so brief with him, he would    Have been so brief with you to shorten you,    For taking so the head, your whole head's length.  BOLINGBROKE. Mistake not, uncle, further than you should.  YORK. Take not, good cousin, further than you should,    Lest you mistake. The heavens are over our heads.  BOLINGBROKE. I know it, uncle; and oppose not myself    Against their will. But who comes here?                   [Enter PERCY]    Welcome, Harry. What, will not this castle yield?  PERCY. The castle royally is mann'd, my lord,    Against thy entrance.  BOLINGBROKE. Royally!    Why, it contains no king?  PERCY. Yes, my good lord,    It doth contain a king; King Richard lies    Within the limits of yon lime and stone;    And with him are the Lord Aumerle, Lord Salisbury,    Sir Stephen Scroop, besides a clergyman    Of holy reverence; who, I cannot learn.  NORTHUMBERLAND. O, belike it is the Bishop of Carlisle.  BOLINGBROKE. [To NORTHUMBERLAND] Noble lord,    Go to the rude ribs of that ancient castle;    Through brazen trumpet send the breath of parley    Into his ruin'd ears, and thus deliver:    Henry Bolingbroke    On both his knees doth kiss King Richard's hand,    And sends allegiance and true faith of heart    To his most royal person; hither come    Even at his feet to lay my arms and power,    Provided that my banishment repeal'd    And lands restor'd again be freely granted;    If not, I'll use the advantage of my power    And lay the summer's dust with showers of blood    Rain'd from the wounds of slaughtered Englishmen;    The which how far off from the mind of Bolingbroke    It is such crimson tempest should bedrench    The fresh green lap of fair King Richard's land,    My stooping duty tenderly shall show.    Go, signify as much, while here we march    Upon the grassy carpet of this plain.           [NORTHUMBERLAND advances to the Castle, with atrumpet]    Let's march without the noise of threat'ning drum,    That from this castle's tottered battlements    Our fair appointments may be well perus'd.    Methinks King Richard and myself should meet    With no less terror than the elements    Of fire and water, when their thund'ring shock    At meeting tears the cloudy cheeks of heaven.    Be he the fire, I'll be the yielding water;    The rage be his, whilst on the earth I rain    My waters-on the earth, and not on him.    March on, and mark King Richard how he looks.      [Parle without, and answer within; then a flourish.      Enter on the walls, the KING, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE,      AUMERLE, SCROOP, and SALISBURY]    See, see, King Richard doth himself appear,    As doth the blushing discontented sun    From out the fiery portal of the east,    When he perceives the envious clouds are bent    To dim his glory and to stain the track    Of his bright passage to the occident.  YORK. Yet he looks like a king.

Behold, his eye,    As bright as is the eagle's, lightens forth    Controlling majesty. Alack, alack, for woe,    That any harm should stain so fair a show!  KING RICHARD. [To NORTHUMBERLAND] We are amaz'd; and thus long      have we stood    To watch the fearful bending of thy knee,    Because we thought ourself thy lawful King;    And if we be, how dare thy joints forget    To pay their awful duty to our presence?    If we be not, show us the hand of God    That hath dismiss'd us from our stewardship;    For well we know no hand of blood and bone    Can gripe the sacred handle of our sceptre,    Unless he do profane, steal, or usurp.    And though you think that all, as you have done,    Have torn their souls by turning them from us,    And we are barren and bereft of friends,    Yet know-my master, God omnipotent,    Is mustering in his clouds on our behalf    Armies of pestilence; and they shall strike    Your children yet unborn and unbegot,    That lift your vassal hands against my head    And threat the glory of my precious crown.    Tell Bolingbroke, for yon methinks he stands,    That every stride he makes upon my land    Is dangerous treason; he is come to open    The purple testament of bleeding war;    But ere the crown he looks for live in peace,    Ten thousand bloody crowns of mothers' sons    Shall ill become the flower of England's face,    Change the complexion of her maid-pale peace    To scarlet indignation, and bedew    Her pastures' grass with faithful English blood.  NORTHUMBERLAND. The King of Heaven forbid our lord the King    Should so with civil and uncivil arms    Be rush'd upon! Thy thrice noble cousin,    Harry Bolingbroke, doth humbly kiss thy hand;    And by the honourable tomb he swears    That stands upon your royal grandsire's bones,    And by the royalties of both your bloods,    Currents that spring from one most gracious head,    And by the buried hand of warlike Gaunt,    And by the worth and honour of himself,    Comprising all that may be sworn or said,    His coming hither hath no further scope    Than for his lineal royalties, and to beg    Enfranchisement immediate on his knees;    Which on thy royal party granted once,    His glittering arms he will commend to rust,    His barbed steeds to stables, and his heart    To faithful service of your Majesty.    This swears he, as he is a prince, is just;    And as I am a gentleman I credit him.  KING RICHARD. Northumberland, say thus the King returns:    His noble cousin is right welcome hither;    And all the number of his fair demands    Shall be accomplish'd without contradiction.    With all the gracious utterance thou hast    Speak to his gentle hearing kind commends.    [To AUMERLE] We do debase ourselves, cousin, do we not,    To look so poorly and to speak so fair?    Shall we call back Northumberland, and send    Defiance to the traitor, and so die?  AUMERLE. No, good my lord; let's fight with gentle words    Till time lend friends, and friends their helpful swords.  KING RICHARD. O God, O God! that e'er this tongue of mine    That laid the sentence of dread banishment    On yon proud man should take it off again    With words of sooth! O that I were as great    As is my grief, or lesser than my name!    Or that I could forget what I have been!    Or not remember what I must be now!    Swell'st thou, proud heart? I'll give thee scope to beat,    Since foes have scope to beat both thee and me.  AUMERLE. Northumberland comes back from Bolingbroke.  KING RICHARD. What must the King do now? Must he submit?    The King shall do it. Must he be depos'd?    The King shall be contented. Must he lose    The name of king? A God's name, let it go.    I'll give my jewels for a set of beads,    My gorgeous palace for a hermitage,    My gay apparel for an almsman's gown,    My figur'd goblets for a dish of wood,    My sceptre for a palmer's walking staff,    My subjects for a pair of carved saints,    And my large kingdom for a little grave,    A little little grave, an obscure grave-    Or I'll be buried in the king's high way,    Some way of common trade, where subjects' feet    May hourly trample on their sovereign's head;    For on my heart they tread now whilst I live,    And buried once, why not upon my head?    Aumerle, thou weep'st, my tender-hearted cousin!    We'll make foul weather with despised tears;    Our sighs and they shall lodge the summer corn    And make a dearth in this revolting land.    Or shall we play the wantons with our woes    And make some pretty match with shedding tears?    As thus: to drop them still upon one place    Till they have fretted us a pair of graves    Within the earth; and, therein laid-there lies    Two kinsmen digg'd their graves with weeping eyes.    Would not this ill do well? Well, well, I see    I talk but idly, and you laugh at me.    Most mighty prince, my Lord Northumberland,    What says King Bolingbroke? Will his Majesty    Give Richard leave to live till Richard die?    You make a leg, and Bolingbroke says ay.  NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, in the base court he doth attend    To speak with you; may it please you to come down?  KING RICHARD. Down, down I come, like glist'ring Phaethon,    Wanting the manage of unruly jades.    In the base court? Base court, where kings grow base,    To come at traitors' calls, and do them grace.    In the base court? Come down? Down, court! down, king!    For night-owls shriek where mounting larks should sing.                                              [Exeunt from above]  BOLINGBROKE. What says his Majesty?  NORTHUMBERLAND. Sorrow and grief of heart    Makes him speak fondly, like a frantic man;    Yet he is come.         [Enter the KING, and his attendants, below]  BOLINGBROKE. Stand all apart,    And show fair duty to his Majesty.   [He kneels down]    My gracious lord-  KING RICHARD. Fair cousin, you debase your princely knee    To make the base earth proud with kissing it.    Me rather had my heart might feel your love    Than my unpleas'd eye see your courtesy.    Up, cousin, up; your heart is up, I know,    [Touching his own head] Thus high at least, although your      knee be low.  BOLINGBROKE. My gracious lord, I come but for mine own.  KING RICHARD. Your own is yours, and I am yours, and all.  BOLINGBROKE. So far be mine, my most redoubted lord,    As my true service shall deserve your love.  KING RICHARD. Well you deserve. They well deserve to have    That know the strong'st and surest way to get.    Uncle, give me your hands; nay, dry your eyes:    Tears show their love, but want their remedies.    Cousin, I am too young to be your father,    Though you are old enough to be my heir.    What you will have, I'll give, and willing too;    For do we must what force will have us do.    Set on towards London. Cousin, is it so?  BOLINGBROKE. Yea, my good lord.  KING RICHARD. Then I must not say no.        [Flourish. Exeunt]SCENE 4The DUKE OF YORK's garden[Enter the QUEEN and two LADIES]  QUEEN. What sport shall we devise here in this garden    To drive away the heavy thought of care?  LADY. Madam, we'll play at bowls.  QUEEN. 'Twill make me think the world is full of rubs    And that my fortune runs against the bias.  LADY. Madam, we'll dance.  QUEEN. My legs can keep no measure in delight,    When my poor heart no measure keeps in grief;    Therefore no dancing, girl; some other sport.  LADY. Madam, we'll tell tales.  QUEEN. Of sorrow or of joy?

LADY. Of either, madam.  QUEEN. Of neither, girl;    For if of joy, being altogether wanting,    It doth remember me the more of sorrow;    Or if of grief, being altogether had,    It adds more sorrow to my want of joy;    For what I have I need not to repeat,    And what I want it boots not to complain.  LADY. Madam, I'll sing.  QUEEN. 'Tis well' that thou hast cause;    But thou shouldst please me better wouldst thou weep.  LADY. I could weep, madam, would it do you good.  QUEEN. And I could sing, would weeping do me good,    And never borrow any tear of thee.          [Enter a GARDENER and two SERVANTS]    But stay, here come the gardeners.    Let's step into the shadow of these trees.    My wretchedness unto a row of pins,    They will talk of state, for every one doth so    Against a change: woe is forerun with woe.                                       [QUEEN and LADIES retire]  GARDENER. Go, bind thou up yon dangling apricocks,    Which, like unruly children, make their sire    Stoop with oppression of their prodigal weight;    Give some supportance to the bending twigs.    Go thou, and like an executioner    Cut off the heads of too fast growing sprays    That look too lofty in our commonwealth:    All must be even in our government.    You thus employ'd, I will go root away    The noisome weeds which without profit suck    The soil's fertility from wholesome flowers.  SERVANT. Why should we, in the compass of a pale,    Keep law and form and due proportion,    Showing, as in a model, our firm estate,    When our sea-walled garden, the whole land,    Is full of weeds; her fairest flowers chok'd up,    Her fruit trees all unprun'd, her hedges ruin'd,    Her knots disordered, and her wholesome herbs    Swarming with caterpillars?  GARDENER. Hold thy peace.    He that hath suffer'd this disorder'd spring    Hath now himself met with the fall of leaf;    The weeds which his broad-spreading leaves did shelter,    That seem'd in eating him to hold him up,    Are pluck'd up root and all by Bolingbroke-    I mean the Earl of Wiltshire, Bushy, Green.  SERVANT. What, are they dead?  GARDENER. They are; and Bolingbroke    Hath seiz'd the wasteful King. O, what pity is it    That he had not so trimm'd and dress'd his land    As we this garden! We at time of year    Do wound the bark, the skin of our fruit trees,    Lest, being over-proud in sap and blood,    With too much riches it confound itself;    Had he done so to great and growing men,    They might have liv'd to bear, and he to taste    Their fruits of duty. Superfluous branches    We lop away, that bearing boughs may live;    Had he done so, himself had home the crown,    Which waste of idle hours hath quite thrown down.  SERVANT. What, think you the King shall be deposed?  GARDENER. Depress'd he is already, and depos'd    'Tis doubt he will be. Letters came last night    To a dear friend of the good Duke of York's    That tell black tidings.  QUEEN. O, I am press'd to death through want of speaking!                                                [Coming forward]    Thou, old Adam's likeness, set to dress this garden,    How dares thy harsh rude tongue sound this unpleasing news?    What Eve, what serpent, hath suggested thee    To make a second fall of cursed man?    Why dost thou say King Richard is depos'd?    Dar'st thou, thou little better thing than earth,    Divine his downfall? Say, where, when, and how,    Cam'st thou by this ill tidings? Speak, thou wretch.  GARDENER. Pardon me, madam; little joy have I    To breathe this news; yet what I say is true.    King Richard, he is in the mighty hold    Of Bolingbroke. Their fortunes both are weigh'd.    In your lord's scale is nothing but himself,    And some few vanities that make him light;    But in the balance of great Bolingbroke,    Besides himself, are all the English peers,    And with that odds he weighs King Richard down.    Post you to London, and you will find it so;    I speak no more than every one doth know.  QUEEN. Nimble mischance, that art so light of foot,    Doth not thy embassage belong to me,    And am I last that knows it? O, thou thinkest    To serve me last, that I may longest keep    Thy sorrow in my breast. Come, ladies, go    To meet at London London's King in woe.    What, was I born to this, that my sad look    Should grace the triumph of great Bolingbroke?    Gard'ner, for telling me these news of woe,    Pray God the plants thou graft'st may never grow!                                        [Exeunt QUEEN and LADIES]  GARDENER. Poor Queen, so that thy state might be no worse,    I would my skill were subject to thy curse.    Here did she fall a tear; here in this place    I'll set a bank of rue, sour herb of grace.    Rue, even for ruth, here shortly shall be seen,    In the remembrance of a weeping queen.               [Exeunt]<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>ACT 4 SCENE 1Westminster Hall[Enter, as to the Parliament, BOLINGBROKE, AUMERLE,NORTHUMBERLAND, PERCY,FITZWATER, SURREY, the BISHOP OF CARLISLE, the ABBOT OFWESTMINSTER,and others; HERALD, OFFICERS, and BAGOT]  BOLINGBROKE. Call forth Bagot.    Now, Bagot, freely speak thy mind-    What thou dost know of noble Gloucester's death;    Who wrought it with the King, and who perform'd    The bloody office of his timeless end.  BAGOT. Then set before my face the Lord Aumerle.  BOLINGBROKE. Cousin, stand forth, and look upon that man.  BAGOT. My Lord Aumerle, I know your daring tongue    Scorns to unsay what once it hath deliver'd.    In that dead time when Gloucester's death was plotted    I heard you say 'Is not my arm of length,    That reacheth from the restful English Court    As far as Calais, to mine uncle's head? '    Amongst much other talk that very time    I heard you say that you had rather refuse    The offer of an hundred thousand crowns    Than Bolingbroke's return to England;    Adding withal, how blest this land would be    In this your cousin's death.  AUMERLE. Princes, and noble lords,    What answer shall I make to this base man?    Shall I so much dishonour my fair stars    On equal terms to give him chastisement?    Either I must, or have mine honour soil'd    With the attainder of his slanderous lips.    There is my gage, the manual seal of death    That marks thee out for hell. I say thou liest,    And will maintain what thou hast said is false    In thy heart-blood, through being all too base    To stain the temper of my knightly sword.  BOLINGBROKE. Bagot, forbear; thou shalt not take it up.  AUMERLE. Excepting one, I would he were the best    In all this presence that hath mov'd me so.  FITZWATER. If that thy valour stand on sympathy,    There is my gage, Aumerle, in gage to thine.    By that fair sun which shows me where thou stand'st,    I heard thee say, and vauntingly thou spak'st it,    That thou wert cause of noble Gloucester's death.    If thou deniest it twenty times, thou liest;    And I will turn thy falsehood to thy heart,    Where it was forged, with my rapier's point.  AUMERLE. Thou dar'st not, coward, live to see that day.  FITZWATER. Now, by my soul, I would it were this hour.  AUMERLE. Fitzwater, thou art damn'd to hell for this.  PERCY. Aumerle, thou liest; his honour is as true    In this appeal as thou art an unjust;    And that thou art so, there I throw my gage,    To prove it on thee to the extremest point    Of mortal breathing. Seize it, if thou dar'st.  AUMERLE. An if I do not, may my hands rot off    And never brandish more revengeful steel    Over the glittering helmet of my foe!

ANOTHER LORD. I task the earth to the like, forsworn Aumerle;    And spur thee on with full as many lies    As may be halloa'd in thy treacherous ear    From sun to sun. There is my honour's pawn;    Engage it to the trial, if thou darest.  AUMERLE. Who sets me else? By heaven, I'll throw at all!    I have a thousand spirits in one breast    To answer twenty thousand such as you.  SURREY. My Lord Fitzwater, I do remember well    The very time Aumerle and you did talk.  FITZWATER. 'Tis very true; you were in presence then,    And you can witness with me this is true.  SURREY. As false, by heaven, as heaven itself is true.  FITZWATER. Surrey, thou liest.  SURREY. Dishonourable boy!    That lie shall lie so heavy on my sword    That it shall render vengeance and revenge    Till thou the lie-giver and that lie do lie    In earth as quiet as thy father's skull.    In proof whereof, there is my honour's pawn;    Engage it to the trial, if thou dar'st.  FITZWATER. How fondly dost thou spur a forward horse!    If I dare eat, or drink, or breathe, or live,    I dare meet Surrey in a wilderness,    And spit upon him whilst I say he lies,    And lies, and lies. There is my bond of faith,    To tie thee to my strong correction.    As I intend to thrive in this new world,    Aumerle is guilty of my true appeal.    Besides, I heard the banish'd Norfolk say    That thou, Aumerle, didst send two of thy men    To execute the noble Duke at Calais.  AUMERLE. Some honest Christian trust me with a gage    That Norfolk lies. Here do I throw down this,    If he may be repeal'd to try his honour.  BOLINGBROKE. These differences shall all rest under gage    Till Norfolk be repeal'd-repeal'd he shall be    And, though mine enemy, restor'd again    To all his lands and signories. When he is return'd,    Against Aumerle we will enforce his trial.  CARLISLE. That honourable day shall never be seen.    Many a time hath banish'd Norfolk fought    For Jesu Christ in glorious Christian field,    Streaming the ensign of the Christian cross    Against black pagans, Turks, and Saracens;    And, toil'd with works of war, retir'd himself    To Italy; and there, at Venice, gave    His body to that pleasant country's earth,    And his pure soul unto his captain, Christ,    Under whose colours he had fought so long.  BOLINGBROKE. Why, Bishop, is Norfolk dead?  CARLISLE. As surely as I live, my lord.  BOLINGBROKE. Sweet peace conduct his sweet soul to the bosom    Of good old Abraham! Lords appellants,    Your differences shall all rest under gage    Till we assign you to your days of trial                [Enter YORK, attended]  YORK. Great Duke of Lancaster, I come to the    From plume-pluck'd Richard, who with willing soul    Adopts thee heir, and his high sceptre yields    To the possession of thy royal hand.    Ascend his throne, descending now from him-    And long live Henry, fourth of that name!  BOLINGBROKE. In God's name, I'll ascend the regal throne.  CARLISLE. Marry, God forbid!    Worst in this royal presence may I speak,    Yet best beseeming me to speak the truth.    Would God that any in this noble presence    Were enough noble to be upright judge    Of noble Richard! Then true noblesse would    Learn him forbearance from so foul a wrong.    What subject can give sentence on his king?    And who sits here that is not Richard's subject?    Thieves are not judg'd but they are by to hear,    Although apparent guilt be seen in them;    And shall the figure of God's majesty,    His captain, steward, deputy elect,    Anointed, crowned, planted many years,    Be judg'd by subject and inferior breath,    And he himself not present? O, forfend it, God,    That in a Christian climate souls refin'd    Should show so heinous, black, obscene a deed!    I speak to subjects, and a subject speaks,    Stirr'd up by God, thus boldly for his king.    My Lord of Hereford here, whom you call king,    Is a foul traitor to proud Hereford's king;    And if you crown him, let me prophesy-    The blood of English shall manure the ground,    And future ages groan for this foul act;    Peace shall go sleep with Turks and infidels,    And in this seat of peace tumultuous wars    Shall kin with kin and kind with kind confound;    Disorder, horror, fear, and mutiny,    Shall here inhabit, and this land be call'd    The field of Golgotha and dead men's skulls.    O, if you raise this house against this house,    It will the woefullest division prove    That ever fell upon this cursed earth.    Prevent it, resist it, let it not be so,    Lest child, child's children, cry against you woe.  NORTHUMBERLAND. Well have you argued, sir; and, for your pains,    Of capital treason we arrest you here.    My Lord of Westminster, be it your charge    To keep him safely till his day of trial.    May it please you, lords, to grant the commons' suit?  BOLINGBROKE. Fetch hither Richard, that in common view    He may surrender; so we shall proceed    Without suspicion.  YORK. I will be his conduct.                             [Exit]  BOLINGBROKE. Lords, you that here are under our arrest,    Procure your sureties for your days of answer.    Little are we beholding to your love,    And little look'd for at your helping hands.     [Re-enter YORK, with KING RICHARD, and OFFICERS                bearing the regalia]  KING RICHARD. Alack, why am I sent for to a king,    Before I have shook off the regal thoughts    Wherewith I reign'd? I hardly yet have learn'd    To insinuate, flatter, bow, and bend my knee.    Give sorrow leave awhile to tutor me    To this submission. Yet I well remember    The favours of these men. Were they not mine?    Did they not sometime cry 'All hail! ' to me?    So Judas did to Christ; but he, in twelve,    Found truth in all but one; I, in twelve thousand, none.    God save the King! Will no man say amen?    Am I both priest and clerk? Well then, amen.    God save the King! although I be not he;    And yet, amen, if heaven do think him me.    To do what service am I sent for hither?  YORK. To do that office of thine own good will    Which tired majesty did make thee offer-    The resignation of thy state and crown    To Henry Bolingbroke.  KING RICHARD. Give me the crown. Here, cousin, seize the crown.    Here, cousin,    On this side my hand, and on that side thine.    Now is this golden crown like a deep well    That owes two buckets, filling one another;    The emptier ever dancing in the air,    The other down, unseen, and full of water.    That bucket down and full of tears am I,    Drinking my griefs, whilst you mount up on high.  BOLINGBROKE. I thought you had been willing to resign.  KING RICHARD. My crown I am; but still my griefs are mine.    You may my glories and my state depose,    But not my griefs; still am I king of those.  BOLINGBROKE. Part of your cares you give me with your crown.

KING RICHARD. Your cares set up do not pluck my cares down.    My care is loss of care, by old care done;    Your care is gain of care, by new care won.    The cares I give I have, though given away;    They tend the crown, yet still with me they stay.  BOLINGBROKE. Are you contented to resign the crown?  KING RICHARD. Ay, no; no, ay; for I must nothing be;    Therefore no no, for I resign to thee.    Now mark me how I will undo myself:    I give this heavy weight from off my head,    And this unwieldy sceptre from my hand,    The pride of kingly sway from out my heart;    With mine own tears I wash away my balm,    With mine own hands I give away my crown,    With mine own tongue deny my sacred state,    With mine own breath release all duteous oaths;    All pomp and majesty I do forswear;    My manors, rents, revenues, I forgo;    My acts, decrees, and statutes, I deny.    God pardon all oaths that are broke to me!    God keep all vows unbroke are made to thee!    Make me, that nothing have, with nothing griev'd,    And thou with all pleas'd, that hast an achiev'd.    Long mayst thou live in Richard's seat to sit,    And soon lie Richard in an earthly pit.    God save King Henry, unking'd Richard says,    And send him many years of sunshine days!    What more remains?  NORTHUMBERLAND. No more; but that you read    These accusations, and these grievous crimes    Committed by your person and your followers    Against the state and profit of this land;    That, by confessing them, the souls of men    May deem that you are worthily depos'd.  KING RICHARD. Must I do so? And must I ravel out    My weav'd-up follies? Gentle Northumberland,    If thy offences were upon record,    Would it not shame thee in so fair a troop    To read a lecture of them? If thou wouldst,    There shouldst thou find one heinous article,    Containing the deposing of a king    And cracking the strong warrant of an oath,    Mark'd with a blot, damn'd in the book of heaven.    Nay, all of you that stand and look upon me    Whilst that my wretchedness doth bait myself,    Though some of you, with Pilate, wash your hands,    Showing an outward pity-yet you Pilates    Have here deliver'd me to my sour cross,    And water cannot wash away your sin.  NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, dispatch; read o'er these    articles.  KING RICHARD. Mine eyes are full of tears; I cannot see.    And yet salt water blinds them not so much    But they can see a sort of traitors here.    Nay, if I turn mine eyes upon myself,    I find myself a traitor with the rest;    For I have given here my soul's consent    T'undeck the pompous body of a king;    Made glory base, and sovereignty a slave,    Proud majesty a subject, state a peasant.  NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord-  KING RICHARD. No lord of thine, thou haught insulting man,    Nor no man's lord; I have no name, no title-    No, not that name was given me at the font-    But 'tis usurp'd. Alack the heavy day,    That I have worn so many winters out,    And know not now what name to call myself!    O that I were a mockery king of snow,    Standing before the sun of Bolingbroke    To melt myself away in water drops!    Good king, great king, and yet not greatly good,    And if my word be sterling yet in England,    Let it command a mirror hither straight,    That it may show me what a face I have    Since it is bankrupt of his majesty.  BOLINGBROKE. Go some of you and fetch a looking-glass.                                              [Exit an attendant]  NORTHUMBERLAND. Read o'er this paper while the glass doth come.  KING RICHARD. Fiend, thou torments me ere I come to hell.  BOLINGBROKE. Urge it no more, my Lord Northumberland.  NORTHUMBERLAND. The Commons will not, then, be satisfied.  KING RICHARD. They shall be satisfied. I'll read enough,    When I do see the very book indeed    Where all my sins are writ, and that's myself.               [Re-enter attendant with glass]    Give me that glass, and therein will I read.    No deeper wrinkles yet? Hath sorrow struck    So many blows upon this face of mine    And made no deeper wounds? O flatt'ring glass,    Like to my followers in prosperity,    Thou dost beguile me! Was this face the face    That every day under his household roof    Did keep ten thousand men? Was this the face    That like the sun did make beholders wink?    Is this the face which fac'd so many follies    That was at last out-fac'd by Bolingbroke?    A brittle glory shineth in this face;    As brittle as the glory is the face;                        [Dashes the glass against the ground]    For there it is, crack'd in a hundred shivers.    Mark, silent king, the moral of this sport-    How soon my sorrow hath destroy'd my face.  BOLINGBROKE. The shadow of your sorrow hath destroy'd    The shadow of your face.  KING RICHARD. Say that again.    The shadow of my sorrow? Ha! let's see.    'Tis very true: my grief lies all within;    And these external manner of laments    Are merely shadows to the unseen grief    That swells with silence in the tortur'd soul.    There lies the substance; and I thank thee, king,    For thy great bounty, that not only giv'st    Me cause to wail, but teachest me the way    How to lament the cause. I'll beg one boon,    And then be gone and trouble you no more.    Shall I obtain it?  BOLINGBROKE. Name it, fair cousin.  KING RICHARD. Fair cousin! I am greater than a king;    For when I was a king, my flatterers    Were then but subjects; being now a subject,    I have a king here to my flatterer.    Being so great, I have no need to beg.  BOLINGBROKE. Yet ask.  KING RICHARD. And shall I have?  BOLINGBROKE. You shall.  KING RICHARD. Then give me leave to go.  BOLINGBROKE. Whither?  KING RICHARD. Whither you will, so I were from your sights.  BOLINGBROKE. Go, some of you convey him to the Tower.  KING RICHARD. O, good! Convey! Conveyers are you all,    That rise thus nimbly by a true king's fall.                    [Exeunt KING RICHARD, some Lords and a Guard]  BOLINGBROKE. On Wednesday next we solemnly set down    Our coronation. Lords, prepare yourselves.                   [Exeunt all but the ABBOT OF WESTMINSTER, the                                 BISHOP OF CARLISLE, and AUMERLE]  ABBOT. A woeful pageant have we here beheld.  CARLISLE. The woe's to come; the children yet unborn    Shall feel this day as sharp to them as thorn.  AUMERLE.

You holy clergymen, is there no plot    To rid the realm of this pernicious blot?  ABBOT. My lord,    Before I freely speak my mind herein,    You shall not only take the sacrament    To bury mine intents, but also to effect    Whatever I shall happen to devise.    I see your brows are full of discontent,    Your hearts of sorrow, and your eyes of tears.    Come home with me to supper; I will lay    A plot shall show us all a merry day.                [Exeunt]<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>ACT 5 SCENE 1London. A street leading to the Tower[Enter the QUEEN, with her attendants]  QUEEN. This way the King will come; this is the way    To Julius Caesar's ill-erected tower,    To whose flint bosom my condemned lord    Is doom'd a prisoner by proud Bolingbroke.    Here let us rest, if this rebellious earth    Have any resting for her true King's queen.           [Enter KING RICHARD and Guard]    But soft, but see, or rather do not see,    My fair rose wither. Yet look up, behold,    That you in pity may dissolve to dew,    And wash him fresh again with true-love tears.    Ah, thou, the model where old Troy did stand;    Thou map of honour, thou King Richard's tomb,    And not King Richard; thou most beauteous inn,    Why should hard-favour'd grief be lodg'd in thee,    When triumph is become an alehouse guest?  KING RICHARD. Join not with grief, fair woman, do not so,    To make my end too sudden. Learn, good soul,    To think our former state a happy dream;    From which awak'd, the truth of what we are    Shows us but this: I am sworn brother, sweet,    To grim Necessity; and he and    Will keep a league till death. Hie thee to France,    And cloister thee in some religious house.    Our holy lives must win a new world's crown,    Which our profane hours here have thrown down.  QUEEN. What, is my Richard both in shape and mind    Transform'd and weak'ned? Hath Bolingbroke depos'd    Thine intellect? Hath he been in thy heart?    The lion dying thrusteth forth his paw    And wounds the earth, if nothing else, with rage    To be o'erpow'r'd; and wilt thou, pupil-like,    Take the correction mildly, kiss the rod,    And fawn on rage with base humility,    Which art a lion and the king of beasts?  KING RICHARD. A king of beasts, indeed! If aught but beasts,    I had been still a happy king of men.    Good sometimes queen, prepare thee hence for France.    Think I am dead, and that even here thou takest,    As from my death-bed, thy last living leave.    In winter's tedious nights sit by the fire    With good old folks, and let them tell thee tales    Of woeful ages long ago betid;    And ere thou bid good night, to quit their griefs    Tell thou the lamentable tale of me,    And send the hearers weeping to their beds;    For why, the senseless brands will sympathize    The heavy accent of thy moving tongue,    And in compassion weep the fire out;    And some will mourn in ashes, some coal-black,    For the deposing of a rightful king.            [Enter NORTHUMBERLAND attended]  NORTHUMBERLAND. My lord, the mind of Bolingbroke is chang'd;    You must to Pomfret, not unto the Tower.    And, madam, there is order ta'en for you:    With all swift speed you must away to France.  KING RICHARD. Northumberland, thou ladder wherewithal    The mounting Bolingbroke ascends my throne,    The time shall not be many hours of age    More than it is, ere foul sin gathering head    Shall break into corruption. Thou shalt think    Though he divide the realm and give thee half    It is too little, helping him to all;    And he shall think that thou, which knowest the way    To plant unrightful kings, wilt know again,    Being ne'er so little urg'd, another way    To pluck him headlong from the usurped throne.    The love of wicked men converts to fear;    That fear to hate; and hate turns one or both    To worthy danger and deserved death.  NORTHUMBERLAND. My guilt be on my head, and there an end.    Take leave, and part; for you must part forthwith.  KING RICHARD. Doubly divorc'd! Bad men, you violate    A twofold marriage-'twixt my crown and me,    And then betwixt me and my married wife.    Let me unkiss the oath 'twixt thee and me;    And yet not so, for with a kiss 'twas made.    Part us, Northumberland; I towards the north,    Where shivering cold and sickness pines the clime;    My wife to France, from whence set forth in pomp,    She came adorned hither like sweet May,    Sent back like Hallowmas or short'st of day.  QUEEN. And must we be divided? Must we part?  KING RICHARD. Ay, hand from hand, my love, and heart fromheart.  QUEEN. Banish us both, and send the King with me.  NORTHUMBERLAND. That were some love, but little policy.  QUEEN. Then whither he goes thither let me go.  KING RICHARD. So two, together weeping, make one woe.    Weep thou for me in France, I for thee here;    Better far off than near, be ne'er the near.    Go, count thy way with sighs; I mine with groans.  QUEEN. So longest way shall have the longest moans.  KING RICHARD. Twice for one step I'll groan, the way beingshort,    And piece the way out with a heavy heart.    Come, come, in wooing sorrow let's be brief,    Since, wedding it, there is such length in grief.    One kiss shall stop our mouths, and dumbly part;    Thus give I mine, and thus take I thy heart.  QUEEN. Give me mine own again; 'twere no good part    To take on me to keep and kill thy heart.    So, now I have mine own again, be gone.    That I may strive to kill it with a groan.  KING RICHARD. We make woe wanton with this fond delay.    Once more, adieu; the rest let sorrow say.           [Exeunt]SCENE 2The DUKE OF YORK's palace[Enter the DUKE OF YORK and the DUCHESS]  DUCHESS. My Lord, you told me you would tell the rest,    When weeping made you break the story off,    Of our two cousins' coming into London.  YORK. Where did I leave?  DUCHESS. At that sad stop, my lord,    Where rude misgoverned hands from windows' tops    Threw dust and rubbish on King Richard's head.  YORK. Then, as I said, the Duke, great Bolingbroke,    Mounted upon a hot and fiery steed    Which his aspiring rider seem'd to know,    With slow but stately pace kept on his course,    Whilst all tongues cried 'God save thee, Bolingbroke! '    You would have thought the very windows spake,    So many greedy looks of young and old    Through casements darted their desiring eyes    Upon his visage; and that all the walls    With painted imagery had said at once    'Jesu preserve thee! Welcome, Bolingbroke! '    Whilst he, from the one side to the other turning,    Bareheaded, lower than his proud steed's neck,    Bespake them thus, 'I thank you, countrymen. '    And thus still doing, thus he pass'd along.  DUCHESS. Alack, poor Richard! where rode he the whilst?  YORK. As in a theatre the eyes of men    After a well-grac'd actor leaves the stage    Are idly bent on him that enters next,    Thinking his prattle to be tedious;    Even so, or with much more contempt, men's eyes    Did scowl on gentle Richard; no man cried 'God save him! '    No joyful tongue gave him his welcome home;    But dust was thrown upon his sacred head;    Which with such gentle sorrow he shook off,    His face still combating with tears and smiles,    The badges of his grief and patience,    That had not God, for some strong purpose, steel'd    The hearts of men, they must perforce have melted,    And barbarism itself have pitied him.    But heaven hath a hand in these events,    To whose high will we bound our calm contents.    To Bolingbroke are we sworn subjects now,    Whose state and honour I for aye allow.  DUCHESS. Here comes my son Aumerle.  YORK. Aumerle that was    But that is lost for being Richard's friend,    And madam, you must call him Rudand now.    I am in Parliament pledge for his truth    And lasting fealty to the new-made king.

[Enter AUMERLE]  DUCHESS. Welcome, my son. Who are the violets now    That strew the green lap of the new come spring?  AUMERLE. Madam, I know not, nor I greatly care not.    God knows I had as lief be none as one.  YORK. Well, bear you well in this new spring of time,    Lest you be cropp'd before you come to prime.    What news from Oxford? Do these justs and triumphs hold?  AUMERLE. For aught I know, my lord, they do.  YORK. You will be there, I know.  AUMERLE. If God prevent not, I purpose so.  YORK. What seal is that that without thy bosom?    Yea, look'st thou pale? Let me see the writing.  AUMERLE. My lord, 'tis nothing.  YORK. No matter, then, who see it.    I will be satisfied; let me see the writing.  AUMERLE. I do beseech your Grace to pardon me;    It is a matter of small consequence    Which for some reasons I would not have seen.  YORK. Which for some reasons, sir, I mean to see.    I fear, I fear-  DUCHESS. What should you fear?    'Tis nothing but some bond that he is ent'red into    For gay apparel 'gainst the triumph-day.  YORK. Bound to himself! What doth he with a bond    That he is bound to? Wife, thou art a fool.    Boy, let me see the writing.  AUMERLE. I do beseech you, pardon me; I may not show it.  YORK. I will be satisfied; let me see it, I say.                [He plucks it out of his bosom, and reads it]    Treason, foul treason! Villain! traitor! slave!  DUCHESS. What is the matter, my lord?  YORK. Ho! who is within there?                   [Enter a servant]    Saddle my horse.    God for his mercy, what treachery is here!  DUCHESS. Why, York, what is it, my lord?  YORK. Give me my boots, I say; saddle my horse.                                                   [Exit servant]    Now, by mine honour, by my life, my troth,    I will appeach the villain.  DUCHESS. What is the matter?  YORK. Peace, foolish woman.  DUCHESS. I will not peace. What is the matter, Aumerle?  AUMERLE. Good mother, be content; it is no more    Than my poor life must answer.  DUCHESS. Thy life answer!  YORK. Bring me my boots. I will unto the King.             [His man enters with his boots]  DUCHESS. Strike him, Aumerle. Poor boy, thou art amaz'd.    Hence, villain! never more come in my sight.  YORK. Give me my boots, I say.  DUCHESS. Why, York, what wilt thou do?    Wilt thou not hide the trespass of thine own?    Have we more sons? or are we like to have?    Is not my teeming date drunk up with time?    And wilt thou pluck my fair son from mine age    And rob me of a happy mother's name?    Is he not like thee? Is he not thine own?  YORK. Thou fond mad woman,    Wilt thou conceal this dark conspiracy?    A dozen of them here have ta'en the sacrament,    And interchangeably set down their hands    To kill the King at Oxford.  DUCHESS. He shall be none;    We'll keep him here. Then what is that to him?  YORK. Away, fond woman! were he twenty times my son    I would appeach him.  DUCHESS. Hadst thou groan'd for him    As I have done, thou wouldst be more pitiful.    But now I know thy mind: thou dost suspect    That I have been disloyal to thy bed    And that he is a bastard, not thy son.    Sweet York, sweet husband, be not of that mind.

He is as like thee as a man may be    Not like to me, or any of my kin,    And yet I love him.  YORK. Make way, unruly woman!                            [Exit]  DUCHESS. After, Aumerle! Mount thee upon his horse;    Spur post, and get before him to the King,    And beg thy pardon ere he do accuse thee.    I'll not be long behind; though I be old,    I doubt not but to ride as fast as York;    And never will I rise up from the ground    Till Bolingbroke have pardon'd thee. Away, be gone.                                                         [Exeunt]SCENE 3Windsor Castle[Enter BOLINGBROKE as King, PERCY, and other LORDS]  BOLINGBROKE. Can no man tell me of my unthrifty son?    'Tis full three months since I did see him last.    If any plague hang over us, 'tis he.    I would to God, my lords, he might be found.    Inquire at London, 'mongst the taverns there,    For there, they say, he daily doth frequent    With unrestrained loose companions,    Even such, they say, as stand in narrow lanes    And beat our watch and rob our passengers,    Which he, young wanton and effeminate boy,    Takes on the point of honour to support    So dissolute a crew.  PERCY. My lord, some two days since I saw the Prince,    And told him of those triumphs held at Oxford.  BOLINGBROKE. And what said the gallant?  PERCY. His answer was, he would unto the stews,    And from the common'st creature pluck a glove    And wear it as a favour; and with that    He would unhorse the lustiest challenger.  BOLINGBROKE. As dissolute as desperate; yet through both    I see some sparks of better hope, which elder years    May happily bring forth. But who comes here?               [Enter AUMERLE amazed]  AUMERLE. Where is the King?  BOLINGBROKE. What means our cousin that he stares and looks    So wildly?  AUMERLE. God save your Grace! I do beseech your Majesty,    To have some conference with your Grace alone.  BOLINGBROKE. Withdraw yourselves, and leave us here alone.                                         [Exeunt PERCY and LORDS]    What is the matter with our cousin now?  AUMERLE. For ever may my knees grow to the earth,                                                    [Kneels]    My tongue cleave to my roof within my mouth,    Unless a pardon ere I rise or speak.  BOLINGBROKE. Intended or committed was this fault?    If on the first, how heinous e'er it be,    To win thy after-love I pardon thee.  AUMERLE. Then give me leave that I may turn the key,    That no man enter till my tale be done.  BOLINGBROKE. Have thy desire.            [The DUKE OF YORK knocks at the door and crieth]  YORK. [Within] My liege, beware; look to thyself;    Thou hast a traitor in thy presence there.  BOLINGBROKE. [Drawing] Villain, I'll make thee safe.  AUMERLE. Stay thy revengeful hand; thou hast no cause to fear.  YORK. [Within] Open the door, secure, foolhardy King.    Shall I, for love, speak treason to thy face?    Open the door, or I will break it open.                   [Enter YORK]  BOLINGBROKE. What is the matter, uncle? Speak;    Recover breath; tell us how near is danger,    That we may arm us to encounter it.  YORK. Peruse this writing here, and thou shalt know    The treason that my haste forbids me show.  AUMERLE. Remember, as thou read'st, thy promise pass'd.    I do repent me; read not my name there;    My heart is not confederate with my hand.  YORK. It was, villain, ere thy hand did set it down.    I tore it from the traitor's bosom, King;    Fear, and not love, begets his penitence.    Forget to pity him, lest thy pity prove    A serpent that will sting thee to the heart.  BOLINGBROKE. O heinous, strong, and bold conspiracy!    O loyal father of a treacherous son!    Thou sheer, immaculate, and silver fountain,    From whence this stream through muddy passages    Hath held his current and defil'd himself!    Thy overflow of good converts to bad;    And thy abundant goodness shall excuse    This deadly blot in thy digressing son.  YORK. So shall my virtue be his vice's bawd;    And he shall spend mine honour with his shame,    As thriftless sons their scraping fathers' gold.    Mine honour lives when his dishonour dies,    Or my sham'd life in his dishonour lies.    Thou kill'st me in his life; giving him breath,    The traitor lives, the true man's put to death.  DUCHESS. [Within] What ho, my liege, for God's sake, let me in.  BOLINGBROKE. What shrill-voic'd suppliant makes this eager cry?  DUCHESS. [Within] A woman, and thine aunt, great King; 'tis I.    Speak with me, pity me, open the door.    A beggar begs that never begg'd before.  BOLINGBROKE. Our scene is alt'red from a serious thing,    And now chang'd to 'The Beggar and the King. '    My dangerous cousin, let your mother in.    I know she is come to pray for your foul sin.  YORK. If thou do pardon whosoever pray,    More sins for this forgiveness prosper may.    This fest'red joint cut off, the rest rest sound;    This let alone will all the rest confound.                [Enter DUCHESS]  DUCHESS. O King, believe not this hard-hearted man!    Love loving not itself, none other can.  YORK. Thou frantic woman, what dost thou make here?    Shall thy old dugs once more a traitor rear?  DUCHESS. Sweet York, be patient. Hear me, gentle liege.                                                     [Kneels]  BOLINGBROKE. Rise up, good aunt.  DUCHESS.

Not yet, I thee beseech.    For ever will I walk upon my knees,    And never see day that the happy sees    Till thou give joy; until thou bid me joy    By pardoning Rutland, my transgressing boy.  AUMERLE. Unto my mother's prayers I bend my knee.                                                     [Kneels]  YORK. Against them both, my true joints bended be.                                                     [Kneels]    Ill mayst thou thrive, if thou grant any grace!  DUCHESS. Pleads he in earnest? Look upon his face;    His eyes do drop no tears, his prayers are in jest;    His words come from his mouth, ours from our breast.    He prays but faintly and would be denied;    We pray with heart and soul, and all beside.    His weary joints would gladly rise, I know;    Our knees still kneel till to the ground they grow.    His prayers are full of false hypocrisy;    Ours of true zeal and deep integrity.    Our prayers do out-pray his; then let them have    That mercy which true prayer ought to have.  BOLINGBROKE. Good aunt, stand up.  DUCHESS. Nay, do not say 'stand up';    Say 'pardon' first, and afterwards 'stand up. '    An if I were thy nurse, thy tongue to teach,    'Pardon' should be the first word of thy speech.    I never long'd to hear a word till now;    Say 'pardon,' King; let pity teach thee how.    The word is short, but not so short as sweet;    No word like 'pardon' for kings' mouths so meet.  YORK. Speak it in French, King, say 'pardonne moy. '  DUCHESS. Dost thou teach pardon pardon to destroy?    Ah, my sour husband, my hard-hearted lord,    That sets the word itself against the word!    Speak 'pardon' as 'tis current in our land;    The chopping French we do not understand.    Thine eye begins to speak, set thy tongue there;    Or in thy piteous heart plant thou thine ear,    That hearing how our plaints and prayers do pierce,    Pity may move thee 'pardon' to rehearse.  BOLINGBROKE. Good aunt, stand up.  DUCHESS. I do not sue to stand;    Pardon is all the suit I have in hand.  BOLINGBROKE. I pardon him, as God shall pardon me.  DUCHESS. O happy vantage of a kneeling knee!    Yet am I sick for fear. Speak it again.    Twice saying 'pardon' doth not pardon twain,    But makes one pardon strong.  BOLINGBROKE. With all my heart    I pardon him.  DUCHESS. A god on earth thou art.  BOLINGBROKE. But for our trusty brother-in-law and the Abbot,    With all the rest of that consorted crew,    Destruction straight shall dog them at the heels.    Good uncle, help to order several powers    To Oxford, or where'er these traitors are.    They shall not live within this world, I swear,    But I will have them, if I once know where.    Uncle, farewell; and, cousin, adieu;    Your mother well hath pray'd, and prove you true.  DUCHESS. Come, my old son; I pray God make thee new.                                                         [Exeunt]SCENE 4Windsor Castle[Enter SIR PIERCE OF EXTON and a servant]  EXTON. Didst thou not mark the King, what words he spake?    'Have I no friend will rid me of this living fear? '    Was it not so?  SERVANT. These were his very words.  EXTON. 'Have I no friend? ' quoth he. He spake it twice    And urg'd it twice together, did he not?  SERVANT. He did.  EXTON. And, speaking it, he wishtly look'd on me,    As who should say 'I would thou wert the man    That would divorce this terror from my heart';    Meaning the King at Pomfret. Come, let's go.    I am the King's friend, and will rid his foe.        [Exeunt]SCENE 5Pomfret Castle. The dungeon of the Castle[Enter KING RICHARD]  KING RICHARD. I have been studying how I may compare    This prison where I live unto the world    And, for because the world is populous    And here is not a creature but myself,    I cannot do it. Yet I'll hammer it out.    My brain I'll prove the female to my soul,    My soul the father; and these two beget    A generation of still-breeding thoughts,    And these same thoughts people this little world,    In humours like the people of this world,    For no thought is contented. The better sort,    As thoughts of things divine, are intermix'd    With scruples, and do set the word itself    Against the word,    As thus: 'Come, little ones'; and then again,    'It is as hard to come as for a camel    To thread the postern of a small needle's eye. '    Thoughts tending to ambition, they do plot    Unlikely wonders: how these vain weak nails    May tear a passage through the flinty ribs    Of this hard world, my ragged prison walls;    And, for they cannot, die in their own pride.    Thoughts tending to content flatter themselves    That they are not the first of fortune's slaves,    Nor shall not be the last; like silly beggars    Who, sitting in the stocks, refuge their shame,    That many have and others must sit there;    And in this thought they find a kind of ease,    Bearing their own misfortunes on the back    Of such as have before endur'd the like.    Thus play I in one person many people,    And none contented. Sometimes am I king;    Then treasons make me wish myself a beggar,    And so I am. Then crushing penury    Persuades me I was better when a king;    Then am I king'd again; and by and by    Think that I am unking'd by Bolingbroke,    And straight am nothing. But whate'er I be,    Nor I, nor any man that but man is,    With nothing shall be pleas'd till he be eas'd    With being nothing.                    [The music plays]    Music do I hear?    Ha, ha! keep time. How sour sweet music is    When time is broke and no proportion kept!    So is it in the music of men's lives.    And here have I the daintiness of ear    To check time broke in a disorder'd string;    But, for the concord of my state and time,    Had not an ear to hear my true time broke.    I wasted time, and now doth time waste me;    For now hath time made me his numb'ring clock:    My thoughts are minutes; and with sighs they jar    Their watches on unto mine eyes, the outward watch,    Whereto my finger, like a dial's point,    Is pointing still, in cleansing them from tears.    Now sir, the sound that tells what hour it is    Are clamorous groans which strike upon my heart,    Which is the bell. So sighs, and tears, and groans,    Show minutes, times, and hours; but my time    Runs posting on in Bolingbroke's proud joy,    While I stand fooling here, his Jack of the clock.    This music mads me. Let it sound no more;    For though it have holp madmen to their wits,    In me it seems it will make wise men mad.    Yet blessing on his heart that gives it me!    For 'tis a sign of love; and love to Richard    Is a strange brooch in this all-hating world.             [Enter a GROOM of the stable]  GROOM. Hail, royal Prince!  KING RICHARD. Thanks, noble peer!    The cheapest of us is ten groats too dear.    What art thou? and how comest thou hither,    Where no man never comes but that sad dog    That brings me food to make misfortune live?  GROOM. I was a poor groom of thy stable, King,    When thou wert king; who, travelling towards York,    With much ado at length have gotten leave    To look upon my sometimes royal master's face.

O, how it ern'd my heart, when I beheld,    In London streets, that coronation-day,    When Bolingbroke rode on roan Barbary-    That horse that thou so often hast bestrid,    That horse that I so carefully have dress'd!  KING RICHARD. Rode he on Barbary? Tell me, gentle friend,    How went he under him?  GROOM. So proudly as if he disdain'd the ground.  KING RICHARD. So proud that Bolingbroke was on his back!    That jade hath eat bread from my royal hand;    This hand hath made him proud with clapping him.    Would he not stumble? would he not fall down,    Since pride must have a fall, and break the neck    Of that proud man that did usurp his back?    Forgiveness, horse! Why do I rail on thee,    Since thou, created to be aw'd by man,    Wast born to bear? I was not made a horse;    And yet I bear a burden like an ass,    Spurr'd, gall'd, and tir'd, by jauncing Bolingbroke.             [Enter KEEPER with meat]  KEEPER. Fellow, give place; here is no longer stay.  KING RICHARD. If thou love me, 'tis time thou wert away.  GROOM. My tongue dares not, that my heart shall say.    [Exit]  KEEPER. My lord, will't please you to fall to?  KING RICHARD. Taste of it first as thou art wont to do.  KEEPER. My lord, I dare not. Sir Pierce of Exton,    Who lately came from the King, commands the contrary.  KING RICHARD. The devil take Henry of Lancaster and thee!    Patience is stale, and I am weary of it.                                           [Beats the KEEPER]  KEEPER. Help, help, help!   [The murderers, EXTON and servants, rush in, armed]  KING RICHARD. How now! What means death in this rude assault?    Villain, thy own hand yields thy death's instrument.                         [Snatching a weapon and killing one]    Go thou and fill another room in hell.              [He kills another, then EXTON strikes him down]    That hand shall burn in never-quenching fire    That staggers thus my person. Exton, thy fierce hand    Hath with the King's blood stain'd the King's own land.    Mount, mount, my soul! thy seat is up on high;    Whilst my gross flesh sinks downward, here to die.                                                       [Dies]  EXTON. As full of valour as of royal blood.    Both have I spill'd. O, would the deed were good!    For now the devil, that told me I did well,    Says that this deed is chronicled in hell.    This dead King to the living King I'll bear.    Take hence the rest, and give them burial here.      [Exeunt]SCENE 6Windsor Castle[Flourish. Enter BOLINGBROKE, the DUKE OF YORK, With other LORDSand attendants]  BOLINGBROKE. Kind uncle York, the latest news we hear    Is that the rebels have consum'd with fire    Our town of Ciceter in Gloucestershire;    But whether they be ta'en or slain we hear not.             [Enter NORTHUMBERLAND]    Welcome, my lord. What is the news?  NORTHUMBERLAND. First, to thy sacred state wish I allhappiness.    The next news is, I have to London sent    The heads of Salisbury, Spencer, Blunt, and Kent.    The manner of their taking may appear    At large discoursed in this paper here.  BOLINGBROKE. We thank thee, gentle Percy, for thy pains;    And to thy worth will add right worthy gains.                 [Enter FITZWATER]  FITZWATER. My lord, I have from Oxford sent to London    The heads of Brocas and Sir Bennet Seely;    Two of the dangerous consorted traitors    That sought at Oxford thy dire overthrow.  BOLINGBROKE. Thy pains, Fitzwater, shall not be forgot;    Right noble is thy merit, well I wot.        [Enter PERCY, With the BISHOP OF CARLISLE]  PERCY. The grand conspirator, Abbot of Westminster,    With clog of conscience and sour melancholy,    Hath yielded up his body to the grave;    But here is Carlisle living, to abide    Thy kingly doom, and sentence of his pride.  BOLINGBROKE. Carlisle, this is your doom:    Choose out some secret place, some reverend room,    More than thou hast, and with it joy thy life;    So as thou liv'st in peace, die free from strife;    For though mine enemy thou hast ever been,    High sparks of honour in thee have I seen.     [Enter EXTON, with attendants, bearing a coffin]  EXTON. Great King, within this coffin I present    Thy buried fear. Herein all breathless lies    The mightiest of thy greatest enemies,    Richard of Bordeaux, by me hither brought.  BOLINGBROKE. Exton, I thank thee not; for thou hast wrought    A deed of slander with thy fatal hand    Upon my head and all this famous land.  EXTON. From your own mouth, my lord, did I this deed.  BOLINGBROKE. They love not poison that do poison need,    Nor do I thee. Though I did wish him dead,    I hate the murderer, love him murdered.    The guilt of conscience take thou for thy labour,    But neither my good word nor princely favour;    With Cain go wander thorough shades of night,    And never show thy head by day nor light.    Lords, I protest my soul is full of woe    That blood should sprinkle me to make me grow.    Come, mourn with me for what I do lament,    And put on sullen black incontinent.    I'll make a voyage to the Holy Land,    To wash this blood off from my guilty hand.    March sadly after; grace my mournings here    In weeping after this untimely bier.                 [Exeunt]THE END<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>End of this Etext of The Complete Works of William Shakespeare, King Richard theSecond

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FOR PUBLIC DOMAIN ETEXTS*Ver. 04. 29. 93*END*Project Gutenberg's Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedie of MacbethExecutive Director's Notes:In addition to the notes below, and so you will *NOT* think allthe spelling errors introduced by the printers of the time havebeen corrected, here are the first few lines of Hamlet, as theyare presented herein:  Barnardo. Who's there?  Fran. Nay answer me: Stand & vnfoldyour selfe   Bar. Long liue the King***As I understand it, the printers often ran out of certain wordsor letters they had often packed into a "cliche". . . this is theoriginal meaning of the term cliche. . . and thus, being unwillingto unpack the cliches, and thus you will see some substitutionsthat look very odd. . . such as the exchanges of u for v, v for u,above. . . and you may wonder why they did it this way, presumingShakespeare did not actually write the play in this manner. . . . The answer is that they MAY have packed "liue" into a cliche at atime when they were out of "v"'s. . . possibly having used "vv" inplace of some "w"'s, etc.  This was a common practice of the day,as print was still quite expensive, and they didn't want to spendmore on a wider selection of characters than they had to. You will find a lot of these kinds of "errors" in this text, as Ihave mentioned in other times and places, many "scholars" have anextreme attachment to these errors, and many have accorded them avery high place in the "canon" of Shakespeare.  My father read anassortment of these made available to him by Cambridge Universityin England for several months in a glass room constructed for thepurpose.  To the best of my knowledge he read ALL those available. . . in great detail. . . and determined from the various changes,that Shakespeare most likely did not write in nearly as many of avariety of errors we credit him for, even though he was in/famousfor signing his name with several different spellings. So, please take this into account when reading the comments belowmade by our volunteer who prepared this file:  you may see errorsthat are "not" errors. . . . So. . . with this caveat. . . we have NOT changed the canon errors,here is the Project Gutenberg Etext of Shakespeare's The Tragedieof Macbeth. Michael S. HartProject GutenbergExecutive Director***Scanner's Notes: What this is and isn't.  This was taken froma copy of Shakespeare's first folio and it is as close as I cancome in ASCII to the printed text. The elongated S's have been changed to small s's and theconjoined ae have been changed to ae.  I have left the spelling,punctuation, capitalization as close as possible to theprinted text.  I have corrected some spelling mistakes (I have puttogether a spelling dictionary devised from the spellings of theGeneva Bible and Shakespeare's First Folio and have unifiedspellings according to this template), typo's and expandedabbreviations as I have come across them.

Everything withinbrackets [] is what I have added.  So if you don't like thatyou can delete everything within the brackets if you want apurer Shakespeare. Another thing that you should be aware of is that there are textualdifferences between various copies of the first folio.  So there maybe differences (other than what I have mentioned above) betweenthis and other first folio editions.  This is due to the printer'shabit of setting the type and running off a number of copies andthen proofing the printed copy and correcting the type and thencontinuing the printing run.  The proof run wasn't thrown away butincorporated into the printed copies.  This is just the way it is. The text I have used was a composite of more than 30 differentFirst Folio editions' best pages. If you find any scanning errors, out and out typos, punctuationerrors, or if you disagree with my spelling choices please feelfree to email me those errors.  I wish to make this the bestetext possible.  My email address for right now are haradda@aol. comand davidr@inconnect. com.  I hope that you enjoy this. David ReedThe Tragedie of MacbethActus Primus. Scoena Prima. Thunder and Lightning. Enter three Witches.  1. When shall we three meet againe? In Thunder, Lightning, or in Raine?  2. When the Hurley-burley's done,When the Battaile's lost, and wonne   3. That will be ere the set of Sunne   1. Where the place?  2. Vpon the Heath   3. There to meet with Macbeth   1. I come, Gray-Malkin   All. Padock calls anon: faire is foule, and foule is faire,Houer through the fogge and filthie ayre. Exeunt. Scena Secunda. Alarum within. Enter King, Malcome, Donalbaine, Lenox, withattendants, meeting a bleeding Captaine.  King. What bloody man is that? he can report,As seemeth by his plight, of the ReuoltThe newest state   Mal. This is the Serieant,Who like a good and hardie Souldier fought'Gainst my Captiuitie: Haile braue friend;Say to the King, the knowledge of the Broyle,As thou didst leaue it   Cap. Doubtfull it stood,As two spent Swimmers, that doe cling together,And choake their Art: The mercilesse Macdonwald(Worthie to be a Rebell, for to thatThe multiplying Villanies of NatureDoe swarme vpon him) from the Westerne IslesOf Kernes and Gallowgrosses is supply'd,And Fortune on his damned Quarry smiling,Shew'd like a Rebells Whore: but all's too weake:For braue Macbeth (well hee deserues that Name)Disdayning Fortune, with his brandisht Steele,Which smoak'd with bloody execution(Like Valours Minion) caru'd out his passage,Till hee fac'd the Slaue:Which neu'r shooke hands, nor bad farwell to him,Till he vnseam'd him from the Naue toth' Chops,And fix'd his Head vpon our Battlements   King. O valiant Cousin, worthy Gentleman   Cap. As whence the Sunne 'gins his reflection,Shipwracking Stormes, and direfull Thunders:So from that Spring, whence comfort seem'd to come,Discomfort swells: Marke King of Scotland, marke,No sooner Iustice had, with Valour arm'd,Compell'd these skipping Kernes to trust their heeles,But the Norweyan Lord, surueying vantage,With furbusht Armes, and new supplyes of men,Began a fresh assault   King. Dismay'd not this our Captaines, Macbeth andBanquoh?  Cap. Yes, as Sparrowes, Eagles;Or the Hare, the Lyon:If I say sooth, I must report they wereAs Cannons ouer-charg'd with double Cracks,So they doubly redoubled stroakes vpon the Foe:Except they meant to bathe in reeking Wounds,Or memorize another Golgotha,I cannot tell: but I am faint,My Gashes cry for helpe   King. So well thy words become thee, as thy wounds,They smack of Honor both: Goe get him Surgeons. Enter Rosse and Angus. Who comes here?  Mal. The worthy Thane of Rosse   Lenox. What a haste lookes through his eyes? So should he looke, that seemes to speake things strange   Rosse. God saue the King   King. Whence cam'st thou, worthy Thane?  Rosse. From Fiffe, great King,Where the Norweyan Banners flowt the Skie,And fanne our people cold. Norway himselfe, with terrible numbers,Assisted by that most disloyall Traytor,The Thane of Cawdor, began a dismall Conflict,Till that Bellona's Bridegroome, lapt in proofe,Confronted him with selfe-comparisons,Point against Point, rebellious Arme 'gainst Arme,Curbing his lauish spirit: and to conclude,The Victorie fell on vs   King. Great happinesse   Rosse. That now Sweno, the Norwayes King,Craues composition:Nor would we deigne him buriall of his men,Till he disbursed, at Saint Colmes ynch,Ten thousand Dollars, to our generall vse   King. No more that Thane of Cawdor shall deceiueOur Bosome interest: Goe pronounce his present death,And with his former Title greet Macbeth   Rosse. Ile see it done   King. What he hath lost, Noble Macbeth hath wonne. Exeunt. Scena Tertia. Thunder. Enter the three Witches.  1. Where hast thou beene, Sister?  2. Killing Swine   3. Sister, where thou?  1. A Saylors Wife had Chestnuts in her Lappe,And mouncht, & mouncht, and mouncht:Giue me, quoth I. Aroynt thee, Witch, the rumpe-fed Ronyon cryes. Her Husband's to Aleppo gone, Master o'th' Tiger:But in a Syue Ile thither sayle,And like a Rat without a tayle,Ile doe, Ile doe, and Ile doe   2. Ile giue thee a Winde   1. Th'art kinde   3. And I another   1. I my selfe haue all the other,And the very Ports they blow,All the Quarters that they know,I'th' Ship-mans Card. Ile dreyne him drie as Hay:Sleepe shall neyther Night nor DayHang vpon his Pent-house Lid:He shall liue a man forbid:Wearie Seu'nights, nine times nine,Shall he dwindle, peake, and pine:Though his Barke cannot be lost,Yet it shall be Tempest-tost. Looke what I haue   2. Shew me, shew me   1. Here I haue a Pilots Thumbe,Wrackt, as homeward he did come. Drum within.  3.

A Drumme, a Drumme:Macbeth doth come   All. The weyward Sisters, hand in hand,Posters of the Sea and Land,Thus doe goe, about, about,Thrice to thine, and thrice to mine,And thrice againe, to make vp nine. Peace, the Charme's wound vp. Enter Macbeth and Banquo.  Macb. So foule and faire a day I haue not seene   Banquo. How farre is't call'd to Soris? What are these,So wither'd, and so wilde in their attyre,That looke not like th' Inhabitants o'th' Earth,And yet are on't? Liue you, or are you aughtThat man may question? you seeme to vnderstand me,By each at once her choppie finger layingVpon her skinnie Lips: you should be Women,And yet your Beards forbid me to interpreteThat you are so   Mac. Speake if you can: what are you?  1. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Glamis   2. All haile Macbeth, haile to thee Thane of Cawdor   3. All haile Macbeth, that shalt be King hereafter   Banq. Good Sir, why doe you start, and seeme to feareThings that doe sound so faire? i'th' name of truthAre ye fantasticall, or that indeedWhich outwardly ye shew? My Noble PartnerYou greet with present Grace, and great predictionOf Noble hauing, and of Royall hope,That he seemes wrapt withall: to me you speake not. If you can looke into the Seedes of Time,And say, which Graine will grow, and which will not,Speake then to me, who neyther begge, nor feareYour fauors, nor your hate   1. Hayle   2. Hayle   3. Hayle   1. Lesser than Macbeth, and greater   2. Not so happy, yet much happyer   3. Thou shalt get Kings, though thou be none:So all haile Macbeth, and Banquo   1. Banquo, and Macbeth, all haile   Macb. Stay you imperfect Speakers, tell me more:By Sinells death, I know I am Thane of Glamis,But how, of Cawdor? the Thane of Cawdor liuesA prosperous Gentleman: And to be King,Stands not within the prospect of beleefe,No more then to be Cawdor. Say from whenceYou owe this strange Intelligence, or whyVpon this blasted Heath you stop our wayWith such Prophetique greeting? Speake, I charge you. Witches vanish.  Banq. The Earth hath bubbles, as the Water ha's,And these are of them: whither are they vanish'd?  Macb. Into the Ayre: and what seem'd corporall,Melted, as breath into the Winde. Would they had stay'd   Banq. Were such things here, as we doe speake about? Or haue we eaten on the insane Root,That takes the Reason Prisoner?  Macb. Your Children shall be Kings   Banq. You shall be King   Macb. And Thane of Cawdor too: went it not so?  Banq. Toth' selfe-same tune and words: who's here? Enter Rosse and Angus.  Rosse. The King hath happily receiu'd, Macbeth,The newes of thy successe: and when he readesThy personall Venture in the Rebels sight,His Wonders and his Prayses doe contend,Which should be thine, or his: silenc'd with that,In viewing o're the rest o'th' selfe-same day,He findes thee in the stout Norweyan Rankes,Nothing afeard of what thy selfe didst makeStrange Images of death, as thick as TaleCan post with post, and euery one did beareThy prayses in his Kingdomes great defence,And powr'd them downe before him   Ang. Wee are sent,To giue thee from our Royall Master thanks,Onely to harrold thee into his sight,Not pay thee   Rosse. And for an earnest of a greater Honor,He bad me, from him, call thee Thane of Cawdor:In which addition, haile most worthy Thane,For it is thine   Banq. What, can the Deuill speake true?  Macb. The Thane of Cawdor liues:Why doe you dresse me in borrowed Robes?  Ang. Who was the Thane, liues yet,But vnder heauie Iudgement beares that Life,Which he deserues to loose. Whether he was combin'd with those of Norway,Or did lyne the Rebell with hidden helpe,And vantage; or that with both he labour'dIn his Countreyes wracke, I know not:But Treasons Capitall, confess'd, and prou'd,Haue ouerthrowne him   Macb. Glamys, and Thane of Cawdor:The greatest is behinde. Thankes for your paines. Doe you not hope your Children shall be Kings,When those that gaue the Thane of Cawdor to me,Promis'd no lesse to them   Banq. That trusted home,Might yet enkindle you vnto the Crowne,Besides the Thane of Cawdor. But 'tis strange:And oftentimes, to winne vs to our harme,The Instruments of Darknesse tell vs Truths,Winne vs with honest Trifles, to betray'sIn deepest consequence. Cousins, a word, I pray you   Macb. Two Truths are told,As happy Prologues to the swelling ActOf the Imperiall Theame. I thanke you Gentlemen:This supernaturall sollicitingCannot be ill; cannot be good. If ill? why hath it giuen me earnest of successe,Commencing in a Truth? I am Thane of Cawdor. If good? why doe I yeeld to that suggestion,Whose horrid Image doth vnfixe my Heire,And make my seated Heart knock at my Ribbes,Against the vse of Nature? Present FearesAre lesse then horrible Imaginings:My Thought, whose Murther yet is but fantasticall,Shakes so my single state of Man,That Function is smother'd in surmise,And nothing is, but what is not   Banq. Looke how our Partner's rapt   Macb. If Chance will haue me King,Why Chance may Crowne me,Without my stirre   Banq. New Honors come vpon himLike our strange Garments, cleaue not to their mould,But with the aid of vse   Macb. Come what come may,Time, and the Houre, runs through the roughest Day   Banq. Worthy Macbeth, wee stay vpon your leysure   Macb. Giue me your fauour:My dull Braine was wrought with things forgotten. Kinde Gentlemen, your paines are registred,Where euery day I turne the Leafe,To reade them. Let vs toward the King: thinke vponWhat hath chanc'd: and at more time,The Interim hauing weigh'd it, let vs speakeOur free Hearts each to other   Banq. Very gladly   Macb. Till then enough:Come friends. Exeunt. Scena Quarta. Flourish. Enter King, Lenox, Malcolme, Donalbaine, andAttendants.  King.

Is execution done on Cawdor? Or not those in Commission yet return'd?  Mal. My Liege, they are not yet come back. But I haue spoke with one that saw him die:Who did report, that very frankly heeConfess'd his Treasons, implor'd your Highnesse Pardon,And set forth a deepe Repentance:Nothing in his Life became him,Like the leauing it. Hee dy'de,As one that had beene studied in his death,To throw away the dearest thing he ow'd,As 'twere a carelesse Trifle   King. There's no Art,To finde the Mindes construction in the Face. He was a Gentleman, on whom I builtAn absolute Trust. Enter Macbeth, Banquo, Rosse, and Angus. O worthyest Cousin,The sinne of my Ingratitude euen nowWas heauie on me. Thou art so farre before,That swiftest Wing of Recompence is slow,To ouertake thee. Would thou hadst lesse deseru'd,That the proportion both of thanks, and payment,Might haue beene mine: onely I haue left to say,More is thy due, then more then all can pay   Macb. The seruice, and the loyaltie I owe,In doing it, payes it selfe. Your Highnesse part, is to receiue our Duties:And our Duties are to your Throne, and State,Children, and Seruants; which doe but what they should,By doing euery thing safe toward your LoueAnd Honor   King. Welcome hither:I haue begun to plant thee, and will labourTo make thee full of growing. Noble Banquo,That hast no lesse deseru'd, nor must be knowneNo lesse to haue done so: Let me enfold thee,And hold thee to my Heart   Banq. There if I grow,The Haruest is your owne   King. My plenteous Ioyes,Wanton in fulnesse, seeke to hide themseluesIn drops of sorrow. Sonnes, Kinsmen, Thanes,And you whose places are the nearest, know,We will establish our Estate vponOur eldest, Malcolme, whom we name hereafter,The Prince of Cumberland: which Honor mustNot vnaccompanied, inuest him onely,But signes of Noblenesse, like Starres, shall shineOn all deseruers. From hence to Envernes,And binde vs further to you   Macb. The Rest is Labor, which is not vs'd for you:Ile be my selfe the Herbenger, and make ioyfullThe hearing of my Wife, with your approach:So humbly take my leaue   King. My worthy Cawdor   Macb. The Prince of Cumberland: that is a step,On which I must fall downe, or else o're-leape,For in my way it lyes. Starres hide your fires,Let not Light see my black and deepe desires:The Eye winke at the Hand: yet let that bee,Which the Eye feares, when it is done to see. Enter.  King. True worthy Banquo: he is full so valiant,And in his commendations, I am fed:It is a Banquet to me. Let's after him,Whose care is gone before, to bid vs welcome:It is a peerelesse Kinsman. Flourish. Exeunt. Scena Quinta. Enter Macbeths Wife alone with a Letter.  Lady. They met me in the day of successe: and I hauelearn'd by the perfect'st report, they haue more in them, thenmortall knowledge. When I burnt in desire to question themfurther, they made themselues Ayre, into which they vanish'd. Whiles I stood rapt in the wonder of it, came Missiues fromthe King, who all-hail'd me Thane of Cawdor, by which Titlebefore, these weyward Sisters saluted me, and referr'd me tothe comming on of time, with haile King that shalt be. Thishaue I thought good to deliuer thee (my dearest Partner ofGreatnesse) that thou might'st not loose the dues of reioycingby being ignorant of what Greatnesse is promis'd thee. Layit to thy heart and farewell. Glamys thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt beWhat thou art promis'd: yet doe I feare thy Nature,It is too full o'th' Milke of humane kindnesse,To catch the neerest way. Thou would'st be great,Art not without Ambition, but withoutThe illnesse should attend it. What thou would'st highly,That would'st thou holily: would'st not play false,And yet would'st wrongly winne. Thould'st haue, great Glamys, that which cryes,Thus thou must doe, if thou haue it;And that which rather thou do'st feare to doe,Then wishest should be vndone. High thee hither,That I may powre my Spirits in thine Eare,And chastise with the valour of my TongueAll that impeides thee from the Golden Round,Which Fate and Metaphysicall ayde doth seemeTo haue thee crown'd withall. Enter Messenger. What is your tidings?  Mess. The King comes here to Night   Lady. Thou'rt mad to say it. Is not thy Master with him? who, wer't so,Would haue inform'd for preparation   Mess. So please you, it is true: our Thane is comming:One of my fellowes had the speed of him;Who almost dead for breath, had scarcely moreThen would make vp his Message   Lady. Giue him tending,He brings great newes,Exit Messenger. The Rauen himselfe is hoarse,That croakes the fatall entrance of DuncanVnder my Battlements. Come you Spirits,That tend on mortall thoughts, vnsex me here,And fill me from the Crowne to the Toe, top-fullOf direst Crueltie: make thick my blood,Stop vp th' accesse, and passage to Remorse,That no compunctious visitings of NatureShake my fell purpose, nor keepe peace betweeneTh' effect, and hit. Come to my Womans Brests,And take my Milke for Gall, you murth'ring Ministers,Where-euer, in your sightlesse substances,You wait on Natures Mischiefe. Come thick Night,And pall thee in the dunnest smoake of Hell,That my keene Knife see not the Wound it makes,Nor Heauen peepe through the Blanket of the darke,To cry, hold, hold. Enter Macbeth. Great Glamys, worthy Cawdor,Greater then both, by the all-haile hereafter,Thy Letters haue transported me beyondThis ignorant present, and I feele nowThe future in the instant   Macb. My dearest Loue,Duncan comes here to Night   Lady. And when goes hence?  Macb. To morrow, as he purposes   Lady. O neuer,Shall Sunne that Morrow see. Your Face, my Thane, is as a Booke, where menMay reade strange matters, to beguile the time. Looke like the time, beare welcome in your Eye,Your Hand, your Tongue: looke like th' innocent flower,But be the Serpent vnder't. He that's comming,Must be prouided for: and you shall putThis Nights great Businesse into my dispatch,Which shall to all our Nights, and Dayes to come,Giue solely soueraigne sway, and Masterdome   Macb. We will speake further,  Lady. Onely looke vp cleare:To alter fauor, euer is to feare:Leaue all the rest to me. Exeunt. Scena Sexta. Hoboyes, and Torches. Enter King, Malcolme, Donalbaine,Banquo, Lenox,Macduff, Rosse, Angus, and Attendants.  King. This Castle hath a pleasant seat,The ayre nimbly and sweetly recommends it selfeVnto our gentle sences   Banq. This Guest of Summer,The Temple-haunting Barlet does approue,By his loued Mansonry, that the Heauens breathSmells wooingly here: no Iutty frieze,Buttrice, nor Coigne of Vantage, but this BirdHath made his pendant Bed, and procreant Cradle,Where they must breed, and haunt: I haue obseru'dThe ayre is delicate. Enter Lady.  King. See, see our honor'd Hostesse:The Loue that followes vs, sometime is our trouble,Which still we thanke as Loue. Herein I teach you,How you shall bid God-eyld vs for your paines,And thanke vs for your trouble   Lady. All our seruice,In euery point twice done, and then done double,Were poore, and single Businesse, to contendAgainst those Honors deepe, and broad,Wherewith your Maiestie loades our House:For those of old, and the late Dignities,Heap'd vp to them, we rest your Ermites   King. Where's the Thane of Cawdor? We courst him at the heeles, and had a purposeTo be his Purueyor: But he rides well,And his great Loue (sharpe as his Spurre) hath holp himTo his home before vs: Faire and Noble HostesseWe are your guest to night   La. Your Seruants euer,Haue theirs, themselues, and what is theirs in compt,To make their Audit at your Highnesse pleasure,Still to returne your owne   King. Giue me your hand:Conduct me to mine Host we loue him highly,And shall continue, our Graces towards him.

By your leaue Hostesse. Exeunt. Scena Septima. Hoboyes. Torches. Enter a Sewer, and diuers Seruants with DishesandSeruice ouer the Stage. Then enter Macbeth   Macb. If it were done, when 'tis done, then 'twer well,It were done quickly: If th' AssassinationCould trammell vp the Consequence, and catchWith his surcease, Successe: that but this blowMight be the be all, and the end all. Heere,But heere, vpon this Banke and Schoole of time,Wee'ld iumpe the life to come. But in these Cases,We still haue iudgement heere, that we but teachBloody Instructions, which being taught, returneTo plague th' Inuenter, this euen-handed IusticeCommends th' Ingredience of our poyson'd ChalliceTo our owne lips. Hee's heere in double trust;First, as I am his Kinsman, and his Subiect,Strong both against the Deed: Then, as his Host,Who should against his Murtherer shut the doore,Not beare the knife my selfe. Besides, this DuncaneHath borne his Faculties so meeke; hath binSo cleere in his great Office, that his VertuesWill pleade like Angels, Trumpet-tongu'd againstThe deepe damnation of his taking off:And Pitty, like a naked New-borne-Babe,Striding the blast, or Heauens Cherubin, hors'dVpon the sightlesse Curriors of the Ayre,Shall blow the horrid deed in euery eye,That teares shall drowne the winde. I haue no SpurreTo pricke the sides of my intent, but onelyVaulting Ambition, which ore-leapes it selfe,And falles on th' other. Enter Lady. How now? What Newes?  La. He has almost supt: why haue you left the chamber?  Mac. Hath he ask'd for me?  La. Know you not, he ha's?  Mac. We will proceed no further in this Businesse:He hath Honour'd me of late, and I haue boughtGolden Opinions from all sorts of people,Which would be worne now in their newest glosse,Not cast aside so soone   La. Was the hope drunke,Wherein you drest your selfe? Hath it slept since? And wakes it now to looke so greene, and pale,At what it did so freely? From this time,Such I account thy loue. Art thou affear'dTo be the same in thine owne Act, and Valour,As thou art in desire? Would'st thou haue thatWhich thou esteem'st the Ornament of Life,And liue a Coward in thine owne Esteeme? Letting I dare not, wait vpon I would,Like the poore Cat i'th' Addage   Macb. Prythee peace:I dare do all that may become a man,Who dares do more, is none   La. What Beast was't thenThat made you breake this enterprize to me? When you durst do it, then you were a man:And to be more then what you were, you wouldBe so much more the man. Nor time, nor placeDid then adhere, and yet you would make both:They haue made themselues, and that their fitnesse nowDo's vnmake you. I haue giuen Sucke, and knowHow tender 'tis to loue the Babe that milkes me,I would, while it was smyling in my Face,Haue pluckt my Nipple from his Bonelesse Gummes,And dasht the Braines out, had I so sworneAs you haue done to this   Macb. If we should faile?  Lady. We faile? But screw your courage to the sticking place,And wee'le not fayle: when Duncan is asleepe,(Whereto the rather shall his dayes hard IourneySoundly inuite him) his two ChamberlainesWill I with Wine, and Wassell, so conuince,That Memorie, the Warder of the Braine,Shall be a Fume, and the Receit of ReasonA Lymbeck onely: when in Swinish sleepe,Their drenched Natures lyes as in a Death,What cannot you and I performe vponTh' vnguarded Duncan? What not put vponHis spungie Officers? who shall beare the guiltOf our great quell   Macb. Bring forth Men-Children onely:For thy vndaunted Mettle should composeNothing but Males. Will it not be receiu'd,When we haue mark'd with blood those sleepie twoOf his owne Chamber, and vs'd their very Daggers,That they haue don't?  Lady. Who dares receiue it other,As we shall make our Griefes and Clamor rore,Vpon his Death?  Macb. I am settled, and bend vpEach corporall Agent to this terrible Feat. Away, and mock the time with fairest show,False Face must hide what the false Heart doth know. Exeunt. Actus Secundus. Scena Prima. Enter Banquo, and Fleance, with a Torch before him.  Banq. How goes the Night, Boy?  Fleance. The Moone is downe: I haue not heard theClock   Banq. And she goes downe at Twelue   Fleance. I take't, 'tis later, Sir   Banq. Hold, take my Sword:There's Husbandry in Heauen,Their Candles are all out: take thee that too. A heauie Summons lyes like Lead vpon me,And yet I would not sleepe:Mercifull Powers, restraine in me the cursed thoughtsThat Nature giues way to in repose. Enter Macbeth, and a Seruant with a Torch. Giue me my Sword: who's there?  Macb. A Friend   Banq. What Sir, not yet at rest? the King's a bed. He hath beene in vnusuall Pleasure,And sent forth great Largesse to your Offices. This Diamond he greetes your Wife withall,By the name of most kind Hostesse,And shut vp in measurelesse content   Mac. Being vnprepar'd,Our will became the seruant to defect,Which else should free haue wrought   Banq. All's well. I dreamt last Night of the three weyward Sisters:To you they haue shew'd some truth   Macb. I thinke not of them:Yet when we can entreat an houre to serue,We would spend it in some words vpon that Businesse,If you would graunt the time   Banq. At your kind'st leysure   Macb. If you shall cleaue to my consent,When 'tis, it shall make Honor for you   Banq. So I lose none,In seeking to augment it, but still keepeMy Bosome franchis'd, and Allegeance cleare,I shall be counsail'd   Macb. Good repose the while   Banq. Thankes Sir: the like to you. Exit Banquo.  Macb. Goe bid thy Mistresse, when my drinke is ready,She strike vpon the Bell. Get thee to bed. Enter. Is this a Dagger, which I see before me,The Handle toward my Hand?

Come, let me clutch thee:I haue thee not, and yet I see thee still. Art thou not fatall Vision, sensibleTo feeling, as to sight? or art thou butA Dagger of the Minde, a false Creation,Proceeding from the heat-oppressed Braine? I see thee yet, in forme as palpable,As this which now I draw. Thou marshall'st me the way that I was going,And such an Instrument I was to vse. Mine Eyes are made the fooles o'th' other Sences,Or else worth all the rest: I see thee still;And on thy Blade, and Dudgeon, Gouts of Blood,Which was not so before. There's no such thing:It is the bloody Businesse, which informesThus to mine Eyes. Now o're the one halfe WorldNature seemes dead, and wicked Dreames abuseThe Curtain'd sleepe: Witchcraft celebratesPale Heccats Offrings: and wither'd Murther,Alarum'd by his Centinell, the Wolfe,Whose howle's his Watch, thus with his stealthy pace,With Tarquins rauishing sides, towards his designeMoues like a Ghost. Thou sowre and firme-set EarthHeare not my steps, which they may walke, for feareThy very stones prate of my where-about,And take the present horror from the time,Which now sutes with it. Whiles I threat, he liues:Words to the heat of deedes too cold breath giues. A Bell rings. I goe, and it is done: the Bell inuites me. Heare it not, Duncan, for it is a Knell,That summons thee to Heauen, or to Hell. Enter. Scena Secunda. Enter Lady.  La. That which hath made the[m] drunk, hath made me bold:What hath quench'd them, hath giuen me fire. Hearke, peace: it was the Owle that shriek'd,The fatall Bell-man, which giues the stern'st good-night. He is about it, the Doores are open:And the surfeted Groomes doe mock their chargeWith Snores. I haue drugg'd their Possets,That Death and Nature doe contend about them,Whether they liue, or dye. Enter Macbeth.  Macb. Who's there? what hoa?  Lady. Alack, I am afraid they haue awak'd,And 'tis not done: th' attempt, and not the deed,Confounds vs: hearke: I lay'd their Daggers ready,He could not misse 'em. Had he not resembledMy Father as he slept, I had don't. My Husband?  Macb. I haue done the deed:Didst thou not heare a noyse?  Lady. I heard the Owle schreame, and the Crickets cry. Did not you speake?  Macb. When?  Lady. Now   Macb. As I descended?  Lady. I   Macb. Hearke, who lyes i'th' second Chamber?  Lady. Donalbaine   Mac. This is a sorry sight   Lady. A foolish thought, to say a sorry sight   Macb. There's one did laugh in's sleepe,And one cry'd Murther, that they did wake each other:I stood, and heard them: But they did say their Prayers,And addrest them againe to sleepe   Lady. There are two lodg'd together   Macb. One cry'd God blesse vs, and Amen the other,As they had seene me with these Hangmans hands:Listning their feare, I could not say Amen,When they did say God blesse vs   Lady. Consider it not so deepely   Mac. But wherefore could not I pronounce Amen? I had most need of Blessing, and Amen stuck in my throat   Lady. These deeds must not be thoughtAfter these wayes: so, it will make vs mad   Macb. Me thought I heard a voyce cry, Sleep no more:Macbeth does murther Sleepe, the innocent Sleepe,Sleepe that knits vp the rauel'd Sleeue of Care,The death of each dayes Life, sore Labors Bath,Balme of hurt Mindes, great Natures second Course,Chiefe nourisher in Life's Feast   Lady. What doe you meane?  Macb. Still it cry'd, Sleepe no more to all the House:Glamis hath murther'd Sleepe, and therefore CawdorShall sleepe no more: Macbeth shall sleepe no more   Lady. Who was it, that thus cry'd? why worthy Thane,You doe vnbend your Noble strength, to thinkeSo braine-sickly of things: Goe get some Water,And wash this filthie Witnesse from your Hand. Why did you bring these Daggers from the place? They must lye there: goe carry them, and smeareThe sleepie Groomes with blood   Macb. Ile goe no more:I am afraid, to thinke what I haue done:Looke on't againe, I dare not   Lady. Infirme of purpose:Giue me the Daggers: the sleeping, and the dead,Are but as Pictures: 'tis the Eye of Childhood,That feares a painted Deuill. If he doe bleed,Ile guild the Faces of the Groomes withall,For it must seeme their Guilt. Enter. Knocke within.  Macb. Whence is that knocking? How is't with me, when euery noyse appalls me? What Hands are here? hah: they pluck out mine Eyes. Will all great Neptunes Ocean wash this bloodCleane from my Hand? no: this my Hand will ratherThe multitudinous Seas incarnardine,Making the Greene one, Red. Enter Lady.  Lady. My Hands are of your colour: but I shameTo weare a Heart so white. Knocke. I heare a knocking at the South entry:Retyre we to our Chamber:A little Water cleares vs of this deed. How easie is it then? your ConstancieHath left you vnattended. Knocke. Hearke, more knocking. Get on your Night-Gowne, least occasion call vs,And shew vs to be Watchers: be not lostSo poorely in your thoughts   Macb. To know my deed,Knocke.

'Twere best not know my selfe. Wake Duncan with thy knocking:I would thou could'st. Exeunt. Scena Tertia. Enter a Porter. Knocking within.  Porter. Here's a knocking indeede: if a man werePorter of Hell Gate, hee should haue old turning theKey. Knock. Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's therei'th' name of Belzebub? Here's a Farmer, that hang'dhimselfe on th' expectation of Plentie: Come in time, haueNapkins enow about you, here you'le sweat for't. Knock. Knock, knock. Who's there in th' other Deuils Name? Faith here's an Equiuocator, that could sweare in boththe Scales against eyther Scale, who committed Treasonenough for Gods sake, yet could not equiuocate to Heauen:oh come in, Equiuocator. Knock. Knock, Knock, Knock. Who's there? 'Faith here's an EnglishTaylor come hither, for stealing out of a French Hose:Come in Taylor, here you may rost your Goose. Knock. Knock, Knock. Neuer at quiet: What are you? but thisplace is too cold for Hell. Ile Deuill-Porter it no further:I had thought to haue let in some of all Professions, thatgoe the Primrose way to th' euerlasting Bonfire. Knock. Anon, anon, I pray you remember the Porter. Enter Macduff, and Lenox.  Macd. Was it so late, friend, ere you went to Bed,That you doe lye so late?  Port. Faith Sir, we were carowsing till the second Cock:And Drinke, Sir, is a great prouoker of three things   Macd. What three things does Drinke especiallyprouoke?  Port. Marry, Sir, Nose-painting, Sleepe, and Vrine. Lecherie, Sir, it prouokes, and vnprouokes: it prouokesthe desire, but it takes away the performance. Thereforemuch Drinke may be said to be an Equiuocator with Lecherie:it makes him, and it marres him; it sets him on,and it takes him off; it perswades him, and dis-heartenshim; makes him stand too, and not stand too: in conclusion,equiuocates him in a sleepe, and giuing him the Lye,leaues him   Macd. I beleeue, Drinke gaue thee the Lye last Night   Port. That it did, Sir, i'the very Throat on me: but Irequited him for his Lye, and (I thinke) being too strongfor him, though he tooke vp my Legges sometime, yet Imade a Shift to cast him. Enter Macbeth.  Macd. Is thy Master stirring? Our knocking ha's awak'd him: here he comes   Lenox. Good morrow, Noble Sir   Macb. Good morrow both   Macd. Is the King stirring, worthy Thane?  Macb. Not yet   Macd. He did command me to call timely on him,I haue almost slipt the houre   Macb. Ile bring you to him   Macd. I know this is a ioyfull trouble to you:But yet 'tis one   Macb. The labour we delight in, Physicks paine:This is the Doore   Macd. Ile make so bold to call, for 'tis my limittedseruice. Exit Macduffe.  Lenox. Goes the King hence to day?  Macb. He does: he did appoint so   Lenox. The Night ha's been vnruly:Where we lay, our Chimneys were blowne downe,And (as they say) lamentings heard i'th' Ayre;Strange Schreemes of Death,And Prophecying, with Accents terrible,Of dyre Combustion, and confus'd Euents,New hatch'd toth' wofull time. The obscure Bird clamor'd the liue-long Night. Some say, the Earth was Feuorous,And did shake   Macb. 'Twas a rough Night   Lenox. My young remembrance cannot paralellA fellow to it. Enter Macduff.  Macd. O horror, horror, horror,Tongue nor Heart cannot conceiue, nor name thee   Macb. and Lenox. What's the matter?  Macd. Confusion now hath made his Master-peece:Most sacrilegious Murther hath broke opeThe Lords anoynted Temple, and stole thenceThe Life o'th' Building   Macb. What is't you say, the Life?  Lenox. Meane you his Maiestie?  Macd. Approch the Chamber, and destroy your sightWith a new Gorgon. Doe not bid me speake:See, and then speake your selues: awake, awake,Exeunt. Macbeth and Lenox. Ring the Alarum Bell: Murther, and Treason,Banquo, and Donalbaine: Malcolme awake,Shake off this Downey sleepe, Deaths counterfeit,And looke on Death it selfe: vp, vp, and seeThe great Doomes Image: Malcolme, Banquo,As from your Graues rise vp, and walke like Sprights,To countenance this horror. Ring the Bell. Bell rings. Enter Lady.  Lady. What's the Businesse? That such a hideous Trumpet calls to parleyThe sleepers of the House?

speake, speake   Macd. O gentle Lady,'Tis not for you to heare what I can speake:The repetition in a Womans eare,Would murther as it fell. Enter Banquo. O Banquo, Banquo, Our Royall Master's murther'd   Lady. Woe, alas:What, in our House?  Ban. Too cruell, any where. Deare Duff, I prythee contradict thy selfe,And say, it is not so. Enter Macbeth, Lenox, and Rosse.  Macb. Had I but dy'd an houre before this chance,I had liu'd a blessed time: for from this instant,There's nothing serious in Mortalitie:All is but Toyes: Renowne and Grace is dead,The Wine of Life is drawne, and the meere LeesIs left this Vault, to brag of. Enter Malcolme and Donalbaine.  Donal. What is amisse?  Macb. You are, and doe not know't:The Spring, the Head, the Fountaine of your BloodIs stopt, the very Source of it is stopt   Macd. Your Royall Father's murther'd   Mal. Oh, by whom?  Lenox. Those of his Chamber, as it seem'd, had don't:Their Hands and Faces were all badg'd with blood,So were their Daggers, which vnwip'd, we foundVpon their Pillowes: they star'd, and were distracted,No mans Life was to be trusted with them   Macb. O, yet I doe repent me of my furie,That I did kill them   Macd. Wherefore did you so?  Macb. Who can be wise, amaz'd, temp'rate, & furious,Loyall, and Neutrall, in a moment? No man:Th' expedition of my violent LoueOut-run the pawser, Reason. Here lay Duncan,His Siluer skinne, lac'd with His Golden Blood,And his gash'd Stabs, look'd like a Breach in Nature,For Ruines wastfull entrance: there the Murtherers,Steep'd in the Colours of their Trade; their DaggersVnmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refraine,That had a heart to loue; and in that heart,Courage, to make's loue knowne?  Lady. Helpe me hence, hoa   Macd. Looke to the Lady   Mal. Why doe we hold our tongues,That most may clayme this argument for ours?  Donal. What should be spoken here,Where our Fate hid in an augure hole,May rush, and seize vs? Let's away,Our Teares are not yet brew'd   Mal. Nor our strong SorrowVpon the foot of Motion   Banq. Looke to the Lady:And when we haue our naked Frailties hid,That suffer in exposure; let vs meet,And question this most bloody piece of worke,To know it further. Feares and scruples shake vs:In the great Hand of God I stand, and thence,Against the vndivulg'd pretence, I fightOf Treasonous Mallice   Macd. And so doe I   All. So all   Macb. Let's briefely put on manly readinesse,And meet i'th' Hall together   All. Well contented. Exeunt.  Malc. What will you doe? Let's not consort with them:To shew an vnfelt Sorrow, is an OfficeWhich the false man do's easie. Ile to England   Don. To Ireland, I:Our seperated fortune shall keepe vs both the safer:Where we are, there's Daggers in mens smiles;The neere in blood, the neerer bloody   Malc. This murtherous Shaft that's shot,Hath not yet lighted: and our safest way,Is to auoid the ayme. Therefore to Horse,And let vs not be daintie of leaue-taking,But shift away: there's warrant in that Theft,Which steales it selfe, when there's no mercie left. Exeunt. Scena Quarta. Enter Rosse, with an Old man.  Old man. Threescore and ten I can remember well,Within the Volume of which Time, I haue seeneHoures dreadfull, and things strange: but this sore NightHath trifled former knowings   Rosse. Ha, good Father,Thou seest the Heauens, as troubled with mans Act,Threatens his bloody Stage: byth' Clock 'tis Day,And yet darke Night strangles the trauailing Lampe:Is't Nights predominance, or the Dayes shame,That Darknesse does the face of Earth intombe,When liuing Light should kisse it?  Old man. 'Tis vnnaturall,Euen like the deed that's done: On Tuesday last,A Faulcon towring in her pride of place,Was by a Mowsing Owle hawkt at, and kill'd   Rosse. And Duncans Horses,(A thing most strange, and certaine)Beauteous, and swift, the Minions of their Race,Turn'd wilde in nature, broke their stalls, flong out,Contending 'gainst Obedience, as they wouldMake Warre with Mankinde   Old man. 'Tis said, they eate each other   Rosse. They did so:To th' amazement of mine eyes that look'd vpon't. Enter Macduffe. Heere comes the good Macduffe. How goes the world Sir, now?  Macd. Why see you not?  Ross. Is't known who did this more then bloody deed?  Macd. Those that Macbeth hath slaine   Ross. Alas the day,What good could they pretend?  Macd. They were subborned,Malcolme, and Donalbaine the Kings two SonnesAre stolne away and fled, which puts vpon themSuspition of the deed   Rosse. 'Gainst Nature still,Thriftlesse Ambition, that will rauen vpThine owne liues meanes: Then 'tis most like,The Soueraignty will fall vpon Macbeth   Macd. He is already nam'd, and gone to SconeTo be inuested   Rosse. Where is Duncans body?  Macd. Carried to Colmekill,The Sacred Store-house of his Predecessors,And Guardian of their Bones   Rosse. Will you to Scone?  Macd. No Cosin, Ile to Fife   Rosse. Well, I will thither   Macd. Well may you see things wel done there: AdieuLeast our old Robes sit easier then our new   Rosse. Farewell, Father   Old M. Gods benyson go with you, and with thoseThat would make good of bad, and Friends of Foes. Exeunt.

omnesActus Tertius. Scena Prima. Enter Banquo.  Banq. Thou hast it now, King, Cawdor, Glamis, all,As the weyard Women promis'd, and I feareThou playd'st most fowly for't: yet it was saideIt should not stand in thy Posterity,But that my selfe should be the Roote, and FatherOf many Kings. If there come truth from them,As vpon thee Macbeth, their Speeches shine,Why by the verities on thee made good,May they not be my Oracles as well,And set me vp in hope. But hush, no more. Senit sounded. Enter Macbeth as King, Lady Lenox, Rosse, Lords,andAttendants.  Macb. Heere's our chiefe Guest   La. If he had beene forgotten,It had bene as a gap in our great Feast,And all-thing vnbecomming   Macb. To night we hold a solemne Supper sir,And Ile request your presence   Banq. Let your HighnesseCommand vpon me, to the which my dutiesAre with a most indissoluble tyeFor euer knit   Macb. Ride you this afternoone?  Ban. I, my good Lord   Macb. We should haue else desir'd your good aduice(Which still hath been both graue, and prosperous)In this dayes Councell: but wee'le take to morrow. Is't farre you ride?  Ban. As farre, my Lord, as will fill vp the time'Twixt this, and Supper. Goe not my Horse the better,I must become a borrower of the Night,For a darke houre, or twaine   Macb. Faile not our Feast   Ban. My Lord, I will not   Macb. We heare our bloody Cozens are bestow'dIn England, and in Ireland, not confessingTheir cruell Parricide, filling their hearersWith strange inuention. But of that to morrow,When therewithall, we shall haue cause of State,Crauing vs ioyntly. Hye you to Horse:Adieu, till you returne at Night. Goes Fleance with you?  Ban. I, my good Lord: our time does call vpon's   Macb. I wish your Horses swift, and sure of foot:And so I doe commend you to their backs. Farwell. Exit Banquo. Let euery man be master of his time,Till seuen at Night, to make societieThe sweeter welcome:We will keepe our selfe till Supper time alone:While then, God be with you. Exeunt. Lords. Sirrha, a word with you: Attend those menOur pleasure?  Seruant. They are, my Lord, without the PallaceGate   Macb. Bring them before vs. Exit Seruant. To be thus, is nothing, but to be safely thusOur feares in Banquo sticke deepe,And in his Royaltie of Nature reignes thatWhich would be fear'd. 'Tis much he dares,And to that dauntlesse temper of his Minde,He hath a Wisdome, that doth guide his Valour,To act in safetie. There is none but he,Whose being I doe feare: and vnder him,My Genius is rebuk'd, as it is saidMark Anthonies was by Caesar. He chid the Sisters,When first they put the Name of King vpon me,And bad them speake to him. Then Prophet-like,They hayl'd him Father to a Line of Kings. Vpon my Head they plac'd a fruitlesse Crowne,And put a barren Scepter in my Gripe,Thence to be wrencht with an vnlineall Hand,No Sonne of mine succeeding: if't be so,For Banquo's Issue haue I fil'd my Minde,For them, the gracious Duncan haue I murther'd,Put Rancours in the Vessell of my PeaceOnely for them, and mine eternall IewellGiuen to the common Enemie of Man,To make them Kings, the Seedes of Banquo Kings. Rather then so, come Fate into the Lyst,And champion me to th' vtterance. Who's there? Enter Seruant, and two Murtherers. Now goe to the Doore, and stay there till we call. Exit Seruant. Was it not yesterday we spoke together?  Murth. It was, so please your Highnesse   Macb. Well then,Now haue you consider'd of my speeches:Know, that it was he, in the times past,Which held you so vnder fortune,Which you thought had been our innocent selfe. This I made good to you, in our last conference,Past in probation with you:How you were borne in hand, how crost:The Instruments: who wrought with them:And all things else, that mightTo halfe a Soule, and to a Notion craz'd,Say, Thus did Banquo   1. Murth. You made it knowne to vs   Macb. I did so:And went further, which is nowOur point of second meeting. Doe you finde your patience so predominant,In your nature, that you can let this goe? Are you so Gospell'd, to pray for this good man,And for his Issue, whose heauie handHath bow'd you to the Graue, and begger'dYours for euer?  1. Murth. We are men, my Liege   Macb. I, in the Catalogue ye goe for men,As Hounds, and Greyhounds, Mungrels, Spaniels, Curres,Showghes, Water-Rugs, and Demy-Wolues are cliptAll by the Name of Dogges: the valued fileDistinguishes the swift, the slow, the subtle,The House-keeper, the Hunter, euery oneAccording to the gift, which bounteous NatureHath in him clos'd: whereby he does receiueParticular addition, from the Bill,That writes them all alike: and so of men. Now, if you haue a station in the file,Not i'th' worst ranke of Manhood, say't,And I will put that Businesse in your Bosomes,Whose execution takes your Enemie off,Grapples you to the heart; and loue of vs,Who weare our Health but sickly in his Life,Which in his Death were perfect   2. Murth. I am one, my Liege,Whom the vile Blowes and Buffets of the WorldHath so incens'd, that I am recklesse what I doe,To spight the World   1. Murth. And I another,So wearie with Disasters, tugg'd with Fortune,That I would set my Life on any Chance,To mend it, or be rid on't   Macb. Both of you know Banquo was your Enemie   Murth. True, my Lord   Macb. So is he mine: and in such bloody distance,That euery minute of his being, thrustsAgainst my neer'st of Life: and though I couldWith bare-fac'd power sweepe him from my sight,And bid my will auouch it; yet I must not,For certaine friends that are both his, and mine,Whose loues I may not drop, but wayle his fall,Who I my selfe struck downe: and thence it is,That I to your assistance doe make loue,Masking the Businesse from the common Eye,For sundry weightie Reasons   2. Murth. We shall, my Lord,Performe what you command vs   1. Murth. Though our Liues-  Macb. Your Spirits shine through you. Within this houre, at most,I will aduise you where to plant your selues,Acquaint you with the perfect Spy o'th' time,The moment on't, for't must be done to Night,And something from the Pallace: alwayes thought,That I require a clearenesse; and with him,To leaue no Rubs nor Botches in the Worke:  Fleans , his Sonne, that keepes him companie,Whose absence is no lesse materiall to me,Then is his Fathers, must embrace the fateOf that darke houre: resolue your selues apart,Ile come to you anon   Murth. We are resolu'd, my Lord   Macb. Ile call vpon you straight: abide within,It is concluded: Banquo, thy Soules flight,If it finde Heauen, must finde it out to Night. Exeunt. Scena Secunda.

Enter Macbeths Lady, and a Seruant.  Lady. Is Banquo gone from Court?  Seruant. I, Madame, but returnes againe to Night   Lady. Say to the King, I would attend his leysure,For a few words   Seruant. Madame, I will. Enter.  Lady. Nought's had, all's spent. Where our desire is got without content:'Tis safer, to be that which we destroy,Then by destruction dwell in doubtfull ioy. Enter Macbeth. How now, my Lord, why doe you keepe alone? Of sorryest Fancies your Companions making,Vsing those Thoughts, which should indeed haue dy'dWith them they thinke on: things without all remedieShould be without regard: what's done, is done   Macb. We haue scorch'd the Snake, not kill'd it:Shee'le close, and be her selfe, whilest our poore MalliceRemaines in danger of her former Tooth. But let the frame of things dis-ioynt,Both the Worlds suffer,Ere we will eate our Meale in feare, and sleepeIn the affliction of these terrible Dreames,That shake vs Nightly: Better be with the dead,Whom we, to gayne our peace, haue sent to peace,Then on the torture of the Minde to lyeIn restlesse extasie. Duncane is in his Graue:After Lifes fitfull Feuer, he sleepes well,Treason ha's done his worst: nor Steele, nor Poyson,Mallice domestique, forraine Leuie, nothing,Can touch him further   Lady. Come on:Gentle my Lord, sleeke o're your rugged Lookes,Be bright and Iouiall among your Guests to Night   Macb. So shall I Loue, and so I pray be you:Let your remembrance apply to Banquo,Present him Eminence, both with Eye and Tongue:Vnsafe the while, that wee must laueOur Honors in these flattering streames,And make our Faces Vizards to our Hearts,Disguising what they are   Lady. You must leaue this   Macb. O, full of Scorpions is my Minde, deare Wife:Thou know'st, that Banquo and his Fleans liues   Lady. But in them, Natures Coppie's not eterne   Macb. There's comfort yet, they are assaileable,Then be thou iocund: ere the Bat hath flowneHis Cloyster'd flight, ere to black Heccats summonsThe shard-borne Beetle, with his drowsie hums,Hath rung Nights yawning Peale,There shall be done a deed of dreadfull note   Lady. What's to be done?  Macb. Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest Chuck,Till thou applaud the deed: Come, seeling Night,Skarfe vp the tender Eye of pittifull Day,And with thy bloodie and inuisible HandCancell and teare to pieces that great Bond,Which keepes me pale. Light thickens,And the Crow makes Wing toth' Rookie Wood:Good things of Day begin to droope, and drowse,Whiles Nights black Agents to their Prey's doe rowse. Thou maruell'st at my words: but hold thee still,Things bad begun, make strong themselues by ill:So prythee goe with me. Exeunt. Scena Tertia. Enter three Murtherers.  1. But who did bid thee ioyne with vs?  3. Macbeth   2. He needes not our mistrust, since he deliuersOur Offices, and what we haue to doe,To the direction iust   1. Then stand with vs:The West yet glimmers with some streakes of Day. Now spurres the lated Traueller apace,To gayne the timely Inne, and neere approchesThe subiect of our Watch   3. Hearke, I heare Horses   Banquo within. Giue vs a Light there, hoa   2. Then 'tis hee:The rest, that are within the note of expectation,Alreadie are i'th' Court   1. His Horses goe about   3. Almost a mile: but he does vsually,So all men doe, from hence toth' Pallace GateMake it their Walke. Enter Banquo and Fleans, with a Torch.  2. A Light, a Light   3. 'Tis hee   1. Stand too't   Ban. It will be Rayne to Night   1. Let it come downe   Ban. O, Trecherie! Flye good Fleans, flye, flye, flye,Thou may'st reuenge. O Slaue!  3. Who did strike out the Light?  1. Was't not the way?  3. There's but one downe: the Sonne is fled   2. We haue lostBest halfe of our Affaire   1. Well, let's away, and say how much is done. Exeunt. Scaena Quarta. Banquet prepar'd. Enter Macbeth, Lady, Rosse, Lenox, Lords, andAttendants.  Macb. You know your owne degrees, sit downe:At first and last, the hearty welcome   Lords. Thankes to your Maiesty   Macb. Our selfe will mingle with Society,And play the humble Host:Our Hostesse keepes her State, but in best timeWe will require her welcome   La. Pronounce it for me Sir, to all our Friends,For my heart speakes, they are welcome. Enter first Murtherer.  Macb. See they encounter thee with their harts thanksBoth sides are euen: heere Ile sit i'th' mid'st,Be large in mirth, anon wee'l drinke a MeasureThe Table round. There's blood vpon thy face   Mur. 'Tis Banquo's then   Macb. 'Tis better thee without, then he within. Is he dispatch'd?  Mur. My Lord his throat is cut, that I did for him   Mac. Thou art the best o'th' Cut-throats,Yet hee's good that did the like for Fleans:If thou did'st it, thou art the Non-pareill   Mur. Most Royall SirFleans is scap'd   Macb. Then comes my Fit againe:I had else beene perfect;Whole as the Marble, founded as the Rocke,As broad, and generall, as the casing Ayre:But now I am cabin'd, crib'd, confin'd, bound inTo sawcy doubts, and feares. But Banquo's safe?  Mur.

I, my good Lord: safe in a ditch he bides,With twenty trenched gashes on his head;The least a Death to Nature   Macb. Thankes for that:There the growne Serpent lyes, the worme that's fledHath Nature that in time will Venom breed,No teeth for th' present. Get thee gone, to morrowWee'l heare our selues againe. Exit Murderer.  Lady. My Royall Lord,You do not giue the Cheere, the Feast is soldThat is not often vouch'd, while 'tis a making:'Tis giuen, with welcome: to feede were best at home:From thence, the sawce to meate is Ceremony,Meeting were bare without it. Enter the Ghost of Banquo, and sits in Macbeths place.  Macb. Sweet Remembrancer:Now good digestion waite on Appetite,And health on both   Lenox. May't please your Highnesse sit   Macb. Here had we now our Countries Honor, roof'd,Were the grac'd person of our Banquo present:Who, may I rather challenge for vnkindnesse,Then pitty for Mischance   Rosse. His absence (Sir)Layes blame vpon his promise. Pleas't your HighnesseTo grace vs with your Royall Company?  Macb. The Table's full   Lenox. Heere is a place reseru'd Sir   Macb. Where?  Lenox. Heere my good Lord. What is't that moues your Highnesse?  Macb. Which of you haue done this?  Lords. What, my good Lord?  Macb. Thou canst not say I did it: neuer shakeThy goary lockes at me   Rosse. Gentlemen rise, his Highnesse is not well   Lady. Sit worthy Friends: my Lord is often thus,And hath beene from his youth. Pray you keepe Seat,The fit is momentary, vpon a thoughtHe will againe be well. If much you note himYou shall offend him, and extend his Passion,Feed, and regard him not. Are you a man?  Macb. I, and a bold one, that dare looke on thatWhich might appall the Diuell   La. O proper stuffe:This is the very painting of your feare:This is the Ayre-drawne-Dagger which you saidLed you to Duncan. O, these flawes and starts(Impostors to true feare) would well becomeA womans story, at a Winters fireAuthoriz'd by her Grandam: shame it selfe,Why do you make such faces? When all's doneYou looke but on a stoole   Macb. Prythee see there:Behold, looke, loe, how say you:Why what care I, if thou canst nod, speake too. If Charnell houses, and our Graues must sendThose that we bury, backe; our MonumentsShall be the Mawes of Kytes   La. What? quite vnmann'd in folly   Macb. If I stand heere, I saw him   La. Fie for shame   Macb. Blood hath bene shed ere now, i'th' olden timeEre humane Statute purg'd the gentle Weale:I, and since too, Murthers haue bene perform'dToo terrible for the eare. The times has bene,That when the Braines were out, the man would dye,And there an end: But now they rise againeWith twenty mortall murthers on their crownes,And push vs from our stooles. This is more strangeThen such a murther is   La. My worthy LordYour Noble Friends do lacke you   Macb. I do forget:Do not muse at me my most worthy Friends,I haue a strange infirmity, which is nothingTo those that know me. Come, loue and health to all,Then Ile sit downe: Giue me some Wine, fill full:Enter Ghost. I drinke to th' generall ioy o'th' whole Table,And to our deere Friend Banquo, whom we misse:Would he were heere: to all, and him we thirst,And all to all   Lords. Our duties, and the pledge   Mac. Auant, & quit my sight, let the earth hide thee:Thy bones are marrowlesse, thy blood is cold:Thou hast no speculation in those eyesWhich thou dost glare with   La. Thinke of this good PeeresBut as a thing of Custome: 'Tis no other,Onely it spoyles the pleasure of the time   Macb. What man dare, I dare:Approach thou like the rugged Russian Beare,The arm'd Rhinoceros, or th' Hircan Tiger,Take any shape but that, and my firme NeruesShall neuer tremble. Or be aliue againe,And dare me to the Desart with thy Sword:If trembling I inhabit then, protest meeThe Baby of a Girle. Hence horrible shadow,Vnreall mock'ry hence. Why so, being goneI am a man againe: pray you sit still   La. You haue displac'd the mirth,Broke the good meeting, with most admir'd disorder   Macb. Can such things be,And ouercome vs like a Summers Clowd,Without our speciall wonder? You make me strangeEuen to the disposition that I owe,When now I thinke you can behold such sights,And keepe the naturall Rubie of your Cheekes,When mine is blanch'd with feare   Rosse. What sights, my Lord?  La. I pray you speake not: he growes worse & worseQuestion enrages him: at once, goodnight. Stand not vpon the order of your going,But go at once   Len. Good night, and better healthAttend his Maiesty   La. A kinde goodnight to all. Exit Lords.  Macb. It will haue blood they say:Blood will haue Blood:Stones haue beene knowne to moue, & Trees to speake:Augures, and vnderstood Relations, haueBy Maggot Pyes, & Choughes, & Rookes brought forthThe secret'st man of Blood. What is the night?  La. Almost at oddes with morning, which is which   Macb. How say'st thou that Macduff denies his personAt our great bidding   La. Did you send to him Sir?  Macb. I heare it by the way: But I will send:There's not a one of them but in his houseI keepe a Seruant Feed. I will to morrow(And betimes I will) to the weyard Sisters. More shall they speake: for now I am bent to knowBy the worst meanes, the worst, for mine owne good,All causes shall giue way. I am in bloodStept in so farre, that should I wade no more,Returning were as tedious as go ore:Strange things I haue in head, that will to hand,Which must be acted, ere they may be scand   La. You lacke the season of all Natures, sleepe   Macb. Come, wee'l to sleepe: My strange & self-abuseIs the initiate feare, that wants hard vse:We are yet but yong indeed. Exeunt. Scena Quinta. Thunder. Enter the three Witches, meeting Hecat.

1. Why how now Hecat, you looke angerly?  Hec. Haue I not reason (Beldams) as you are? Sawcy, and ouer-bold, how did you dareTo Trade, and Trafficke with Macbeth,In Riddles, and Affaires of death;And I the Mistris of your Charmes,The close contriuer of all harmes,Was neuer call'd to beare my part,Or shew the glory of our Art? And which is worse, all you haue doneHath bene but for a wayward Sonne,Spightfull, and wrathfull, who (as others do)Loues for his owne ends, not for you. But make amends now: Get you gon,And at the pit of AcheronMeete me i'th' Morning: thither heWill come, to know his Destinie. Your Vessels, and your Spels prouide,Your Charmes, and euery thing beside;I am for th' Ayre: This night Ile spendVnto a dismall, and a Fatall end. Great businesse must be wrought ere Noone. Vpon the Corner of the MooneThere hangs a vap'rous drop, profound,Ile catch it ere it come to ground;And that distill'd by Magicke slights,Shall raise such Artificiall Sprights,As by the strength of their illusion,Shall draw him on to his Confusion. He shall spurne Fate, scorne Death, and beareHis hopes 'boue Wisedome, Grace, and Feare:And you all know, SecurityIs Mortals cheefest Enemie. Musicke, and a Song. Hearke, I am call'd: my little Spirit seeSits in Foggy cloud, and stayes for me. Sing within. Come away, come away, &c.  1 Come, let's make hast, shee'l soone beBacke againe. Exeunt. Scaena Sexta. Enter Lenox, and another Lord.  Lenox. My former Speeches,Haue but hit your ThoughtsWhich can interpret farther: Onely I sayThings haue bin strangely borne. The gracious DuncanWas pittied of Macbeth: marry he was dead:And the right valiant Banquo walk'd too late,Whom you may say (if't please you) Fleans kill'd,For Fleans fled: Men must not walke too late. Who cannot want the thought, how monstrousIt was for Malcolme, and for DonalbaneTo kill their gracious Father? Damned Fact,How it did greeue Macbeth? Did he not straightIn pious rage, the two delinquents teare,That were the Slaues of drinke, and thralles of sleepe? Was not that Nobly done? I, and wisely too:For 'twould haue anger'd any heart aliueTo heare the men deny't. So that I say,He ha's borne all things well, and I do thinke,That had he Duncans Sonnes vnder his Key,(As, and't please Heauen he shall not) they should findeWhat 'twere to kill a Father: So should Fleans. But peace; for from broad words, and cause he fayl'dHis presence at the Tyrants Feast, I heareMacduffe liues in disgrace. Sir, can you tellWhere he bestowes himselfe?  Lord. The Sonnes of Duncane(From whom this Tyrant holds the due of Birth)Liues in the English Court, and is receyu'dOf the most Pious Edward, with such grace,That the maleuolence of Fortune, nothingTakes from his high respect. Thither MacduffeIs gone, to pray the Holy King, vpon his aydTo wake Northumberland, and warlike Seyward,That by the helpe of these (with him aboue)To ratifie the Worke) we may againeGiue to our Tables meate, sleepe to our Nights:Free from our Feasts, and Banquets bloody kniues;Do faithfull Homage, and receiue free Honors,All which we pine for now. And this reportHath so exasperate their King, that heePrepares for some attempt of Warre   Len. Sent he to Macduffe?  Lord. He did: and with an absolute Sir, not IThe clowdy Messenger turnes me his backe,And hums; as who should say, you'l rue the timeThat clogges me with this Answer   Lenox. And that well mightAduise him to a Caution, t' hold what distanceHis wisedome can prouide. Some holy AngellFlye to the Court of England, and vnfoldHis Message ere he come, that a swift blessingMay soone returne to this our suffering Country,Vnder a hand accurs'd   Lord. Ile send my Prayers with him. Exeunt. Actus Quartus. Scena Prima. Thunder. Enter the three Witches.  1 Thrice the brinded Cat hath mew'd   2 Thrice, and once the Hedge-Pigge whin'd   3 Harpier cries, 'tis time, 'tis time   1 Round about the Caldron go:In the poysond Entrailes throwToad, that vnder cold stone,Dayes and Nights, ha's thirty one:Sweltred Venom sleeping got,Boyle thou first i'th' charmed pot   All. Double, double, toile and trouble;Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble   2 Fillet of a Fenny Snake,In the Cauldron boyle and bake:Eye of Newt, and Toe of Frogge,Wooll of Bat, and Tongue of Dogge:Adders Forke, and Blinde-wormes Sting,Lizards legge, and Howlets wing:For a Charme of powrefull trouble,Like a Hell-broth, boyle and bubble   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble   3 Scale of Dragon, Tooth of Wolfe,Witches Mummey, Maw, and GulfeOf the rauin'd salt Sea sharke:Roote of Hemlocke, digg'd i'th' darke:Liuer of Blaspheming Iew,Gall of Goate, and Slippes of Yew,Sliuer'd in the Moones Ecclipse:Nose of Turke, and Tartars lips:Finger of Birth-strangled Babe,Ditch-deliuer'd by a Drab,Make the Grewell thicke, and slab. Adde thereto a Tigers Chawdron,For th' Ingredience of our Cawdron   All. Double, double, toyle and trouble,Fire burne, and Cauldron bubble   2 Coole it with a Baboones blood,Then the Charme is firme and good. Enter Hecat, and the other three Witches.  Hec. O well done: I commend your paines,And euery one shall share i'th' gaines:And now about the Cauldron singLike Elues and Fairies in a Ring,Inchanting all that you put in. Musicke and a Song. Blacke Spirits, &c.  2 By the pricking of my Thumbes,Something wicked this way comes:Open Lockes, who euer knockes. Enter Macbeth.  Macb. How now you secret, black, & midnight Hags? What is't you do?  All. A deed without a name   Macb. I coniure you, by that which you Professe,(How ere you come to know it) answer me:Though you vntye the Windes, and let them fightAgainst the Churches: Though the yesty WauesConfound and swallow Nauigation vp:Though bladed Corne be lodg'd, & Trees blown downe,Though Castles topple on their Warders heads:Though Pallaces, and Pyramids do slopeTheir heads to their Foundations: Though the treasureOf Natures Germaine, tumble altogether,Euen till destruction sicken: Answer meTo what I aske you   1 Speake   2 Demand   3 Wee'l answer   1 Say, if th'hadst rather heare it from our mouthes,Or from our Masters   Macb. Call 'em: let me see 'em   1 Powre in Sowes blood, that hath eatenHer nine Farrow: Greaze that's sweatenFrom the Murderers Gibbet, throwInto the Flame   All. Come high or low:Thy Selfe and Office deaftly show. Thunder. 1. Apparation, an Armed Head.  Macb. Tell me, thou vnknowne power   1 He knowes thy thought:Heare his speech, but say thou nought   1 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth:Beware Macduffe,Beware the Thane of Fife: dismisse me. Enough. He Descends.  Macb. What ere thou art, for thy good caution, thanksThou hast harp'd my feare aright. But one word more   1 He will not be commanded: heere's anotherMore potent then the first. Thunder. 2 Apparition, a Bloody Childe.  2 Appar. Macbeth, Macbeth, Macbeth   Macb. Had I three eares, Il'd heare thee   Appar. Be bloody, bold, & resolute:Laugh to scorneThe powre of man: For none of woman borneShall harme Macbeth. Descends.  Mac.

Then liue Macduffe: what need I feare of thee? But yet Ile make assurance: double sure,And take a Bond of Fate: thou shalt not liue,That I may tell pale-hearted Feare, it lies;And sleepe in spight of Thunder. Thunder 3 Apparation, a Childe Crowned, with a Tree in his hand. What is this, that rises like the issue of a King,And weares vpon his Baby-brow, the roundAnd top of Soueraignty?  All. Listen, but speake not too't   3 Appar. Be Lyon metled, proud, and take no care:Who chafes, who frets, or where Conspirers are:Macbeth shall neuer vanquish'd be, vntillGreat Byrnam Wood, to high Dunsmane HillShall come against him. Descend.  Macb. That will neuer bee:Who can impresse the Forrest, bid the TreeVnfixe his earth-bound Root? Sweet boadments, good:Rebellious dead, rise neuer till the WoodOf Byrnan rise, and our high plac'd MacbethShall liue the Lease of Nature, pay his breathTo time, and mortall Custome. Yet my HartThrobs to know one thing: Tell me, if your ArtCan tell so much: Shall Banquo's issue euerReigne in this Kingdome?  All. Seeke to know no more   Macb. I will be satisfied. Deny me this,And an eternall Curse fall on you: Let me know. Why sinkes that Caldron? & what noise is this? Hoboyes  1 Shew   2 Shew   3 Shew   All. Shew his Eyes, and greeue his Hart,Come like shadowes, so depart. A shew of eight Kings, and Banquo last, with a glasse in his hand.  Macb. Thou art too like the Spirit of Banquo: Down:Thy Crowne do's seare mine Eye-bals. And thy haireThou other Gold-bound-brow, is like the first:A third, is like the former. Filthy Hagges,Why do you shew me this? - A fourth? Start eyes! What will the Line stretch out to'th' cracke of Doome? Another yet? A seauenth? Ile see no more:And yet the eighth appeares, who beares a glasse,Which shewes me many more: and some I see,That two-fold Balles, and trebble Scepters carry. Horrible sight: Now I see 'tis true,For the Blood-bolter'd Banquo smiles vpon me,And points at them for his. What? is this so?  1 I Sir, all this is so. But whyStands Macbeth thus amazedly? Come Sisters, cheere we vp his sprights,And shew the best of our delights. Ile Charme the Ayre to giue a sound,While you performe your Antique round:That this great King may kindly say,Our duties, did his welcome pay. Musicke. The Witches Dance, and vanish.  Macb. Where are they? Gone? Let this pernitious houre,Stand aye accursed in the Kalender. Come in, without there. Enter Lenox.  Lenox. What's your Graces will   Macb. Saw you the Weyard Sisters?  Lenox. No my Lord   Macb. Came they not by you?  Lenox. No indeed my Lord   Macb. Infected be the Ayre whereon they ride,And damn'd all those that trust them. I did heareThe gallopping of Horse. Who was't came by?  Len. 'Tis two or three my Lord, that bring you word:Macduff is fled to England   Macb. Fled to England?  Len. I, my good Lord   Macb. Time, thou anticipat'st my dread exploits:The flighty purpose neuer is o're-tookeVnlesse the deed go with it. From this moment,The very firstlings of my heart shall beThe firstlings of my hand. And euen nowTo Crown my thoughts with Acts: be it thoght & done:The Castle of Macduff, I will surprize. Seize vpon Fife; giue to th' edge o'th' SwordHis Wife, his Babes, and all vnfortunate SoulesThat trace him in his Line. No boasting like a Foole,This deed Ile do, before this purpose coole,But no more sights. Where are these Gentlemen? Come bring me where they are. Exeunt. Scena Secunda. Enter Macduffes Wife, her Son, and Rosse.  Wife. What had he done, to make him fly the Land?  Rosse. You must haue patience Madam   Wife. He had none:His flight was madnesse: when our Actions do not,Our feares do make vs Traitors   Rosse. You know notWhether it was his wisedome, or his feare   Wife. Wisedom? to leaue his wife, to leaue his Babes,His Mansion, and his Titles, in a placeFrom whence himselfe do's flye? He loues vs not,He wants the naturall touch. For the poore Wren(The most diminitiue of Birds) will fight,Her yong ones in her Nest, against the Owle:All is the Feare, and nothing is the Loue;As little is the Wisedome, where the flightSo runnes against all reason   Rosse. My deerest Cooz,I pray you schoole your selfe. But for your Husband,He is Noble, Wise, Iudicious, and best knowesThe fits o'th' Season.

I dare not speake much further,But cruell are the times, when we are TraitorsAnd do not know our selues: when we hold RumorFrom what we feare, yet know not what we feare,But floate vpon a wilde and violent SeaEach way, and moue. I take my leaue of you:Shall not be long but Ile be heere againe:Things at the worst will cease, or else climbe vpward,To what they were before. My pretty Cosine,Blessing vpon you   Wife. Father'd he is,And yet hee's Father-lesse   Rosse. I am so much a Foole, should I stay longerIt would be my disgrace, and your discomfort. I take my leaue at once. Exit Rosse.  Wife. Sirra, your Fathers dead,And what will you do now? How will you liue?  Son. As Birds do Mother   Wife. What with Wormes, and Flyes?  Son. With what I get I meane, and so do they   Wife. Poore Bird,Thou'dst neuer Feare the Net, nor Lime,The Pitfall, nor the Gin   Son. Why should I Mother? Poore Birds they are not set for:My Father is not dead for all your saying   Wife. Yes, he is dead:How wilt thou do for a Father?  Son. Nay how will you do for a Husband?  Wife. Why I can buy me twenty at any Market   Son. Then you'l by 'em to sell againe   Wife. Thou speak'st withall thy wit,And yet I'faith with wit enough for thee   Son. Was my Father a Traitor, Mother?  Wife. I, that he was   Son. What is a Traitor?  Wife. Why one that sweares, and lyes   Son. And be all Traitors, that do so   Wife. Euery one that do's so, is a Traitor,And must be hang'd   Son. And must they all be hang'd, that swear and lye?  Wife. Euery one   Son. Who must hang them?  Wife. Why, the honest men   Son. Then the Liars and Swearers are Fools: for thereare Lyars and Swearers enow, to beate the honest men,and hang vp them   Wife. Now God helpe thee, poore Monkie:But how wilt thou do for a Father?  Son. If he were dead, youl'd weepe for him: if youwould not, it were a good signe, that I should quickelyhaue a new Father   Wife. Poore pratler, how thou talk'st? Enter a Messenger.  Mes. Blesse you faire Dame: I am not to you known,Though in your state of Honor I am perfect;I doubt some danger do's approach you neerely. If you will take a homely mans aduice,Be not found heere: Hence with your little onesTo fright you thus. Me thinkes I am too sauage:To do worse to you, were fell Cruelty,Which is too nie your person. Heauen preserue you,I dare abide no longer. Exit Messenger  Wife. Whether should I flye? I haue done no harme. But I remember nowI am in this earthly world: where to do harmeIs often laudable, to do good sometimeAccounted dangerous folly. Why then (alas)Do I put vp that womanly defence,To say I haue done no harme? What are these faces? Enter Murtherers.  Mur. Where is your Husband?  Wife. I hope in no place so vnsanctified,Where such as thou may'st finde him   Mur. He's a Traitor   Son. Thou ly'st thou shagge-ear'd Villaine   Mur. What you Egge? Yong fry of Treachery?  Son. He ha's kill'd me Mother,Run away I pray you. Exit crying Murther. Scaena Tertia. Enter Malcolme and Macduffe.  Mal. Let vs seeke out some desolate shade, & thereWeepe our sad bosomes empty   Macd. Let vs ratherHold fast the mortall Sword: and like good men,Bestride our downfall Birthdome: each new Morne,New Widdowes howle, new Orphans cry, new sorowesStrike heauen on the face, that it resoundsAs if it felt with Scotland, and yell'd outLike Syllable of Dolour   Mal. What I beleeue, Ile waile;What know, beleeue; and what I can redresse,As I shall finde the time to friend: I wil. What you haue spoke, it may be so perchance. This Tyrant, whose sole name blisters our tongues,Was once thought honest: you haue lou'd him well,He hath not touch'd you yet. I am yong, but somethingYou may discerne of him through me, and wisedomeTo offer vp a weake, poore innocent LambeT' appease an angry God   Macd. I am not treacherous   Malc. But Macbeth is. A good and vertuous Nature may recoyleIn an Imperiall charge. But I shall craue your pardon:That which you are, my thoughts cannot transpose;Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell. Though all things foule, would wear the brows of graceYet Grace must still looke so   Macd. I haue lost my Hopes   Malc. Perchance euen thereWhere I did finde my doubts.

Why in that rawnesse left you Wife, and Childe? Those precious Motiues, those strong knots of Loue,Without leaue-taking. I pray you,Let not my Iealousies, be your Dishonors,But mine owne Safeties: you may be rightly iust,What euer I shall thinke   Macd. Bleed, bleed poore Country,Great Tyrrany, lay thou thy basis sure,For goodnesse dare not check thee: wear y thy wrongs,The Title, is affear'd. Far thee well Lord,I would not be the Villaine that thou think'st,For the whole Space that's in the Tyrants Graspe,And the rich East to boot   Mal. Be not offended:I speake not as in absolute feare of you:I thinke our Country sinkes beneath the yoake,It weepes, it bleeds, and each new day a gashIs added to her wounds. I thinke withall,There would be hands vplifted in my right:And heere from gracious England haue I offerOf goodly thousands. But for all this,When I shall treade vpon the Tyrants head,Or weare it on my Sword; yet my poore CountryShall haue more vices then it had before,More suffer, and more sundry wayes then euer,By him that shall succeede   Macd. What should he be?  Mal. It is my selfe I meane: in whom I knowAll the particulars of Vice so grafted,That when they shall be open'd, blacke MacbethWill seeme as pure as Snow, and the poore StateEsteeme him as a Lambe, being compar'dWith my confinelesse harmes   Macd. Not in the LegionsOf horrid Hell, can come a Diuell more damn'dIn euils, to top Macbeth   Mal. I grant him Bloody,Luxurious, Auaricious, False, Deceitfull,Sodaine, Malicious, smacking of euery sinneThat ha's a name. But there's no bottome, noneIn my Voluptuousnesse: Your Wiues, your Daughters,Your Matrons, and your Maides, could not fill vpThe Cesterne of my Lust, and my DesireAll continent Impediments would ore-beareThat did oppose my will. Better Macbeth,Then such an one to reigne   Macd. Boundlesse intemperanceIn Nature is a Tyranny: It hath beeneTh' vntimely emptying of the happy Throne,And fall of many Kings. But feare not yetTo take vpon you what is yours: you mayConuey your pleasures in a spacious plenty,And yet seeme cold. The time you may so hoodwinke:We haue willing Dames enough: there cannot beThat Vulture in you, to deuoure so manyAs will to Greatnesse dedicate themselues,Finding it so inclinde   Mal. With this, there growesIn my most ill-composd Affection, suchA stanchlesse Auarice, that were I King,I should cut off the Nobles for their Lands,Desire his Iewels, and this others House,And my more-hauing, would be as a SawceTo make me hunger more, that I should forgeQuarrels vniust against the Good and Loyall,Destroying them for wealth   Macd. This Auaricestickes deeper: growes with more pernicious rooteThen Summer-seeming Lust: and it hath binThe Sword of our slaine Kings: yet do not feare,Scotland hath Foysons, to fill vp your willOf your meere Owne. All these are portable,With other Graces weigh'd   Mal. But I haue none. The King-becoming Graces,As Iustice, Verity, Temp'rance, Stablenesse,Bounty, Perseuerance, Mercy, Lowlinesse,Deuotion, Patience, Courage, Fortitude,I haue no rellish of them, but aboundIn the diuision of each seuerall Crime,Acting it many wayes. Nay, had I powre, I shouldPoure the sweet Milke of Concord, into Hell,Vprore the vniuersall peace, confoundAll vnity on earth   Macd. O Scotland, Scotland   Mal. If such a one be fit to gouerne, speake:I am as I haue spoken   Mac. Fit to gouern? No not to liue. O Natio[n] miserable! With an vntitled Tyrant, bloody Sceptred,When shalt thou see thy wholsome dayes againe? Since that the truest Issue of thy ThroneBy his owne Interdiction stands accust,And do's blaspheme his breed? Thy Royall FatherWas a most Sainted-King: the Queene that bore thee,Oftner vpon her knees, then on her feet,Dy'de euery day she liu'd. Fare thee well,These Euils thou repeat'st vpon thy selfe,Hath banish'd me from Scotland. O my Brest,Thy hope ends heere   Mal. Macduff, this Noble passionChilde of integrity, hath from my souleWip'd the blacke Scruples, reconcil'd my thoughtsTo thy good Truth, and Honor. Diuellish Macbeth,By many of these traines, hath sought to win meInto his power: and modest Wisedome pluckes meFrom ouer-credulous hast: but God aboueDeale betweene thee and me; For euen nowI put my selfe to thy Direction, andVnspeake mine owne detraction. Heere abiureThe taints, and blames I laide vpon my selfe,For strangers to my Nature. I am yetVnknowne to Woman, neuer was forsworne,Scarsely haue coueted what was mine owne. At no time broke my Faith, would not betrayThe Deuill to his Fellow, and delightNo lesse in truth then life. My first false speakingWas this vpon my selfe. What I am trulyIs thine, and my poore Countries to command:Whither indeed, before they heere approachOld Seyward with ten thousand warlike menAlready at a point, was setting foorth:Now wee'l together, and the chance of goodnesseBe like our warranted Quarrell. Why are you silent?  Macd. Such welcome, and vnwelcom things at once'Tis hard to reconcile. Enter a Doctor.  Mal. Well, more anon. Comes the King forthI pray you?  Doct. I Sir: there are a crew of wretched SoulesThat stay his Cure: their malady conuincesThe great assay of Art. But at his touch,Such sanctity hath Heauen giuen his hand,They presently amend. Enter.  Mal. I thanke you Doctor   Macd. What's the Disease he meanes?  Mal. Tis call'd the Euill. A most myraculous worke in this good King,Which often since my heere remaine in England,I haue seene him do: How he solicites heauenHimselfe best knowes: but strangely visited peopleAll swolne and Vlcerous, pittifull to the eye,The meere dispaire of Surgery, he cures,Hanging a golden stampe about their neckes,Put on with holy Prayers, and 'tis spokenTo the succeeding Royalty he leauesThe healing Benediction. With this strange vertue,He hath a heauenly guift of Prophesie,And sundry Blessings hang about his Throne,That speake him full of Grace. Enter Rosse.  Macd. See who comes heere   Malc. My Countryman: but yet I know him not   Macd. My euer gentle Cozen, welcome hither   Malc. I know him now. Good God betimes remoueThe meanes that makes vs Strangers   Rosse. Sir, Amen   Macd. Stands Scotland where it did?  Rosse. Alas poore Countrey,Almost affraid to know it selfe. It cannotBe call'd our Mother, but our Graue; where nothingBut who knowes nothing, is once seene to smile:Where sighes, and groanes, and shrieks that rent the ayreAre made, not mark'd: Where violent sorrow seemesA Moderne extasie: The Deadmans knell,Is there scarse ask'd for who, and good mens liuesExpire before the Flowers in their Caps,Dying, or ere they sicken   Macd. Oh Relation; too nice, and yet too true   Malc. What's the newest griefe?  Rosse. That of an houres age, doth hisse the speaker,Each minute teemes a new one   Macd. How do's my Wife?  Rosse. Why well   Macd. And all my Children?  Rosse. Well too   Macd. The Tyrant ha's not batter'd at their peace?  Rosse. No, they were wel at peace, when I did leaue 'em  Macd.

Be not a niggard of your speech: How gos't?  Rosse. When I came hither to transport the TydingsWhich I haue heauily borne, there ran a RumourOf many worthy Fellowes, that were out,Which was to my beleefe witnest the rather,For that I saw the Tyrants Power a-foot. Now is the time of helpe: your eye in ScotlandWould create Soldiours, make our women fight,To doffe their dire distresses   Malc. Bee't their comfortWe are comming thither: Gracious England hathLent vs good Seyward, and ten thousand men,An older, and a better Souldier, noneThat Christendome giues out   Rosse. Would I could answerThis comfort with the like. But I haue wordsThat would be howl'd out in the desert ayre,Where hearing should not latch them   Macd. What concerne they,The generall cause, or is it a Fee-griefeDue to some single brest?  Rosse. No minde that's honestBut in it shares some woe, though the maine partPertaines to you alone   Macd. If it be mineKeepe it not from me, quickly let me haue it   Rosse. Let not your eares dispise my tongue for euer,Which shall possesse them with the heauiest soundthat euer yet they heard   Macd. Humh: I guesse at it   Rosse. Your Castle is surpriz'd: your Wife, and BabesSauagely slaughter'd: To relate the mannerWere on the Quarry of these murther'd DeereTo adde the death of you   Malc. Mercifull Heauen:What man, ne're pull your hat vpon your browes:Giue sorrow words; the griefe that do's not speake,Whispers the o're-fraught heart, and bids it breake   Macd. My Children too?  Ro. Wife, Children, Seruants, all that could be found   Macd. And I must be from thence? My wife kil'd too?  Rosse. I haue said   Malc. Be comforted. Let's make vs Med'cines of our great Reuenge,To cure this deadly greefe   Macd. He ha's no Children. All my pretty ones? Did you say All? Oh Hell-Kite! All? What, All my pretty Chickens, and their DammeAt one fell swoope?  Malc. Dispute it like a man   Macd. I shall do so:But I must also feele it as a man;I cannot but remember such things wereThat were most precious to me: Did heauen looke on,And would not take their part? Sinfull Macduff,They were all strooke for thee: Naught that I am,Not for their owne demerits, but for mineFell slaughter on their soules: Heauen rest them now   Mal. Be this the Whetstone of your sword, let griefeConuert to anger: blunt not the heart, enrage it   Macd. O I could play the woman with mine eyes,And Braggart with my tongue. But gentle Heauens,Cut short all intermission: Front to Front,Bring thou this Fiend of Scotland, and my selfeWithin my Swords length set him, if he scapeHeauen forgiue him too   Mal. This time goes manly:Come go we to the King, our Power is ready,Our lacke is nothing but our leaue. MacbethIs ripe for shaking, and the Powres abouePut on their Instruments: Receiue what cheere you may,The Night is long, that neuer findes the Day. Exeunt. Actus Quintus. Scena Prima. Enter a Doctor of Physicke, and a Wayting Gentlewoman.  Doct. I haue too Nights watch'd with you, but canperceiue no truth in your report. When was it shee lastwalk'd?  Gent. Since his Maiesty went into the Field, I haueseene her rise from her bed, throw her Night-Gown vpponher, vnlocke her Closset, take foorth paper, folde it,write vpon't, read it, afterwards Seale it, and againe returneto bed; yet all this while in a most fast sleepe   Doct. A great perturbation in Nature, to receyue atonce the benefit of sleep, and do the effects of watching. In this slumbry agitation, besides her walking, and otheractuall performances, what (at any time) haue you heardher say?  Gent. That Sir, which I will not report after her   Doct. You may to me, and 'tis most meet you should   Gent. Neither to you, nor any one, hauing no witnesseto confirme my speech. Enter Lady, with a Taper. Lo you, heere she comes: This is her very guise, and vponmy life fast asleepe: obserue her, stand close   Doct. How came she by that light?  Gent. Why it stood by her: she ha's light by her continually,'tis her command   Doct. You see her eyes are open   Gent. I, but their sense are shut   Doct. What is it she do's now? Looke how she rubbes her hands   Gent. It is an accustom'd action with her, to seemethus washing her hands: I haue knowne her continue inthis a quarter of an houre   Lad. Yet heere's a spot   Doct. Heark, she speaks, I will set downe what comesfrom her, to satisfie my remembrance the more strongly   La. Out damned spot: out I say. One: Two: Whythen 'tis time to doo't: Hell is murky. Fye, my Lord, fie,a Souldier, and affear'd? what need we feare? who knowesit, when none can call our powre to accompt: yet whowould haue thought the olde man to haue had so muchblood in him   Doct. Do you marke that?  Lad. The Thane of Fife, had a wife: where is she now? What will these hands ne're be cleane? No more o'thatmy Lord, no more o'that: you marre all with this starting   Doct. Go too, go too:You haue knowne what you should not   Gent. She ha's spoke what shee should not, I am sureof that: Heauen knowes what she ha's knowne   La. Heere's the smell of the blood still: all the perfumesof Arabia will not sweeten this little hand. Oh, oh, oh   Doct. What a sigh is there? The hart is sorely charg'd   Gent. I would not haue such a heart in my bosome,for the dignity of the whole body   Doct. Well, well, well   Gent.

Pray God it be sir   Doct. This disease is beyond my practise: yet I haueknowne those which haue walkt in their sleep, who hauedyed holily in their beds   Lad. Wash your hands, put on your Night-Gowne,looke not so pale: I tell you yet againe Banquo's buried;he cannot come out on's graue   Doct. Euen so?  Lady. To bed, to bed: there's knocking at the gate:Come, come, come, come, giue me your hand: What'sdone, cannot be vndone. To bed, to bed, to bed. Exit Lady.  Doct. Will she go now to bed?  Gent. Directly   Doct. Foule whisp'rings are abroad: vnnaturall deedsDo breed vnnaturall troubles: infected mindesTo their deafe pillowes will discharge their Secrets:More needs she the Diuine, then the Physitian:God, God forgiue vs all. Looke after her,Remoue from her the meanes of all annoyance,And still keepe eyes vpon her: So goodnight,My minde she ha's mated, and amaz'd my sight. I thinke, but dare not speake   Gent. Good night good Doctor. Exeunt. Scena Secunda. Drum and Colours. Enter Menteth, Cathnes, Angus, Lenox,Soldiers.  Ment. The English powre is neere, led on by Malcolm,His Vnkle Seyward, and the good Macduff. Reuenges burne in them: for their deere causesWould to the bleeding, and the grim AlarmeExcite the mortified man   Ang. Neere Byrnan woodShall we well meet them, that way are they comming   Cath. Who knowes if Donalbane be with his brother?  Len. For certaine Sir, he is not: I haue a FileOf all the Gentry; there is Seywards Sonne,And many vnruffe youths, that euen nowProtest their first of Manhood   Ment. What do's the Tyrant   Cath. Great Dunsinane he strongly Fortifies:Some say hee's mad: Others, that lesser hate him,Do call it valiant Fury, but for certaineHe cannot buckle his distemper'd causeWithin the belt of Rule   Ang. Now do's he feeleHis secret Murthers sticking on his hands,Now minutely Reuolts vpbraid his Faith-breach:Those he commands, moue onely in command,Nothing in loue: Now do's he feele his TitleHang loose about him, like a Giants RobeVpon a dwarfish Theefe   Ment. Who then shall blameHis pester'd Senses to recoyle, and start,When all that is within him, do's condemneIt selfe, for being there   Cath. Well, march we on,To giue Obedience, where 'tis truly ow'd:Meet we the Med'cine of the sickly Weale,And with him poure we in our Countries purge,Each drop of vs   Lenox. Or so much as it needes,To dew the Soueraigne Flower, and drowne the Weeds:Make we our March towards Birnan. Exeunt. marching. Scaena Tertia. Enter Macbeth, Doctor, and Attendants.  Macb. Bring me no more Reports, let them flye all:Till Byrnane wood remoue to Dunsinane,I cannot taint with Feare. What's the Boy Malcolme? Was he not borne of woman? The Spirits that knowAll mortall Consequences, haue pronounc'd me thus:Feare not Macbeth, no man that's borne of womanShall ere haue power vpon thee. Then fly false Thanes,And mingle with the English Epicures,The minde I sway by, and the heart I beare,Shall neuer sagge with doubt, nor shake with feare. Enter Seruant. The diuell damne thee blacke, thou cream-fac'd Loone:Where got'st thou that Goose-looke   Ser. There is ten thousand   Macb. Geese Villaine?  Ser. Souldiers Sir   Macb. Go pricke thy face, and ouer-red thy feareThou Lilly-liuer'd Boy. What Soldiers, Patch? Death of thy Soule, those Linnen cheekes of thineAre Counsailers to feare. What Soldiers Whay-face?  Ser. The English Force, so please you   Macb. Take thy face hence. Seyton, I am sick at hart,When I behold: Seyton, I say, this pushWill cheere me euer, or dis-eate me now. I haue liu'd long enough: my way of lifeIs falne into the Seare, the yellow Leafe,And that which should accompany Old-Age,As Honor, Loue, Obedience, Troopes of Friends,I must not looke to haue: but in their steed,Curses, not lowd but deepe, Mouth-honor, breathWhich the poore heart would faine deny, and dare not. Seyton? Enter Seyton.  Sey. What's your gracious pleasure?  Macb. What Newes more?  Sey. All is confirm'd my Lord, which was reported   Macb. Ile fight, till from my bones, my flesh be hackt. Giue me my Armor   Seyt. 'Tis not needed yet   Macb. Ile put it on:Send out moe Horses, skirre the Country round,Hang those that talke of Feare. Giue me mine Armor:How do's your Patient, Doctor?  Doct. Not so sicke my Lord,As she is troubled with thicke-comming FanciesThat keepe her from her rest   Macb. Cure of that:Can'st thou not Minister to a minde diseas'd,Plucke from the Memory a rooted Sorrow,Raze out the written troubles of the Braine,And with some sweet Obliuious AntidoteCleanse the stufft bosome, of that perillous stuffeWhich weighes vpon the heart?  Doct. Therein the PatientMust minister to himselfe   Macb. Throw Physicke to the Dogs, Ile none of it. Come, put mine Armour on: giue me my Staffe:Seyton, send out: Doctor, the Thanes flye from me:Come sir, dispatch. If thou could'st Doctor, castThe Water of my Land, finde her Disease,And purge it to a sound and pristine Health,I would applaud thee to the very Eccho,That should applaud againe. Pull't off I say,What Rubarb, Cyme, or what Purgatiue druggeWould scowre these English hence: hear'st y of them?  Doct. I my good Lord: your Royall PreparationMakes vs heare something   Macb. Bring it after me:I will not be affraid of Death and Bane,Till Birnane Forrest come to Dunsinane   Doct. Were I from Dunsinane away, and cleere,Profit againe should hardly draw me heere.

Exeunt. Scena Quarta. Drum and Colours. Enter Malcolme, Seyward, Macduffe,Seywards Sonne,Menteth, Cathnes, Angus, and Soldiers Marching.  Malc. Cosins, I hope the dayes are neere at handThat Chambers will be safe   Ment. We doubt it nothing   Seyw. What wood is this before vs?  Ment. The wood of Birnane   Malc. Let euery Souldier hew him downe a Bough,And bear't before him, thereby shall we shadowThe numbers of our Hoast, and make discoueryErre in report of vs   Sold. It shall be done   Syw. We learne no other, but the confident TyrantKeepes still in Dunsinane, and will indureOur setting downe befor't   Malc. 'Tis his maine hope:For where there is aduantage to be giuen,Both more and lesse haue giuen him the Reuolt,And none serue with him, but constrained things,Whose hearts are absent too   Macd. Let our iust CensuresAttend the true euent, and put we onIndustrious Souldiership   Sey. The time approaches,That will with due decision make vs knowWhat we shall say we haue, and what we owe:Thoughts speculatiue, their vnsure hopes relate,But certaine issue, stroakes must arbitrate,Towards which, aduance the warre. Exeunt. marchingScena Quinta. Enter Macbeth, Seyton, & Souldiers, with Drum and Colours.  Macb. Hang out our Banners on the outward walls,The Cry is still, they come: our Castles strengthWill laugh a Siedge to scorne: Heere let them lye,Till Famine and the Ague eate them vp:Were they not forc'd with those that should be ours,We might haue met them darefull, beard to beard,And beate them backward home. What is that noyse? A Cry within of Women.  Sey. It is the cry of women, my good Lord   Macb. I haue almost forgot the taste of Feares:The time ha's beene, my sences would haue cool'dTo heare a Night-shrieke, and my Fell of haireWould at a dismall Treatise rowze, and stirreAs life were in't. I haue supt full with horrors,Direnesse familiar to my slaughterous thoughtsCannot once start me. Wherefore was that cry?  Sey. The Queene (my Lord) is dead   Macb. She should haue dy'de heereafter;There would haue beene a time for such a word:To morrow, and to morrow, and to morrow,Creepes in this petty pace from day to day,To the last Syllable of Recorded time:And all our yesterdayes, haue lighted FoolesThe way to dusty death. Out, out, breefe Candle,Life's but a walking Shadow, a poore Player,That struts and frets his houre vpon the Stage,And then is heard no more. It is a TaleTold by an Ideot, full of sound and furySignifying nothing. Enter a Messenger. Thou com'st to vse thy Tongue: thy Story quickly   Mes. Gracious my Lord,I should report that which I say I saw,But know not how to doo't   Macb. Well, say sir   Mes. As I did stand my watch vpon the HillI look'd toward Byrnane, and anon me thoughtThe Wood began to moue   Macb. Lyar, and Slaue   Mes. Let me endure your wrath, if't be not so:Within this three Mile may you see it comming. I say, a mouing Groue   Macb. If thou speak'st false,Vpon the next Tree shall thou hang aliueTill Famine cling thee: If thy speech be sooth,I care not if thou dost for me as much. I pull in Resolution, and beginTo doubt th' Equiuocation of the Fiend,That lies like truth. Feare not, till Byrnane WoodDo come to Dunsinane, and now a WoodComes toward Dunsinane. Arme, Arme, and out,If this which he auouches, do's appeare,There is nor flying hence, nor tarrying here. I 'ginne to be a-weary of the Sun,And wish th' estate o'th' world were now vndon. Ring the Alarum Bell, blow Winde, come wracke,At least wee'l dye with Harnesse on our backe. Exeunt. Scena Sexta. Drumme and Colours. Enter Malcolme, Seyward, Macduffe, andtheir Army,with Boughes.  Mal. Now neere enough:Your leauy Skreenes throw downe,And shew like those you are: You (worthy Vnkle)Shall with my Cosin your right Noble SonneLeade our first Battell. Worthy Macduffe, and weeShall take vpon's what else remaines to do,According to our order   Sey. Fare you well:Do we but finde the Tyrants power to night,Let vs be beaten, if we cannot fight   Macd. Make all our Trumpets speak, giue the[m] all breathThose clamorous Harbingers of Blood, & Death. Exeunt. Alarums continued. Scena Septima. Enter Macbeth.  Macb. They haue tied me to a stake, I cannot flye,But Beare-like I must fight the course. What's heThat was not borne of Woman? Such a oneAm I to feare, or none. Enter young Seyward.  Y. Sey. What is thy name?  Macb. Thou'lt be affraid to heare it   Y. Sey. No: though thou call'st thy selfe a hoter nameThen any is in hell   Macb. My name's Macbeth   Y. Sey. The diuell himselfe could not pronounce a TitleMore hatefull to mine eare   Macb. No: nor more fearefull   Y. Sey. Thou lyest abhorred Tyrant, with my SwordIle proue the lye thou speak'st. Fight, and young Seyward slaine.  Macb. Thou was't borne of woman;But Swords I smile at, Weapons laugh to scorne,Brandish'd by man that's of a Woman borne. Enter. Alarums. Enter Macduffe.

Macd. That way the noise is: Tyrant shew thy face,If thou beest slaine, and with no stroake of mine,My Wife and Childrens Ghosts will haunt me still:I cannot strike at wretched Kernes, whose armesAre hyr'd to beare their Staues; either thou Macbeth,Or else my Sword with an vnbattered edgeI sheath againe vndeeded. There thou should'st be,By this great clatter, one of greatest noteSeemes bruited. Let me finde him Fortune,And more I begge not. Exit. Alarums. Enter Malcolme and Seyward.  Sey. This way my Lord, the Castles gently rendred:The Tyrants people, on both sides do fight,The Noble Thanes do brauely in the Warre,The day almost it selfe professes yours,And little is to do   Malc. We haue met with FoesThat strike beside vs   Sey. Enter Sir, the Castle. Exeunt. AlarumEnter Macbeth.  Macb. Why should I play the Roman Foole, and dyeOn mine owne sword? whiles I see liues, the gashesDo better vpon them. Enter Macduffe.  Macd. Turne Hell-hound, turne   Macb. Of all men else I haue auoyded thee:But get thee backe, my soule is too much charg'dWith blood of thine already   Macd. I haue no words,My voice is in my Sword, thou bloodier VillaineThen tearmes can giue thee out. Fight: Alarum  Macb. Thou loosest labourAs easie may'st thou the intrenchant AyreWith thy keene Sword impresse, as make me bleed:Let fall thy blade on vulnerable Crests,I beare a charmed Life, which must not yeeldTo one of woman borne   Macd. Dispaire thy Charme,And let the Angell whom thou still hast seru'dTell thee, Macduffe was from his Mothers wombVntimely ript   Macb. Accursed be that tongue that tels mee so;For it hath Cow'd my better part of man:And be these Iugling Fiends no more beleeu'd,That palter with vs in a double sence,That keepe the word of promise to our eare,And breake it to our hope. Ile not fight with thee   Macd. Then yeeld thee Coward,And liue to be the shew, and gaze o'th' time. Wee'l haue thee, as our rarer Monsters arePainted vpon a pole, and vnder-writ,Heere may you see the Tyrant   Macb. I will not yeeldTo kisse the ground before young Malcolmes feet,And to be baited with the Rabbles curse. Though Byrnane wood be come to Dunsinane,And thou oppos'd, being of no woman borne,Yet I will try the last. Before my body,I throw my warlike Shield: Lay on Macduffe,And damn'd be him, that first cries hold, enough. Exeunt. fighting. Alarums. Enter Fighting, and Macbeth slaine. Retreat, and Flourish. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Malcolm,Seyward,Rosse, Thanes, & Soldiers.  Mal. I would the Friends we misse, were safe arriu'd   Sey. Some must go off: and yet by these I see,So great a day as this is cheapely bought   Mal. Macduffe is missing, and your Noble Sonne   Rosse. Your son my Lord, ha's paid a souldiers debt,He onely liu'd but till he was a man,The which no sooner had his Prowesse confirm'dIn the vnshrinking station where he fought,But like a man he dy'de   Sey. Then he is dead?  Rosse. I, and brought off the field: your cause of sorrowMust not be measur'd by his worth, for thenIt hath no end   Sey. Had he his hurts before?  Rosse. I, on the Front   Sey. Why then, Gods Soldier be he:Had I as many Sonnes, as I haue haires,I would not wish them to a fairer death:And so his Knell is knoll'd   Mal. Hee's worth more sorrow,and that Ile spend for him   Sey. He's worth no more,They say he parted well, and paid his score,And so God be with him. Here comes newer comfort. Enter Macduffe, with Macbeths head.  Macd. Haile King, for so thou art. Behold where standsTh' Vsurpers cursed head: the time is free:I see thee compast with thy Kingdomes Pearle,That speake my salutation in their minds:Whose voyces I desire alowd with mine. Haile King of Scotland   All. Haile King of Scotland. Flourish.  Mal. We shall not spend a large expence of time,Before we reckon with your seuerall loues,And make vs euen with you. My Thanes and KinsmenHenceforth be Earles, the first that euer ScotlandIn such an Honor nam'd: What's more to do,Which would be planted newly with the time,As calling home our exil'd Friends abroad,That fled the Snares of watchfull Tyranny,Producing forth the cruell MinistersOf this dead Butcher, and his Fiend-like Queene;Who (as 'tis thought) by selfe and violent hands,Tooke off her life. This, and what need full elseThat call's vpon vs, by the Grace of Grace,We will performe in measure, time, and place:So thankes to all at once, and to each one,Whom we inuite, to see vs Crown'd at Scone. Flourish. Exeunt Omnes. FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF MACBETH.

The Project Gutenberg eBook of A Midsummer Night’s Dream, by William Shakespeare This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www. gutenberg. org. If you are not located in the United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before using this eBook. Title: A Midsummer Night’s Dream Author: William Shakespeare Release Date: November, 1998 [eBook #1514] [Most recently updated: August 5, 2021] Language: English Character set encoding: UTF-8 Produced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers *** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM *** cover  A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM by William Shakespeare Contents ACT I Scene I. Athens. A room in the Palace of Theseus Scene II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage ACT II Scene I. A wood near Athens Scene II. Another part of the wood ACT III Scene I. The Wood. Scene II. Another part of the wood ACT IV Scene I. The Wood Scene II. Athens. A Room in Quince’s House ACT V Scene I. Athens. An Apartment in the Palace of Theseus Dramatis Personæ THESEUS, Duke of Athens HIPPOLYTA, Queen of the Amazons, bethrothed to Theseus EGEUS, Father to Hermia HERMIA, daughter to Egeus, in love with Lysander HELENA, in love with Demetrius 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 OBERON, King of the Fairies TITANIA, Queen of the Fairies PUCK, or ROBIN GOODFELLOW, a Fairy PEASEBLOSSOM, 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 ACT I 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 night; 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 renownèd 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, gauds, conceits, Knacks, trifles, nosegays, sweetmeats (messengers Of strong prevailment in unharden’d youth) With cunning hast thou filch’d my daughter’s heart, Turn’d her obedience (which is due to me) To stubborn harshness. And, my gracious Duke, Be it so she will not here before your 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 in shady cloister mew’d, To live a barren sister all your life, Chanting faint hymns to the cold fruitless moon. Thrice-blessèd 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 unwishèd 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 crazèd 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’; 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 all but Lysander and Hermia. _] LYSANDER. How now, my love? Why is your cheek so pale? How chance the roses there do fade so fast? HERMIA. Belike for want of rain, which I could well Beteem them from the tempest of my eyes. LYSANDER. Ay me! For aught that I could ever read, Could ever hear by tale or history, The course of true love never did run smooth. But either it was different in blood— HERMIA. O cross! Too high to be enthrall’d to low. LYSANDER. Or else misgraffèd 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 eyes! LYSANDER. Or, if there were a sympathy in choice, War, death, or sickness did lay siege to it, Making it momentany as a sound, Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, Brief as the lightning in the collied night That, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, And, ere a man hath power to say, ‘Behold! ’ The jaws of darkness do devour it up: So quick bright things come to confusion. HERMIA. If then true lovers have 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 into hell! LYSANDER. Helen, to you our minds we will unfold: Tomorrow 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. _] 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 tomorrow 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. _] SCENE II. The Same. A Room in a Cottage Enter Quince, Snug, Bottom, Flute, Snout  and Starveling. QUINCE. Is all our company here? BOTTOM. You were best to call them generally, man by man, according to the scrip. 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 Thisbe_. 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 Thisbe on you. FLUTE. What is Thisbe? 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. And I may hide my face, let me play Thisbe too. I’ll speak in a monstrous little voice; ‘Thisne, Thisne! ’—‘Ah, Pyramus, my lover dear! thy Thisbe dear! and lady dear! ’ QUINCE. No, no, you must play Pyramus; and, Flute, you Thisbe. BOTTOM. Well, proceed. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, the tailor. STARVELING. Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. Robin Starveling, you must play Thisbe’s mother. Tom Snout, the tinker. SNOUT Here, Peter Quince. QUINCE. You, Pyramus’ father; myself, Thisbe’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. If 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 tomorrow 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. _] ACT II 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 tonight; 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 lovèd 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 fairyland, 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 ravished? And make him with fair Aegles 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 pavèd fountain, or by rushy brook, Or on the beachèd 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 drownèd 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 Hiems’ 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 mazed 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 fairyland buys not the child of me. His mother was a vot’ress of my order, And in the spicèd Indian air, by night,

Full often hath she gossip’d by my side; And sat with me on Neptune’s yellow sands, Marking th’ embarkèd 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 rememb’rest 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, thronèd 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 votress 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 usèd 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. [_Exit Demetrius. _] I’ll follow thee, and make a heaven of hell, To die upon the hand I love so well. [_Exit Helena. _] OBERON. Fare thee well, nymph. Ere he do leave this grove, Thou shalt fly him, and he shall seek thy love. Enter Puck. Hast thou the flower there? Welcome, wanderer. PUCK. Ay, there it is. OBERON. I pray thee give it me. I know a bank where the wild thyme blows, Where oxlips and the nodding violet grows, Quite over-canopied with luscious woodbine, With sweet musk-roses, and with eglantine. There sleeps Titania sometime of the night, Lull’d in these flowers with dances and delight; And there the snake throws her enamell’d skin, Weed wide enough to wrap a fairy in. And with the juice of this I’ll streak her eyes, And make her full of hateful fantasies. Take thou some of it, and seek through this grove: A sweet Athenian lady is in 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. _] 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 reremice 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. Fairies sing. 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. FIRST 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. SECOND 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 wand’ring in the wood. And, to speak troth, I have forgot our way. We’ll rest us, Hermia, if you think it good, And tarry for the comfort of the day. HERMIA. Be it so, Lysander: find you out a bed, For I upon this bank will rest my head. LYSANDER. One turf shall serve as pillow for us both; One heart, one bed, two bosoms, and one troth. HERMIA. Nay, good Lysander; for my sake, my dear, Lie further off yet, do not lie so near. LYSANDER. 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 interchainèd 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, Despisèd 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 blessèd 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, and 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. _] ACT III SCENE I. The Wood. The Queen of Fairies still lying asleep. Enter Bottom, Quince, Snout, Starveling, Snug and Flute. 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 Thisbe 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 Thisbe, 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 Thisbe 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 everyone 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. —Thisbe, stand forth. PYRAMUS. _Thisbe, the flowers of odious savours sweet_ QUINCE. Odours, odours. PYRAMUS. _. . . odours savours sweet. So hath thy breath, my dearest Thisbe 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! [_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 yet 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. ’ THISBE. O, _As true as truest horse, that yet would never tire. _ Enter Puck and Bottom with an ass’s head. PYRAMUS. _If I were fair, Thisbe, 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. 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? [_Exit Snout. _] 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 enthrallèd 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 nowadays. 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 pressèd flowers dost sleep. And I will purge thy mortal grossness so That thou shalt like an airy spirit go. — Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed! Enter four Fairies. PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. COBWEB. And I. MOTH. And I. MUSTARDSEED. And I. ALL. 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. PEASEBLOSSOM. Hail, mortal! COBWEB. Hail! MOTH. Hail! MUSTARDSEED. 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? PEASEBLOSSOM. Peaseblossom. BOTTOM. I pray you, commend me to Mistress Squash, your mother, and to Master Peascod, your father. Good Master Peaseblossom, 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 enforced chastity. Tie up my love’s tongue, bring him silently. [_Exeunt. _] 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 thick-skin 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 nole I fixed on his head. Anon, his Thisbe must be answerèd, 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 th’ 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! O 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. And 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. 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 prepost’rously. 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. [_Waking. _] 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 congealèd 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 crownèd 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 amazèd 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 mouths 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. 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, loathèd medicine! O 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, of 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 further. 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 charmèd 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. Damnèd 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 themselves exile 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 blessèd 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 defil’d That draws a sword on thee. DEMETRIUS. Yea, art thou there? PUCK. Follow my voice; we’ll try no manhood here. [_Exeunt. _] 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-heel’d 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. _] Enter Puck and Demetrius. PUCK. 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. _] ACT IV SCENE I. The Wood Lysander, Demetrius, Helena and Hermia still asleep. Enter Titania and Bottom; Peaseblossom, 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 Peaseblossom? PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready. BOTTOM. Scratch my head, Peaseblossom. 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 neaf, Monsieur Mustardseed. Pray you, leave your courtesy, good monsieur. MUSTARDSEED. What’s your will? BOTTOM. Nothing, good monsieur, but to help Cavalery 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 flouriets’ 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 fairyland. And now I have the boy, I will undo This hateful imperfection of her eyes. And, gentle Puck, take this transformèd 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. [_Touching her eyes with an herb. _] Be as thou wast wont to be;    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 mucic. _] 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 tomorrow 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; let them go. Dispatch 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 dewlap’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 wake 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 gaud 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 turnèd into clouds. HERMIA. Methinks I see these things with parted eye, When everything seems double. HELENA. So methinks. And I have found Demetrius like a jewel, Mine own, and not mine own. DEMETRIUS. Are you sure That we are awake? 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. _] BOTTOM. [_Waking. _] 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. _] 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 o’er his part. For the short and the long is, our play is preferred. In any case, let Thisbe 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. _] ACT V 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 lovers: 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’ercharged, 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 the 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 Thisbe 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 lanthern, 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 Lion hight by name) The trusty Thisbe, 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 Thisbe’s mantle slain; Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade, He bravely broach’d his boiling bloody breast; And Thisbe, 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, Pyramus, 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 Thisbe, 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 Thisbe’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 I? No Thisbe 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 Thisbe’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 Thisbe’s face. Thisbe? 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 man 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 hornèd 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 hornèd 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 then came Pyramus. LYSANDER. And so the lion vanished. 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 gleams, I trust to take of truest Thisbe 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. Enter Thisbe. Here she comes, and her passion ends the play. 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: he for a man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God bless us! LYSANDER. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes. DEMETRIUS. And thus she means, _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 hanged 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 outsleep 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. _] 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 screech-owl, screeching 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 his 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 blessèd 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 gait, And each several chamber bless, Through this palace, with sweet peace;   And the owner of it blest. Ever shall it in safety rest,   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 unearnèd 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. _] *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM *** Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will be renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U. S. copyright law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation (and you! ) can copy and distribute it in the United States without permission and without paying copyright royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use of the Project Gutenberg trademark. 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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Shakespearean Tragedy, by A. C. BradleyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www. gutenberg. orgTitle: Shakespearean Tragedy       Lectures on Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, MacbethAuthor: A. C. BradleyRelease Date: October 30, 2005 [EBook #16966]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDY ***Produced by Suzanne Shell, Lisa Reigel and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www. pgdp. netSHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDYMACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITEDLONDON·BOMBAY·CALCUTTA·MADRAS·MELBOURNETHE MACMILLAN COMPANYNEW YORK·BOSTON·CHICAGO·DALLAS·SAN FRANCISCOTHE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTOSHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDYLECTURES ONHAMLET, OTHELLO, KING LEARMACBETHBYA. C. BRADLEYLL. D. LITT. D. , FORMERLY PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD_SECOND EDITION_ (_THIRTEENTH IMPRESSION_)MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON1919_COPYRIGHT. _First Edition 1904. Second Edition March 1905. Reprinted August 1905, 1906, 1908, 1910, 1911, 1912, 1914, 1915, 1916,1918, 1919. GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. TO MY STUDENTSPREFACEThese lectures are based on a selection from materials used in teachingat Liverpool, Glasgow, and Oxford; and I have for the most partpreserved the lecture form. The point of view taken in them is explainedin the Introduction. I should, of course, wish them to be read in theirorder, and a knowledge of the first two is assumed in the remainder; butreaders who may prefer to enter at once on the discussion of the severalplays can do so by beginning at page 89. Any one who writes on Shakespeare must owe much to his predecessors. Where I was conscious of a particular obligation, I have acknowledgedit; but most of my reading of Shakespearean criticism was done manyyears ago, and I can only hope that I have not often reproduced as myown what belongs to another. Many of the Notes will be of interest only to scholars, who may find, Ihope, something new in them. I have quoted, as a rule, from the Globe edition, and have referredalways to its numeration of acts, scenes, and lines. _November, 1904. _       *       *       *       *       *NOTE TO SECOND AND SUBSEQUENT IMPRESSIONSIn these impressions I have confined myself to making some formalimprovements, correcting indubitable mistakes, and indicating here andthere my desire to modify or develop at some future time statementswhich seem to me doubtful or open to misunderstanding. The changes,where it seemed desirable, are shown by the inclusion of sentences insquare brackets. CONTENTS                                                              PAGEINTRODUCTION                                                    1LECTURE I. THE SUBSTANCE OF SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDY                          5LECTURE II. CONSTRUCTION IN SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGEDIES                        40LECTURE III. SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGIC PERIOD--HAMLET                            79LECTURE IV. HAMLET                                                        129LECTURE V. OTHELLO                                                       175LECTURE VI. OTHELLO                                                       207LECTURE VII. KING LEAR                                                     243LECTURE VIII. KING LEAR                                                     280LECTURE IX. MACBETH                                                       331LECTURE X. MACBETH                                                       366NOTE A. Events before the opening of the action in _Hamlet_   401NOTE B. Where was Hamlet at the time of his father's death?   403NOTE C. Hamlet's age                                          407NOTE D. 'My tables--meet it is I set it down'                 409NOTE E. The Ghost in the cellarage                            412NOTE F. The Player's speech in _Hamlet_                       413NOTE G. Hamlet's apology to Laertes                           420NOTE H. The exchange of rapiers                               422NOTE I. The duration of the action in  _Othello_                                                   423NOTE J. The 'additions' in the Folio text of _Othello_. The  Pontic sea                                                  429NOTE K. Othello's courtship                                   432NOTE L. Othello in the Temptation scene                       434NOTE M. Questions as to _Othello_, IV. i.                     435NOTE N. Two passages in the last scene of _Othello_           437NOTE O. Othello on Desdemona's last words                     438NOTE P. Did Emilia suspect Iago?                              439NOTE Q. Iago's suspicion regarding Cassio and Emilia          441NOTE R. Reminiscences of _Othello_ in _King Lear_             441NOTE S. _King Lear_ and _Timon of Athens_                     443NOTE T. Did Shakespeare shorten _King Lear_?                  445NOTE U. Movements of the _dramatis personæ_ in _King  Lear_, II                                                   448NOTE V. Suspected interpolations in _King Lear_               450NOTE W. The staging of the scene of Lear's reunion with  Cordelia                                                    453NOTE X. The Battle in _King Lear_                             456NOTE Y. Some difficult passages in _King Lear_                458NOTE Z. Suspected interpolations in _Macbeth_                 466NOTE AA. Has _Macbeth_ been abridged?                         467NOTE BB. The date of _Macbeth_. Metrical Tests                470NOTE CC. When was the murder of Duncan first plotted?         480NOTE DD. Did Lady Macbeth really faint?                       484NOTE EE. Duration of the action in _Macbeth_. Macbeth's age.  'He has no children'                                        486NOTE FF. The Ghost of Banquo                                  492INDEX                                                         494INTRODUCTIONIn these lectures I propose to consider the four principal tragedies ofShakespeare from a single point of view. Nothing will be said ofShakespeare's place in the history either of English literature or ofthe drama in general. No attempt will be made to compare him with otherwriters. I shall leave untouched, or merely glanced at, questionsregarding his life and character, the development of his genius and art,the genuineness, sources, texts, inter-relations of his various works. Even what may be called, in a restricted sense, the 'poetry' of the fourtragedies--the beauties of style, diction, versification--I shall passby in silence. Our one object will be what, again in a restricted sense,may be called dramatic appreciation; to increase our understanding andenjoyment of these works as dramas; to learn to apprehend the action andsome of the personages of each with a somewhat greater truth andintensity, so that they may assume in our imaginations a shape a littleless unlike the shape they wore in the imagination of their creator. Forthis end all those studies that were mentioned just now, of literaryhistory and the like, are useful and even in various degrees necessary. But an overt pursuit of them is not necessary here, nor is any one ofthem so indispensable to our object as that close familiarity with theplays, that native strength and justice of perception, and that habit ofreading with an eager mind, which make many an unscholarly lover ofShakespeare a far better critic than many a Shakespeare scholar. Such lovers read a play more or less as if they were actors who had tostudy all the parts. They do not need, of course, to imagine whereaboutsthe persons are to stand, or what gestures they ought to use; but theywant to realise fully and exactly the inner movements which producedthese words and no other, these deeds and no other, at each particularmoment. This, carried through a drama, is the right way to read thedramatist Shakespeare; and the prime requisite here is therefore a vividand intent imagination. But this alone will hardly suffice. It isnecessary also, especially to a true conception of the whole, tocompare, to analyse, to dissect. And such readers often shrink from thistask, which seems to them prosaic or even a desecration. Theymisunderstand, I believe. They would not shrink if they remembered twothings. In the first place, in this process of comparison and analysis,it is not requisite, it is on the contrary ruinous, to set imaginationaside and to substitute some supposed 'cold reason'; and it is only wantof practice that makes the concurrent use of analysis and of poeticperception difficult or irksome. And, in the second place, thesedissecting processes, though they are also imaginative, are still, andare meant to be, nothing but means to an end. When they have finishedtheir work (it can only be finished for the time) they give place to theend, which is that same imaginative reading or re-creation of the dramafrom which they set out, but a reading now enriched by the products ofanalysis, and therefore far more adequate and enjoyable. This, at any rate, is the faith in the strength of which I venture, withmerely personal misgivings, on the path of analytic interpretation. Andso, before coming to the first of the four tragedies, I propose todiscuss some preliminary matters which concern them all. Though each isindividual through and through, they have, in a sense, one and the samesubstance; for in all of them Shakespeare represents the tragic aspectof life, the tragic fact. They have, again, up to a certain point, acommon form or structure. This substance and this structure, which wouldbe found to distinguish them, for example, from Greek tragedies, may, todiminish repetition, be considered once for all; and in considering themwe shall also be able to observe characteristic differences among thefour plays. And to this may be added the little that it seems necessaryto premise on the position of these dramas in Shakespeare's literarycareer. Much that is said on our main preliminary subjects will naturally holdgood, within certain limits, of other dramas of Shakespeare beside_Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_, and _Macbeth_. But it will often applyto these other works only in part, and to some of them more fully thanto others. _Romeo and Juliet_, for instance, is a pure tragedy, but itis an early work, and in some respects an immature one. _Richard III. _and _Richard II. _, _Julius Caesar_, _Antony and Cleopatra_, and_Coriolanus_ are tragic histories or historical tragedies, in whichShakespeare acknowledged in practice a certain obligation to follow hisauthority, even when that authority offered him an undramatic material. Probably he himself would have met some criticisms to which these playsare open by appealing to their historical character, and by denying thatsuch works are to be judged by the standard of pure tragedy. In anycase, most of these plays, perhaps all, do show, as a matter of fact,considerable deviations from that standard; and, therefore, what is saidof the pure tragedies must be applied to them with qualifications whichI shall often take for granted without mention. There remain _TitusAndronicus_ and _Timon of Athens_. The former I shall leave out ofaccount, because, even if Shakespeare wrote the whole of it, he did sobefore he had either a style of his own or any characteristic tragicconception. _Timon_ stands on a different footing. Parts of it areunquestionably Shakespeare's, and they will be referred to in one of thelater lectures. But much of the writing is evidently not his, and as itseems probable that the conception and construction of the whole tragedyshould also be attributed to some other writer, I shall omit this worktoo from our preliminary discussions. LECTURE ITHE SUBSTANCE OF SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDYThe question we are to consider in this lecture may be stated in avariety of ways. We may put it thus: What is the substance of aShakespearean tragedy, taken in abstraction both from its form and fromthe differences in point of substance between one tragedy and another? Or thus: What is the nature of the tragic aspect of life as representedby Shakespeare? What is the general fact shown now in this tragedy andnow in that? And we are putting the same question when we ask: What isShakespeare's tragic conception, or conception of tragedy? These expressions, it should be observed, do not imply that Shakespearehimself ever asked or answered such a question; that he set himself toreflect on the tragic aspects of life, that he framed a tragicconception, and still less that, like Aristotle or Corneille, he had atheory of the kind of poetry called tragedy. These things are allpossible; how far any one of them is probable we need not discuss; butnone of them is presupposed by the question we are going to consider. This question implies only that, as a matter of fact, Shakespeare inwriting tragedy did represent a certain aspect of life in a certain way,and that through examination of his writings we ought to be able, tosome extent, to describe this aspect and way in terms addressed to theunderstanding. Such a description, so far as it is true and adequate,may, after these explanations, be called indifferently an account of thesubstance of Shakespearean tragedy, or an account of Shakespeare'sconception of tragedy or view of the tragic fact. Two further warnings may be required. In the first place, we mustremember that the tragic aspect of life is only one aspect. We cannotarrive at Shakespeare's whole dramatic way of looking at the world fromhis tragedies alone, as we can arrive at Milton's way of regardingthings, or at Wordsworth's or at Shelley's, by examining almost any oneof their important works. Speaking very broadly, one may say that thesepoets at their best always look at things in one light; but _Hamlet_ and_Henry IV. _ and _Cymbeline_ reflect things from quite distinctpositions, and Shakespeare's whole dramatic view is not to be identifiedwith any one of these reflections. And, in the second place, I mayrepeat that in these lectures, at any rate for the most part, we are tobe content with his _dramatic_ view, and are not to ask whether itcorresponded exactly with his opinions or creed outside his poetry--theopinions or creed of the being whom we sometimes oddly call 'Shakespearethe man. ' It does not seem likely that outside his poetry he was a verysimple-minded Catholic or Protestant or Atheist, as some havemaintained; but we cannot be sure, as with those other poets we can,that in his works he expressed his deepest and most cherishedconvictions on ultimate questions, or even that he had any. And in hisdramatic conceptions there is enough to occupy us. 1In approaching our subject it will be best, without attempting toshorten the path by referring to famous theories of the drama, to startdirectly from the facts, and to collect from them gradually an idea ofShakespearean Tragedy. And first, to begin from the outside, such atragedy brings before us a considerable number of persons (many morethan the persons in a Greek play, unless the members of the Chorus arereckoned among them); but it is pre-eminently the story of one person,the 'hero,'[1] or at most of two, the 'hero' and 'heroine. ' Moreover, itis only in the love-tragedies, _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Antony andCleopatra_, that the heroine is as much the centre of the action as thehero. The rest, including _Macbeth_, are single stars. So that, havingnoticed the peculiarity of these two dramas, we may henceforth, for thesake of brevity, ignore it, and may speak of the tragic story as beingconcerned primarily with one person. The story, next, leads up to, and includes, the _death_ of the hero. Onthe one hand (whatever may be true of tragedy elsewhere), no play at theend of which the hero remains alive is, in the full Shakespearean sense,a tragedy; and we no longer class _Troilus and Cressida_ or _Cymbeline_as such, as did the editors of the Folio. On the other hand, the storydepicts also the troubled part of the hero's life which precedes andleads up to his death; and an instantaneous death occurring by'accident' in the midst of prosperity would not suffice for it. It is,in fact, essentially a tale of suffering and calamity conducting todeath. The suffering and calamity are, moreover, exceptional. They befall aconspicuous person. They are themselves of some striking kind. They arealso, as a rule, unexpected, and contrasted with previous happiness orglory. A tale, for example, of a man slowly worn to death by disease,poverty, little cares, sordid vices, petty persecutions, however piteousor dreadful it might be, would not be tragic in the Shakespearean sense. Such exceptional suffering and calamity, then, affecting the hero,and--we must now add--generally extending far and wide beyond him, so asto make the whole scene a scene of woe, are an essential ingredient intragedy and a chief source of the tragic emotions, and especially ofpity. But the proportions of this ingredient, and the direction taken bytragic pity, will naturally vary greatly. Pity, for example, has a muchlarger part in _King Lear_ than in _Macbeth_, and is directed in the onecase chiefly to the hero, in the other chiefly to minor characters. Let us now pause for a moment on the ideas we have so far reached. Theywould more than suffice to describe the whole tragic fact as itpresented itself to the mediaeval mind. To the mediaeval mind a tragedymeant a narrative rather than a play, and its notion of the matter ofthis narrative may readily be gathered from Dante or, still better, fromChaucer. Chaucer's _Monk's Tale_ is a series of what he calls'tragedies'; and this means in fact a series of tales _de CasibusIllustrium Virorum_,--stories of the Falls of Illustrious Men, such asLucifer, Adam, Hercules and Nebuchadnezzar. And the Monk ends the taleof Croesus thus:     Anhanged was Cresus, the proudè kyng;     His roial tronè myghte hym nat availle.     Tragédie is noon oother maner thyng,     Ne kan in syngyng criè ne biwaille     But for that Fortune alwey wole assaile     With unwar strook the regnès that been proude;     For whan men trusteth hire, thanne wol she faille,     And covere hire brighte facè with a clowde. A total reverse of fortune, coming unawares upon a man who 'stood inhigh degree,' happy and apparently secure,--such was the tragic fact tothe mediaeval mind. It appealed strongly to common human sympathy andpity; it startled also another feeling, that of fear. It frightened menand awed them. It made them feel that man is blind and helpless, theplaything of an inscrutable power, called by the name of Fortune or someother name,--a power which appears to smile on him for a little, andthen on a sudden strikes him down in his pride. Shakespeare's idea of the tragic fact is larger than this idea and goesbeyond it; but it includes it, and it is worth while to observe theidentity of the two in a certain point which is often ignored. Tragedywith Shakespeare is concerned always with persons of 'high degree';often with kings or princes; if not, with leaders in the state likeCoriolanus, Brutus, Antony; at the least, as in _Romeo and Juliet_, withmembers of great houses, whose quarrels are of public moment. There is adecided difference here between _Othello_ and our three other tragedies,but it is not a difference of kind. Othello himself is no mere privateperson; he is the General of the Republic. At the beginning we see himin the Council-Chamber of the Senate. The consciousness of his highposition never leaves him. At the end, when he is determined to live nolonger, he is as anxious as Hamlet not to be misjudged by the greatworld, and his last speech begins,     Soft you; a word or two before you go.     I have done the state some service, and they know it. [2]And this characteristic of Shakespeare's tragedies, though not the mostvital, is neither external nor unimportant. The saying that everydeath-bed is the scene of the fifth act of a tragedy has its meaning,but it would not be true if the word 'tragedy' bore its dramatic sense. The pangs of despised love and the anguish of remorse, we say, are thesame in a peasant and a prince; but, not to insist that they cannot beso when the prince is really a prince, the story of the prince, thetriumvir, or the general, has a greatness and dignity of its own. Hisfate affects the welfare of a whole nation or empire; and when he fallssuddenly from the height of earthly greatness to the dust, his fallproduces a sense of contrast, of the powerlessness of man, and of theomnipotence--perhaps the caprice--of Fortune or Fate, which no tale ofprivate life can possibly rival. Such feelings are constantly evoked by Shakespeare's tragedies,--againin varying degrees. Perhaps they are the very strongest of the emotionsawakened by the early tragedy of _Richard II. _, where they receive aconcentrated expression in Richard's famous speech about the anticDeath, who sits in the hollow crown     That rounds the mortal temples of a king,grinning at his pomp, watching till his vanity and his fancied securityhave wholly encased him round, and then coming and boring with a littlepin through his castle wall. And these feelings, though theirpredominance is subdued in the mightiest tragedies, remain powerfulthere. In the figure of the maddened Lear we see     A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,     Past speaking of in a king;and if we would realise the truth in this matter we cannot do betterthan compare with the effect of _King Lear_ the effect of Tourgénief'sparallel and remarkable tale of peasant life, _A King Lear of theSteppes_. 2A Shakespearean tragedy as so far considered may be called a story ofexceptional calamity leading to the death of a man in high estate. Butit is clearly much more than this, and we have now to regard it fromanother side. No amount of calamity which merely befell a man,descending from the clouds like lightning, or stealing from the darknesslike pestilence, could alone provide the substance of its story. Job wasthe greatest of all the children of the east, and his afflictions werewell-nigh more than he could bear; but even if we imagined them wearinghim to death, that would not make his story tragic. Nor yet would itbecome so, in the Shakespearean sense, if the fire, and the great windfrom the wilderness, and the torments of his flesh were conceived assent by a supernatural power, whether just or malignant. The calamitiesof tragedy do not simply happen, nor are they sent; they proceed mainlyfrom actions, and those the actions of men. We see a number of human beings placed in certain circumstances; and wesee, arising from the co-operation of their characters in thesecircumstances, certain actions. These actions beget others, and theseothers beget others again, until this series of inter-connected deedsleads by an apparently inevitable sequence to a catastrophe. The effectof such a series on imagination is to make us regard the sufferingswhich accompany it, and the catastrophe in which it ends, not only orchiefly as something which happens to the persons concerned, but equallyas something which is caused by them. This at least may be said of theprincipal persons, and, among them, of the hero, who always contributesin some measure to the disaster in which he perishes. This second aspect of tragedy evidently differs greatly from the first. Men, from this point of view, appear to us primarily as agents,'themselves the authors of their proper woe'; and our fear and pity,though they will not cease or diminish, will be modified accordingly. Weare now to consider this second aspect, remembering that it too is onlyone aspect, and additional to the first, not a substitute for it. The 'story' or 'action' of a Shakespearean tragedy does not consist, ofcourse, solely of human actions or deeds; but the deeds are thepredominant factor. And these deeds are, for the most part, actions inthe full sense of the word; not things done ''tween asleep and wake,'but acts or omissions thoroughly expressive of the doer,--characteristicdeeds. The centre of the tragedy, therefore, may be said with equaltruth to lie in action issuing from character, or in character issuingin action. Shakespeare's main interest lay here. To say that it lay in _mere_character, or was a psychological interest, would be a great mistake,for he was dramatic to the tips of his fingers. It is possible to findplaces where he has given a certain indulgence to his love of poetry,and even to his turn for general reflections; but it would be verydifficult, and in his later tragedies perhaps impossible, to detectpassages where he has allowed such freedom to the interest in characterapart from action. But for the opposite extreme, for the abstraction ofmere 'plot' (which is a very different thing from the tragic 'action'),for the kind of interest which predominates in a novel like _The Womanin White_, it is clear that he cared even less. I do not mean that thisinterest is absent from his dramas; but it is subordinate to others, andis so interwoven with them that we are rarely conscious of it apart, andrarely feel in any great strength the half-intellectual, half-nervousexcitement of following an ingenious complication. What we do feelstrongly, as a tragedy advances to its close, is that the calamities andcatastrophe follow inevitably from the deeds of men, and that the mainsource of these deeds is character. The dictum that, with Shakespeare,'character is destiny' is no doubt an exaggeration, and one that maymislead (for many of his tragic personages, if they had not met withpeculiar circumstances, would have escaped a tragic end, and might evenhave lived fairly untroubled lives); but it is the exaggeration of avital truth. This truth, with some of its qualifications, will appear more clearly ifwe now go on to ask what elements are to be found in the 'story' or'action,' occasionally or frequently, beside the characteristic deeds,and the sufferings and circumstances, of the persons. I will refer tothree of these additional factors. (_a_) Shakespeare, occasionally and for reasons which need not bediscussed here, represents abnormal conditions of mind; insanity, forexample, somnambulism, hallucinations. And deeds issuing from these arecertainly not what we called deeds in the fullest sense, deedsexpressive of character. No; but these abnormal conditions are neverintroduced as the origin of deeds of any dramatic moment. Lady Macbeth'ssleep-walking has no influence whatever on the events that follow it. Macbeth did not murder Duncan because he saw a dagger in the air: he sawthe dagger because he was about to murder Duncan. Lear's insanity is notthe cause of a tragic conflict any more than Ophelia's; it is, likeOphelia's, the result of a conflict; and in both cases the effect ismainly pathetic. If Lear were really mad when he divided his kingdom, ifHamlet were really mad at any time in the story, they would cease to betragic characters. (_b_) Shakespeare also introduces the supernatural into some of histragedies; he introduces ghosts, and witches who have supernaturalknowledge. This supernatural element certainly cannot in most cases, ifin any, be explained away as an illusion in the mind of one of thecharacters. And further, it does contribute to the action, and is inmore than one instance an indispensable part of it: so that to describehuman character, with circumstances, as always the _sole_ motive forcein this action would be a serious error. But the supernatural is alwaysplaced in the closest relation with character. It gives a confirmationand a distinct form to inward movements already present and exerting aninfluence; to the sense of failure in Brutus, to the stifled workings ofconscience in Richard, to the half-formed thought or the horrifiedmemory of guilt in Macbeth, to suspicion in Hamlet. Moreover, itsinfluence is never of a compulsive kind. It forms no more than anelement, however important, in the problem which the hero has to face;and we are never allowed to feel that it has removed his capacity orresponsibility for dealing with this problem. So far indeed are we fromfeeling this, that many readers run to the opposite extreme, and openlyor privately regard the supernatural as having nothing to do with thereal interest of the play. (_c_) Shakespeare, lastly, in most of his tragedies allows to 'chance'or 'accident' an appreciable influence at some point in the action. Chance or accident here will be found, I think, to mean any occurrence(not supernatural, of course) which enters the dramatic sequence neitherfrom the agency of a character, nor from the obvious surroundingcircumstances. [3] It may be called an accident, in this sense, thatRomeo never got the Friar's message about the potion, and that Julietdid not awake from her long sleep a minute sooner; an accident thatEdgar arrived at the prison just too late to save Cordelia's life; anaccident that Desdemona dropped her handkerchief at the most fatal ofmoments; an accident that the pirate ship attacked Hamlet's ship, sothat he was able to return forthwith to Denmark. Now this operation ofaccident is a fact, and a prominent fact, of human life. To exclude it_wholly_ from tragedy, therefore, would be, we may say, to fail intruth. And, besides, it is not merely a fact. That men may start acourse of events but can neither calculate nor control it, is a _tragic_fact. The dramatist may use accident so as to make us feel this; andthere are also other dramatic uses to which it may be put. Shakespeareaccordingly admits it. On the other hand, any _large_ admission ofchance into the tragic sequence[4] would certainly weaken, and mightdestroy, the sense of the causal connection of character, deed, andcatastrophe. And Shakespeare really uses it very sparingly. We seldomfind ourselves exclaiming, 'What an unlucky accident! ' I believe mostreaders would have to search painfully for instances. It is, further,frequently easy to see the dramatic intention of an accident; and somethings which look like accidents have really a connection withcharacter, and are therefore not in the full sense accidents. Finally, Ibelieve it will be found that almost all the prominent accidents occurwhen the action is well advanced and the impression of the causalsequence is too firmly fixed to be impaired. Thus it appears that these three elements in the 'action' aresubordinate, while the dominant factor consists in deeds which issuefrom character. So that, by way of summary, we may now alter our firststatement, 'A tragedy is a story of exceptional calamity leading to thedeath of a man in high estate,' and we may say instead (what in its turnis one-sided, though less so), that the story is one of human actionsproducing exceptional calamity and ending in the death of such a man. [5]       *       *       *       *       *Before we leave the 'action,' however, there is another question thatmay usefully be asked. Can we define this 'action' further by describingit as a conflict? The frequent use of this idea in discussions on tragedy is ultimatelydue, I suppose, to the influence of Hegel's theory on the subject,certainly the most important theory since Aristotle's. But Hegel's viewof the tragic conflict is not only unfamiliar to English readers anddifficult to expound shortly, but it had its origin in reflections onGreek tragedy and, as Hegel was well aware, applies only imperfectly tothe works of Shakespeare. [6] I shall, therefore, confine myself to theidea of conflict in its more general form. In this form it is obviouslysuitable to Shakespearean tragedy; but it is vague, and I will try tomake it more precise by putting the question, Who are the combatants inthis conflict? Not seldom the conflict may quite naturally be conceived as lyingbetween two persons, of whom the hero is one; or, more fully, as lyingbetween two parties or groups, in one of which the hero is the leadingfigure. Or if we prefer to speak (as we may quite well do if we knowwhat we are about) of the passions, tendencies, ideas, principles,forces, which animate these persons or groups, we may say that two ofsuch passions or ideas, regarded as animating two persons or groups, arethe combatants. The love of Romeo and Juliet is in conflict with thehatred of their houses, represented by various other characters. Thecause of Brutus and Cassius struggles with that of Julius, Octavius andAntony. In _Richard II. _ the King stands on one side, Bolingbroke andhis party on the other. In _Macbeth_ the hero and heroine are opposed tothe representatives of Duncan. In all these cases the great majority ofthe _dramatis personae_ fall without difficulty into antagonisticgroups, and the conflict between these groups ends with the defeat ofthe hero. Yet one cannot help feeling that in at least one of these cases,_Macbeth_, there is something a little external in this way of lookingat the action. And when we come to some other plays this feelingincreases. No doubt most of the characters in _Hamlet_, _King Lear_,_Othello_, or _Antony and Cleopatra_ can be arranged in opposedgroups;[7] and no doubt there is a conflict; and yet it seems misleadingto describe this conflict as one _between these groups_. It cannot besimply this. For though Hamlet and the King are mortal foes, yet thatwhich engrosses our interest and dwells in our memory at least as muchas the conflict between them, is the conflict _within_ one of them. Andso it is, though not in the same degree, with _Antony and Cleopatra_ andeven with _Othello_; and, in fact, in a certain measure, it is so withnearly all the tragedies. There is an outward conflict of persons andgroups, there is also a conflict of forces in the hero's soul; and evenin _Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_ the interest of the former can hardlybe said to exceed that of the latter. The truth is, that the type of tragedy in which the hero opposes to ahostile force an undivided soul, is not the Shakespearean type. Thesouls of those who contend with the hero may be thus undivided; theygenerally are; but, as a rule, the hero, though he pursues his fatedway, is, at least at some point in the action, and sometimes at many,torn by an inward struggle; and it is frequently at such points thatShakespeare shows his most extraordinary power. If further we comparethe earlier tragedies with the later, we find that it is in the latter,the maturest works, that this inward struggle is most emphasised. In thelast of them, _Coriolanus_, its interest completely eclipses towards theclose of the play that of the outward conflict. _Romeo and Juliet_,_Richard III. _, _Richard II. _, where the hero contends with an outwardforce, but comparatively little with himself, are all early plays. If we are to include the outer and the inner struggle in a conceptionmore definite than that of conflict in general, we must employ some suchphrase as 'spiritual force. ' This will mean whatever forces act in thehuman spirit, whether good or evil, whether personal passion orimpersonal principle; doubts, desires, scruples, ideas--whatever cananimate, shake, possess, and drive a man's soul. In a Shakespeareantragedy some such forces are shown in conflict. They are shown acting inmen and generating strife between them. They are also shown, lessuniversally, but quite as characteristically, generating disturbance andeven conflict in the soul of the hero. Treasonous ambition in Macbethcollides with loyalty and patriotism in Macduff and Malcolm: here is theoutward conflict. But these powers or principles equally collide in thesoul of Macbeth himself: here is the inner. And neither by itself couldmake the tragedy. [8]We shall see later the importance of this idea. Here we need onlyobserve that the notion of tragedy as a conflict emphasises the factthat action is the centre of the story, while the concentration ofinterest, in the greater plays, on the inward struggle emphasises thefact that this action is essentially the expression of character. 3Let us turn now from the 'action' to the central figure in it; and,ignoring the characteristics which distinguish the heroes from oneanother, let us ask whether they have any common qualities which appearto be essential to the tragic effect. One they certainly have. They are exceptional beings. We have seenalready that the hero, with Shakespeare, is a person of high degree orof public importance, and that his actions or sufferings are of anunusual kind. But this is not all. His nature also is exceptional, andgenerally raises him in some respect much above the average level ofhumanity. This does not mean that he is an eccentric or a paragon. Shakespeare never drew monstrosities of virtue; some of his heroes arefar from being 'good'; and if he drew eccentrics he gave them asubordinate position in the plot. His tragic characters are made of thestuff we find within ourselves and within the persons who surround them. But, by an intensification of the life which they share with others,they are raised above them; and the greatest are raised so far that, ifwe fully realise all that is implied in their words and actions, webecome conscious that in real life we have known scarcely any oneresembling them. Some, like Hamlet and Cleopatra, have genius. Others,like Othello, Lear, Macbeth, Coriolanus, are built on the grand scale;and desire, passion, or will attains in them a terrible force. In almostall we observe a marked one-sidedness, a predisposition in someparticular direction; a total incapacity, in certain circumstances, ofresisting the force which draws in this direction; a fatal tendency toidentify the whole being with one interest, object, passion, or habit ofmind. This, it would seem, is, for Shakespeare, the fundamental tragictrait. It is present in his early heroes, Romeo and Richard II. ,infatuated men, who otherwise rise comparatively little above theordinary level. It is a fatal gift, but it carries with it a touch ofgreatness; and when there is joined to it nobility of mind, or genius,or immense force, we realise the full power and reach of the soul, andthe conflict in which it engages acquires that magnitude which stirs notonly sympathy and pity, but admiration, terror, and awe. The easiest way to bring home to oneself the nature of the tragiccharacter is to compare it with a character of another kind. Dramas like_Cymbeline_ and the _Winter's Tale_, which might seem destined to endtragically, but actually end otherwise, owe their happy ending largelyto the fact that the principal characters fail to reach tragicdimensions. And, conversely, if these persons were put in the place ofthe tragic heroes, the dramas in which they appeared would cease to betragedies. Posthumus would never have acted as Othello did; Othello, onhis side, would have met Iachimo's challenge with something more thanwords. If, like Posthumus, he had remained convinced of his wife'sinfidelity, he would not have repented her execution; if, like Leontes,he had come to believe that by an unjust accusation he had caused herdeath, he would never have lived on, like Leontes. In the same way thevillain Iachimo has no touch of tragic greatness. But Iago comes nearerto it, and if Iago had slandered Imogen and had supposed his slanders tohave led to her death, he certainly would not have turned melancholy andwished to die. One reason why the end of the _Merchant of Venice_ failsto satisfy us is that Shylock is a tragic character, and that we cannotbelieve in his accepting his defeat and the conditions imposed on him. This was a case where Shakespeare's imagination ran away with him, sothat he drew a figure with which the destined pleasant ending would notharmonise. In the circumstances where we see the hero placed, his tragic trait,which is also his greatness, is fatal to him. To meet thesecircumstances something is required which a smaller man might havegiven, but which the hero cannot give. He errs, by action or omission;and his error, joining with other causes, brings on him ruin. This isalways so with Shakespeare. As we have seen, the idea of the tragic heroas a being destroyed simply and solely by external forces is quite aliento him; and not less so is the idea of the hero as contributing to hisdestruction only by acts in which we see no flaw. But the fatalimperfection or error, which is never absent, is of different kinds anddegrees. At one extreme stands the excess and precipitancy of Romeo,which scarcely, if at all, diminish our regard for him; at the other themurderous ambition of Richard III. In most cases the tragic errorinvolves no conscious breach of right; in some (_e. g. _ that of Brutus orOthello) it is accompanied by a full conviction of right. In Hamletthere is a painful consciousness that duty is being neglected; in Antonya clear knowledge that the worse of two courses is being pursued; butRichard and Macbeth are the only heroes who do what they themselvesrecognise to be villainous. It is important to observe that Shakespearedoes admit such heroes,[9] and also that he appears to feel, and exertshimself to meet, the difficulty that arises from their admission. Thedifficulty is that the spectator must desire their defeat and even theirdestruction; and yet this desire, and the satisfaction of it, are nottragic feelings. Shakespeare gives to Richard therefore a power whichexcites astonishment, and a courage which extorts admiration. He givesto Macbeth a similar, though less extraordinary, greatness, and adds toit a conscience so terrifying in its warnings and so maddening in itsreproaches that the spectacle of inward torment compels a horrifiedsympathy and awe which balance, at the least, the desire for the hero'sruin. The tragic hero with Shakespeare, then, need not be 'good,' thoughgenerally he is 'good' and therefore at once wins sympathy in his error. But it is necessary that he should have so much of greatness that in hiserror and fall we may be vividly conscious of the possibilities of humannature. [10] Hence, in the first place, a Shakespearean tragedy is never,like some miscalled tragedies, depressing. No one ever closes the bookwith the feeling that man is a poor mean creature. He may be wretchedand he may be awful, but he is not small. His lot may be heart-rendingand mysterious, but it is not contemptible. The most confirmed of cynicsceases to be a cynic while he reads these plays. And with this greatnessof the tragic hero (which is not always confined to him) is connected,secondly, what I venture to describe as the centre of the tragicimpression. This central feeling is the impression of waste. WithShakespeare, at any rate, the pity and fear which are stirred by thetragic story seem to unite with, and even to merge in, a profound senseof sadness and mystery, which is due to this impression of waste. 'Whata piece of work is man,' we cry; 'so much more beautiful and so muchmore terrible than we knew! Why should he be so if this beauty andgreatness only tortures itself and throws itself away? ' We seem to havebefore us a type of the mystery of the whole world, the tragic factwhich extends far beyond the limits of tragedy. Everywhere, from thecrushed rocks beneath our feet to the soul of man, we see power,intelligence, life and glory, which astound us and seem to call for ourworship. And everywhere we see them perishing, devouring one another anddestroying themselves, often with dreadful pain, as though they cameinto being for no other end. Tragedy is the typical form of thismystery, because that greatness of soul which it exhibits oppressed,conflicting and destroyed, is the highest existence in our view. Itforces the mystery upon us, and it makes us realise so vividly the worthof that which is wasted that we cannot possibly seek comfort in thereflection that all is vanity. 4In this tragic world, then, where individuals, however great they may beand however decisive their actions may appear, are so evidently not theultimate power, what is this power? What account can we give of it whichwill correspond with the imaginative impressions we receive? This willbe our final question. The variety of the answers given to this question shows how difficult itis. And the difficulty has many sources. Most people, even among thosewho know Shakespeare well and come into real contact with his mind, areinclined to isolate and exaggerate some one aspect of the tragic fact. Some are so much influenced by their own habitual beliefs that theyimport them more or less into their interpretation of every author whois 'sympathetic' to them. And even where neither of these causes oferror appears to operate, another is present from which it is probablyimpossible wholly to escape. What I mean is this. Any answer we give tothe question proposed ought to correspond with, or to represent in termsof the understanding, our imaginative and emotional experience inreading the tragedies. We have, of course, to do our best by study andeffort to make this experience true to Shakespeare; but, that done tothe best of our ability, the experience is the matter to be interpreted,and the test by which the interpretation must be tried. But it isextremely hard to make out exactly what this experience is, because, inthe very effort to make it out, our reflecting mind, full of everydayideas, is always tending to transform it by the application of theseideas, and so to elicit a result which, instead of representing thefact, conventionalises it. And the consequence is not only mistakentheories; it is that many a man will declare that he feels in reading atragedy what he never really felt, while he fails to recognise what heactually did feel. It is not likely that we shall escape all thesedangers in our effort to find an answer to the question regarding thetragic world and the ultimate power in it. It will be agreed, however, first, that this question must not beanswered in 'religious' language. For although this or that _dramatispersona_ may speak of gods or of God, of evil spirits or of Satan, ofheaven and of hell, and although the poet may show us ghosts fromanother world, these ideas do not materially influence hisrepresentation of life, nor are they used to throw light on the mysteryof its tragedy. The Elizabethan drama was almost wholly secular; andwhile Shakespeare was writing he practically confined his view to theworld of non-theological observation and thought, so that he representsit substantially in one and the same way whether the period of the storyis pre-Christian or Christian. [11] He looked at this 'secular' worldmost intently and seriously; and he painted it, we cannot but conclude,with entire fidelity, without the wish to enforce an opinion of his own,and, in essentials, without regard to anyone's hopes, fears, or beliefs. His greatness is largely due to this fidelity in a mind of extraordinarypower; and if, as a private person, he had a religious faith, his tragicview can hardly have been in contradiction with this faith, but musthave been included in it, and supplemented, not abolished, by additionalideas. Two statements, next, may at once be made regarding the tragic fact ashe represents it: one, that it is and remains to us something piteous,fearful and mysterious; the other, that the representation of it doesnot leave us crushed, rebellious or desperate. These statements will beaccepted, I believe, by any reader who is in touch with Shakespeare'smind and can observe his own. Indeed such a reader is rather likely tocomplain that they are painfully obvious. But if they are true as wellas obvious, something follows from them in regard to our presentquestion. From the first it follows that the ultimate power in the tragic world isnot adequately described as a law or order which we can see to be justand benevolent,--as, in that sense, a 'moral order': for in that casethe spectacle of suffering and waste could not seem to us so fearful andmysterious as it does. And from the second it follows that this ultimatepower is not adequately described as a fate, whether malicious andcruel, or blind and indifferent to human happiness and goodness: for inthat case the spectacle would leave us desperate or rebellious. Yet oneor other of these two ideas will be found to govern most accounts ofShakespeare's tragic view or world. These accounts isolate andexaggerate single aspects, either the aspect of action or that ofsuffering; either the close and unbroken connection of character, will,deed and catastrophe, which, taken alone, shows the individual simply assinning against, or failing to conform to, the moral order and drawinghis just doom on his own head; or else that pressure of outward forces,that sway of accident, and those blind and agonised struggles, which,taken alone, show him as the mere victim of some power which caresneither for his sins nor for his pain. Such views contradict oneanother, and no third view can unite them; but the several aspects fromwhose isolation and exaggeration they spring are both present in thefact, and a view which would be true to the fact and to the whole of ourimaginative experience must in some way combine these aspects. Let us begin, then, with the idea of fatality and glance at some of theimpressions which give rise to it, without asking at present whetherthis idea is their natural or fitting expression. There can be no doubtthat they do arise and that they ought to arise. If we do not feel attimes that the hero is, in some sense, a doomed man; that he and othersdrift struggling to destruction like helpless creatures borne on anirresistible flood towards a cataract; that, faulty as they may be,their fault is far from being the sole or sufficient cause of all theysuffer; and that the power from which they cannot escape is relentlessand immovable, we have failed to receive an essential part of the fulltragic effect. The sources of these impressions are various, and I will refer only to afew. One of them is put into words by Shakespeare himself when he makesthe player-king in _Hamlet_ say:     Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own;'their ends' are the issues or outcomes of our thoughts, and these, saysthe speaker, are not our own. The tragic world is a world of action, andaction is the translation of thought into reality. We see men and womenconfidently attempting it. They strike into the existing order of thingsin pursuance of their ideas. But what they achieve is not what theyintended; it is terribly unlike it. They understand nothing, we say toourselves, of the world on which they operate. They fight blindly in thedark, and the power that works through them makes them the instrument ofa design which is not theirs. They act freely, and yet their actionbinds them hand and foot. And it makes no difference whether they meantwell or ill. No one could mean better than Brutus, but he contrivesmisery for his country and death for himself. No one could mean worsethan Iago, and he too is caught in the web he spins for others. Hamlet,recoiling from the rough duty of revenge, is pushed intoblood-guiltiness he never dreamed of, and forced at last on the revengehe could not will. His adversary's murders, and no less his adversary'sremorse, bring about the opposite of what they sought. Lear follows anold man's whim, half generous, half selfish; and in a moment it loosesall the powers of darkness upon him. Othello agonises over an emptyfiction, and, meaning to execute solemn justice, butchers innocence andstrangles love. They understand themselves no better than the worldabout them. Coriolanus thinks that his heart is iron, and it melts likesnow before a fire. Lady Macbeth, who thought she could dash out her ownchild's brains, finds herself hounded to death by the smell of astranger's blood. Her husband thinks that to gain a crown he would jumpthe life to come, and finds that the crown has brought him all thehorrors of that life. Everywhere, in this tragic world, man's thought,translated into act, is transformed into the opposite of itself. Hisact, the movement of a few ounces of matter in a moment of time, becomesa monstrous flood which spreads over a kingdom. And whatsoever he dreamsof doing, he achieves that which he least dreamed of, his owndestruction. All this makes us feel the blindness and helplessness of man. Yet byitself it would hardly suggest the idea of fate, because it shows man asin some degree, however slight, the cause of his own undoing. But otherimpressions come to aid it. It is aided by everything which makes usfeel that a man is, as we say, terribly unlucky; and of this there is,even in Shakespeare, not a little. Here come in some of the accidentsalready considered, Juliet's waking from her trance a minute too late,Desdemona's loss of her handkerchief at the only moment when the losswould have mattered, that insignificant delay which cost Cordelia'slife. Again, men act, no doubt, in accordance with their characters; butwhat is it that brings them just the one problem which is fatal to themand would be easy to another, and sometimes brings it to them just whenthey are least fitted to face it? How is it that Othello comes to be thecompanion of the one man in the world who is at once able enough, braveenough, and vile enough to ensnare him? By what strange fatality does ithappen that Lear has such daughters and Cordelia such sisters? Evencharacter itself contributes to these feelings of fatality. How couldmen escape, we cry, such vehement propensities as drive Romeo, Antony,Coriolanus, to their doom? And why is it that a man's virtues help todestroy him, and that his weakness or defect is so intertwined witheverything that is admirable in him that we can hardly separate themeven in imagination? If we find in Shakespeare's tragedies the source of impressions likethese, it is important, on the other hand, to notice what we do _not_find there. We find practically no trace of fatalism in its moreprimitive, crude and obvious forms. Nothing, again, makes us think ofthe actions and sufferings of the persons as somehow arbitrarily fixedbeforehand without regard to their feelings, thoughts and resolutions. Nor, I believe, are the facts ever so presented that it seems to us asif the supreme power, whatever it may be, had a special spite against afamily or an individual. Neither, lastly, do we receive the impression(which, it must be observed, is not purely fatalistic) that a family,owing to some hideous crime or impiety in early days, is doomed in laterdays to continue a career of portentous calamities and sins. Shakespeare, indeed, does not appear to have taken much interest inheredity, or to have attached much importance to it. (See, however,'heredity' in the Index. )What, then, is this 'fate' which the impressions already considered leadus to describe as the ultimate power in the tragic world? It appears tobe a mythological expression for the whole system or order, of which theindividual characters form an inconsiderable and feeble part; whichseems to determine, far more than they, their native dispositions andtheir circumstances, and, through these, their action; which is so vastand complex that they can scarcely at all understand it or control itsworkings; and which has a nature so definite and fixed that whateverchanges take place in it produce other changes inevitably and withoutregard to men's desires and regrets. And whether this system or order isbest called by the name of fate or no,[12] it can hardly be denied thatit does appear as the ultimate power in the tragic world, and that ithas such characteristics as these. But the name 'fate' may be intendedto imply something more--to imply that this order is a blank necessity,totally regardless alike of human weal and of the difference betweengood and evil or right and wrong. And such an implication many readerswould at once reject. They would maintain, on the contrary, that thisorder shows characteristics of quite another kind from those which madeus give it the name of fate, characteristics which certainly should notinduce us to forget those others, but which would lead us to describe itas a moral order and its necessity as a moral necessity. 5Let us turn, then, to this idea. It brings into the light those aspectsof the tragic fact which the idea of fate throws into the shade. And theargument which leads to it in its simplest form may be stated brieflythus: 'Whatever may be said of accidents, circumstances and the like,human action is, after all, presented to us as the central fact intragedy, and also as the main cause of the catastrophe. That necessitywhich so much impresses us is, after all, chiefly the necessaryconnection of actions and consequences. For these actions we, withouteven raising a question on the subject, hold the agents responsible; andthe tragedy would disappear for us if we did not. The critical actionis, in greater or less degree, wrong or bad. The catastrophe is, in themain, the return of this action on the head of the agent. It is anexample of justice; and that order which, present alike within theagents and outside them, infallibly brings it about, is therefore just. The rigour of its justice is terrible, no doubt, for a tragedy is aterrible story; but, in spite of fear and pity, we acquiesce, becauseour sense of justice is satisfied. 'Now, if this view is to hold good, the 'justice' of which it speaks mustbe at once distinguished from what is called 'poetic justice. ' 'Poeticjustice' means that prosperity and adversity are distributed inproportion to the merits of the agents. Such 'poetic justice' is inflagrant contradiction with the facts of life, and it is absent fromShakespeare's tragic picture of life; indeed, this very absence is aground of constant complaint on the part of Dr. Johnson. [Greek:Drasanti pathein], 'the doer must suffer'--this we find in Shakespeare. We also find that villainy never remains victorious and prosperous atthe last. But an assignment of amounts of happiness and misery, anassignment even of life and death, in proportion to merit, we do notfind. No one who thinks of Desdemona and Cordelia; or who remembers thatone end awaits Richard III. and Brutus, Macbeth and Hamlet; or who askshimself which suffered most, Othello or Iago; will ever accuseShakespeare of representing the ultimate power as 'poetically' just. And we must go further. I venture to say that it is a mistake to use atall these terms of justice and merit or desert. And this for tworeasons. In the first place, essential as it is to recognise theconnection between act and consequence, and natural as it may seem insome cases (_e. g. _ Macbeth's) to say that the doer only gets what hedeserves, yet in very many cases to say this would be quite unnatural. We might not object to the statement that Lear deserved to suffer forhis folly, selfishness and tyranny; but to assert that he deserved tosuffer what he did suffer is to do violence not merely to language butto any healthy moral sense. It is, moreover, to obscure the tragic factthat the consequences of action cannot be limited to that which wouldappear to us to follow 'justly' from them. And, this being so, when wecall the order of the tragic world just, we are either using the word insome vague and unexplained sense, or we are going beyond what is shownus of this order, and are appealing to faith. But, in the second place, the ideas of justice and desert are, it seemsto me, in _all_ cases--even those of Richard III. and of Macbeth andLady Macbeth--untrue to our imaginative experience. When we are immersedin a tragedy, we feel towards dispositions, actions, and persons suchemotions as attraction and repulsion, pity, wonder, fear, horror,perhaps hatred; but we do not _judge_. This is a point of view whichemerges only when, in reading a play, we slip, by our own fault or thedramatist's, from the tragic position, or when, in thinking about theplay afterwards, we fall back on our everyday legal and moral notions. But tragedy does not belong, any more than religion belongs, to thesphere of these notions; neither does the imaginative attitude inpresence of it. While we are in its world we watch what is, seeing thatso it happened and must have happened, feeling that it is piteous,dreadful, awful, mysterious, but neither passing sentence on the agents,nor asking whether the behaviour of the ultimate power towards them isjust. And, therefore, the use of such language in attempts to render ourimaginative experience in terms of the understanding is, to say theleast, full of danger. [13]Let us attempt then to re-state the idea that the ultimate power in thetragic world is a moral order. Let us put aside the ideas of justice andmerit, and speak simply of good and evil. Let us understand by thesewords, primarily, moral good and evil, but also everything else in humanbeings which we take to be excellent or the reverse. Let us understandthe statement that the ultimate power or order is 'moral' to mean thatit does not show itself indifferent to good and evil, or equallyfavourable or unfavourable to both, but shows itself akin to good andalien from evil. And, understanding the statement thus, let us ask whatgrounds it has in the tragic fact as presented by Shakespeare. Here, as in dealing with the grounds on which the idea of fate rests, Ichoose only two or three out of many. And the most important is this. InShakespearean tragedy the main source of the convulsion which producessuffering and death is never good: good contributes to this convulsiononly from its tragic implication with its opposite in one and the samecharacter. The main source, on the contrary, is in every case evil; and,what is more (though this seems to have been little noticed), it is inalmost every case evil in the fullest sense, not mere imperfection butplain moral evil. The love of Romeo and Juliet conducts them to deathonly because of the senseless hatred of their houses. Guilty ambition,seconded by diabolic malice and issuing in murder, opens the action in_Macbeth_. Iago is the main source of the convulsion in _Othello_;Goneril, Regan and Edmund in _King Lear_. Even when this plain moralevil is not the obviously prime source within the play, it lies behindit: the situation with which Hamlet has to deal has been formed byadultery and murder. _Julius Caesar_ is the only tragedy in which one iseven tempted to find an exception to this rule. And the inference isobvious. If it is chiefly evil that violently disturbs the order of theworld, this order cannot be friendly to evil or indifferent between eviland good, any more than a body which is convulsed by poison is friendlyto it or indifferent to the distinction between poison and food.

Again, if we confine our attention to the hero, and to those cases wherethe gross and palpable evil is not in him but elsewhere, we find thatthe comparatively innocent hero still shows some marked imperfection ordefect,--irresolution, precipitancy, pride, credulousness, excessivesimplicity, excessive susceptibility to sexual emotions, and the like. These defects or imperfections are certainly, in the wide sense of theword, evil, and they contribute decisively to the conflict andcatastrophe. And the inference is again obvious. The ultimate powerwhich shows itself disturbed by this evil and reacts against it, musthave a nature alien to it. Indeed its reaction is so vehement and'relentless' that it would seem to be bent on nothing short of good inperfection, and to be ruthless in its demand for it. To this must be added another fact, or another aspect of the same fact. Evil exhibits itself everywhere as something negative, barren,weakening, destructive, a principle of death. It isolates, disunites,and tends to annihilate not only its opposite but itself. That whichkeeps the evil man[14] prosperous, makes him succeed, even permits himto exist, is the good in him (I do not mean only the obviously 'moral'good). When the evil in him masters the good and has its way, itdestroys other people through him, but it also destroys _him_. At theclose of the struggle he has vanished, and has left behind him nothingthat can stand. What remains is a family, a city, a country, exhausted,pale and feeble, but alive through the principle of good which animatesit; and, within it, individuals who, if they have not the brilliance orgreatness of the tragic character, still have won our respect andconfidence. And the inference would seem clear. If existence in an orderdepends on good, and if the presence of evil is hostile to suchexistence, the inner being or soul of this order must be akin to good. These are aspects of the tragic world at least as clearly marked asthose which, taken alone, suggest the idea of fate. And the idea whichthey in their turn, when taken alone, may suggest, is that of an orderwhich does not indeed award 'poetic justice,' but which reacts throughthe necessity of its own 'moral' nature both against attacks made uponit and against failure to conform to it. Tragedy, on this view, is theexhibition of that convulsive reaction; and the fact that the spectacledoes not leave us rebellious or desperate is due to a more or lessdistinct perception that the tragic suffering and death arise fromcollision, not with a fate or blank power, but with a moral power, apower akin to all that we admire and revere in the charactersthemselves. This perception produces something like a feeling ofacquiescence in the catastrophe, though it neither leads us to passjudgment on the characters nor diminishes the pity, the fear, and thesense of waste, which their struggle, suffering and fall evoke. And,finally, this view seems quite able to do justice to those aspects ofthe tragic fact which give rise to the idea of fate. They would appearas various expressions of the fact that the moral order acts notcapriciously or like a human being, but from the necessity of itsnature, or, if we prefer the phrase, by general laws,--a necessity orlaw which of course knows no exception and is as 'ruthless' as fate. It is impossible to deny to this view a large measure of truth. And yetwithout some amendment it can hardly satisfy. For it does not includethe whole of the facts, and therefore does not wholly correspond withthe impressions they produce. Let it be granted that the system or orderwhich shows itself omnipotent against individuals is, in the senseexplained, moral. Still--at any rate for the eye of sight--the evilagainst which it asserts itself, and the persons whom this evilinhabits, are not really something outside the order, so that they canattack it or fail to conform to it; they are within it and a part of it. It itself produces them,--produces Iago as well as Desdemona, Iago'scruelty as well as Iago's courage. It is not poisoned, it poisonsitself. Doubtless it shows by its violent reaction that the poison _is_poison, and that its health lies in good. But one significant factcannot remove another, and the spectacle we witness scarcely warrantsthe assertion that the order is responsible for the good in Desdemona,but Iago for the evil in Iago. If we make this assertion we make it ongrounds other than the facts as presented in Shakespeare's tragedies. Nor does the idea of a moral order asserting itself against attack orwant of conformity answer in full to our feelings regarding the tragiccharacter. We do not think of Hamlet merely as failing to meet itsdemand, of Antony as merely sinning against it, or even of Macbeth assimply attacking it. What we feel corresponds quite as much to the ideathat they are _its_ parts, expressions, products; that in their defector evil _it_ is untrue to its soul of goodness, and falls into conflictand collision with itself; that, in making them suffer and wastethemselves, _it_ suffers and wastes itself; and that when, to save itslife and regain peace from this intestinal struggle, it casts them out,it has lost a part of its own substance,--a part more dangerous andunquiet, but far more valuable and nearer to its heart, than that whichremains,--a Fortinbras, a Malcolm, an Octavius. There is no tragedy inits expulsion of evil: the tragedy is that this involves the waste ofgood. Thus we are left at last with an idea showing two sides or aspects whichwe can neither separate nor reconcile. The whole or order against whichthe individual part shows itself powerless seems to be animated by apassion for perfection: we cannot otherwise explain its behaviourtowards evil. Yet it appears to engender this evil within itself, and inits effort to overcome and expel it it is agonised with pain, and drivento mutilate its own substance and to lose not only evil but pricelessgood. That this idea, though very different from the idea of a blankfate, is no solution of the riddle of life is obvious; but why should weexpect it to be such a solution? Shakespeare was not attempting tojustify the ways of God to men, or to show the universe as a DivineComedy. He was writing tragedy, and tragedy would not be tragedy if itwere not a painful mystery. Nor can he be said even to point distinctly,like some writers of tragedy, in any direction where a solution mightlie. We find a few references to gods or God, to the influence of thestars, to another life: some of them certainly, all of them perhaps,merely dramatic--appropriate to the person from whose lips they fall. Aghost comes from Purgatory to impart a secret out of the reach of itshearer--who presently meditates on the question whether the sleep ofdeath is dreamless. Accidents once or twice remind us strangely of thewords, 'There's a divinity that shapes our ends. ' More important areother impressions. Sometimes from the very furnace of affliction aconviction seems borne to us that somehow, if we could see it, thisagony counts as nothing against the heroism and love which appear in itand thrill our hearts. Sometimes we are driven to cry out that thesemighty or heavenly spirits who perish are too great for the little spacein which they move, and that they vanish not into nothingness but intofreedom. Sometimes from these sources and from others comes apresentiment, formless but haunting and even profound, that all the furyof conflict, with its waste and woe, is less than half the truth, evenan illusion, 'such stuff as dreams are made on. ' But these faint andscattered intimations that the tragic world, being but a fragment of awhole beyond our vision, must needs be a contradiction and no ultimatetruth, avail nothing to interpret the mystery. We remain confronted withthe inexplicable fact, or the no less inexplicable appearance, of aworld travailing for perfection, but bringing to birth, together withglorious good, an evil which it is able to overcome only by self-tortureand self-waste. And this fact or appearance is tragedy. [15]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 1: _Julius Caesar_ is not an exception to this rule. Caesar,whose murder comes in the Third Act, is in a sense the dominating figurein the story, but Brutus is the 'hero. '][Footnote 2: _Timon of Athens_, we have seen, was probably not designedby Shakespeare, but even _Timon_ is no exception to the rule. Thesub-plot is concerned with Alcibiades and his army, and Timon himself istreated by the Senate as a man of great importance. _Arden of Feversham_and _A Yorkshire Tragedy_ would certainly be exceptions to the rule; butI assume that neither of them is Shakespeare's; and if either is, itbelongs to a different species from his admitted tragedies. See, on thisspecies, Symonds, _Shakspere's Predecessors_, ch. xi. ][Footnote 3: Even a deed would, I think, be counted an 'accident,' if itwere the deed of a very minor person whose character had not beenindicated; because such a deed would not issue from the little world towhich the dramatist had confined our attention. ][Footnote 4: Comedy stands in a different position. The tricks played bychance often form a principal part of the comic action. ][Footnote 5: It may be observed that the influence of the three elementsjust considered is to strengthen the tendency, produced by thesufferings considered first, to regard the tragic persons as passiverather than as agents. ][Footnote 6: An account of Hegel's view may be found in _Oxford Lectureson Poetry_. ][Footnote 7: The reader, however, will find considerable difficulty inplacing some very important characters in these and other plays. I willgive only two or three illustrations. Edgar is clearly not on the sameside as Edmund, and yet it seems awkward to range him on Gloster's sidewhen Gloster wishes to put him to death. Ophelia is in love with Hamlet,but how can she be said to be of Hamlet's party against the King andPolonius, or of their party against Hamlet? Desdemona worships Othello,yet it sounds odd to say that Othello is on the same side with a personwhom he insults, strikes and murders. ][Footnote 8: I have given names to the 'spiritual forces' in _Macbeth_merely to illustrate the idea, and without any pretension to adequacy. Perhaps, in view of some interpretations of Shakespeare's plays, it willbe as well to add that I do not dream of suggesting that in any of hisdramas Shakespeare imagined two abstract principles or passionsconflicting, and incorporated them in persons; or that there is anynecessity for a reader to define for himself the particular forces whichconflict in a given case. ][Footnote 9: Aristotle apparently would exclude them. ][Footnote 10: Richard II. is perhaps an exception, and I must confessthat to me he is scarcely a tragic character, and that, if he isnevertheless a tragic figure, he is so only because his fall fromprosperity to adversity is so great. ][Footnote 11: I say substantially; but the concluding remarks on_Hamlet_ will modify a little the statements above. ][Footnote 12: I have raised no objection to the use of the idea of fate,because it occurs so often both in conversation and in books aboutShakespeare's tragedies that I must suppose it to be natural to manyreaders. Yet I doubt whether it would be so if Greek tragedy had neverbeen written; and I must in candour confess that to me it does not oftenoccur while I am reading, or when I have just read, a tragedy ofShakespeare. Wordsworth's lines, for example, about         poor humanity's afflicted will     Struggling in vain with ruthless destinydo not represent the impression I receive; much less do images whichcompare man to a puny creature helpless in the claws of a bird of prey. The reader should examine himself closely on this matter. ][Footnote 13: It is dangerous, I think, in reference to all really goodtragedies, but I am dealing here only with Shakespeare's. In not a fewGreek tragedies it is almost inevitable that we should think of justiceand retribution, not only because the _dramatis personae_ often speak ofthem, but also because there is something casuistical about the tragicproblem itself. The poet treats the story in such a way that thequestion, Is the hero doing right or wrong? is almost forced upon us. But this is not so with Shakespeare. _Julius Caesar_ is probably theonly one of his tragedies in which the question suggests itself to us,and this is one of the reasons why that play has something of a classicair. Even here, if we ask the question, we have no doubt at all aboutthe answer. ][Footnote 14: It is most essential to remember that an evil man is muchmore than the evil in him. I may add that in this paragraph I have, forthe sake of clearness, considered evil in its most pronounced form; butwhat is said would apply, _mutatis mutandis_, to evil as imperfection,etc. ][Footnote 15: Partly in order not to anticipate later passages, Iabstained from treating fully here the question why we feel, at thedeath of the tragic hero, not only pain but also reconciliation andsometimes even exultation. As I cannot at present make good this defect,I would ask the reader to refer to the word _Reconciliation_ in theIndex. See also, in _Oxford Lectures on Poetry_, _Hegel's Theory ofTragedy_, especially pp. 90, 91. ]LECTURE IICONSTRUCTION IN SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGEDIESHaving discussed the substance of a Shakespearean tragedy, we shouldnaturally go on to examine the form. And under this head many thingsmight be included; for example, Shakespeare's methods ofcharacterisation, his language, his versification, the construction ofhis plots. I intend, however, to speak only of the last of thesesubjects, which has been somewhat neglected;[16] and, as construction isa more or less technical matter, I shall add some general remarks onShakespeare as an artist. 1As a Shakespearean tragedy represents a conflict which terminates in acatastrophe, any such tragedy may roughly be divided into three parts. The first of these sets forth or expounds the situation,[17] or state ofaffairs, out of which the conflict arises; and it may, therefore, becalled the Exposition. The second deals with the definite beginning, thegrowth and the vicissitudes of the conflict. It forms accordingly thebulk of the play, comprising the Second, Third and Fourth Acts, andusually a part of the First and a part of the Fifth. The final sectionof the tragedy shows the issue of the conflict in a catastrophe. [18]The application of this scheme of division is naturally more or lessarbitrary. The first part glides into the second, and the second intothe third, and there may often be difficulty in drawing the linesbetween them. But it is still harder to divide spring from summer, andsummer from autumn; and yet spring is spring, and summer summer. The main business of the Exposition, which we will consider first, is tointroduce us into a little world of persons; to show us their positionsin life, their circumstances, their relations to one another, andperhaps something of their characters; and to leave us keenly interestedin the question what will come out of this condition of things. We areleft thus expectant, not merely because some of the persons interest usat once, but also because their situation in regard to one anotherpoints to difficulties in the future. This situation is not one ofconflict,[19] but it threatens conflict. For example, we see first thehatred of the Montagues and Capulets; and then we see Romeo ready tofall violently in love; and then we hear talk of a marriage betweenJuliet and Paris; but the exposition is not complete, and the conflicthas not definitely begun to arise, till, in the last scene of the FirstAct, Romeo the Montague sees Juliet the Capulet and becomes her slave. The dramatist's chief difficulty in the exposition is obvious, and it isillustrated clearly enough in the plays of unpractised writers; forexample, in _Remorse_, and even in _The Cenci_. He has to impart to theaudience a quantity of information about matters of which they generallyknow nothing and never know all that is necessary for his purpose. [20]But the process of merely acquiring information is unpleasant, and thedirect imparting of it is undramatic. Unless he uses a prologue,therefore, he must conceal from his auditors the fact that they arebeing informed, and must tell them what he wants them to know by meanswhich are interesting on their own account. These means, withShakespeare, are not only speeches but actions and events. From the verybeginning of the play, though the conflict has not arisen, things arehappening and being done which in some degree arrest, startle, andexcite; and in a few scenes we have mastered the situation of affairswithout perceiving the dramatist's designs upon us. Not that this isalways so with Shakespeare. In the opening scene of his early _Comedy ofErrors_, and in the opening speech of _Richard III. _, we feel that thespeakers are addressing us; and in the second scene of the _Tempest_(for Shakespeare grew at last rather negligent of technique) the purposeof Prospero's long explanation to Miranda is palpable. But in generalShakespeare's expositions are masterpieces. [21]His usual plan in tragedy is to begin with a short scene, or part of ascene, either full of life and stir, or in some other way arresting. Then, having secured a hearing, he proceeds to conversations at a lowerpitch, accompanied by little action but conveying much information. Forexample, _Romeo and Juliet_ opens with a street-fight, _Julius Caesar_and _Coriolanus_ with a crowd in commotion; and when this excitement hashad its effect on the audience, there follow quiet speeches, in whichthe cause of the excitement, and so a great part of the situation, aredisclosed. In _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ this scheme is employed with greatboldness. In _Hamlet_ the first appearance of the Ghost occurs at thefortieth line, and with such effect that Shakespeare can afford tointroduce at once a conversation which explains part of the state ofaffairs at Elsinore; and the second appearance, having again increasedthe tension, is followed by a long scene, which contains no action butintroduces almost all the _dramatis personae_ and adds the informationleft wanting. The opening of _Macbeth_ is even more remarkable, forthere is probably no parallel to its first scene, where the senses andimagination are assaulted by a storm of thunder and supernatural alarm. This scene is only eleven lines long, but its influence is so great thatthe next can safely be occupied with a mere report of Macbeth'sbattles,--a narrative which would have won much less attention if it hadopened the play. When Shakespeare begins his exposition thus he generally at first makespeople talk about the hero, but keeps the hero himself for some time outof sight, so that we await his entrance with curiosity, and sometimeswith anxiety. On the other hand, if the play opens with a quietconversation, this is usually brief, and then at once the hero entersand takes action of some decided kind. Nothing, for example, can be lesslike the beginning of _Macbeth_ than that of _King Lear_. The tone ispitched so low that the conversation between Kent, Gloster, and Edmundis written in prose. But at the thirty-fourth line it is broken off bythe entrance of Lear and his court, and without delay the King proceedsto his fatal division of the kingdom. This tragedy illustrates another practice of Shakespeare's. _King Lear_has a secondary plot, that which concerns Gloster and his two sons. Tomake the beginning of this plot quite clear, and to mark it off from themain action, Shakespeare gives it a separate exposition. The great sceneof the division of Britain and the rejection of Cordelia and Kent isfollowed by the second scene, in which Gloster and his two sons appearalone, and the beginning of Edmund's design is disclosed. In _Hamlet_,though the plot is single, there is a little group of characterspossessing a certain independent interest,--Polonius, his son, and hisdaughter; and so the third scene is devoted wholly to them. And again,in _Othello_, since Roderigo is to occupy a peculiar position almostthroughout the action, he is introduced at once, alone with Iago, andhis position is explained before the other characters are allowed toappear. But why should Iago open the play? Or, if this seems too presumptuous aquestion, let us put it in the form, What is the effect of his openingthe play? It is that we receive at the very outset a strong impressionof the force which is to prove fatal to the hero's happiness, so that,when we see the hero himself, the shadow of fate already rests upon him. And an effect of this kind is to be noticed in other tragedies. We aremade conscious at once of some power which is to influence the wholeaction to the hero's undoing. In _Macbeth_ we see and hear the Witches,in _Hamlet_ the Ghost. In the first scene of _Julius Caesar_ and of_Coriolanus_ those qualities of the crowd are vividly shown which renderhopeless the enterprise of the one hero and wreck the ambition of theother. It is the same with the hatred between the rival houses in _Romeoand Juliet_, and with Antony's infatuated passion. We realise them atthe end of the first page, and are almost ready to regard the hero asdoomed. Often, again, at one or more points during the exposition thisfeeling is reinforced by some expression that has an ominous effect. Thefirst words we hear from Macbeth, 'So foul and fair a day I have notseen,' echo, though he knows it not, the last words we heard from theWitches, 'Fair is foul, and foul is fair. ' Romeo, on his way with hisfriends to the banquet, where he is to see Juliet for the first time,tells Mercutio that he has had a dream. What the dream was we neverlearn, for Mercutio does not care to know, and breaks into his speechabout Queen Mab; but we can guess its nature from Romeo's last speech inthe scene:                          My mind misgives     Some consequence yet hanging in the stars     Shall bitterly begin his fearful date     With this night's revels. When Brabantio, forced to acquiesce in his daughter's stolen marriage,turns, as he leaves the council-chamber, to Othello, with the warning,     Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see;     She has deceived her father, and may thee,this warning, and no less Othello's answer, 'My life upon her faith,'make our hearts sink. The whole of the coming story seems to beprefigured in Antony's muttered words (I. ii. 120):     These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,     Or lose myself in dotage;and, again, in Hamlet's weary sigh, following so soon on the passionateresolution stirred by the message of the Ghost:     The time is out of joint. Oh cursed spite,     That ever I was born to set it right. These words occur at a point (the end of the First Act) which may beheld to fall either within the exposition or beyond it. I should takethe former view, though such questions, as we saw at starting, canhardly be decided with certainty. The dimensions of this first sectionof a tragedy depend on a variety of causes, of which the chief seems tobe the comparative simplicity or complexity of the situation from whichthe conflict arises. Where this is simple the exposition is short, as in_Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_. Where it is complicated the expositionrequires more space, as in _Romeo and Juliet_, _Hamlet_, and _KingLear_. Its completion is generally marked in the mind of the reader by afeeling that the action it contains is for the moment complete but hasleft a problem. The lovers have met, but their families are at deadlyenmity; the hero seems at the height of success, but has admitted thethought of murdering his sovereign; the old king has divided his kingdombetween two hypocritical daughters, and has rejected his true child; thehero has acknowledged a sacred duty of revenge, but is weary of life:and we ask, What will come of this? Sometimes, I may add, a certain timeis supposed to elapse before the events which answer our question maketheir appearance and the conflict begins; in _King Lear_, for instance,about a fortnight; in _Hamlet_ about two months. 2We come now to the conflict itself. And here one or two preliminaryremarks are necessary. In the first place, it must be remembered thatour point of view in examining the construction of a play will notalways coincide with that which we occupy in thinking of its wholedramatic effect. For example, that struggle in the hero's soul whichsometimes accompanies the outward struggle is of the highest importancefor the total effect of a tragedy; but it is not always necessary ordesirable to consider it when the question is merely one ofconstruction. And this is natural. The play is meant primarily for thetheatre; and theatrically the outward conflict, with its influence onthe fortunes of the hero, is the aspect which first catches, if it doesnot engross, attention. For the average play-goer of every period themain interest of _Hamlet_ has probably lain in the vicissitudes of hislong duel with the King; and the question, one may almost say, has beenwhich will first kill the other. And so, from the point of view ofconstruction, the fact that Hamlet spares the King when he finds himpraying, is, from its effect on the hero's fortunes, of great moment;but the cause of the fact, which lies within Hamlet's character, is notso. In the second place we must be prepared to find that, as the plays varyso much, no single way of regarding the conflict will answer preciselyto the construction of all; that it sometimes appears possible to lookat the construction of a tragedy in two quite different ways, and thatit is material to find the best of the two; and that thus, in any giveninstance, it is necessary first to define the opposing sides in theconflict. I will give one or two examples. In some tragedies, as we sawin our first lecture, the opposing forces can, for practical purposes,be identified with opposing persons or groups. So it is in _Romeo andJuliet_ and _Macbeth_. But it is not always so. The love of Othello maybe said to contend with another force, as the love of Romeo does; butOthello cannot be said to contend with Iago as Romeo contends with therepresentatives of the hatred of the houses, or as Macbeth contends withMalcolm and Macduff. Again, in _Macbeth_ the hero, however muchinfluenced by others, supplies the main driving power of the action; butin _King Lear_ he does not. Possibly, therefore, the conflict, and withit the construction, may best be regarded from different points of viewin these two plays, in spite of the fact that the hero is the centralfigure in each. But if we do not observe this we shall attempt to findthe same scheme in both, and shall either be driven to some unnaturalview or to a sceptical despair of perceiving any principle ofconstruction at all. With these warnings, I turn to the question whether we can trace anydistinct method or methods by which Shakespeare represents the rise anddevelopment of the conflict. (1) One at least is obvious, and indeed it is followed not merely duringthe conflict but from beginning to end of the play. There are, ofcourse, in the action certain places where the tension in the minds ofthe audience becomes extreme. We shall consider these presently. But, inaddition, there is, all through the tragedy, a constant alternation ofrises and falls in this tension or in the emotional pitch of the work, aregular sequence of more exciting and less exciting sections. Some kindof variation of pitch is to be found, of course, in all drama, for itrests on the elementary facts that relief must be given after emotionalstrain, and that contrast is required to bring out the full force of aneffect. But a good drama of our own time shows nothing approaching tothe _regularity_ with which in the plays of Shakespeare and of hiscontemporaries the principle is applied. And the main cause of thisdifference lies simply in a change of theatrical arrangements. InShakespeare's theatre, as there was no scenery, scene followed scenewith scarcely any pause; and so the readiest, though not the only, wayto vary the emotional pitch was to interpose a whole scene where thetension was low between scenes where it was high. In our theatres thereis a great deal of scenery, which takes a long time to set and change;and therefore the number of scenes is small, and the variations oftension have to be provided within the scenes, and still more by thepauses between them. With Shakespeare there are, of course, in any longscene variations of tension, but the scenes are numerous and, comparedwith ours, usually short, and variety is given principally by theirdifference in pitch. It may further be observed that, in a portion of the play which isrelatively unexciting, the scenes of lower tension may be as long asthose of higher; while in a portion of the play which is speciallyexciting the scenes of low tension are shorter, often much shorter, thanthe others. The reader may verify this statement by comparing the Firstor the Fourth Act in most of the tragedies with the Third; for, speakingvery roughly, we may say that the First and Fourth are relatively quietacts, the Third highly critical. A good example is the Third Act of_King Lear_, where the scenes of high tension (ii. , iv. , vi. ) arerespectively 95, 186 and 122 lines in length, while those of low tension(i. , iii. , v. ) are respectively 55, 26 and 26 lines long. Scene vii. ,the last of the Act, is, I may add, a very exciting scene, though itfollows scene vi. , and therefore the tone of scene vi. is greatlylowered during its final thirty lines. (2) If we turn now from the differences of tension to the sequence ofevents within the conflict, we shall find the principle of alternationat work again in another and a quite independent way. Let us for thesake of brevity call the two sides in the conflict A and B. Now,usually, as we shall see presently, through a considerable part of theplay, perhaps the first half, the cause of A is, on the whole,advancing; and through the remaining part it is retiring, while that ofB advances in turn. But, underlying this broad movement, all through theconflict we shall find a regular alternation of smaller advances andretirals; first A seeming to win some ground, and then thecounter-action of B being shown. And since we always more or lessdecidedly prefer A to B or B to A, the result of this oscillatingmovement is a constant alternation of hope and fear, or rather of amixed state predominantly hopeful and a mixed state predominantlyapprehensive. An example will make the point clear. In _Hamlet_ theconflict begins with the hero's feigning to be insane fromdisappointment in love, and we are shown his immediate success inconvincing Polonius. Let us call this an advance of A. The next sceneshows the King's great uneasiness about Hamlet's melancholy, and hisscepticism as to Polonius's explanation of its cause: advance of B. Hamlet completely baffles Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who have beensent to discover his secret, and he arranges for the test of theplay-scene: advance of A. But immediately before the play-scene hissoliloquy on suicide fills us with misgiving; and his words to Ophelia,overheard, so convince the King that love is _not_ the cause of hisnephew's strange behaviour, that he determines to get rid of him bysending him to England: advance of B. The play-scene proves a completesuccess: decided advance of A. Directly after it Hamlet spares the Kingat prayer, and in an interview with his mother unwittingly killsPolonius, and so gives his enemy a perfect excuse for sending him away(to be executed): decided advance of B. I need not pursue theillustration further. This oscillating movement can be traced withoutdifficulty in any of the tragedies, though less distinctly in one or twoof the earliest. (3) Though this movement continues right up to the catastrophe, itseffect does not disguise that much broader effect to which I havealready alluded, and which we have now to study. In all the tragedies,though more clearly in some than in others, one side is distinctly feltto be on the whole advancing up to a certain point in the conflict, andthen to be on the whole declining before the reaction of the other. There is therefore felt to be a critical point in the action, whichproves also to be a turning point. It is critical sometimes in the sensethat, until it is reached, the conflict is not, so to speak, clenched;one of the two sets of forces might subside, or a reconciliation mightsomehow be effected; while, as soon as it is reached, we feel this canno longer be. It is critical also because the advancing force hasapparently asserted itself victoriously, gaining, if not all it couldwish, still a very substantial advantage; whereas really it is on thepoint of turning downward towards its fall. This Crisis, as a rule,comes somewhere near the middle of the play; and where it is well markedit has the effect, as to construction, of dividing the play into fiveparts instead of three; these parts showing (1) a situation not yet oneof conflict, (2) the rise and development of the conflict, in which A orB advances on the whole till it reaches (3) the Crisis, on which follows(4) the decline of A or B towards (5) the Catastrophe. And it will beseen that the fourth and fifth parts repeat, though with a reversal ofdirection as regards A or B, the movement of the second and third,working towards the catastrophe as the second and third worked towardsthe crisis. In developing, illustrating and qualifying this statement, it will bebest to begin with the tragedies in which the movement is most clear andsimple. These are _Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_. In the former thefortunes of the conspiracy rise with vicissitudes up to the crisis ofthe assassination (III. i. ); they then sink with vicissitudes to thecatastrophe, where Brutus and Cassius perish. In the latter, Macbeth,hurrying, in spite of much inward resistance, to the murder of Duncan,attains the crown, the upward movement being extraordinarily rapid, andthe crisis arriving early: his cause then turns slowly downward, andsoon hastens to ruin. In both these tragedies the simplicity of theconstructional effect, it should be noticed, depends in part on the factthat the contending forces may quite naturally be identified withcertain persons, and partly again on the fact that the defeat of oneside is the victory of the other. Octavius and Antony, Malcolm andMacduff, are left standing over the bodies of their foes. This is not so in _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Hamlet_, because here,although the hero perishes, the side opposed to him, being the morefaulty or evil, cannot be allowed to triumph when he falls. Otherwisethe type of construction is the same. The fortunes of Romeo and Julietrise and culminate in their marriage (II. vi. ), and then begin todecline before the opposition of their houses, which, aided byaccidents, produces a catastrophe, but is thereupon converted into aremorseful reconciliation. Hamlet's cause reaches its zenith in thesuccess of the play-scene (III. ii. ). Thereafter the reaction makes way,and he perishes through the plot of the King and Laertes. But they arenot allowed to survive their success. The construction in the remaining Roman plays follows the same plan, butin both plays (as in _Richard II. _ and _Richard III. _) it suffers fromthe intractable nature of the historical material, and is alsoinfluenced by other causes. In _Coriolanus_ the hero reaches the topmostpoint of success when he is named consul (II. iii. ), and the rest of theplay shows his decline and fall; but in this decline he attains againfor a time extraordinary power, and triumphs, in a sense, over hisoriginal adversary, though he succumbs to another. In _Antony andCleopatra_ the advance of the hero's cause depends on his freeinghimself from the heroine, and he appears to have succeeded when hebecomes reconciled to Octavius and marries Octavia (III. ii. ); but hereturns to Egypt and is gradually driven to his death, which involvesthat of the heroine. There remain two of the greatest of the tragedies, and in both of them acertain difficulty will be felt. _King Lear_ alone among these plays hasa distinct double action. Besides this, it is impossible, I think, fromthe point of view of construction, to regard the hero as the leadingfigure. If we attempt to do so, we must either find the crisis in theFirst Act (for after it Lear's course is downward), and this is absurd;or else we must say that the usual movement is present but its directionis reversed, the hero's cause first sinking to the lowest point (in theStorm-scenes) and then rising again. But this also will not do; forthough his fortunes may be said to rise again for a time, they rise onlyto fall once more to a catastrophe. The truth is, that after the FirstAct, which is really filled by the exposition, Lear suffers but hardlyinitiates action at all; and the right way to look at the matter, _fromthe point of view of construction_, is to regard Goneril, Regan andEdmund as the leading characters. It is they who, in the conflict,initiate action. Their fortune mounts to the crisis, where the old Kingis driven out into the storm and loses his reason, and where Gloster isblinded and expelled from his home (III. vi. and vii. ). Then thecounter-action begins to gather force, and their cause to decline; and,although they win the battle, they are involved in the catastrophe whichthey bring on Cordelia and Lear. Thus we may still find in _King Lear_the usual scheme of an ascending and a descending movement of one sidein the conflict. The case of _Othello_ is more peculiar. In its whole constructionaleffect _Othello_ differs from the other tragedies, and the cause of thisdifference is not hard to find, and will be mentioned presently. Buthow, after it is found, are we to define the principle of theconstruction? On the one hand the usual method seems to show itself. Othello's fortune certainly advances in the early part of the play, andit may be considered to reach its topmost point in the exquisite joy ofhis reunion with Desdemona in Cyprus; while soon afterwards it begins toturn, and then falls to the catastrophe. But the topmost point thuscomes very early (II. i. ), and, moreover, is but faintly marked; indeed,it is scarcely felt as a crisis at all. And, what is still moresignificant, though reached by conflict, it is not reached by conflictwith the force which afterwards destroys it. Iago, in the early scenes,is indeed shown to cherish a design against Othello, but it is not Iagoagainst whom he has at first to assert himself, but Brabantio; and Iagodoes not even begin to poison his mind until the third scene of theThird Act. Can we then, on the other hand, following the precedent of _King Lear_,and remembering the probable chronological juxtaposition of the twoplays, regard Iago as the leading figure from the point of view ofconstruction? This might at first seem the right view; for it is thecase that _Othello_ resembles _King Lear_ in having a hero more actedupon than acting, or rather a hero driven to act by being acted upon. But then, if Iago is taken as the leading figure, the usual mode ofconstruction is plainly abandoned, for there will nowhere be a crisisfollowed by a descending movement. Iago's cause advances, at firstslowly and quietly, then rapidly, but it does nothing but advance untilthe catastrophe swallows his dupe and him together. And this way ofregarding the action does positive violence, I think, to our naturalimpressions of the earlier part of the play. I think, therefore, that the usual scheme is so far followed that thedrama represents first the rise of the hero, and then his fall. But,however this question may be decided, one striking peculiarity remains,and is the cause of the unique effect of _Othello_. In the first half ofthe play the main conflict is merely incubating; then it bursts intolife, and goes storming, without intermission or change of direction, toits close. Now, in this peculiarity _Othello_ is quite unlike the othertragedies; and in the consequent effect, which is that the second halfof the drama is immeasurably more exciting than the first, it isapproached only by _Antony and Cleopatra_. I shall therefore reserve itfor separate consideration, though in proceeding to speak further ofShakespeare's treatment of the tragic conflict I shall have to mentionsome devices which are used in _Othello_ as well as in the othertragedies. 3Shakespeare's general plan, we have seen, is to show one set of forcesadvancing, in secret or open opposition to the other, to some decisivesuccess, and then driven downward to defeat by the reaction it provokes. And the advantages of this plan, as seen in such a typical instance as_Julius Caesar_, are manifest. It conveys the movement of the conflictto the mind with great clearness and force. It helps to produce theimpression that in his decline and fall the doer's act is returning onhis own head. And, finally, as used by Shakespeare, it makes the firsthalf of the play intensely interesting and dramatic. Action whicheffects a striking change in an existing situation is naturally watchedwith keen interest; and this we find in some of these tragedies. And thespectacle, which others exhibit, of a purpose forming itself and, inspite of outward obstacles and often of inward resistance, forcing itsway onward to a happy consummation or a terrible deed, not only givesscope to that psychological subtlety in which Shakespeare is scarcelyrivalled, but is also dramatic in the highest degree. But when the crisis has been reached there come difficulties anddangers, which, if we put Shakespeare for the moment out of mind, areeasily seen. An immediate and crushing counter-action would, no doubt,sustain the interest, but it would precipitate the catastrophe, andleave a feeling that there has been too long a preparation for a finaleffect so brief. What seems necessary is a momentary pause, followed bya counter-action which mounts at first slowly, and afterwards, as itgathers force, with quickening speed. And yet the result of thisarrangement, it would seem, must be, for a time, a decided slackening oftension. Nor is this the only difficulty. The persons who represent thecounter-action and now take the lead, are likely to be comparativelyunfamiliar, and therefore unwelcome, to the audience; and, even iffamiliar, they are almost sure to be at first, if not permanently, lessinteresting than those who figured in the ascending movement, and onwhom attention has been fixed. Possibly, too, their necessary prominencemay crowd the hero into the back-ground. Hence the point of danger inthis method of construction seems to lie in that section of the playwhich follows the crisis and has not yet approached the catastrophe. Andthis section will usually comprise the Fourth Act, together, in somecases, with a part of the Third and a part of the Fifth. Shakespeare was so masterly a playwright, and had so wonderful a powerof giving life to unpromising subjects, that to a large extent he wasable to surmount this difficulty. But illustrations of it are easily tobe found in his tragedies, and it is not always surmounted. In almostall of them we are conscious of that momentary pause in the action,though, as we shall see, it does not generally occur _immediately_ afterthe crisis. Sometimes he allows himself to be driven to keep the herooff the stage for a long time while the counter-action is rising;Macbeth, Hamlet and Coriolanus during about 450 lines, Lear for nearly500, Romeo for about 550 (it matters less here, because Juliet is quiteas important as Romeo). How can a drama in which this happens compete,in its latter part, with _Othello_? And again, how can deliberationsbetween Octavius, Antony and Lepidus, between Malcolm and Macduff,between the Capulets, between Laertes and the King, keep us at thepitch, I do not say of the crisis, but even of the action which led upto it? Good critics--writers who have criticised Shakespeare's dramasfrom within, instead of applying to them some standard ready-made bythemselves or derived from dramas and a theatre of quite other kindsthan his--have held that some of his greatest tragedies fall off in theFourth Act, and that one or two never wholly recover themselves. And Ibelieve most readers would find, if they examined their impressions,that to their minds _Julius Caesar_, _Hamlet_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_have all a tendency to 'drag' in this section of the play, and that thefirst and perhaps also the last of these four fail even in thecatastrophe to reach the height of the greatest scenes that havepreceded the Fourth Act. I will not ask how far these impressions arejustified. The difficulties in question will become clearer and willgain in interest if we look rather at the means which have been employedto meet them, and which certainly have in part, at least, overcome them. (_a_) The first of these is always strikingly effective, sometimesmarvellously so. The crisis in which the ascending force reaches itszenith is followed quickly, or even without the slightest pause, by areverse or counter-blow not less emphatic and in some cases even moreexciting. And the effect is to make us feel a sudden and tragic changein the direction of the movement, which, after ascending more or lessgradually, now turns sharply downward. To the assassination of Caesar(III. i. ) succeeds the scene in the Forum (III. ii. ), where Antonycarries the people away in a storm of sympathy with the dead man and offury against the conspirators. We have hardly realised their victorybefore we are forced to anticipate their ultimate defeat and to take theliveliest interest in their chief antagonist. In _Hamlet_ the thrillingsuccess of the play-scene (III. ii. ) is met and undone at once by thecounter-stroke of Hamlet's failure to take vengeance (III. iii. ) and hismisfortune in killing Polonius (III. iv. ). Coriolanus has no soonergained the consulship than he is excited to frenzy by the tribunes anddriven into exile. On the marriage of Romeo follows immediately thebrawl which leads to Mercutio's death and the banishment of the hero(II. vi. and III. i. ). In all of these instances excepting that of_Hamlet_ the scene of the counter-stroke is at least as exciting as thatof the crisis, perhaps more so. Most people, if asked to mention thescene that occupies the _centre_ of the action in _Julius Caesar_ and in_Coriolanus_, would mention the scenes of Antony's speech andCoriolanus' banishment. Thus that apparently necessary pause in theaction does not, in any of these dramas, come directly after the crisis. It is deferred; and in several cases it is by various devices deferredfor some little time; _e. g. _ in _Romeo and Juliet_ till the hero hasleft Verona, and Juliet is told that her marriage with Paris is to takeplace 'next Thursday morn' (end of Act III. ); in _Macbeth_ till themurder of Duncan has been followed by that of Banquo, and this by thebanquet-scene. Hence the point where this pause occurs is very rarelyreached before the end of the Third Act. (_b_) Either at this point, or in the scene of the counter-stroke whichprecedes it, we sometimes find a peculiar effect. We are reminded of thestate of affairs in which the conflict began. The opening of _JuliusCaesar_ warned us that, among a people so unstable and so easily ledthis way or that, the enterprise of Brutus is hopeless; the days of theRepublic are done. In the scene of Antony's speech we see this samepeople again. At the beginning of _Antony and Cleopatra_ the hero isabout to leave Cleopatra for Rome. Where the play takes, as it were, afresh start after the crisis, he leaves Octavia for Egypt. In _Hamlet_,when the counter-stroke succeeds to the crisis, the Ghost, who hadappeared in the opening scenes, reappears. Macbeth's action in the firstpart of the tragedy followed on the prediction of the Witches whopromised him the throne. When the action moves forward again after thebanquet-scene the Witches appear once more, and make those freshpromises which again drive him forward. This repetition of a firsteffect produces a fateful feeling. It generally also stimulatesexpectation as to the new movement about to begin. In _Macbeth_ thescene is, in addition, of the greatest consequence from the purelytheatrical point of view. (_c_) It has yet another function. It shows, in Macbeth's furiousirritability and purposeless savagery, the internal reaction whichaccompanies the outward decline of his fortunes. And in other plays alsothe exhibition of such inner changes forms a means by which interest issustained in this difficult section of a tragedy. There is no point in_Hamlet_ where we feel more hopeless than that where the hero, havingmissed his chance, moralises over his irresolution and determines tocherish now only thoughts of blood, and then departs without an effortfor England. One purpose, again, of the quarrel-scene between Brutus andCassius (IV. iii), as also of the appearance of Caesar's ghost justafterwards, is to indicate the inward changes. Otherwise theintroduction of this famous and wonderful scene can hardly be defendedon strictly dramatic grounds. No one would consent to part with it, andit is invaluable in sustaining interest during the progress of thereaction, but it is an episode, the removal of which would not affectthe actual sequence of events (unless we may hold that, but for theemotion caused by the quarrel and reconciliation, Cassius would not haveallowed Brutus to overcome his objection to the fatal policy of offeringbattle at Philippi). (_d_) The quarrel-scene illustrates yet another favourite expedient. Inthis section of a tragedy Shakespeare often appeals to an emotiondifferent from any of those excited in the first half of the play, andso provides novelty and generally also relief. As a rule this newemotion is pathetic; and the pathos is not terrible or lacerating, but,even if painful, is accompanied by the sense of beauty and by an outflowof admiration or affection, which come with an inexpressible sweetnessafter the tension of the crisis and the first counter-stroke. So it iswith the reconciliation of Brutus and Cassius, and the arrival of thenews of Portia's death. The most famous instance of this effect is thescene (IV. vii. ) where Lear wakes from sleep and finds Cordelia bendingover him, perhaps the most tear-compelling passage in literature. Another is the short scene (IV. ii. ) in which the talk of Lady Macduffand her little boy is interrupted by the entrance of the murderers, apassage of touching beauty and heroism. Another is the introduction ofOphelia in her madness (twice in different parts of IV. v. ), where theeffect, though intensely pathetic, is beautiful and moving rather thanharrowing; and this effect is repeated in a softer tone in thedescription of Ophelia's death (end of Act IV. ). And in _Othello_ thepassage where pathos of _this_ kind reaches its height is certainly thatwhere Desdemona and Emilia converse, and the willow-song is sung, on theeve of the catastrophe (IV. iii. ). (_e_) Sometimes, again, in this section of a tragedy we find humorous orsemi-humorous passages. On the whole such passages occur most frequentlyin the early or middle part of the play, which naturally grows moresombre as it nears the close; but their occasional introduction in theFourth Act, and even later, affords variety and relief, and alsoheightens by contrast the tragic feelings. For example, there is a touchof comedy in the conversation of Lady Macduff with her little boy. Purely and delightfully humorous are the talk and behaviour of theservants in that admirable scene where Coriolanus comes disguised inmean apparel to the house of Aufidius (IV. v. ); of a more mingled kindis the effect of the discussion between Menenius and the sentinels in V. ii. ; and in the very middle of the supreme scene between the hero,Volumnia and Virgilia, little Marcius makes us burst out laughing (V. iii. ) A little before the catastrophe in _Hamlet_ comes the grave-diggerpassage, a passage ever welcome, but of a length which could hardly bedefended on purely dramatic grounds; and still later, occupying somehundred and twenty lines of the very last scene, we have the chatter ofOsric with Hamlet's mockery of it. But the acme of audacity is reachedin _Antony and Cleopatra_, where, quite close to the end, the oldcountryman who brings the asps to Cleopatra discourses on the virtuesand vices of the worm, and where his last words, 'Yes, forsooth: I wishyou joy o' the worm,' are followed, without the intervention of a line,by the glorious speech,     Give me my robe; put on my crown; I have     Immortal longings in me. . . . In some of the instances of pathos or humour just mentioned we have beenbrought to that part of the play which immediately precedes, or evencontains, the catastrophe. And I will add at once three remarks whichrefer specially to this final section of a tragedy. (_f_) In several plays Shakespeare makes here an appeal which in his owntime was evidently powerful: he introduces scenes of battle. This is thecase in _Richard III. _, _Julius Caesar_, _King Lear_, _Macbeth_ and_Antony and Cleopatra_. Richard, Brutus and Cassius, and Macbeth die onthe battlefield. Even if his use of this expedient were not enough toshow that battle-scenes were extremely popular in the Elizabethantheatre, we know it from other sources. It is a curious comment on thefutility of our spectacular effects that in our theatre these scenes, inwhich we strive after an 'illusion' of which the Elizabethans neverdreamt, produce comparatively little excitement, and to many spectatorsare even somewhat distasteful. [22] And although some of them thrill theimagination of the reader, they rarely, I think, quite satisfy the_dramatic_ sense. Perhaps this is partly because a battle is not themost favourable place for the exhibition of tragic character; and it isworth notice that Brutus, Cassius and Antony do not die fighting, butcommit suicide after defeat. The actual battle, however, does make usfeel the greatness of Antony, and still more does it help us to regardRichard and Macbeth in their day of doom as heroes, and to minglesympathy and enthusiastic admiration with desire for their defeat. (_g_) In some of the tragedies, again, an expedient is used, whichFreytag has pointed out (though he sometimes finds it, I think, where itis not really employed). Shakespeare very rarely makes the least attemptto surprise by his catastrophes. They are felt to be inevitable, thoughthe precise way in which they will be brought about is not, of course,foreseen. Occasionally, however, where we dread the catastrophe becausewe love the hero, a moment occurs, just before it, in which a gleam offalse hope lights up the darkening scene; and, though we know it isfalse, it affects us. Far the most remarkable example is to be found inthe final Act of _King Lear_. Here the victory of Edgar and the deathsof Edmund and the two sisters have almost made us forget the design onthe lives of Lear and Cordelia. Even when we are reminded of it there isstill room for hope that Edgar, who rushes away to the prison, will bein time to save them; and, however familiar we are with the play, thesudden entrance of Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms, comes on uswith a shock. Much slighter, but quite perceptible, is the effect ofAntony's victory on land, and of the last outburst of pride and joy ashe and Cleopatra meet (IV. viii. ). The frank apology of Hamlet toLaertes, their reconciliation, and a delusive appearance of quiet andeven confident firmness in the tone of the hero's conversation withHoratio, almost blind us to our better knowledge, and give to thecatastrophe an added pain. Those in the audience who are ignorant of_Macbeth_, and who take more simply than most readers now can do themysterious prophecies concerning Birnam Wood and the man not born ofwoman, feel, I imagine, just before the catastrophe, a false fear thatthe hero may yet escape. (_h_) I will mention only one point more. In some cases Shakespearespreads the catastrophe out, so to speak, over a considerable space, andthus shortens that difficult section which has to show the developmentof the counter-action. This is possible only where there is, besides thehero, some character who engages our interest in the highest degree, andwith whose fate his own is bound up. Thus the murder of Desdemona isseparated by some distance from the death of Othello. The mostimpressive scene in _Macbeth_, after that of Duncan's murder, is thesleep-walking scene; and it may truly, if not literally, be said to showthe catastrophe of Lady Macbeth. Yet it is the opening scene of theFifth Act, and a number of scenes in which Macbeth's fate is stillapproaching intervene before the close. Finally, in _Antony andCleopatra_ the heroine equals the hero in importance, and here the deathof Antony actually occurs in the Fourth Act, and the whole of the Fifthis devoted to Cleopatra.       *       *       *       *       *Let us now turn to _Othello_ and consider briefly its exceptional schemeof construction. The advantage of this scheme is obvious. In the secondhalf of the tragedy there is no danger of 'dragging,' of any awkwardpause, any undue lowering of pitch, any need of scenes which, howeverfine, are more or less episodic. The tension is extreme, and it isrelaxed only for brief intervals to permit of some slight relief. Fromthe moment when Iago begins to poison Othello's mind we hold our breath. _Othello_ from this point onwards is certainly the most exciting ofShakespeare's plays, unless possibly _Macbeth_ in its first part may beheld to rival it. And _Othello_ is such a masterpiece that we arescarcely conscious of any disadvantage attending its method ofconstruction, and may even wonder why Shakespeare employed thismethod--at any rate in its purity--in this tragedy alone. Nor is it anyanswer to say that it would not elsewhere have suited his material. Evenif this be granted, how was it that he only once chose a story to whichthis method was appropriate? To his eyes, or for his instinct, theremust have been some disadvantage in it. And dangers in it are in factnot hard to see. In the first place, where the conflict develops very slowly, or, as in_Othello_, remains in a state of incubation during the first part of atragedy, that part cannot produce the tension proper to thecorresponding part of a tragedy like _Macbeth_, and may even run therisk of being somewhat flat. This seems obvious, and it is none the lesstrue because in _Othello_ the difficulty is overcome. We may even seethat in _Othello_ a difficulty was felt. The First Act is full of stir,but it is so because Shakespeare has filled it with a kind ofpreliminary conflict between the hero and Brabantio,--a personage whothen vanishes from the stage. The long first scene of the Second Act islargely occupied with mere conversations, artfully drawn out todimensions which can scarcely be considered essential to the plot. Theseexpedients are fully justified by their success, and nothing moreconsummate in their way is to be found in Shakespeare than Othello'sspeech to the Senate and Iago's two talks with Roderigo. But the factthat Shakespeare can make a plan succeed does not show that the plan is,abstractedly considered, a good plan; and if the scheme of constructionin _Othello_ were placed, in the shape of a mere outline, before aplay-wright ignorant of the actual drama, he would certainly, I believe,feel grave misgivings about the first half of the play. There is a second difficulty in the scheme. When the middle of thetragedy is reached, the audience is not what it was at the beginning. Ithas been attending for some time, and has been through a certain amountof agitation. The extreme tension which now arises may therefore easilytire and displease it, all the more if the matter which produces thetension is very painful, if the catastrophe is not less so, and if thelimits of the remainder of the play (not to speak of any otherconsideration) permit of very little relief. It is one thing to watchthe scene of Duncan's assassination at the beginning of the Second Act,and another thing to watch the murder of Desdemona at the beginning ofthe Fifth. If Shakespeare has wholly avoided this difficulty in_Othello_, it is by treating the first part of the play in such a mannerthat the sympathies excited are predominantly pleasant and therefore notexhausting. The scene in the Council Chamber, and the scene of thereunion at Cyprus, give almost unmixed happiness to the audience;however repulsive Iago may be, the humour of his gulling of Roderigo isagreeable; even the scene of Cassio's intoxication is not, on the whole,painful. Hence we come to the great temptation-scene, where the conflictemerges into life (III. iii. ), with nerves unshaken and feelings muchfresher than those with which we greet the banquet-scene in _Macbeth_(III. iv. ), or the first of the storm-scenes in _King Lear_ (III. i. ). The same skill may be observed in _Antony and Cleopatra_, where, as wesaw, the second half of the tragedy is the more exciting. But, again,the success due to Shakespeare's skill does not show that the scheme ofconstruction is free from a characteristic danger; and on the whole itwould appear to be best fitted for a plot which, though it may causepainful agitation as it nears the end, actually ends with a solutioninstead of a catastrophe. But for Shakespeare's scanty use of this method there may have been adeeper, though probably an unconscious, reason. The method suits a plotbased on intrigue. It may produce intense suspense. It may stir mostpowerfully the tragic feelings of pity and fear. And it throws intorelief that aspect of tragedy in which great or beautiful lives seemcaught in the net of fate. But it is apt to be less favourable to theexhibition of character, to show less clearly how an act returns uponthe agent, and to produce less strongly the impression of an inexorableorder working in the passions and actions of men, and labouring throughtheir agony and waste towards good. Now, it seems clear from histragedies that what appealed most to Shakespeare was this latter classof effects. I do not ask here whether _Othello_ fails to produce, in thesame degree as the other tragedies, these impressions; but Shakespeare'spreference for them may have been one reason why he habitually chose ascheme of construction which produces in the final Acts but little ofstrained suspense, and presents the catastrophe as a thing foreseen andfollowing with a psychological and moral necessity on the actionexhibited in the first part of the tragedy. 4The more minute details of construction cannot well be examined here,and I will not pursue the subject further. But its discussion suggests aquestion which will have occurred to some of my hearers. They may haveasked themselves whether I have not used the words 'art' and 'device'and 'expedient' and 'method' too boldly, as though Shakespeare were aconscious artist, and not rather a writer who constructed in obedienceto an extraordinary dramatic instinct, as he composed mainly byinspiration. And a brief explanation on this head will enable me toallude to a few more points, chiefly of construction, which are not tootechnical for a lecture. In speaking, for convenience, of devices and expedients, I did notintend to imply that Shakespeare always deliberately aimed at theeffects which he produced. But _no_ artist always does this, and I seeno reason to doubt that Shakespeare often did it, or to suppose that hismethod of constructing and composing differed, except in degree, fromthat of the most 'conscious' of artists. The antithesis of art andinspiration, though not meaningless, is often most misleading. Inspiration is surely not incompatible with considerate workmanship.

Thetwo may be severed, but they need not be so, and where a genuinelypoetic result is being produced they cannot be so. The glow of a firstconception must in some measure survive or rekindle itself in the workof planning and executing; and what is called a technical expedient may'come' to a man with as sudden a glory as a splendid image. Verse may beeasy and unpremeditated, as Milton says his was, and yet many a word init may be changed many a time, and the last change be more 'inspired'than the original. The difference between poets in these matters is nodoubt considerable, and sometimes important, but it can only be adifference of less and more. It is probable that Shakespeare often wrotefluently, for Jonson (a better authority than Heminge and Condell) saysso; and for anything we can tell he may also have constructed withunusual readiness. But we know that he revised and re-wrote (forinstance in _Love's Labour's Lost_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Hamlet_);it is almost impossible that he can have worked out the plots of hisbest plays without much reflection and many experiments; and it appearsto me scarcely more possible to mistake the signs of deliberate care insome of his famous speeches. If a 'conscious artist' means one who holdshis work away from him, scrutinises and judges it, and, if need be,alters it and alters it till it comes as near satisfying him as he canmake it, I am sure that Shakespeare frequently employed such consciousart. If it means, again, an artist who consciously aims at the effectshe produces, what ground have we for doubting that he frequentlyemployed such art, though probably less frequently than a good manyother poets? But perhaps the notion of a 'conscious artist' in drama is that of onewho studies the theory of the art, and even writes with an eye to its'rules. ' And we know it was long a favourite idea that Shakespeare wastotally ignorant of the 'rules. ' Yet this is quite incredible. Therules referred to, such as they were, were not buried in Aristotle'sGreek nor even hidden away in Italian treatises. He could find prettywell all of them in a book so current and famous as Sidney's _Defenceof Poetry_. Even if we suppose that he refused to open this book(which is most unlikely), how could he possibly remain ignorant of therules in a society of actors and dramatists and amateurs who must havebeen incessantly talking about plays and play-writing, and some ofwhom were ardent champions of the rules and full of contempt for thelawlessness of the popular drama? Who can doubt that at the MermaidShakespeare heard from Jonson's lips much more censure of his offencesagainst 'art' than Jonson ever confided to Drummond or to paper? Andis it not most probable that those battles between the two whichFuller imagines, were waged often on the field of dramatic criticism? If Shakespeare, then, broke some of the 'rules,' it was not fromignorance. Probably he refused, on grounds of art itself, to troublehimself with rules derived from forms of drama long extinct. And it isnot unlikely that he was little interested in theory as such, and morethan likely that he was impatient of pedantic distinctions between'pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical,tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable or poemunlimited. ' But that would not prove that he never reflected on hisart, or could not explain, if he cared to, what _he_ thought would begood general rules for the drama of his own time. He could give adviceabout play-acting. Why should we suppose that he could not give adviceabout play-making? Still Shakespeare, though in some considerable degree a 'conscious'artist, frequently sins against art; and if his sins were not due toignorance or inspiration, they must be accounted for otherwise. Neithercan there be much doubt about their causes (for they have more than onecause), as we shall see if we take some illustrations of the defectsthemselves. Among these are not to be reckoned certain things which in dramaswritten at the present time would rightly be counted defects. There are,for example, in most Elizabethan plays peculiarities of constructionwhich would injure a play written for our stage but were perfectlywell-fitted for that very different stage,--a stage on which again someof the best-constructed plays of our time would appear absurdly faulty. Or take the charge of improbability. Shakespeare certainly hasimprobabilities which are defects. They are most frequent in the windingup of his comedies (and how many comedies are there in the world whichend satisfactorily? ). But his improbabilities are rarely psychological,and in some of his plays there occurs one kind of improbability which isno defect, but simply a characteristic which has lost in our day much ofits former attraction. I mean that the story, in most of the comediesand many of the tragedies of the Elizabethans, was _intended_ to bestrange and wonderful. These plays were tales of romance dramatised, andthey were meant in part to satisfy the same love of wonder to which theromances appealed. It is no defect in the Arthurian legends, or the oldFrench romances, or many of the stories in the _Decameron_, that theyare improbable: it is a virtue. To criticise them as though they were ofthe same species as a realistic novel, is, we should all say, merelystupid. Is it anything else to criticise in the same way _Twelfth Night_or _As You Like It_? And so, even when the difference between comedy andtragedy is allowed for, the improbability of the opening of _King Lear_,so often censured, is no defect. It is not out of character, it is onlyextremely unusual and strange. But it was meant to be so; like themarriage of the black Othello with Desdemona, the Venetian senator'sdaughter. To come then to real defects, (_a_) one may be found in places whereShakespeare strings together a number of scenes, some very short, inwhich the _dramatis personae_ are frequently changed; as though anovelist were to tell his story in a succession of short chapters, inwhich he flitted from one group of his characters to another. Thismethod shows itself here and there in the pure tragedies (_e. g. _ in thelast Act of _Macbeth_), but it appears most decidedly where thehistorical material was undramatic, as in the middle part of _Antony andCleopatra_. It was made possible by the absence of scenery, anddoubtless Shakespeare used it because it was the easiest way out of adifficulty. But, considered abstractedly, it is a defective method, and,even as used by Shakespeare, it sometimes reminds us of the merelynarrative arrangement common in plays before his time. (_b_) We may take next the introduction or excessive development ofmatter neither required by the plot nor essential to the exhibition ofcharacter: _e. g. _ the references in _Hamlet_ to theatre-quarrels of theday, and the length of the player's speech and also of Hamlet'sdirections to him respecting the delivery of the lines to be inserted inthe 'Murder of Gonzago. ' All this was probably of great interest at thetime when _Hamlet_ was first presented; most of it we should be verysorry to miss; some of it seems to bring us close to Shakespearehimself; but who can defend it from the point of view of constructiveart? (_c_) Again, we may look at Shakespeare's soliloquies. It will be agreedthat in listening to a soliloquy we ought never to feel that we arebeing addressed. And in this respect, as in others, many of thesoliloquies are master-pieces. But certainly in some the purpose ofgiving information lies bare, and in one or two the actor openly speaksto the audience. Such faults are found chiefly in the early plays,though there is a glaring instance at the end of Belarius's speech in_Cymbeline_ (III. iii. 99 ff. ), and even in the mature tragediessomething of this kind may be traced. Let anyone compare, for example,Edmund's soliloquy in _King Lear_, I. ii. , 'This is the excellentfoppery of the world,' with Edgar's in II. iii. , and he will beconscious that in the latter the purpose of giving information isimperfectly disguised. [23](_d_) It cannot be denied, further, that in many of Shakespeare's plays,if not in all, there are inconsistencies and contradictions, and alsothat questions are suggested to the reader which it is impossible forhim to answer with certainty. For instance, some of the indications ofthe lapse of time between Othello's marriage and the events of the laterActs flatly contradict one another; and it is impossible to make outwhether Hamlet was at Court or at the University when his father wasmurdered. But it should be noticed that often what seems a defect ofthis latter kind is not really a defect. For instance, the difficultyabout Hamlet's age (even if it cannot be resolved by the text alone) didnot exist for Shakespeare's audience. The moment Burbage entered it musthave been clear whether the hero was twenty or thirty. And in likemanner many questions of dramatic interpretation which trouble us couldnever have arisen when the plays were first produced, for the actorwould be instructed by the author how to render any critical andpossibly ambiguous passage. (I have heard it remarked, and the remark Ibelieve is just, that Shakespeare seems to have relied on suchinstructions less than most of his contemporaries; one fact out ofseveral which might be adduced to prove that he did not regard his playsas mere stage-dramas of the moment. )(_e_) To turn to another field, the early critics were no doubt oftenprovokingly wrong when they censured the language of particular passagesin Shakespeare as obscure, inflated, tasteless, or 'pestered withmetaphors'; but they were surely right in the general statement that hislanguage often shows these faults. And this is a subject which latercriticism has never fairly faced and examined. (_f_) Once more, to say that Shakespeare makes all his seriouscharacters talk alike,[24] and that he constantly speaks through themouths of his _dramatis personae_ without regard to their individualnatures, would be to exaggerate absurdly; but it is true that in hisearlier plays these faults are traceable in some degree, and even in_Hamlet_ there are striking passages where dramatic appropriateness issacrificed to some other object. When Laertes speaks the linesbeginning,     For nature, crescent, does not grow alone     In thews and bulk,who can help feeling that Shakespeare is speaking rather than Laertes? Or when the player-king discourses for more than twenty lines on theinstability of human purpose, and when King Claudius afterwards insiststo Laertes on the same subject at almost equal length, who does not seethat Shakespeare, thinking but little of dramatic fitness, wishes inpart simply to write poetry, and partly to impress on the audiencethoughts which will help them to understand, not the player-king nor yetKing Claudius, but Hamlet himself, who, on his side,--and here quite incharacter--has already enlarged on the same topic in the most famous ofhis soliloquies? (_g_) Lastly, like nearly all the dramatists of his day and of timesmuch earlier, Shakespeare was fond of 'gnomic' passages, and introducesthem probably not more freely than his readers like, but more freelythan, I suppose, a good play-wright now would care to do. Thesepassages, it may be observed, are frequently rhymed (_e. g. _ _Othello_,I. iii. 201 ff. , II. i. 149 ff. ). Sometimes they were printed in earlyeditions with inverted commas round them, as are in the First QuartoPolonius's 'few precepts' to Laertes. If now we ask whence defects like these arose, we shall observe thatsome of them are shared by the majority of Shakespeare's contemporaries,and abound in the dramas immediately preceding his time. They arecharacteristics of an art still undeveloped, and, no doubt, were notperceived to be defects. But though it is quite probable that in regardto one or two kinds of imperfection (such as the superabundance of'gnomic' passages) Shakespeare himself erred thus ignorantly, it is veryunlikely that in most cases he did so, unless in the first years of hiscareer of authorship. And certainly he never can have thought itartistic to leave inconsistencies, obscurities, or passages of bombastin his work. Most of the defects in his writings must be due toindifference or want of care. I do not say that all were so. In regard, for example, to his occasionalbombast and other errors of diction, it seems hardly doubtful that hisperception was sometimes at fault, and that, though he used the Englishlanguage like no one else, he had not that _sureness_ of taste in wordswhich has been shown by some much smaller writers. And it seems notunlikely that here he suffered from his comparative want of'learning,'--that is, of familiarity with the great writers ofantiquity. But nine-tenths of his defects are not, I believe, the errorsof an inspired genius, ignorant of art, but the sins of a great butnegligent artist. He was often, no doubt, over-worked and pressed fortime. He knew that the immense majority of his audience were incapableof distinguishing between rough and finished work. He often felt thedegradation of having to live by pleasing them. Probably in hours ofdepression he was quite indifferent to fame, and perhaps in another moodthe whole business of play-writing seemed to him a little thing. None ofthese thoughts and feelings influenced him when his subject had caughthold of him. To imagine that _then_ he 'winged his roving flight' for'gain' or 'glory,' or wrote from any cause on earth but the necessity ofexpression, with all its pains and raptures, is mere folly. He waspossessed: his mind must have been in a white heat: he worked, no doubt,with the _furia_ of Michael Angelo. And if he did not succeed atonce--and how can even he have always done so? --he returned to thematter again and again. Such things as the scenes of Duncan's murder orOthello's temptation, such speeches as those of the Duke to Claudio andof Claudio to his sister about death, were not composed in an hour andtossed aside; and if they have defects, they have not what Shakespearethought defects. Nor is it possible that his astonishingly individualconceptions of character can have been struck out at a heat: prolongedand repeated thought must have gone to them. But of smallinconsistencies in the plot he was often quite careless. He seems tohave finished off some of his comedies with a hasty and evencontemptuous indifference, as if it mattered nothing how the people gotmarried, or even who married whom, so long as enough were marriedsomehow. And often, when he came to parts of his scheme that werenecessary but not interesting to him, he wrote with a slack hand, like acraftsman of genius who knows that his natural gift and acquired skillwill turn out something more than good enough for his audience: wroteprobably fluently but certainly negligently, sometimes only half sayingwhat he meant, and sometimes saying the opposite, and now and then, whenpassion was required, lapsing into bombast because he knew he mustheighten his style but would not take the trouble to inflame hisimagination. It may truly be said that what injures such passages is notinspiration, but the want of it. But, as they are mostly passages whereno poet could expect to be inspired, it is even more true to say thathere Shakespeare lacked the conscience of the artist who is determinedto make everything as good as he can. Such poets as Milton, Pope,Tennyson, habitually show this conscience. They left probably scarcelyanything that they felt they could improve. No one could dream of sayingthat of Shakespeare. Hence comes what is perhaps the chief difficulty in interpreting hisworks. Where his power or art is fully exerted it really does resemblethat of nature. It organises and vitalises its product from the centreoutward to the minutest markings on the surface, so that when you turnupon it the most searching light you can command, when you dissect itand apply to it the test of a microscope, still you find in it nothingformless, general or vague, but everywhere structure, character,individuality. In this his great things, which seem to come wheneverthey are wanted, have no companions in literature except the fewgreatest things in Dante; and it is a fatal error to allow hiscarelessness elsewhere to make one doubt whether here one is not seekingmore than can be found. It is very possible to look for subtlety in thewrong places in Shakespeare, but in the right places it is not possibleto find too much. But then this characteristic, which is one source ofhis endless attraction, is also a source of perplexity. For in thoseparts of his plays which show him neither in his most intense nor in hismost negligent mood, we are often unable to decide whether somethingthat seems inconsistent, indistinct, feeble, exaggerated, is really so,or whether it was definitely meant to be as it is, and has an intentionwhich we ought to be able to divine; whether, for example, we havebefore us some unusual trait in character, some abnormal movement ofmind, only surprising to us because we understand so very much less ofhuman nature than Shakespeare did, or whether he wanted to get his workdone and made a slip, or in using an old play adopted hastily somethingthat would not square with his own conception, or even refused totrouble himself with minutiae which we notice only because we study him,but which nobody ever notices in a stage performance. We know wellenough what Shakespeare is doing when at the end of _Measure forMeasure_ he marries Isabella to the Duke--and a scandalous proceeding itis; but who can ever feel sure that the doubts which vex him as to somenot unimportant points in _Hamlet_ are due to his own want of eyesightor to Shakespeare's want of care? FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 16: The famous critics of the Romantic Revival seem to havepaid very little attention to this subject. Mr. R. G. Moulton has writtenan interesting book on _Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist_ (1885). Inparts of my analysis I am much indebted to Gustav Freytag's _Technik desDramas_, a book which deserves to be much better known than it appearsto be to Englishmen interested in the drama. I may add, for the benefitof classical scholars, that Freytag has a chapter on Sophocles. Thereader of his book will easily distinguish, if he cares to, the placeswhere I follow Freytag, those where I differ from him, and those where Iwrite in independence of him. I may add that in speaking of constructionI have thought it best to assume in my hearers no previous knowledge ofthe subject; that I have not attempted to discuss how much of what issaid of Shakespeare would apply also to other dramatists; and that Ihave illustrated from the tragedies generally, not only from the chosenfour. ][Footnote 17: This word throughout the lecture bears the sense it hashere, which, of course, is not its usual dramatic sense. ][Footnote 18: In the same way a comedy will consist of three parts,showing the 'situation,' the 'complication' or 'entanglement,' and the_dénouement_ or 'solution. '][Footnote 19: It is possible, of course, to open the tragedy with theconflict already begun, but Shakespeare never does so. ][Footnote 20: When the subject comes from English history, andespecially when the play forms one of a series, some knowledge may beassumed. So in _Richard III. _ Even in _Richard II. _ not a littleknowledge seems to be assumed, and this fact points to the existence ofa popular play on the earlier part of Richard's reign. Such a playexists, though it is not clear that it is a genuine Elizabethan work. See the _Jahrbuch d. deutschen Sh. -gesellschaft_ for 1899. ][Footnote 21: This is one of several reasons why many people enjoyreading him, who, on the whole, dislike reading plays. A main cause ofthis very general dislike is that the reader has not a lively enoughimagination to carry him with pleasure through the exposition, though inthe theatre, where his imagination is helped, he would experience littledifficulty. ][Footnote 22: The end of _Richard III. _ is perhaps an exception. ][Footnote 23: I do not discuss the general question of the justificationof soliloquy, for it concerns not Shakespeare only, but practically alldramatists down to quite recent times. I will only remark that neithersoliloquy nor the use of verse can be condemned on the mere ground thatthey are 'unnatural. ' No dramatic language is 'natural'; _all_ dramaticlanguage is idealised. So that the question as to soliloquy must be oneas to the degree of idealisation and the balance of advantages anddisadvantages. (Since this lecture was written I have read some remarkson Shakespeare's soliloquies to much the same effect by E. Kilian in the_Jahrbuch d. deutschen Shakespeare-Gesellschaft_ for 1903. )][Footnote 24: If by this we mean that these characters all speak what isrecognisably Shakespeare's style, of course it is true; but it is noaccusation. Nor does it follow that they all speak alike; and in factthey are far from doing so. ]LECTURE IIISHAKESPEARE'S TRAGIC PERIOD--HAMLET1Before we come to-day to _Hamlet_, the first of our four tragedies, afew remarks must be made on their probable place in Shakespeare'sliterary career. But I shall say no more than seems necessary for ourrestricted purpose, and, therefore, for the most part shall merely bestating widely accepted results of investigation, without going into theevidence on which they rest. [25]Shakespeare's tragedies fall into two distinct groups, and these groupsare separated by a considerable interval. He wrote tragedy--pure, like_Romeo and Juliet_; historical, like _Richard III. _--in the early yearsof his career of authorship, when he was also writing such comedies as_Love's Labour's Lost_ and the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_. Then came atime, lasting some half-dozen years, during which he composed the mostmature and humorous of his English History plays (the plays withFalstaff in them), and the best of his romantic comedies (the plays withBeatrice and Jaques and Viola in them). There are no tragedies belongingto these half-dozen years, nor any dramas approaching tragedy. But now,from about 1601 to about 1608, comes tragedy after tragedy--_JuliusCaesar_, _Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_, _Timon of Athens_, _Macbeth_,_Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_; and their companions are playswhich cannot indeed be called tragedies, but certainly are not comediesin the same sense as _As You Like It_ or the _Tempest_. These sevenyears, accordingly, might, without much risk of misunderstanding, becalled Shakespeare's tragic period. [26] And after it he wrote no moretragedies, but chiefly romances more serious and less sunny than _As YouLike It_, but not much less serene. The existence of this distinct tragic period, of a time when thedramatist seems to have been occupied almost exclusively with deep andpainful problems, has naturally helped to suggest the idea that the'man' also, in these years of middle age, from thirty-seven toforty-four, was heavily burdened in spirit; that Shakespeare turned totragedy not merely for change, or because he felt it to be the greatestform of drama and felt himself equal to it, but also because the worldhad come to look dark and terrible to him; and even that the railings ofThersites and the maledictions of Timon express his own contempt andhatred for mankind. Discussion of this large and difficult subject,however, is not necessary to the dramatic appreciation of any of hisworks, and I shall say nothing of it here, but shall pass on at once todraw attention to certain stages and changes which may be observedwithin the tragic period. For this purpose too it is needless to raiseany question as to the respective chronological positions of _Othello_,_King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. What is important is also generally admitted:that _Julius Caesar_ and _Hamlet_ precede these plays, and that _Antonyand Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_ follow them. [27]If we consider the tragedies first on the side of their substance, wefind at once an obvious difference between the first two and theremainder. Both Brutus and Hamlet are highly intellectual by nature andreflective by habit. Both may even be called, in a popular sense,philosophic; Brutus may be called so in a stricter sense. Each, beingalso a 'good' man, shows accordingly, when placed in criticalcircumstances, a sensitive and almost painful anxiety to do right. Andthough they fail--of course in quite different ways--to dealsuccessfully with these circumstances, the failure in each case isconnected rather with their intellectual nature and reflective habitthan with any yielding to passion. Hence the name 'tragedy of thought,'which Schlegel gave to _Hamlet_, may be given also, as in effect it hasbeen by Professor Dowden, to _Julius Caesar_. The later heroes, on theother hand, Othello, Lear, Timon, Macbeth, Antony, Coriolanus, have, oneand all, passionate natures, and, speaking roughly, we may attribute thetragic failure in each of these cases to passion. Partly for thisreason, the later plays are wilder and stormier than the first two. Wesee a greater mass of human nature in commotion, and we seeShakespeare's own powers exhibited on a larger scale. Finally,examination would show that, in all these respects, the first tragedy,_Julius Caesar_, is further removed from the later type than is thesecond, _Hamlet_. These two earlier works are both distinguished from most of thesucceeding tragedies in another though a kindred respect. Moral evil isnot so intently scrutinised or so fully displayed in them. In _JuliusCaesar_, we may almost say, everybody means well. In _Hamlet_, though wehave a villain, he is a small one. The murder which gives rise to theaction lies outside the play, and the centre of attention within theplay lies in the hero's efforts to do his duty. It seems clear thatShakespeare's interest, since the early days when under Marlowe'sinfluence he wrote _Richard III. _, has not been directed to the moreextreme or terrible forms of evil. But in the tragedies that follow_Hamlet_ the presence of this interest is equally clear. In Iago, in the'bad' people of _King Lear_, even in Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, humannature assumes shapes which inspire not mere sadness or repulsion buthorror and dismay. If in _Timon_ no monstrous cruelty is done, we stillwatch ingratitude and selfishness so blank that they provoke a loathingwe never felt for Claudius; and in this play and _King Lear_ we canfancy that we hear at times the _saeva indignatio_, if not the despair,of Swift. This prevalence of abnormal or appalling forms of evil, sideby side with vehement passion, is another reason why the convulsiondepicted in these tragedies seems to come from a deeper source, and tobe vaster in extent, than the conflict in the two earlier plays. Andhere again _Julius Caesar_ is further removed than _Hamlet_ from_Othello_, _King Lear_, and _Macbeth_. But in regard to this second point of difference a reservation must bemade, on which I will speak a little more fully, because, unlike thematter hitherto touched on, its necessity seems hardly to have beenrecognised. _All_ of the later tragedies may be called tragedies ofpassion, but not all of them display these extreme forms of evil. Neither of the last two does so. Antony and Coriolanus are, from onepoint of view, victims of passion; but the passion that ruins Antonyalso exalts him, he touches the infinite in it; and the pride andself-will of Coriolanus, though terrible in bulk, are scarcely so inquality; there is nothing base in them, and the huge creature whom theydestroy is a noble, even a lovable, being. Nor does either of thesedramas, though the earlier depicts a corrupt civilisation, include evenamong the minor characters anyone who can be called villainous orhorrible. Consider, finally, the impression left on us at the close ofeach. It is remarkable that this impression, though very strong, canscarcely be called purely tragic; or, if we call it so, at least thefeeling of reconciliation which mingles with the obviously tragicemotions is here exceptionally well-marked. The death of Antony, it willbe remembered, comes before the opening of the Fifth Act. The death ofCleopatra, which closes the play, is greeted by the reader with sympathyand admiration, even with exultation at the thought that she has foiledOctavius; and these feelings are heightened by the deaths of Charmianand Iras, heroically faithful to their mistress, as Emilia was to hers. In _Coriolanus_ the feeling of reconciliation is even stronger. Thewhole interest towards the close has been concentrated on the questionwhether the hero will persist in his revengeful design of storming andburning his native city, or whether better feelings will at lastoverpower his resentment and pride. He stands on the edge of a crimebeside which, at least in outward dreadfulness, the slaughter of anindividual looks insignificant. And when, at the sound of his mother'svoice and the sight of his wife and child, nature asserts itself and hegives way, although we know he will lose his life, we care little forthat: he has saved his soul. Our relief, and our exultation in the powerof goodness, are so great that the actual catastrophe which follows andmingles sadness with these feelings leaves them but little diminished,and as we close the book we feel, it seems to me, more as we do at theclose of _Cymbeline_ than as we do at the close of _Othello_. In sayingthis I do not in the least mean to criticise _Coriolanus_. It is a muchnobler play as it stands than it would have been if Shakespeare had madethe hero persist, and we had seen him amid the flaming ruins of Rome,awaking suddenly to the enormity of his deed and taking vengeance onhimself; but that would surely have been an ending more strictly tragicthan the close of Shakespeare's play. Whether this close was simply dueto his unwillingness to contradict his historical authority on a pointof such magnitude we need not ask. In any case _Coriolanus_ is, in morethan an outward sense, the end of his tragic period. It marks thetransition to his latest works, in which the powers of repentance andforgiveness charm to rest the tempest raised by error and guilt. If we turn now from the substance of the tragedies to their style andversification, we find on the whole a corresponding difference betweenthe earlier and the later. The usual assignment of _Julius Caesar_, andeven of _Hamlet_, to the end of Shakespeare's Second Period--the periodof _Henry V. _--is based mainly, we saw, on considerations of form. Thegeneral style of the serious parts of the last plays from Englishhistory is one of full, noble and comparatively equable eloquence. The'honey-tongued' sweetness and beauty of Shakespeare's early writing, asseen in _Romeo and Juliet_ or the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_, remain; theease and lucidity remain; but there is an accession of force and weight. We find no great change from this style when we come to _JuliusCaesar_,[28] which may be taken to mark its culmination. At this pointin Shakespeare's literary development he reaches, if the phrase may bepardoned, a limited perfection. Neither thought on the one side, norexpression on the other, seems to have any tendency to outrun or contendwith its fellow. We receive an impression of easy mastery and completeharmony, but not so strong an impression of inner power bursting intoouter life. Shakespeare's style is perhaps nowhere else so free fromdefects, and yet almost every one of his subsequent plays containswriting which is greater. To speak familiarly, we feel in _JuliusCaesar_ that, although not even Shakespeare could better the style hehas chosen, he has not let himself go. In reading _Hamlet_ we have no such feeling, and in many parts (forthere is in the writing of _Hamlet_ an unusual variety[29]) we areconscious of a decided change. The style in these parts is more rapidand vehement, less equable and less simple; and there is a change of thesame kind in the versification. But on the whole the _type_ is the sameas in _Julius Caesar_, and the resemblance of the two plays is decidedlymore marked than the difference. If Hamlet's soliloquies, consideredsimply as compositions, show a great change from Jaques's speech, 'Allthe world's a stage,' and even from the soliloquies of Brutus, yet_Hamlet_ (for instance in the hero's interview with his mother) is like_Julius Caesar_, and unlike the later tragedies, in the fulness of itseloquence, and passages like the following belong quite definitely tothe style of the Second Period:     _Mar. _ It faded on the crowing of the cock.     Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes     Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,     The bird of dawning singeth all night long;     And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad;     The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,     No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,     So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.     _Hor. _ So have I heard and do in part believe it.     But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,     Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill. This bewitching music is heard again in Hamlet's farewell to Horatio:     If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,     Absent thee from felicity awhile,     And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,     To tell my story. But after _Hamlet_ this music is heard no more. It is followed by amusic vaster and deeper, but not the same. The changes observable in _Hamlet_ are afterwards, and gradually, sogreatly developed that Shakespeare's style and versification at lastbecome almost new things. It is extremely difficult to illustrate thisbriefly in a manner to which no just exception can be taken, for it isalmost impossible to find in two plays passages bearing a sufficientlyclose resemblance to one another in occasion and sentiment. But I willventure to put by the first of those quotations from _Hamlet_ this from_Macbeth_:     _Dun. _ This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air     Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself     Unto our gentle senses.     _Ban. _                 This guest of summer,     The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,     By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath     Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,     Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird     Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle;     Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed,     The air is delicate;and by the second quotation from _Hamlet_ this from _Antony andCleopatra_:     The miserable change now at my end     Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts     In feeding them with those my former fortunes     Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o' the world,     The noblest; and do now not basely die,     Not cowardly put off my helmet to     My countryman,--a Roman by a Roman     Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going;     I can no more. It would be almost an impertinence to point out in detail how greatlythese two passages, and especially the second, differ in effect fromthose in _Hamlet_, written perhaps five or six years earlier. Theversification, by the time we reach _Antony and Cleopatra_, has assumeda new type; and although this change would appear comparatively slightin a typical passage from _Othello_ or even from _King Lear_, itsapproach through these plays to _Timon_ and _Macbeth_ can easily betraced. It is accompanied by a similar change in diction andconstruction. After _Hamlet_ the style, in the more emotional passages,is heightened. It becomes grander, sometimes wilder, sometimes moreswelling, even tumid. It is also more concentrated, rapid, varied, and,in construction, less regular, not seldom twisted or elliptical. It is,therefore, not so easy and lucid, and in the more ordinary dialogue itis sometimes involved and obscure, and from these and other causesdeficient in charm. [30] On the other hand, it is always full of life andmovement, and in great passages produces sudden, strange, electrifyingeffects which are rarely found in earlier plays, and not so often evenin _Hamlet_. The more pervading effect of beauty gives place to what mayalmost be called explosions of sublimity or pathos. There is room for differences of taste and preference as regards thestyle and versification of the end of Shakespeare's Second Period, andthose of the later tragedies and last romances. But readers who miss inthe latter the peculiar enchantment of the earlier will not deny thatthe changes in form are in entire harmony with the inward changes. Ifthey object to passages where, to exaggerate a little, the sense hasrather to be discerned beyond the words than found in them, and if theydo not wholly enjoy the movement of so typical a speech as this,     Yes, like enough, high-battled Caesar will     Unstate his happiness, and be staged to the show,     Against a sworder! I see men's judgements are     A parcel of their fortunes; and things outward     Do draw the inward quality after them,     To suffer all alike. That he should dream,     Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will     Answer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdued     His judgement too,they will admit that, in traversing the impatient throng of thoughts notalways completely embodied, their minds move through an astonishingvariety of ideas and experiences, and that a style less generally poeticthan that of _Hamlet_ is also a style more invariably dramatic. It maybe that, for the purposes of tragedy, the highest point was reachedduring the progress of these changes, in the most critical passages of_Othello_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. [31]2Suppose you were to describe the plot of _Hamlet_ to a person quiteignorant of the play, and suppose you were careful to tell your hearernothing about Hamlet's character, what impression would your sketch makeon him? Would he not exclaim: 'What a sensational story! Why, here aresome eight violent deaths, not to speak of adultery, a ghost, a madwoman, and a fight in a grave! If I did not know that the play wasShakespeare's, I should have thought it must have been one of thoseearly tragedies of blood and horror from which he is said to haveredeemed the stage'? And would he not then go on to ask: 'But why in theworld did not Hamlet obey the Ghost at once, and so save seven of thoseeight lives? 'This exclamation and this question both show the same thing, that thewhole story turns upon the peculiar character of the hero. For withoutthis character the story would appear sensational and horrible; and yetthe actual _Hamlet_ is very far from being so, and even has a lessterrible effect than _Othello_, _King Lear_ or _Macbeth_. And again, ifwe had no knowledge of this character, the story would hardly beintelligible; it would at any rate at once suggest that wonderingquestion about the conduct of the hero; while the story of any of theother three tragedies would sound plain enough and would raise no suchquestion. It is further very probable that the main change made byShakespeare in the story as already represented on the stage, lay in anew conception of Hamlet's character and so of the cause of his delay. And, lastly, when we examine the tragedy, we observe two things whichillustrate the same point. First, we find by the side of the hero noother figure of tragic proportions, no one like Lady Macbeth or Iago, noone even like Cordelia or Desdemona; so that, in Hamlet's absence, theremaining characters could not yield a Shakespearean tragedy at all. And, secondly, we find among them two, Laertes and Fortinbras, who areevidently designed to throw the character of the hero into relief. Evenin the situations there is a curious parallelism; for Fortinbras, likeHamlet, is the son of a king, lately dead, and succeeded by his brother;and Laertes, like Hamlet, has a father slain, and feels bound to avengehim. And with this parallelism in situation there is a strong contrastin character; for both Fortinbras and Laertes possess in abundance thevery quality which the hero seems to lack, so that, as we read, we aretempted to exclaim that either of them would have accomplished Hamlet'stask in a day. Naturally, then, the tragedy of _Hamlet_ with Hamlet leftout has become the symbol of extreme absurdity; while the characteritself has probably exerted a greater fascination, and certainly hasbeen the subject of more discussion, than any other in the wholeliterature of the world. Before, however, we approach the task of examining it, it is as well toremind ourselves that the virtue of the play by no means wholly dependson this most subtle creation. We are all aware of this, and if we werenot so the history of _Hamlet_, as a stage-play, might bring the facthome to us. It is to-day the most popular of Shakespeare's tragedies onour stage; and yet a large number, perhaps even the majority of thespectators, though they may feel some mysterious attraction in the hero,certainly do not question themselves about his character or the cause ofhis delay, and would still find the play exceptionally effective, evenif he were an ordinary brave young man and the obstacles in his pathwere purely external. And this has probably always been the case. _Hamlet_ seems from the first to have been a favourite play; but untillate in the eighteenth century, I believe, scarcely a critic showed thathe perceived anything specially interesting in the character. Hanmer, in1730, to be sure, remarks that 'there appears no reason at all in naturewhy this young prince did not put the usurper to death as soon aspossible'; but it does not even cross his mind that this apparent'absurdity' is odd and might possibly be due to some design on the partof the poet. He simply explains the absurdity by observing that, ifShakespeare had made the young man go 'naturally to work,' the playwould have come to an end at once! Johnson, in like manner, notices that'Hamlet is, through the whole piece, rather an instrument than anagent,' but it does not occur to him that this peculiar circumstance canbe anything but a defect in Shakespeare's management of the plot. Seeing, they saw not. Henry Mackenzie, the author of _The Man ofFeeling_, was, it would seem, the first of our critics to feel the'indescribable charm' of Hamlet, and to divine something ofShakespeare's intention. 'We see a man,' he writes, 'who in othercircumstances would have exercised all the moral and social virtues,placed in a situation in which even the amiable qualities of his mindserve but to aggravate his distress and to perplex his conduct. '[32] Howsignificant is the fact (if it be the fact) that it was only when theslowly rising sun of Romance began to flush the sky that the wonder,beauty and pathos of this most marvellous of Shakespeare's creationsbegan to be visible! We do not know that they were perceived even in hisown day, and perhaps those are not wholly wrong who declare that thiscreation, so far from being a characteristic product of the time, was avision of                  the prophetic soul     Of the wide world dreaming on things to come. But the dramatic splendour of the whole tragedy is another matter, andmust have been manifest not only in Shakespeare's day but even inHanmer's. It is indeed so obvious that I pass it by, and proceed at once to thecentral question of Hamlet's character. And I believe time will besaved, and a good deal of positive interpretation may be introduced, if,without examining in detail any one theory, we first distinguish classesor types of theory which appear to be in various ways and degreesinsufficient or mistaken. And we will confine our attention to sanetheories;--for on this subject, as on all questions relating toShakespeare, there are plenty of merely lunatic views: the view, forexample, that Hamlet, being a disguised woman in love with Horatio,could hardly help seeming unkind to Ophelia; or the view that, being avery clever and wicked young man who wanted to oust his innocent unclefrom the throne, he 'faked' the Ghost with this intent. But, before we come to our types of theory, it is necessary to touch onan idea, not unfrequently met with, which would make it vain labour todiscuss or propose any theory at all. It is sometimes said that Hamlet'scharacter is not only intricate but unintelligible. Now this statementmight mean something quite unobjectionable and even perhaps true andimportant. It might mean that the character cannot be _wholly_understood. As we saw, there may be questions which we cannot answerwith certainty now, because we have nothing but the text to guide us,but which never arose for the spectators who saw _Hamlet_ acted inShakespeare's day; and we shall have to refer to such questions in theselectures. Again, it may be held without any improbability that, fromcarelessness or because he was engaged on this play for several years,Shakespeare left inconsistencies in his exhibition of the characterwhich must prevent us from being certain of his ultimate meaning. Or,possibly, we may be baffled because he has illustrated in it certainstrange facts of human nature, which he had noticed but of which we areignorant. But then all this would apply in some measure to othercharacters in Shakespeare, and it is not this that is meant by thestatement that Hamlet is unintelligible. What is meant is thatShakespeare _intended_ him to be so, because he himself was feelingstrongly, and wished his audience to feel strongly, what a mystery lifeis, and how impossible it is for us to understand it. Now here, surely,we have mere confusion of mind. The mysteriousness of life is one thing,the psychological unintelligibility of a dramatic character is quiteanother; and the second does not show the first, it shows only theincapacity or folly of the dramatist. If it did show the first, it wouldbe very easy to surpass Shakespeare in producing a sense of mystery: weshould simply have to portray an absolutely nonsensical character. Ofcourse _Hamlet_ appeals powerfully to our sense of the mystery of life,but so does _every_ good tragedy; and it does so not because the hero isan enigma to us, but because, having a fair understanding of him, wefeel how strange it is that strength and weakness should be so mingledin one soul, and that this soul should be doomed to such misery andapparent failure. (1) To come, then, to our typical views, we may lay it down, first, thatno theory will hold water which finds the cause of Hamlet's delaymerely, or mainly, or even to any considerable extent, in externaldifficulties. Nothing is easier than to spin a plausible theory of thiskind. What, it may be asked,[33] was Hamlet to do when the Ghost hadleft him with its commission of vengeance? The King was surrounded notmerely by courtiers but by a Swiss body-guard: how was Hamlet to get athim? Was he then to accuse him publicly of the murder? If he did, whatwould happen? How would he prove the charge? All that he had to offer inproof was--a ghost-story! Others, to be sure, had seen the Ghost, but noone else had heard its revelations. Obviously, then, even if the courthad been honest, instead of subservient and corrupt, it would have votedHamlet mad, or worse, and would have shut him up out of harm's way. Hecould not see what to do, therefore, and so he waited. Then came theactors, and at once with admirable promptness he arranged for theplay-scene, hoping that the King would betray his guilt to the wholecourt. Unfortunately the King did not. It is true that immediatelyafterwards Hamlet got his chance; for he found the King defenceless onhis knees. But what Hamlet wanted was not a private revenge, to befollowed by his own imprisonment or execution; it was public justice. Sohe spared the King; and, as he unluckily killed Polonius justafterwards, he had to consent to be despatched to England. But, on thevoyage there, he discovered the King's commission, ordering the King ofEngland to put him immediately to death; and, with this in his pocket,he made his way back to Denmark. For now, he saw, the proof of theKing's attempt to murder him would procure belief also for the story ofthe murder of his father. His enemy, however, was too quick for him, andhis public arraignment of that enemy was prevented by his own death. A theory like this sounds very plausible--so long as you do not rememberthe text. But no unsophisticated mind, fresh from the reading of_Hamlet_, will accept it; and, as soon as we begin to probe it, fatalobjections arise in such numbers that I choose but a few, and indeed Ithink the first of them is enough. (_a_) From beginning to end of the play, Hamlet never makes theslightest reference to any external difficulty. How is it possible toexplain this fact in conformity with the theory? For what conceivablereason should Shakespeare conceal from us so carefully the key to theproblem? (_b_) Not only does Hamlet fail to allude to such difficulties, but healways assumes that he _can_ obey the Ghost,[34] and he once assertsthis in so many words ('Sith I have cause and will and strength andmeans To do't,' IV. iv. 45). (_c_) Again, why does Shakespeare exhibit Laertes quite easily raisingthe people against the King? Why but to show how much more easilyHamlet, whom the people loved, could have done the same thing, if thatwas the plan he preferred? (_d_) Again, Hamlet did _not_ plan the play-scene in the hope that theKing would betray his guilt to the court. He planned it, according tohis own account, in order to convince _himself_ by the King's agitationthat the Ghost had spoken the truth. This is perfectly clear from II. ii. 625 ff. and from III. ii. 80 ff. Some readers are misled by thewords in the latter passage:                     if his occulted guilt     Do not itself unkennel in one speech,     It is a damned ghost that we have seen. The meaning obviously is, as the context shows, 'if his hidden guilt donot betray itself _on occasion of_ one speech,' viz. , the 'dozen orsixteen lines' with which Hamlet has furnished the player, and of whichonly six are delivered, because the King does not merely show his guiltin his face (which was all Hamlet had hoped, III. ii. 90) butrushes from the room. It may be as well to add that, although Hamlet's own account of hisreason for arranging the play-scene may be questioned, it is impossibleto suppose that, if his real design had been to provoke an openconfession of guilt, he could have been unconscious of this design. (_e_) Again, Hamlet never once talks, or shows a sign of thinking, ofthe plan of bringing the King to public justice; he always talks ofusing his 'sword' or his 'arm. ' And this is so just as much after he hasreturned to Denmark with the commission in his pocket as it was beforethis event. When he has told Horatio the story of the voyage, he doesnot say, 'Now I can convict him': he says, 'Now am I not justified inusing this arm? 'This class of theory, then, we must simply reject. But it suggests tworemarks. It is of course quite probable that, when Hamlet was 'thinkingtoo precisely on the event,' he was considering, among other things, thequestion how he could avenge his father without sacrificing his own lifeor freedom. And assuredly, also, he was anxious that his act ofvengeance should not be misconstrued, and would never have been contentto leave a 'wounded name' behind him. His dying words prove that. (2) Assuming, now, that Hamlet's main difficulty--almost the whole ofhis difficulty--was internal, I pass to views which, acknowledging this,are still unsatisfactory because they isolate one element in hischaracter and situation and treat it as the whole. According to the first of these typical views, Hamlet was restrained byconscience or a moral scruple; he could not satisfy himself that it wasright to avenge his father. This idea, like the first, can easily be made to look very plausible ifwe vaguely imagine the circumstances without attending to the text. Butattention to the text is fatal to it. For, on the one hand, scarcelyanything can be produced in support of it, and, on the other hand, agreat deal can be produced in its disproof. To take the latter pointfirst, Hamlet, it is impossible to deny, habitually assumes, without anyquestioning, that he _ought_ to avenge his father. Even when he doubts,or thinks that he doubts, the honesty of the Ghost, he expresses nodoubt as to what his duty will be if the Ghost turns out honest: 'If hebut blench I know my course. ' In the two soliloquies where he reviewshis position (II. ii. , 'O what a rogue and peasant slave am I,'and IV. iv. , 'How all occasions do inform against me') hereproaches himself bitterly for the neglect of his duty. When hereflects on the possible causes of this neglect he never mentions amongthem a moral scruple. When the Ghost appears in the Queen's chamber heconfesses, conscience-stricken, that, lapsed in time and passion, he haslet go by the acting of its command; but he does not plead that hisconscience stood in his way. The Ghost itself says that it comes to whethis 'almost blunted purpose'; and conscience may unsettle a purpose butdoes not blunt it. What natural explanation of all this can be given onthe conscience theory? And now what can be set against this evidence? One solitary passage. [35]Quite late, after Hamlet has narrated to Horatio the events of hisvoyage, he asks him (V. ii. 63):     Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon--     He that hath kill'd my king and whored my mother,     Popp'd in between the election and my hopes,     Thrown out his angle for my proper life,     And with such cozenage--is't not perfect conscience     To quit him with this arm? and is't not to be damn'd     To let this canker of our nature come     In further evil? Here, certainly, is a question of conscience in the usual present senseof the word; and, it may be said, does not this show that all alongHamlet really has been deterred by moral scruples? But I ask first how,in that case, the facts just adduced are to be explained: for they mustbe explained, not ignored. Next, let the reader observe that even ifthis passage did show that _one_ hindrance to Hamlet's action was hisconscience, it by no means follows that this was the sole or the chiefhindrance. And, thirdly, let him observe, and let him ask himselfwhether the coincidence is a mere accident, that Hamlet is here almostrepeating the words he used in vain self-reproach some time before(IV. iv. 56):                             How stand I then,     That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,     Excitements of my reason and my blood,     And let all sleep? Is it not clear that he is speculating just as vainly now, and that thisquestion of conscience is but one of his many unconscious excuses fordelay? And, lastly, is it not so that Horatio takes it? He declines todiscuss that unreal question, and answers simply,     It must be shortly known to him from England     What is the issue of the business there. In other words, 'Enough of this endless procrastination. What is wantedis not reasons for the deed, but the deed itself. ' What can be moresignificant? Perhaps, however, it may be answered: 'Your explanation of this passagemay be correct, and the facts you have mentioned do seem to be fatal tothe theory of conscience in its usual form. But there is another andsubtler theory of conscience. According to it, Hamlet, so far as hisexplicit consciousness went, was sure that he ought to obey the Ghost;but in the depths of his nature, and unknown to himself, there was amoral repulsion to the deed. The conventional moral ideas of his time,which he shared with the Ghost, told him plainly that he ought to avengehis father; but a deeper conscience in him, which was in advance of histime, contended with these explicit conventional ideas. It is becausethis deeper conscience remains below the surface that he fails torecognise it, and fancies he is hindered by cowardice or sloth orpassion or what not; but it emerges into light in that speech toHoratio. And it is just because he has this nobler moral nature in himthat we admire and love him. 'Now I at once admit not only that this view is much more attractive andmore truly tragic than the ordinary conscience theory, but that it hasmore verisimilitude. But I feel no doubt that it does not answer toShakespeare's meaning, and I will simply mention, out of many objectionsto it, three which seem to be fatal. (_a_) If it answers toShakespeare's meaning, why in the world did he conceal that meaninguntil the last Act? The facts adduced above seem to show beyond questionthat, on the hypothesis, he did so. That he did so is surely next doorto incredible. In any case, it certainly requires an explanation, andcertainly has not received one. (_b_) Let us test the theory byreference to a single important passage, that where Hamlet finds theKing at prayer and spares him. The reason Hamlet gives himself forsparing the King is that, if he kills him now, he will send him toheaven, whereas he desires to send him to hell. Now, this reason may bean unconscious excuse, but is it believable that, if the real reason hadbeen the stirrings of his deeper conscience, _that_ could have maskeditself in the form of a desire to send his enemy's soul to hell? Is notthe idea quite ludicrous? (_c_) The theory requires us to suppose that,when the Ghost enjoins Hamlet to avenge the murder of his father, it islaying on him a duty which _we_ are to understand to be no duty but thevery reverse. And is not that supposition wholly contrary to the naturalimpression which we all receive in reading the play? Surely it is clearthat, whatever we in the twentieth century may think about Hamlet'sduty, we are meant in the play to assume that he _ought_ to have obeyedthe Ghost. The conscience theory, then, in either of its forms we must reject. Butit may remind us of points worth noting. In the first place, it iscertainly true that Hamlet, in spite of some appearances to thecontrary, was, as Goethe said, of a most moral nature, and had a greatanxiety to do right. In this anxiety he resembles Brutus, and it isstronger in him than in any of the later heroes. And, secondly, it ishighly probable that in his interminable broodings the kind of paralysiswith which he was stricken masked itself in the shape of conscientiousscruples as well as in many other shapes. And, finally, in his shrinkingfrom the deed there was probably, together with much else, somethingwhich may be called a moral, though not a conscientious, repulsion: Imean a repugnance to the idea of falling suddenly on a man who could notdefend himself. This, so far as we can see, was the only plan thatHamlet ever contemplated. There is no positive evidence in the play thathe regarded it with the aversion that any brave and honourable man, onemust suppose, would feel for it; but, as Hamlet certainly was brave andhonourable, we may presume that he did so. (3) We come next to what may be called the sentimental view of Hamlet, aview common both among his worshippers and among his defamers. Its germmay perhaps be found in an unfortunate phrase of Goethe's (who of courseis not responsible for the whole view): 'a lovely, pure and most moralnature, _without the strength of nerve which forms a hero_, sinksbeneath a burden which it cannot bear and must not cast away. ' When thisidea is isolated, developed and popularised, we get the picture of agraceful youth, sweet and sensitive, full of delicate sympathies andyearning aspirations, shrinking from the touch of everything gross andearthly; but frail and weak, a kind of Werther, with a face likeShelley's and a voice like Mr. Tree's. And then we ask in tender pity,how could such a man perform the terrible duty laid on him? How, indeed! And what a foolish Ghost even to suggest such a duty! Butthis conception, though not without its basis in certain beautifultraits of Hamlet's nature, is utterly untrue. It is too kind to Hamleton one side, and it is quite unjust to him on another. The 'conscience'theory at any rate leaves Hamlet a great nature which you can admire andeven revere. But for the 'sentimental' Hamlet you can feel only pity notunmingled with contempt. Whatever else he is, he is no _hero_. But consider the text. This shrinking, flower-like youth--how could hepossibly have done what we _see_ Hamlet do? What likeness to him isthere in the Hamlet who, summoned by the Ghost, bursts from histerrified friends with the cry:                          Unhand me, gentlemen!     By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me;the Hamlet who scarcely once speaks to the King without an insult, or toPolonius without a gibe; the Hamlet who storms at Ophelia and speaksdaggers to his mother; the Hamlet who, hearing a cry behind the arras,whips out his sword in an instant and runs the eavesdropper through; theHamlet who sends his 'school-fellows' to their death and never troubleshis head about them more; the Hamlet who is the first man to board apirate ship, and who fights with Laertes in the grave; the Hamlet of thecatastrophe, an omnipotent fate, before whom all the court standshelpless, who, as the truth breaks upon him, rushes on the King, driveshis foil right through his body,[36] then seizes the poisoned cup andforces it violently between the wretched man's lips, and in the throesof death has force and fire enough to wrest the cup from Horatio's hand('By heaven, I'll have it! ') lest he should drink and die? This man, theHamlet of the play, is a heroic, terrible figure. He would have beenformidable to Othello or Macbeth. If the sentimental Hamlet had crossedhim, he would have hurled him from his path with one sweep of his arm. This view, then, or any view that approaches it, is grossly unjust toHamlet, and turns tragedy into mere pathos. But, on the other side, itis too kind to him. It ignores the hardness and cynicism which wereindeed no part of his nature, but yet, in this crisis of his life, areindubitably present and painfully marked. His sternness, itself left outof sight by this theory, is no defect; but he is much more than stern. Polonius possibly deserved nothing better than the words addressed tohis corpse:     Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!     I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune:     Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger;yet this was Ophelia's father, and, whatever he deserved, it pains us,for Hamlet's own sake, to hear the words:     This man shall set me packing:     I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room. There is the same insensibility in Hamlet's language about the fate ofRosencrantz and Guildenstern; and, observe, their deaths were not in theleast required by his purpose. Grant, again, that his cruelty to Opheliawas partly due to misunderstanding, partly forced on him, partlyfeigned; still one surely cannot altogether so account for it, and stillless can one so account for the disgusting and insulting grossness ofhis language to her in the play-scene. I know this is said to be merelyan example of the custom of Shakespeare's time. But it is not so. It issuch language as you will find addressed to a woman by no other hero ofShakespeare's, not even in that dreadful scene where Othello accusesDesdemona. It is a great mistake to ignore these things, or to try tosoften the impression which they naturally make on one. That thisembitterment, callousness, grossness, brutality, should be induced on asoul so pure and noble is profoundly tragic; and Shakespeare's businesswas to show this tragedy, not to paint an ideally beautiful soulunstained and undisturbed by the evil of the world and the anguish ofconscious failure. [37](4) There remains, finally, that class of view which may be named afterSchlegel and Coleridge. According to this, _Hamlet_ is the tragedy ofreflection. The cause of the hero's delay is irresolution; and the causeof this irresolution is excess of the reflective or speculative habit ofmind. He has a general intention to obey the Ghost, but 'the native hueof resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. ' He is'thought-sick. ' 'The whole,' says Schlegel, 'is intended to show how acalculating consideration which aims at exhausting, so far as humanforesight can, all the relations and possible consequences of a deed,cripples[38] the power of acting. . . . Hamlet is a hypocrite towardshimself; his far-fetched scruples are often mere pretexts to cover hiswant of determination. . . . He has no firm belief in himself or inanything else. . . . He loses himself in labyrinths of thought. ' SoColeridge finds in Hamlet 'an almost enormous intellectual activity anda proportionate aversion to real action consequent upon it' (theaversion, that is to say, is consequent on the activity). ProfessorDowden objects to this view, very justly, that it neglects the emotionalside of Hamlet's character, 'which is quite as important as theintellectual'; but, with this supplement, he appears on the whole toadopt it. Hamlet, he says, 'loses a sense of fact because with him eachobject and event transforms and expands itself into an idea. . . . Hecannot steadily keep alive within himself a sense of the importance ofany positive, limited thing,--a deed, for example.

' And Professor Dowdenexplains this condition by reference to Hamlet's life. 'When the playopens he has reached the age of thirty years . . . and he has receivedculture of every kind except the culture of active life. During thereign of the strong-willed elder Hamlet there was no call to action forhis meditative son. He has slipped on into years of full manhood still ahaunter of the university, a student of philosophies, an amateur in art,a ponderer on the things of life and death, who has never formed aresolution or executed a deed' (_Shakspere, his Mind and Art_, 4th ed. ,pp. 132, 133). On the whole, the Schlegel-Coleridge theory (with or without ProfessorDowden's modification and amplification) is the most widely receivedview of Hamlet's character. And with it we come at last into closecontact with the text of the play. It not only answers, in somefundamental respects, to the general impression produced by the drama,but it can be supported by Hamlet's own words in his soliloquies--suchwords, for example, as those about the native hue of resolution, orthose about the craven scruple of thinking too precisely on the event. It is confirmed, also, by the contrast between Hamlet on the one sideand Laertes and Fortinbras on the other; and, further, by the occurrenceof those words of the King to Laertes (IV. vii. 119 f. ), which,if they are not in character, are all the more important as showing whatwas in Shakespeare's mind at the time:                     that we would do     We should do when we would; for this 'would' changes,     And hath abatements and delays as many     As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;     And then this 'should' is like a spendthrift sigh     That hurts by easing. And, lastly, even if the view itself does not suffice, the _description_given by its adherents of Hamlet's state of mind, as we see him in thelast four Acts, is, on the whole and so far as it goes, a truedescription. The energy of resolve is dissipated in an endless broodingon the deed required. When he acts, his action does not proceed fromthis deliberation and analysis, but is sudden and impulsive, evoked byan emergency in which he has no time to think. And most of the reasonshe assigns for his procrastination are evidently not the true reasons,but unconscious excuses. Nevertheless this theory fails to satisfy. And it fails not merely inthis or that detail, but as a whole. We feel that its Hamlet does notfully answer to our imaginative impression. He is not nearly soinadequate to this impression as the sentimental Hamlet, but still wefeel he is inferior to Shakespeare's man and does him wrong. And when wecome to examine the theory we find that it is partial and leaves muchunexplained. I pass that by for the present, for we shall see, Ibelieve, that the theory is also positively misleading, and that in amost important way. And of this I proceed to speak. Hamlet's irresolution, or his aversion to real action, is, according tothe theory, the _direct_ result of 'an almost enormous intellectualactivity' in the way of 'a calculating consideration which attempts toexhaust all the relations and possible consequences of a deed. ' And thisagain proceeds from an original one-sidedness of nature, strengthened byhabit, and, perhaps, by years of speculative inaction. The theorydescribes, therefore, a man in certain respects like Coleridge himself,on one side a man of genius, on the other side, the side of will,deplorably weak, always procrastinating and avoiding unpleasant duties,and often reproaching himself in vain; a man, observe, who at _any_ timeand in _any_ circumstances would be unequal to the task assigned toHamlet. And thus, I must maintain, it degrades Hamlet and travesties theplay. For Hamlet, according to all the indications in the text, was notnaturally or normally such a man, but rather, I venture to affirm, a manwho at any _other_ time and in any _other_ circumstances than thosepresented would have been perfectly equal to his task; and it is, infact, the very cruelty of his fate that the crisis of his life comes onhim at the one moment when he cannot meet it, and when his highestgifts, instead of helping him, conspire to paralyse him. This aspect ofthe tragedy the theory quite misses; and it does so because itmisconceives the cause of that irresolution which, on the whole, ittruly describes. For the cause was not directly or mainly an habitualexcess of reflectiveness. The direct cause was a state of mind quiteabnormal and induced by special circumstances,--a state of profoundmelancholy. Now, Hamlet's reflectiveness doubtless played a certain partin the _production_ of that melancholy, and was thus one indirectcontributory cause of his irresolution. And, again, the melancholy, onceestablished, displayed, as one of its _symptoms_, an excessivereflection on the required deed. But excess of reflection was not, asthe theory makes it, the _direct_ cause of the irresolution at all; norwas it the _only_ indirect cause; and in the Hamlet of the last fourActs it is to be considered rather a symptom of his state than a causeof it. These assertions may be too brief to be at once clear, but I hope theywill presently become so. 3Let us first ask ourselves what we can gather from the play, immediatelyor by inference, concerning Hamlet as he was just before his father'sdeath. And I begin by observing that the text does not bear out the ideathat he was one-sidedly reflective and indisposed to action. Nobody whoknew him seems to have noticed this weakness. Nobody regards him as amere scholar who has 'never formed a resolution or executed a deed. ' Ina court which certainly would not much admire such a person he is theobserved of all observers. Though he has been disappointed of the throneeveryone shows him respect; and he is the favourite of the people, whoare not given to worship philosophers. Fortinbras, a sufficientlypractical man, considered that he was likely, had he been put on, tohave proved most royally. He has Hamlet borne by four captains 'like asoldier' to his grave; and Ophelia says that Hamlet _was_ a soldier. Ifhe was fond of acting, an aesthetic pursuit, he was equally fond offencing, an athletic one: he practised it assiduously even in his worstdays. [39] So far as we can conjecture from what we see of him in thosebad days, he must normally have been charmingly frank, courteous andkindly to everyone, of whatever rank, whom he liked or respected, but byno means timid or deferential to others; indeed, one would gather thathe was rather the reverse, and also that he was apt to be decided andeven imperious if thwarted or interfered with. He must always have beenfearless,--in the play he appears insensible to fear of any ordinarykind. And, finally, he must have been quick and impetuous in action; forit is downright impossible that the man we see rushing after the Ghost,killing Polonius, dealing with the King's commission on the ship,boarding the pirate, leaping into the grave, executing his finalvengeance, could _ever_ have been shrinking or slow in an emergency. Imagine Coleridge doing any of these things! If we consider all this, how can we accept the notion that Hamlet's wasa weak and one-sided character? 'Oh, but he spent ten or twelve years ata University! ' Well, even if he did, it is possible to do that withoutbecoming the victim of excessive thought. But the statement that he didrests upon a most insecure foundation. [40]Where then are we to look for the seeds of danger? (1) Trying to reconstruct from the Hamlet of the play, one would notjudge that his temperament was melancholy in the present sense of theword; there seems nothing to show that; but one would judge that bytemperament he was inclined to nervous instability, to rapid andperhaps extreme changes of feeling and mood, and that he was disposed tobe, for the time, absorbed in the feeling or mood that possessed him,whether it were joyous or depressed. This temperament the Elizabethanswould have called melancholic; and Hamlet seems to be an example of it,as Lear is of a temperament mixedly choleric and sanguine. And thedoctrine of temperaments was so familiar in Shakespeare's time--asBurton, and earlier prose-writers, and many of the dramatists show--thatShakespeare may quite well have given this temperament to Hamletconsciously and deliberately. Of melancholy in its developed form, ahabit, not a mere temperament, he often speaks. He more than once laughsat the passing and half-fictitious melancholy of youth and love; in DonJohn in _Much Ado_ he had sketched the sour and surly melancholy ofdiscontent; in Jaques a whimsical self-pleasing melancholy; in Antonioin the _Merchant of Venice_ a quiet but deep melancholy, for whichneither the victim nor his friends can assign any cause. [41] He gives toHamlet a temperament which would not develop into melancholy unlessunder some exceptional strain, but which still involved a danger. In theplay we see the danger realised, and find a melancholy quite unlike anythat Shakespeare had as yet depicted, because the temperament of Hamletis quite different. (2) Next, we cannot be mistaken in attributing to the Hamlet of earlierdays an exquisite sensibility, to which we may give the name 'moral,' ifthat word is taken in the wide meaning it ought to bear. This, thoughit suffers cruelly in later days, as we saw in criticising thesentimental view of Hamlet, never deserts him; it makes all hiscynicism, grossness and hardness appear to us morbidities, and has aninexpressibly attractive and pathetic effect. He had the soul of theyouthful poet as Shelley and Tennyson have described it, an unboundeddelight and faith in everything good and beautiful. We know this fromhimself. The world for him was _herrlich wie am ersten Tag_--'thisgoodly frame the earth, this most excellent canopy the air, this braveo'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire. 'And not nature only: 'What a piece of work is a man! how noble inreason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express andadmirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! 'This is no commonplace to Hamlet; it is the language of a heart thrilledwith wonder and swelling into ecstasy. Doubtless it was with the same eager enthusiasm he turned to thosearound him. Where else in Shakespeare is there anything like Hamlet'sadoration of his father? The words melt into music whenever he speaks ofhim. And, if there are no signs of any such feeling towards his mother,though many signs of love, it is characteristic that he evidently neverentertained a suspicion of anything unworthy in her,--characteristic,and significant of his tendency to see only what is good unless he isforced to see the reverse. For we find this tendency elsewhere, and findit going so far that we must call it a disposition to idealise, to seesomething better than what is there, or at least to ignore deficiencies. He says to Laertes, 'I loved you ever,' and he describes Laertes as a'very noble youth,' which he was far from being. In his first greetingof Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, where his old self revives, we tracethe same affectionateness and readiness to take men at their best. Hislove for Ophelia, too, which seems strange to some, is surely the mostnatural thing in the world. He saw her innocence, simplicity andsweetness, and it was like him to ask no more; and it is noticeable thatHoratio, though entirely worthy of his friendship, is, like Ophelia,intellectually not remarkable. To the very end, however clouded, thisgenerous disposition, this 'free and open nature,' this unsuspiciousnesssurvive. They cost him his life; for the King knew them, and was surethat he was too 'generous and free from all contriving' to 'peruse thefoils. ' To the very end, his soul, however sick and tortured it may be,answers instantaneously when good and evil are presented to it, lovingthe one and hating the other. He is called a sceptic who has no firmbelief in anything, but he is never sceptical about _them_. And the negative side of his idealism, the aversion to evil, is perhapseven more developed in the hero of the tragedy than in the Hamlet ofearlier days. It is intensely characteristic. Nothing, I believe, is tobe found elsewhere in Shakespeare (unless in the rage of thedisillusioned idealist Timon) of quite the same kind as Hamlet's disgustat his uncle's drunkenness, his loathing of his mother's sensuality, hisastonishment and horror at her shallowness, his contempt for everythingpretentious or false, his indifference to everything merely external. This last characteristic appears in his choice of the friend of hisheart, and in a certain impatience of distinctions of rank or wealth. When Horatio calls his father 'a goodly king,' he answers, surely withan emphasis on 'man,'     He was a man, take him for all in all,     I shall not look upon his like again. He will not listen to talk of Horatio being his 'servant. ' When theothers speak of their 'duty' to him, he answers, 'Your love, as mine toyou. ' He speaks to the actor precisely as he does to an honest courtier. He is not in the least a revolutionary, but still, in effect, a king anda beggar are all one to him. He cares for nothing but human worth, andhis pitilessness towards Polonius and Osric and his 'school-fellows' isnot wholly due to morbidity, but belongs in part to his originalcharacter. Now, in Hamlet's moral sensibility there undoubtedly lay a danger. Anygreat shock that life might inflict on it would be felt with extremeintensity. Such a shock might even produce tragic results. And, in fact,_Hamlet_ deserves the title 'tragedy of moral idealism' quite as much asthe title 'tragedy of reflection. '(3) With this temperament and this sensibility we find, lastly, in theHamlet of earlier days, as of later, intellectual genius. It is chieflythis that makes him so different from all those about him, good and badalike, and hardly less different from most of Shakespeare's otherheroes. And this, though on the whole the most important trait in hisnature, is also so obvious and so famous that I need not dwell on it atlength. But against one prevalent misconception I must say a word ofwarning. Hamlet's intellectual power is not a specific gift, like agenius for music or mathematics or philosophy. It shows itself,fitfully, in the affairs of life as unusual quickness of perception,great agility in shifting the mental attitude, a striking rapidity andfertility in resource; so that, when his natural belief in others doesnot make him unwary, Hamlet easily sees through them and masters them,and no one can be much less like the typical helpless dreamer. It showsitself in conversation chiefly in the form of wit or humour; and, alikein conversation and in soliloquy, it shows itself in the form ofimagination quite as much as in that of thought in the stricter sense. Further, where it takes the latter shape, as it very often does, it isnot philosophic in the technical meaning of the word. There is reallynothing in the play to show that Hamlet ever was 'a student ofphilosophies,' unless it be the famous lines which, comically enough,exhibit this supposed victim of philosophy as its critic:     There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,     Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. [42]His philosophy, if the word is to be used, was, like Shakespeare's own,the immediate product of the wondering and meditating mind; and suchthoughts as that celebrated one, 'There is nothing either good or badbut thinking makes it so,' surely needed no special training to producethem. Or does Portia's remark, 'Nothing is good without respect,'_i. e. _, out of relation, prove that she had studied metaphysics? Still Hamlet had speculative genius without being a philosopher, just ashe had imaginative genius without being a poet. Doubtless in happierdays he was a close and constant observer of men and manners, noting hisresults in those tables which he afterwards snatched from his breast tomake in wild irony his last note of all, that one may smile and smileand be a villain. Again and again we remark that passion forgeneralisation which so occupied him, for instance, in reflectionssuggested by the King's drunkenness that he quite forgot what it was hewas waiting to meet upon the battlements. Doubtless, too, he was alwaysconsidering things, as Horatio thought, too curiously. There was anecessity in his soul driving him to penetrate below the surface and toquestion what others took for granted. That fixed habitual look whichthe world wears for most men did not exist for him. He was for everunmaking his world and rebuilding it in thought, dissolving what toothers were solid facts, and discovering what to others were old truths. There were no old truths for Hamlet. It is for Horatio a thing of coursethat there's a divinity that shapes our ends, but for Hamlet it is adiscovery hardly won. And throughout this kingdom of the mind, where hefelt that man, who in action is only like an angel, is in apprehensionlike a god, he moved (we must imagine) more than content, so that evenin his dark days he declares he could be bounded in a nutshell and yetcount himself a king of infinite space, were it not that he had baddreams. If now we ask whether any special danger lurked _here_, how shall weanswer? We must answer, it seems to me, 'Some danger, no doubt, but,granted the ordinary chances of life, not much. ' For, in the firstplace, that idea which so many critics quietly take for granted--theidea that the gift and the habit of meditative and speculative thoughttend to produce irresolution in the affairs of life--would be found byno means easy to verify. Can you verify it, for example, in the lives ofthe philosophers, or again in the lives of men whom you have personallyknown to be addicted to such speculation? I cannot. Of course,individual peculiarities being set apart, absorption in _any_intellectual interest, together with withdrawal from affairs, may make aman slow and unskilful in affairs; and doubtless, individualpeculiarities being again set apart, a mere student is likely to be moreat a loss in a sudden and great practical emergency than a soldier or alawyer. But in all this there is no difference between a physicist, ahistorian, and a philosopher; and again, slowness, want of skill, andeven helplessness are something totally different from the peculiar kindof irresolution that Hamlet shows. The notion that speculative thinkingspecially tends to produce _this_ is really a mere illusion. In the second place, even if this notion were true, it has appeared thatHamlet did _not_ live the life of a mere student, much less of a meredreamer, and that his nature was by no means simply or even one-sidedlyintellectual, but was healthily active. Hence, granted the ordinarychances of life, there would seem to be no great danger in hisintellectual tendency and his habit of speculation; and I would gofurther and say that there was nothing in them, taken alone, to unfithim even for the extraordinary call that was made upon him. In fact, ifthe message of the Ghost had come to him within a week of his father'sdeath, I see no reason to doubt that he would have acted on it asdecisively as Othello himself, though probably after a longer and moreanxious deliberation. And therefore the Schlegel-Coleridge view (apartfrom its descriptive value) seems to me fatally untrue, for it impliesthat Hamlet's procrastination was the normal response of anover-speculative nature confronted with a difficult practical problem. On the other hand, under conditions of a peculiar kind, Hamlet'sreflectiveness certainly might prove dangerous to him, and his geniusmight even (to exaggerate a little) become his doom. Suppose thatviolent shock to his moral being of which I spoke; and suppose thatunder this shock, any possible action being denied to him, he began tosink into melancholy; then, no doubt, his imaginative and generalisinghabit of mind might extend the effects of this shock through his wholebeing and mental world. And if, the state of melancholy being thusdeepened and fixed, a sudden demand for difficult and decisive action ina matter connected with the melancholy arose, this state might well havefor one of its symptoms an endless and futile mental dissection of therequired deed. And, finally, the futility of this process, and the shameof his delay, would further weaken him and enslave him to his melancholystill more. Thus the speculative habit would be _one_ indirect cause ofthe morbid state which hindered action; and it would also reappear in adegenerate form as one of the _symptoms_ of this morbid state.       *       *       *       *       *Now this is what actually happens in the play. Turn to the first wordsHamlet utters when he is alone; turn, that is to say, to the place wherethe author is likely to indicate his meaning most plainly. What do youhear?     O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,     Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!     Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd     His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!     How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,     Seem to me all the uses of this world!     Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,     That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature     Possess it merely. Here are a sickness of life, and even a longing for death, so intensethat nothing stands between Hamlet and suicide except religious awe. Andwhat has caused them? The rest of the soliloquy so thrusts the answerupon us that it might seem impossible to miss it. It was not hisfather's death; that doubtless brought deep grief, but mere grief forsome one loved and lost does not make a noble spirit loathe the world asa place full only of things rank and gross. It was not the vaguesuspicion that we know Hamlet felt. Still less was it the loss of thecrown; for though the subserviency of the electors might well disgusthim, there is not a reference to the subject in the soliloquy, nor anysign elsewhere that it greatly occupied his mind. It was the moral shockof the sudden ghastly disclosure of his mother's true nature, falling onhim when his heart was aching with love, and his body doubtless wasweakened by sorrow. And it is essential, however disagreeable, torealise the nature of this shock. It matters little here whetherHamlet's age was twenty or thirty: in either case his mother was amatron of mature years. All his life he had believed in her, we may besure, as such a son would. He had seen her not merely devoted to hisfather, but hanging on him like a newly-wedded bride, hanging on him     As if increase of appetite had grown     By what it fed on. He had seen her following his body 'like Niobe, all tears. ' And thenwithin a month--'O God! a beast would have mourned longer'--she marriedagain, and married Hamlet's uncle, a man utterly contemptible andloathsome in his eyes; married him in what to Hamlet was incestuouswedlock;[43] married him not for any reason of state, nor even out ofold family affection, but in such a way that her son was forced to seein her action not only an astounding shallowness of feeling but aneruption of coarse sensuality, 'rank and gross,'[44] speeding post-hasteto its horrible delight. Is it possible to conceive an experience moredesolating to a man such as we have seen Hamlet to be; and is its resultanything but perfectly natural? It brings bewildered horror, thenloathing, then despair of human nature. His whole mind is poisoned. Hecan never see Ophelia in the same light again: she is a woman, and hismother is a woman: if she mentions the word 'brief' to him, the answerdrops from his lips like venom, 'as woman's love. ' The last words of thesoliloquy, which is _wholly_ concerned with this subject, are,     But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue! He can do nothing. He must lock in his heart, not any suspicion of hisuncle that moves obscurely there, but that horror and loathing; and ifhis heart ever found relief, it was when those feelings, mingled withthe love that never died out in him, poured themselves forth in a floodas he stood in his mother's chamber beside his father'smarriage-bed. [45]If we still wonder, and ask why the effect of this shock should be sotremendous, let us observe that _now_ the conditions have arisen underwhich Hamlet's highest endowments, his moral sensibility and his genius,become his enemies. A nature morally blunter would have felt even sodreadful a revelation less keenly. A slower and more limited andpositive mind might not have extended so widely through its world thedisgust and disbelief that have entered it. But Hamlet has theimagination which, for evil as well as good, feels and sees all thingsin one. Thought is the element of his life, and his thought isinfected. He cannot prevent himself from probing and lacerating thewound in his soul. One idea, full of peril, holds him fast, and he criesout in agony at it, but is impotent to free himself ('Must I remember? ''Let me not think on't'). And when, with the fading of his passion, thevividness of this idea abates, it does so only to leave behind aboundless weariness and a sick longing for death. And this is the time which his fate chooses. In this hour of uttermostweakness, this sinking of his whole being towards annihilation, therecomes on him, bursting the bounds of the natural world with a shock ofastonishment and terror, the revelation of his mother's adultery and hisfather's murder, and, with this, the demand on him, in the name ofeverything dearest and most sacred, to arise and act. And for a moment,though his brain reels and totters,[46] his soul leaps up in passion toanswer this demand. But it comes too late. It does but strike home thelast rivet in the melancholy which holds him bound.     The time is out of joint! O cursed spite     That ever I was born to set it right,--so he mutters within an hour of the moment when he vowed to give hislife to the duty of revenge; and the rest of the story exhibits his vainefforts to fulfil this duty, his unconscious self-excuses and unavailingself-reproaches, and the tragic results of his delay. 4'Melancholy,' I said, not dejection, nor yet insanity. That Hamlet wasnot far from insanity is very probable. His adoption of the pretence ofmadness may well have been due in part to fear of the reality; to aninstinct of self-preservation, a fore-feeling that the pretence wouldenable him to give some utterance to the load that pressed on his heartand brain, and a fear that he would be unable altogether to repress suchutterance. And if the pathologist calls his state melancholia, and evenproceeds to determine its species, I see nothing to object to in that; Iam grateful to him for emphasising the fact that Hamlet's melancholy wasno mere common depression of spirits; and I have no doubt that manyreaders of the play would understand it better if they read an accountof melancholia in a work on mental diseases. If we like to use the word'disease' loosely, Hamlet's condition may truly be called diseased. Noexertion of will could have dispelled it. Even if he had been able atonce to do the bidding of the Ghost he would doubtless have stillremained for some time under the cloud. It would be absurdly unjust tocall _Hamlet_ a study of melancholy, but it contains such a study. But this melancholy is something very different from insanity, inanything like the usual meaning of that word. No doubt it might developinto insanity. The longing for death might become an irresistibleimpulse to self-destruction; the disorder of feeling and will mightextend to sense and intellect; delusions might arise; and the man mightbecome, as we say, incapable and irresponsible. But Hamlet's melancholyis some way from this condition. It is a totally different thing fromthe madness which he feigns; and he never, when alone or in company withHoratio alone, exhibits the signs of that madness. Nor is the dramaticuse of this melancholy, again, open to the objections which would justlybe made to the portrayal of an insanity which brought the hero to atragic end. The man who suffers as Hamlet suffers--and thousands goabout their business suffering thus in greater or less degree--isconsidered irresponsible neither by other people nor by himself: he isonly too keenly conscious of his responsibility. He is therefore, sofar, quite capable of being a tragic agent, which an insane person, atany rate according to Shakespeare's practice, is not. [47] And, finally,Hamlet's state is not one which a healthy mind is unable sufficiently toimagine. It is probably not further from average experience, nor moredifficult to realise, than the great tragic passions of Othello, Antonyor Macbeth. Let me try to show now, briefly, how much this melancholy accounts for. It accounts for the main fact, Hamlet's inaction. For the _immediate_cause of that is simply that his habitual feeling is one of disgust atlife and everything in it, himself included,--a disgust which varies inintensity, rising at times into a longing for death, sinking often intoweary apathy, but is never dispelled for more than brief intervals. Sucha state of feeling is inevitably adverse to _any_ kind of decidedaction; the body is inert, the mind indifferent or worse; its responseis, 'it does not matter,' 'it is not worth while,' 'it is no good. ' Andthe action required of Hamlet is very exceptional. It is violent,dangerous, difficult to accomplish perfectly, on one side repulsive to aman of honour and sensitive feeling, on another side involved in acertain mystery (here come in thus, in their subordinate place, variouscauses of inaction assigned by various theories). These obstacles wouldnot suffice to prevent Hamlet from acting, if his state were normal; andagainst them there operate, even in his morbid state, healthy andpositive feelings, love of his father, loathing of his uncle, desire ofrevenge, desire to do duty. But the retarding motives acquire anunnatural strength because they have an ally in something far strongerthan themselves, the melancholic disgust and apathy; while the healthymotives, emerging with difficulty from the central mass of diseasedfeeling, rapidly sink back into it and 'lose the name of action. ' We_see_ them doing so; and sometimes the process is quite simple, noanalytical reflection on the deed intervening between the outburst ofpassion and the relapse into melancholy. [48] But this melancholy isperfectly consistent also with that incessant dissection of the taskassigned, of which the Schlegel-Coleridge theory makes so much. Forthose endless questions (as we may imagine them), 'Was I deceived by theGhost? How am I to do the deed? When? Where? What will be theconsequence of attempting it--success, my death, utter misunderstanding,mere mischief to the State? Can it be right to do it, or noble to kill adefenceless man? What is the good of doing it in such a world asthis? '--all this, and whatever else passed in a sickening round throughHamlet's mind, was not the healthy and right deliberation of a man withsuch a task, but otiose thinking hardly deserving the name of thought,an unconscious weaving of pretexts for inaction, aimless tossings on asick bed, symptoms of melancholy which only increased it by deepeningself-contempt. Again, (_a_) this state accounts for Hamlet's energy as well as for hislassitude, those quick decided actions of his being the outcome of anature normally far from passive, now suddenly stimulated, and producinghealthy impulses which work themselves out before they have time tosubside. (_b_) It accounts for the evidently keen satisfaction whichsome of these actions give to him. He arranges the play-scene withlively interest, and exults in its success, not really because it bringshim nearer to his goal, but partly because it has hurt his enemy andpartly because it has demonstrated his own skill (III. ii. 286-304). He looks forward almost with glee to countermining the King'sdesigns in sending him away (III. iv. 209), and looks back withobvious satisfaction, even with pride, to the address and vigour hedisplayed on the voyage (V. ii. 1-55). These were not _the_action on which his morbid self-feeling had centred; he feels in themhis old force, and escapes in them from his disgust. (_c_) It accountsfor the pleasure with which he meets old acquaintances, like his'school-fellows' or the actors. The former observed (and we can observe)in him a 'kind of joy' at first, though it is followed by 'much forcingof his disposition' as he attempts to keep this joy and his courtesyalive in spite of the misery which so soon returns upon him and thesuspicion he is forced to feel. (_d_) It accounts no less for thepainful features of his character as seen in the play, his almost savageirritability on the one hand, and on the other his self-absorption, hiscallousness, his insensibility to the fates of those whom he despises,and to the feelings even of those whom he loves. These are frequentsymptoms of such melancholy, and (_e_) they sometimes alternate, as theydo in Hamlet, with bursts of transitory, almost hysterical, and quitefruitless emotion. It is to these last (of which a part of thesoliloquy, 'O what a rogue,' gives a good example) that Hamlet alludeswhen, to the Ghost, he speaks of himself as 'lapsed in _passion_,' andit is doubtless partly his conscious weakness in regard to them thatinspires his praise of Horatio as a man who is not 'passion'sslave. '[49]Finally, Hamlet's melancholy accounts for two things which seem to beexplained by nothing else. The first of these is his apathy or'lethargy. ' We are bound to consider the evidence which the textsupplies of this, though it is usual to ignore it. When Hamlet mentions,as one possible cause of his inaction, his 'thinking too precisely onthe event,' he mentions another, 'bestial oblivion'; and the thingagainst which he inveighs in the greater part of that soliloquy(IV. iv. ) is not the excess or the misuse of reason (which forhim here and always is god-like), but this _bestial_ oblivion or'_dullness_,' this 'letting all _sleep_,' this allowing of heaven-sentreason to 'fust unused':                            What is a man,     If his chief good and market of his time     Be but to _sleep_ and feed? a _beast_, no more. [50]So, in the soliloquy in II. ii. he accuses himself of being 'a_dull_ and muddy-mettled rascal,' who 'peaks [mopes] like John-a-dreams,unpregnant of his cause,' dully indifferent to his cause. [51] So, whenthe Ghost appears to him the second time, he accuses himself of beingtardy and lapsed in _time_; and the Ghost speaks of his purpose beingalmost _blunted_, and bids him not to _forget_ (cf. 'oblivion'). And so,what is emphasised in those undramatic but significant speeches of theplayer-king and of Claudius is the mere dying away of purpose or oflove. [52] Surely what all this points to is not a condition of excessivebut useless mental activity (indeed there is, in reality, curiouslylittle about that in the text), but rather one of dull, apathetic,brooding gloom, in which Hamlet, so far from analysing his duty, is notthinking of it at all, but for the time literally _forgets_ it. It seemsto me we are driven to think of Hamlet _chiefly_ thus during the longtime which elapsed between the appearance of the Ghost and the eventspresented in the Second Act. The Ghost, in fact, had more reason than wesuppose at first for leaving with Hamlet as his parting injunction thecommand, 'Remember me,' and for greeting him, on re-appearing, with thecommand, 'Do not forget. '[53] These little things in Shakespeare are notaccidents. The second trait which is fully explained only by Hamlet's melancholy ishis own inability to understand why he delays. This emerges in a markeddegree when an occasion like the player's emotion or the sight ofFortinbras's army stings Hamlet into shame at his inaction. '_Why_,' heasks himself in genuine bewilderment, 'do I linger? Can the cause becowardice? Can it be sloth? Can it be thinking too precisely of theevent? And does _that_ again mean cowardice? What is it that makes mesit idle when I feel it is shameful to do so, and when I have _cause,and will, and strength, and means_, to act? ' A man irresolute merelybecause he was considering a proposed action too minutely would not feelthis bewilderment. A man might feel it whose conscience secretlycondemned the act which his explicit consciousness approved; but we haveseen that there is no sufficient evidence to justify us in conceivingHamlet thus. These are the questions of a man stimulated for the momentto shake off the weight of his melancholy, and, because for the momenthe is free from it, unable to understand the paralysing pressure whichit exerts at other times. I have dwelt thus at length on Hamlet's melancholy because, from thepsychological point of view, it is the centre of the tragedy, and toomit it from consideration or to underrate its intensity is to makeShakespeare's story unintelligible. But the psychological point of viewis not equivalent to the tragic; and, having once given its due weightto the fact of Hamlet's melancholy, we may freely admit, or rather maybe anxious to insist, that this pathological condition would excite butlittle, if any, tragic interest if it were not the condition of a naturedistinguished by that speculative genius on which the Schlegel-Coleridgetype of theory lays stress. Such theories misinterpret the connectionbetween that genius and Hamlet's failure, but still it is thisconnection which gives to his story its peculiar fascination and makesit appear (if the phrase may be allowed) as the symbol of a tragicmystery inherent in human nature. Wherever this mystery touches us,wherever we are forced to feel the wonder and awe of man's godlike'apprehension' and his 'thoughts that wander through eternity,' and atthe same time are forced to see him powerless in his petty sphere ofaction, and powerless (it would appear) from the very divinity of histhought, we remember Hamlet. And this is the reason why, in the greatideal movement which began towards the close of the eighteenth century,this tragedy acquired a position unique among Shakespeare's dramas, andshared only by Goethe's _Faust_. It was not that _Hamlet_ isShakespeare's greatest tragedy or most perfect work of art; it was that_Hamlet_ most brings home to us at once the sense of the soul'sinfinity, and the sense of the doom which not only circumscribes thatinfinity but appears to be its offspring. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 25: It may be convenient to some readers for the purposes ofthis book to have by them a list of Shakespeare's plays, arranged inperiods. No such list, of course, can command general assent, but thefollowing (which does not throughout represent my own views) wouldperhaps meet with as little objection from scholars as any other. Forsome purposes the Third and Fourth Periods are better considered to beone. Within each period the so-called Comedies, Histories, and Tragediesare respectively grouped together; and for this reason, as well as forothers, the order within each period does not profess to bechronological (_e. g. _ it is not implied that the _Comedy of Errors_preceded _1 Henry VI. _ or _Titus Andronicus_). Where Shakespeare'sauthorship of any considerable part of a play is questioned, widely orby specially good authority, the name of the play is printed in italics. _First Period_ (to 1595? ). --Comedy of Errors, Love's Labour's Lost, TwoGentlemen of Verona, Midsummer-Night's Dream; _1 Henry VI. _, _2 HenryVI. _, _3 Henry VI. _, Richard III. , Richard II. ; _Titus Andronicus_,Romeo and Juliet. _Second Period_ (to 1602? ). --Merchant of Venice, All's Well (better inThird Period? ), _Taming of the Shrew_, Much Ado, As You Like it, MerryWives, Twelfth Night; King John, 1 Henry IV. , 2 Henry IV. , Henry V. ;Julius Caesar, Hamlet. _Third Period_ (to 1608? ). --Troilus and Cressida, Measure for Measure;Othello, King Lear, _Timon of Athens_, Macbeth, Antony and Cleopatra,Coriolanus. _Fourth Period. _--_Pericles_, Cymbeline, Winter's Tale, Tempest, _TwoNoble Kinsmen_, _Henry VIII. _][Footnote 26: The reader will observe that this 'tragic period' wouldnot exactly coincide with the 'Third Period' of the division given inthe last note. For _Julius Caesar_ and _Hamlet_ fall in the SecondPeriod, not the Third; and I may add that, as _Pericles_ was entered atStationers' Hall in 1608 and published in 1609, it ought strictly to beput in the Third Period--not the Fourth. The truth is that _JuliusCaesar_ and _Hamlet_ are given to the Second Period mainly on the groundof style; while a Fourth Period is admitted, not mainly on that ground(for there is no great difference here between _Antony_ and _Coriolanus_on the one side and _Cymbeline_ and the _Tempest_ on the other), butbecause of a difference in substance and spirit. If a Fourth Period wereadmitted on grounds of form, it ought to begin with _Antony andCleopatra_. ][Footnote 27: I should go perhaps too far if I said that it is generallyadmitted that _Timon of Athens_ also precedes the two Roman tragedies;but its precedence seems to me so nearly certain that I assume it inwhat follows. ][Footnote 28: That play, however, is distinguished, I think, by adeliberate endeavour after a dignified and unadorned simplicity,--aRoman simplicity perhaps. ][Footnote 29: It is quite probable that this may arise in part from thefact, which seems hardly doubtful, that the tragedy was revised, and inplaces re-written, some little time after its first composition. ][Footnote 30: This, if we confine ourselves to the tragedies, is, Ithink, especially the case in _King Lear_ and _Timon_. ][Footnote 31: The first, at any rate, of these three plays is, ofcourse, much nearer to _Hamlet_, especially in versification, than to_Antony and Cleopatra_, in which Shakespeare's final style first showsitself practically complete. It has been impossible, in the brieftreatment of this subject, to say what is required of the individualplays. ][Footnote 32: _The Mirror_, 18th April, 1780, quoted by Furness,_Variorum Hamlet_, ii. 148. In the above remarks I have relied mainly onFurness's collection of extracts from early critics. ][Footnote 33: I do not profess to reproduce any one theory, and, stillless, to do justice to the ablest exponent of this kind of view, Werder(_Vorlesungen über Hamlet_, 1875), who by no means regards Hamlet'sdifficulties as _merely_ external. ][Footnote 34: I give one instance. When he spares the King, he speaks ofkilling him when he is drunk asleep, when he is in his rage, when he isawake in bed, when he is gaming, as if there were in none of these casesthe least obstacle (III. iii. 89 ff. ). ][Footnote 35: It is surprising to find quoted, in support of theconscience view, the line 'Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,'and to observe the total misinterpretation of the soliloquy _To be ornot to be_, from which the line comes. In this soliloquy Hamlet is notthinking of the duty laid upon him at all. He is debating the questionof suicide. No one oppressed by the ills of life, he says, wouldcontinue to bear them if it were not for speculation about his possiblefortune in another life. And then, generalising, he says (what appliesto himself, no doubt, though he shows no consciousness of the fact) thatsuch speculation or reflection makes men hesitate and shrink likecowards from great actions and enterprises. 'Conscience' does not meanmoral sense or scrupulosity, but this reflection on the _consequences_of action. It is the same thing as the 'craven scruple of thinking tooprecisely on the event' of the speech in IV. iv. As to this useof 'conscience,' see Schmidt, _s. v. _ and the parallels there given. The_Oxford Dictionary_ also gives many examples of similar uses of'conscience,' though it unfortunately lends its authority to themisinterpretation criticised. ][Footnote 36: The King does not die of the _poison_ on the foil, likeLaertes and Hamlet. They were wounded before he was, but they die afterhim. ][Footnote 37: I may add here a word on one small matter. It isconstantly asserted that Hamlet wept over the body of Polonius. Now, ifhe did, it would make no difference to my point in the paragraph above;but there is no warrant in the text for the assertion. It is based onsome words of the Queen (IV. i. 24), in answer to the King'squestion, 'Where is he gone? ':     To draw apart the body he hath killed:     O'er whom his very madness, like some ore     Among a mineral of metals base,     Shows itself pure; he weeps for what is done. But the Queen, as was pointed out by Doering, is trying to screen herson. She has already made the false statement that when Hamlet, crying,'A rat! a rat! ', ran his rapier through the arras, it was because heheard _something stir_ there, whereas we know that what he heard was aman's voice crying, 'What ho! help, help, help! ' And in this scene shehas come straight from the interview with her son, terribly agitated,shaken with 'sighs' and 'profound heaves,' in the night (line 30). Nowwe know what Hamlet said to the body, and of the body, in thatinterview; and there is assuredly no sound of tears in the voice thatsaid those things and others. The only sign of relenting is in the words(III. iv. 171):                         For this same lord,     I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so,     To punish me with this and this with me,     That I must be their scourge and minister. His mother's statement, therefore, is almost certainly untrue, though itmay be to her credit. (It is just conceivable that Hamlet wept atIII. iv. 130, and that the Queen supposed he was weeping forPolonius. )Perhaps, however, he may have wept over Polonius's body afterwards? Well, in the _next_ scene (IV. ii. ) we see him _alone_ with thebody, and are therefore likely to witness his genuine feelings. And hisfirst words are, 'Safely stowed'! ][Footnote 38: Not 'must cripple,' as the English translation has it. ][Footnote 39: He says so to Horatio, whom he has no motive for deceiving(V. ii. 218). His contrary statement (II. ii. 308) is made toRosencrantz and Guildenstern. ][Footnote 40: See Note B. ][Footnote 41: The critics have laboured to find a cause, but it seems tome Shakespeare simply meant to portray a pathological condition; and avery touching picture he draws. Antonio's sadness, which he describes inthe opening lines of the play, would never drive him to suicide, but itmakes him indifferent to the issue of the trial, as all his speeches inthe trial-scene show. ][Footnote 42: Of course 'your' does not mean Horatio's philosophy inparticular. 'Your' is used as the Gravedigger uses it when he says that'your water is a sore decayer of your . . . dead body. '][Footnote 43: This aspect of the matter leaves _us_ comparativelyunaffected, but Shakespeare evidently means it to be of importance. TheGhost speaks of it twice, and Hamlet thrice (once in his last furiouswords to the King). If, as we must suppose, the marriage was universallyadmitted to be incestuous, the corrupt acquiescence of the court and theelectors to the crown would naturally have a strong effect on Hamlet'smind. ][Footnote 44: It is most significant that the metaphor of this soliloquyreappears in Hamlet's adjuration to his mother (III. iv. 150):     Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;     And do not spread the compost on the weeds     To make them ranker. ][Footnote 45: If the reader will now look at the only speech of Hamlet'sthat precedes the soliloquy, and is more than one line in length--thespeech beginning 'Seems, madam! nay, it _is_'--he will understand what,surely, when first we come to it, sounds very strange and almostboastful. It is not, in effect, about Hamlet himself at all; it is abouthis mother (I do not mean that it is intentionally and consciously so;and still less that she understood it so). ][Footnote 46: See Note D. ][Footnote 47: See p. 13. ][Footnote 48: _E. g. _ in the transition, referred to above, fromdesire for vengeance into the wish never to have been born; inthe soliloquy, 'O what a rogue'; in the scene at Ophelia's grave. The Schlegel-Coleridge theory does not account for the psychologicalmovement in these passages. ][Footnote 49: Hamlet's violence at Ophelia's grave, though probablyintentionally exaggerated, is another example of this want ofself-control. The Queen's description of him (V. i. 307),               This is mere madness;     And thus awhile the fit will work on him;     Anon, as patient as the female dove,     When that her golden couplets are disclosed,     His silence will sit drooping. may be true to life, though it is evidently prompted by anxiety toexcuse his violence on the ground of his insanity. On this passage seefurther Note G. ][Footnote 50: Throughout, I italicise to show the connection of ideas. ][Footnote 51: Cf. _Measure for Measure_, IV. iv. 23, 'This deed . . . makes me unpregnant and dull to all proceedings. '][Footnote 52: III. ii. 196 ff. , IV. vii. 111 ff. :_e. g. _,     Purpose is but the slave to _memory_,     Of violent birth but poor validity. ][Footnote 53: So, before, he had said to him:     And duller should'st thou be than the fat weed     That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,     Would'st thou not stir in this. On Hamlet's soliloquy after the Ghost's disappearance see Note D. ]LECTURE IVHAMLETThe only way, if there is any way, in which a conception of Hamlet'scharacter could be proved true, would be to show that it, and it alone,explains all the relevant facts presented by the text of the drama. Toattempt such a demonstration here would obviously be impossible, even ifI felt certain of the interpretation of all the facts. But I propose nowto follow rapidly the course of the action in so far as it speciallyillustrates the character, reserving for separate consideration oneimportant but particularly doubtful point. 1We left Hamlet, at the close of the First Act, when he had just receivedhis charge from the spirit of his father; and his condition was vividlydepicted in the fact that, within an hour of receiving this charge, hehad relapsed into that weariness of life or longing for death which isthe immediate cause of his later inaction. When next we meet him, at theopening of the Second Act, a considerable time has elapsed, apparentlyas much as two months. [54] The ambassadors sent to the King of Norway(I. ii. 27) are just returning. Laertes, whom we saw leaving Elsinore(I. iii. ), has been in Paris long enough to be in want of freshsupplies. Ophelia has obeyed her father's command (given in I. iii. ),and has refused to receive Hamlet's visits or letters. What has Hamletdone? He has put on an 'antic disposition' and established a reputationfor lunacy, with the result that his mother has become deeply anxiousabout him, and with the further result that the King, who was formerlyso entirely at ease regarding him that he wished him to stay on atCourt, is now extremely uneasy and very desirous to discover the causeof his 'transformation. ' Hence Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have beensent for, to cheer him by their company and to worm his secret out ofhim; and they are just about to arrive. Beyond exciting thus theapprehensions of his enemy Hamlet has done absolutely nothing; and, aswe have seen, we must imagine him during this long period sunk for themost part in 'bestial oblivion' or fruitless broodings, and fallingdeeper and deeper into the slough of despond. Now he takes a further step. He suddenly appears unannounced inOphelia's chamber; and his appearance and behaviour are such as tosuggest both to Ophelia and to her father that his brain is turned bydisappointment in love. How far this step was due to the design ofcreating a false impression as to the origin of his lunacy, how far toother causes, is a difficult question; but such a design seems certainlypresent. It succeeds, however, only in part; for, although Polonius isfully convinced, the King is not so, and it is therefore arranged thatthe two shall secretly witness a meeting between Ophelia and Hamlet. Meanwhile Rosencrantz and Guildenstern arrive, and at the King's requestbegin their attempts, easily foiled by Hamlet, to pluck out the heart ofhis mystery. Then the players come to Court, and for a little while oneof Hamlet's old interests revives, and he is almost happy. But only fora little while. The emotion shown by the player in reciting the speechwhich tells of Hecuba's grief for her slaughtered husband awakes intoburning life the slumbering sense of duty and shame. He must act. Withthe extreme rapidity which always distinguishes him in his healthiermoments, he conceives and arranges the plan of having the 'Murder ofGonzago' played before the King and Queen, with the addition of a speechwritten by himself for the occasion. Then, longing to be alone, heabruptly dismisses his guests, and pours out a passion of self-reproachfor his delay, asks himself in bewilderment what can be its cause,lashes himself into a fury of hatred against his foe, checks himself indisgust at his futile emotion, and quiets his conscience for the momentby trying to convince himself that he has doubts about the Ghost, and byassuring himself that, if the King's behaviour at the play-scene showsbut a sign of guilt, he 'knows his course. 'Nothing, surely, can be clearer than the meaning of this famoussoliloquy. The doubt which appears at its close, instead of being thenatural conclusion of the preceding thoughts, is totally inconsistentwith them. For Hamlet's self-reproaches, his curses on his enemy, andhis perplexity about his own inaction, one and all imply his faith inthe identity and truthfulness of the Ghost. Evidently this sudden doubt,of which there has not been the slightest trace before, is no genuinedoubt; it is an unconscious fiction, an excuse for his delay--and forits continuance. A night passes, and the day that follows it brings the crisis. Firsttakes place that interview from which the King is to learn whetherdisappointed love is really the cause of his nephew's lunacy. Hamlet issent for; poor Ophelia is told to walk up and down, reading herprayer-book; Polonius and the King conceal themselves behind the arras. And Hamlet enters, so deeply absorbed in thought that for some time hesupposes himself to be alone. What is he thinking of? 'The Murder ofGonzago,' which is to be played in a few hours, and on which everythingdepends? Not at all. He is meditating on suicide; and he finds that whatstands in the way of it, and counterbalances its infinite attraction, isnot any thought of a sacred unaccomplished duty, but the doubt, quiteirrelevant to that issue, whether it is not ignoble in the mind to endits misery, and, still more, whether death _would_ end it. Hamlet, thatis to say, is here, in effect, precisely where he was at the time of hisfirst soliloquy ('O that this too too solid flesh would melt') twomonths ago, before ever he heard of his father's murder. [55] Hisreflections have no reference to this particular moment; they representthat habitual weariness of life with which his passing outbursts ofemotion or energy are contrasted. What can be more significant than thefact that he is sunk in these reflections on the very day which is todetermine for him the truthfulness of the Ghost? And how is it possiblefor us to hope that, if that truthfulness should be established, Hamletwill be any nearer to his revenge? [56]His interview with Ophelia follows; and its result shows that his delayis becoming most dangerous to himself. The King is satisfied that,whatever else may be the hidden cause of Hamlet's madness, it is notlove. He is by no means certain even that Hamlet is mad at all. He hasheard that infuriated threat, 'I say, we will have no more marriages;those that are married, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep asthey are. ' He is thoroughly alarmed.

He at any rate will not delay. Onthe spot he determines to send Hamlet to England. But, as Polonius ispresent, we do not learn at once the meaning of this purpose. Evening comes. The approach of the play-scene raises Hamlet's spirits. He is in his element. He feels that he is doing _something_ towards hisend, striking a stroke, but a stroke of intellect. In his instructionsto the actor on the delivery of the inserted speech, and again in hisconversation with Horatio just before the entry of the Court, we see thetrue Hamlet, the Hamlet of the days before his father's death. But howcharacteristic it is that he appears quite as anxious that his speechshould not be ranted as that Horatio should observe its effect upon theKing! This trait appears again even at that thrilling moment when theactor is just going to deliver the speech. Hamlet sees him beginning tofrown and glare like the conventional stage-murderer, and calls to himimpatiently, 'Leave thy damnable faces and begin! '[57]Hamlet's device proves a triumph far more complete than he had dared toexpect. He had thought the King might 'blench,' but he does much more. When only six of the 'dozen or sixteen lines' have been spoken he startsto his feet and rushes from the hall, followed by the whole dismayedCourt. In the elation of success--an elation at first almosthysterical--Hamlet treats Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who are sent tohim, with undisguised contempt. Left to himself, he declares that now hecould                   drink hot blood,     And do such bitter business as the day     Would quake to look on. He has been sent for by his mother, and is going to her chamber; and sovehement and revengeful is his mood that he actually fancies himself indanger of using daggers to her as well as speaking them. [58]In this mood, on his way to his mother's chamber, he comes upon theKing, alone, kneeling, conscience-stricken and attempting to pray. Hisenemy is delivered into his hands.     Now might I do it pat, now he is praying:     And now I'll do it: and so he goes to heaven:     And so am I revenged. [59] That would be scanned. He scans it; and the sword that he drew at the words, 'And now I'll doit,' is thrust back into its sheath. If he killed the villain now hewould send his soul to heaven; and he would fain kill soul as well asbody. That this again is an unconscious excuse for delay is now prettygenerally agreed, and it is needless to describe again the state of mindwhich, on the view explained in our last lecture, is the real cause ofHamlet's failure here. The first five words he utters, 'Now might I doit,' show that he has no effective _desire_ to 'do it'; and in thelittle sentences that follow, and the long pauses between them, theendeavour at a resolution, and the sickening return of melancholicparalysis, however difficult a task they set to the actor, are plainenough to a reader. And any reader who may retain a doubt should observethe fact that, when the Ghost reappears, Hamlet does not think ofjustifying his delay by the plea that he was waiting for a more perfectvengeance. But in one point the great majority of critics, I think, goastray. The feeling of intense hatred which Hamlet expresses is not thecause of his sparing the King, and in his heart he knows this; but itdoes not at all follow that this feeling is unreal. All the evidenceafforded by the play goes to show that it is perfectly genuine, and Isee no reason whatever to doubt that Hamlet would have been very sorryto send his father's murderer to heaven, nor much to doubt that he wouldhave been glad to send him to perdition. The reason for refusing toaccept his own version of his motive in sparing Claudius is not that hissentiments are horrible, but that elsewhere, and also in the opening ofhis speech here, we can see that his reluctance to act is due to othercauses. The incident of the sparing of the King is contrived with extraordinarydramatic insight. On the one side we feel that the opportunity wasperfect. Hamlet could not possibly any longer tell himself that he hadno certainty as to his uncle's guilt. And the external conditions weremost favourable; for the King's remarkable behaviour at the play-scenewould have supplied a damning confirmation of the story Hamlet had totell about the Ghost. Even now, probably, in a Court so corrupt as thatof Elsinore, he could not with perfect security have begun by chargingthe King with the murder; but he could quite safely have killed himfirst and given his justification afterwards, especially as he wouldcertainly have had on his side the people, who loved him and despisedClaudius. On the other hand, Shakespeare has taken care to give thisperfect opportunity so repulsive a character that we can hardly bringourselves to wish that the hero should accept it. One of his minordifficulties, we have seen, probably was that he seemed to be requiredto attack a defenceless man; and here this difficulty is at its maximum. This incident is, again, the turning-point of the tragedy. So far,Hamlet's delay, though it is endangering his freedom and his life, hasdone no irreparable harm; but his failure here is the cause of all thedisasters that follow. In sparing the King, he sacrifices Polonius,Ophelia, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Laertes, the Queen and himself. This central significance of the passage is dramatically indicated inthe following scene by the reappearance of the Ghost and the repetitionof its charge. Polonius is the first to fall. The old courtier, whose vanity would notallow him to confess that his diagnosis of Hamlet's lunacy was mistaken,had suggested that, after the theatricals, the Queen should endeavour ina private interview with her son to penetrate the mystery, while hehimself would repeat his favourite part of eaves-dropper (III. i. 184ff. ). It has now become quite imperative that the Prince should bebrought to disclose his secret; for his choice of the 'Murder ofGonzago,' and perhaps his conduct during the performance, have shown aspirit of exaggerated hostility against the King which has excitedgeneral alarm. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern discourse to Claudius on theextreme importance of his preserving his invaluable life, as thoughHamlet's insanity had now clearly shown itself to be homicidal. [60]When, then, at the opening of the interview between Hamlet and hismother, the son, instead of listening to her remonstrances, roughlyassumes the offensive, she becomes alarmed; and when, on her attemptingto leave the room, he takes her by the arm and forces her to sit down,she is terrified, cries out, 'Thou wilt not murder me? ' and screams forhelp. Polonius, behind the arras, echoes her call; and in a momentHamlet, hoping the concealed person is the King, runs the old manthrough the body. Evidently this act is intended to stand in sharp contrast with Hamlet'ssparing of his enemy. The King would have been just as defencelessbehind the arras as he had been on his knees; but here Hamlet is alreadyexcited and in action, and the chance comes to him so suddenly that hehas no time to 'scan' it. It is a minor consideration, but still for thedramatist not unimportant, that the audience would wholly sympathisewith Hamlet's attempt here, as directed against an enemy who is lurkingto entrap him, instead of being engaged in a business which perhaps tothe bulk of the audience then, as now, seemed to have a 'relish ofsalvation in't. 'We notice in Hamlet, at the opening of this interview, something of theexcited levity which followed the _dénouement_ of the play-scene. Thedeath of Polonius sobers him; and in the remainder of the interview heshows, together with some traces of his morbid state, the peculiarbeauty and nobility of his nature. His chief desire is not by any meansto ensure his mother's silent acquiescence in his design of revenge; itis to save her soul. And while the rough work of vengeance is repugnantto him, he is at home in this higher work. Here that fatal feeling, 'itis no matter,' never shows itself. No father-confessor could be moreselflessly set upon his end of redeeming a fellow-creature fromdegradation, more stern or pitiless in denouncing the sin, or more eagerto welcome the first token of repentance. There is something infinitelybeautiful in that sudden sunshine of faith and love which breaks outwhen, at the Queen's surrender,     O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain,he answers,     O throw away the worser part of it,     And live the purer with the other half. The truth is that, though Hamlet hates his uncle and acknowledges theduty of vengeance, his whole heart is never in this feeling or thistask; but his whole heart is in his horror at his mother's fall and inhis longing to raise her. The former of these feelings was theinspiration of his first soliloquy; it combines with the second to formthe inspiration of his eloquence here. And Shakespeare never wrote moreeloquently than here. I have already alluded to the significance of the reappearance of theGhost in this scene; but why does Shakespeare choose for the particularmoment of its reappearance the middle of a speech in which Hamlet israving against his uncle? There seems to be more than one reason. In thefirst place, Hamlet has already attained his object of stirring shameand contrition in his mother's breast, and is now yielding to the oldtemptation of unpacking his heart with words, and exhausting in uselessemotion the force which should be stored up in his will. And, next, indoing this he is agonising his mother to no purpose, and in despite ofher piteous and repeated appeals for mercy. But the Ghost, when it gavehim his charge, had expressly warned him to spare her; and here againthe dead husband shows the same tender regard for his weak unfaithfulwife. The object of his return is to repeat his charge:     Do not forget: this visitation     Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose;but, having uttered this reminder, he immediately bids the son to helpthe mother and 'step between her and her fighting soul. 'And, whether intentionally or not, another purpose is served byShakespeare's choice of this particular moment. It is a moment when thestate of Hamlet's mind is such that we cannot suppose the Ghost to bemeant for an hallucination; and it is of great importance here that thespectator or reader should not suppose any such thing. He is furtherguarded by the fact that the Ghost proves, so to speak, his identity byshowing the same traits as were visible on his first appearance--thesame insistence on the duty of remembering, and the same concern for theQueen. And the result is that we construe the Ghost's interpretation ofHamlet's delay ('almost blunted purpose') as the truth, the dramatist'sown interpretation. Let me add that probably no one in Shakespeare'saudience had any doubt of his meaning here. The idea of later criticsand readers that the Ghost is an hallucination is due partly to failureto follow the indications just noticed, but partly also to two mistakes,the substitution of our present intellectual atmosphere for theElizabethan, and the notion that, because the Queen does not see andhear the Ghost, it is meant to be unreal. But a ghost, in Shakespeare'sday, was able for any sufficient reason to confine its manifestation toa single person in a company; and here the sufficient reason, that ofsparing the Queen, is obvious. [61]At the close of this scene it appears that Hamlet has somehow learned ofthe King's design of sending him to England in charge of his two'school-fellows. ' He has no doubt that this design covers somevillainous plot against himself, but neither does he doubt that he willsucceed in defeating it; and, as we saw, he looks forward with pleasureto this conflict of wits. The idea of refusing to go appears not tooccur to him. Perhaps (for here we are left to conjecture) he feels thathe could not refuse unless at the same time he openly accused the Kingof his father's murder (a course which he seems at no time tocontemplate); for by the slaughter of Polonius he has supplied his enemywith the best possible excuse for getting him out of the country. Besides, he has so effectually warned this enemy that, after the deathof Polonius is discovered, he is kept under guard (IV. iii. 14). Heconsents, then, to go. But on his way to the shore he meets the army ofFortinbras on its march to Poland; and the sight of these men goingcheerfully to risk death 'for an egg-shell,' and 'making mouths at theinvisible event,' strikes him with shame as he remembers how he, with somuch greater cause for action, 'lets all sleep;' and he breaks out intothe soliloquy, 'How all occasions do inform against me! 'This great speech, in itself not inferior to the famous 'To be or not tobe,' is absent not only from the First Quarto but from the Folio. It istherefore probable that, at any rate by the time when the Folio appeared(1623), it had become customary to omit it in theatrical representation;and this is still the custom. But, while no doubt it is dramatically theleast indispensable of the soliloquies, it has a direct dramatic value,and a great value for the interpretation of Hamlet's character. It showsthat Hamlet, though he is leaving Denmark, has not relinquished the ideaof obeying the Ghost. It exhibits very strikingly his inability tounderstand why he has delayed so long. It contains that assertion whichso many critics forget, that he has 'cause and will and strength andmeans to do it. ' On the other hand--and this was perhaps the principalpurpose of the speech--it convinces us that he has learnt little ornothing from his delay, or from his failure to seize the opportunitypresented to him after the play-scene. For, we find, both the motive andthe gist of the speech are precisely the same as those of the soliloquyat the end of the Second Act ('O what a rogue'). There too he wasstirred to shame when he saw a passionate emotion awakened by a causewhich, compared with his, was a mere egg-shell. There too he stoodbewildered at the sight of his own dulness, and was almost ready tobelieve--what was justly incredible to him--that it was the mask of merecowardice. There too he determined to delay no longer: if the Kingshould but blench, he knew his course. Yet this determination led tonothing then; and why, we ask ourselves in despair, should the bloodythoughts he now resolves to cherish ever pass beyond the realm ofthought? Between this scene (IV. iv. ) and the remainder of the play we must againsuppose an interval, though not a very long one. When the actionrecommences, the death of Polonius has led to the insanity of Opheliaand the secret return of Laertes from France. The young man comes backbreathing slaughter. For the King, afraid to put Hamlet on his trial (acourse likely to raise the question of his own behaviour at the play,and perhaps to provoke an open accusation),[62] has attempted to hush upthe circumstances of Polonius's death, and has given him a hurried andinglorious burial. The fury of Laertes, therefore, is directed in thefirst instance against the King: and the ease with which he raises thepeople, like the King's fear of a judicial enquiry, shows us how purelyinternal were the obstacles which the hero had to overcome. Thisimpression is intensified by the broad contrast between Hamlet andLaertes, who rushes headlong to his revenge, and is determined to haveit though allegiance, conscience, grace and damnation stand in his way(IV. v. 130). But the King, though he has been hard put to it, is now inhis element and feels safe. Knowing that he will very soon hear ofHamlet's execution in England, he tells Laertes that his father died byHamlet's hand, and expresses his willingness to let the friends ofLaertes judge whether he himself has any responsibility for the deed. And when, to his astonishment and dismay, news comes that Hamlet hasreturned to Denmark, he acts with admirable promptitude and address,turns Laertes round his finger, and arranges with him for the murder oftheir common enemy. If there were any risk of the young man's resolutionfaltering, it is removed by the death of Ophelia. And now the King hasbut one anxiety,--to prevent the young men from meeting before thefencing-match. For who can tell what Hamlet might say in his defence, orhow enchanting his tongue might prove? [63]Hamlet's return to Denmark is due partly to his own action, partly toaccident. On the voyage he secretly possesses himself of the royalcommission, and substitutes for it another, which he himself writes andseals, and in which the King of England is ordered to put to death, notHamlet, but Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Then the ship is attacked by apirate, which, apparently, finds its intended prize too strong for it,and makes off. But as Hamlet 'in the grapple,' eager for fighting, hasboarded the assailant, he is carried off in it, and by promises inducesthe pirates to put him ashore in Denmark. In what spirit does he return? Unquestionably, I think, we can observe acertain change, though it is not great. First, we notice here and therewhat seems to be a consciousness of power, due probably to his successin counter-mining Claudius and blowing the courtiers to the moon, and tohis vigorous action in the sea-fight. But I doubt if this sense of poweris more marked than it was in the scenes following the success of the'Murder of Gonzago. ' Secondly, we nowhere find any direct expression ofthat weariness of life and that longing for death which were so markedin the first soliloquy and in the speech 'To be or not to be. ' This maybe a mere accident, and it must be remembered that in the Fifth Act wehave no soliloquy. But in the earlier Acts the feelings referred to donot appear _merely_ in soliloquy, and I incline to think thatShakespeare means to show in the Hamlet of the Fifth Act a slightthinning of the dark cloud of melancholy, and means us to feel it tragicthat this change comes too late. And, in the third place, there is atrait about which doubt is impossible,--a sense in Hamlet that he is inthe hands of Providence. This had, indeed, already shown itself at thedeath of Polonius,[64] and perhaps at Hamlet's farewell to the King,[65]but the idea seems now to be constantly present in his mind. 'There's adivinity that shapes our ends,' he declares to Horatio in speaking ofthe fighting in his heart that would not let him sleep, and of hisrashness in groping his way to the courtiers to find their commission. How was he able, Horatio asks, to seal the substituted commission?     Why, even in that was heaven ordinant,Hamlet answers; he had his father's signet in his purse. And though hehas a presentiment of evil about the fencing-match he refuses to yieldto it: 'we defy augury: there is special providence in the fall of asparrow . . . the readiness is all. 'Though these passages strike us more when put together thus than whenthey come upon us at intervals in reading the play, they have a markedeffect on our feeling about Hamlet's character and still more about theevents of the action. But I find it impossible to believe, with somecritics, that they indicate any material change in his generalcondition, or the formation of any effective resolution to fulfil theappointed duty. On the contrary, they seem to express that kind ofreligious resignation which, however beautiful in one aspect, reallydeserves the name of fatalism rather than that of faith in Providence,because it is not united to any determination to do what is believed tobe the will of Providence. In place of this determination, the Hamlet ofthe Fifth Act shows a kind of sad or indifferent self-abandonment, as ifhe secretly despaired of forcing himself to action, and were ready toleave his duty to some other power than his own. _This_ is really themain change which appears in him after his return to Denmark, and whichhad begun to show itself before he went,--this, and not a determinationto act, nor even an anxiety to do so. For when he returns he stands in a most perilous position. On one sideof him is the King, whose safety depends on his death, and who has donehis best to murder him; on the other, Laertes, whose father and sisterhe has sent to their graves, and of whose behaviour and probableattitude he must surely be informed by Horatio. What is required of him,therefore, if he is not to perish with his duty undone, is the utmostwariness and the swiftest resolution. Yet it is not too much to saythat, except when Horatio forces the matter on his attention, he showsno consciousness of this position. He muses in the graveyard on thenothingness of life and fame, and the base uses to which our dustreturns, whether it be a court-jester's or a world-conqueror's. Helearns that the open grave over which he muses has been dug for thewoman he loved; and he suffers one terrible pang, from which he gainsrelief in frenzied words and frenzied action,--action which must needsintensify, if that were possible, the fury of the man whom he has,however unwittingly, so cruelly injured. Yet he appears absolutelyunconscious that he has injured Laertes at all, and asks him:     What is the reason that you use me thus? And as the sharpness of the first pang passes, the old weary miseryreturns, and he might almost say to Ophelia, as he does to her brother:     I loved you ever: but it is no matter. 'It is no matter': _nothing_ matters. The last scene opens. He narrates to Horatio the events of the voyageand his uncle's attempt to murder him. But the conclusion of the storyis no plan of action, but the old fatal question, 'Ought I not toact? '[66] And, while he asks it, his enemies have acted. Osric enterswith an invitation to him to take part in a fencing-match with Laertes. This match--he is expressly told so--has been arranged by his deadlyenemy the King; and his antagonist is a man whose hands but a few hoursago were at his throat, and whose voice he had heard shouting 'The deviltake thy soul! ' But he does not think of that. To fence is to show acourtesy, and to himself it is a relief,--action, and not the onehateful action. There is something noble in his carelessness, and alsoin his refusal to attend to the presentiment which he suddenly feels(and of which he says, not only 'the readiness is all,' but also 'it isno matter'). Something noble; and yet, when a sacred duty is stillundone, ought one to be so ready to die? With the same carelessness, andwith that trustfulness which makes us love him, but which is here sofatally misplaced, he picks up the first foil that comes to his hand,asks indifferently, 'These foils have all a length? ' and begins. AndFate descends upon his enemies, and his mother, and himself. But he is not left in utter defeat. Not only is his task at lastaccomplished, but Shakespeare seems to have determined that his heroshould exhibit in his latest hour all the glorious power and all thenobility and sweetness of his nature. Of the first, the power, I spokebefore,[67] but there is a wonderful beauty in the revelation of thesecond. His body already labouring in the pangs of death, his mind soarsabove them. He forgives Laertes; he remembers his wretched mother andbids her adieu, ignorant that she has preceded him. We hear now no wordof lamentation or self-reproach. He has will, and just time, to think,not of the past or of what might have been, but of the future; to forbidhis friend's death in words more pathetic in their sadness than even hisagony of spirit had been; and to take care, so far as in him lies, forthe welfare of the State which he himself should have guided. Then inspite of shipwreck he reaches the haven of silence where he would be. What else could his world-wearied flesh desire? But _we_ desire more; and we receive it. As those mysterious words, 'Therest is silence,' die upon Hamlet's lips, Horatio answers:     Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,     And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Why did Shakespeare here, so much against his custom, introduce thisreference to another life? Did he remember that Hamlet is the only oneof his tragic heroes whom he has not allowed us to see in the days whenthis life smiled on him? Did he feel that, while for the others we mightbe content to imagine after life's fitful fever nothing more thanrelease and silence, we must ask more for one whose 'godlike reason' andpassionate love of goodness have only gleamed upon us through the heavyclouds of melancholy, and yet have left us murmuring, as we bow ourheads, 'This was the noblest spirit of them all'? 2How many things still remain to say of Hamlet! Before I touch on hisrelation to Ophelia, I will choose but two. Neither of them, comparedwith the matters so far considered, is of great consequence, but bothare interesting, and the first seems to have quite escaped observation. (1) Most people have, beside their more essential traits of character,little peculiarities which, for their intimates, form an indissolublepart of their personality. In comedy, and in other humorous works offiction, such peculiarities often figure prominently, but they rarely doso, I think, in tragedy. Shakespeare, however, seems to have given onesuch idiosyncrasy to Hamlet. It is a trick of speech, a habit of repetition. And these are simpleexamples of it from the first soliloquy:                            O _God! God! _     How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable     Seem to me all the uses of this world!     _Fie_ on't! ah _fie! _Now I ask your patience. You will say: 'There is nothing individualhere. Everybody repeats words thus. And the tendency, in particular, touse such repetitions in moments of great emotion is well-known, andfrequently illustrated in literature--for example, in David's cry oflament for Absalom. 'This is perfectly true, and plenty of examples could be drawn fromShakespeare himself. But what we find in Hamlet's case is, I believe,_not_ common. In the first place, this repetition is a _habit_ with him. Here are some more instances: 'Thrift, thrift, Horatio'; 'Indeed,indeed, sirs, but this troubles me'; 'Come, deal justly with me: come,come'; 'Wormwood, wormwood! ' I do not profess to have made an exhaustivesearch, but I am much mistaken if this _habit_ is to be found in anyother serious character of Shakespeare. [68]And, in the second place--and here I appeal with confidence to lovers ofHamlet--some of these repetitions strike us as intensely characteristic. Some even of those already quoted strike one thus, and still more do thefollowing:     (_a_)  _Horatio. _   It would have much amazed you.            _Hamlet. _    Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?     (_b_)  _Polonius. _  What do you read, my lord?            _Hamlet. _    Words, words, words.     (_c_)  _Polonius. _  My honourable lord, I will most humbly take                           my leave of you.            _Hamlet. _    You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I                           will more willingly part withal: except my                           life, except my life, except my life.     (_d_)  _Ophelia. _                  Good my lord,                         How does your honour for this many a day?            _Hamlet. _    I humbly thank you, well, well, well. Is there anything that Hamlet says or does in the whole play moreunmistakably individual than these replies? [69](2) Hamlet, everyone has noticed, is fond of quibbles and word-play, andof 'conceits' and turns of thought such as are common in the poets whomJohnson called Metaphysical. Sometimes, no doubt, he plays with wordsand ideas chiefly in order to mystify, thwart and annoy. To some extent,again, as we may see from the conversation where Rosencrantz andGuildenstern first present themselves (II. ii. 227), he is merelyfollowing the fashion of the young courtiers about him, just as in hislove-letter to Ophelia[70] he uses for the most part the fantasticlanguage of Court Euphuism. Nevertheless in this trait there issomething very characteristic. We should be greatly surprised to find itmarked in Othello or Lear or Timon, in Macbeth or Antony or Coriolanus;and, in fact, we find it in them hardly at all. One reason of this mayperhaps be that these characters are all later creations than Hamlet,and that Shakespeare's own fondness for this kind of play, like thefondness of the theatrical audience for it, diminished with time. Butthe main reason is surely that this tendency, as we see it in Hamlet,betokens a nimbleness and flexibility of mind which is characteristic ofhim and not of the later less many-sided heroes. Macbeth, for instance,has an imagination quite as sensitive as Hamlet's to certainimpressions, but he has none of Hamlet's delight in freaks and twists ofthought, or of his tendency to perceive and play with resemblances inthe most diverse objects and ideas. Though Romeo shows this tendency,the only tragic hero who approaches Hamlet here is Richard II. , whoindeed in several ways recalls the emasculated Hamlet of some critics,and may, like the real Hamlet, have owed his existence in part toShakespeare's personal familiarity with the weaknesses and dangers of animaginative temperament. That Shakespeare meant this trait to be characteristic of Hamlet isbeyond question. The very first line the hero speaks contains a play onwords:     A little more than kin and less than kind. The fact is significant, though the pun itself is not speciallycharacteristic. Much more so, and indeed absolutely individual, are theuses of word-play in moments of extreme excitement. Remember the awe andterror of the scene where the Ghost beckons Hamlet to leave his friendsand follow him into the darkness, and then consider this dialogue:     _Hamlet. _                    It waves me still.                   Go on; I'll follow thee.     _Marcellus. _  You shall not go, my lord.     _Hamlet. _                    Hold off your hands.     _Horatio. _    Be ruled; you shall not go.     _Hamlet. _                    My fate cries out,                   And makes each petty artery in this body                   As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.                   Still am I called. Unhand me, gentlemen.                   _By heaven I'll make a ghost of him that lets me. _Would any other character in Shakespeare have used those words? And,again, where is Hamlet more Hamlet than when he accompanies with a punthe furious action by which he compels his enemy to drink the 'poisontempered by himself'?     Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damn'd Dane,     Drink off this potion. Is thy union here?     Follow my mother. The 'union' was the pearl which Claudius professed to throw into thecup, and in place of which (as Hamlet supposes) he dropped poison in. But the 'union' is also that incestuous marriage which must not bebroken by his remaining alive now that his partner is dead. What ragethere is in the words, and what a strange lightning of the mind! Much of Hamlet's play with words and ideas is imaginatively humorous. That of Richard II. is fanciful, but rarely, if ever, humorous. Antonyhas touches of humour, and Richard III. has more; but Hamlet, we maysafely assert, is the only one of the tragic heroes who can be called ahumorist, his humour being first cousin to that speculative tendencywhich keeps his mental world in perpetual movement. Some of his quipsare, of course, poor enough, and many are not distinctive. Those of hisretorts which strike one as perfectly individual do so, I think, chieflybecause they suddenly reveal the misery and bitterness below thesurface; as when, to Rosencrantz's message from his mother, 'She desiresto speak with you in her closet, ere you go to bed,' he answers, 'Weshall obey, were she ten times our mother'; or as when he replies toPolonius's invitation, 'Will you walk out of the air, my lord? ' withwords that suddenly turn one cold, 'Into my grave. ' Otherwise, what wejustly call Hamlet's characteristic humour is not his exclusiveproperty, but appears in passages spoken by persons as different asMercutio, Falstaff and Rosalind. The truth probably is that it was thekind of humour most natural to Shakespeare himself, and that here, as insome other traits of the poet's greatest creation, we come into closecontact with Shakespeare the man. 3The actor who plays the part of Hamlet must make up his mind as to theinterpretation of every word and deed of the character. Even if at somepoint he feels no certainty as to which of two interpretations is right,he must still choose one or the other. The mere critic is not obliged todo this. Where he remains in doubt he may say so, and, if the matter isof importance, he ought to say so. This is the position in which I find myself in regard to Hamlet's lovefor Ophelia. I am unable to arrive at a conviction as to the meaning ofsome of his words and deeds, and I question whether from the mere textof the play a sure interpretation of them can be drawn. For this reasonI have reserved the subject for separate treatment, and have, so far aspossible, kept it out of the general discussion of Hamlet's character. On two points no reasonable doubt can, I think, be felt. (1) Hamlet wasat one time sincerely and ardently in love with Ophelia. For she herselfsays that he had importuned her with love in honourable fashion, and hadgiven countenance to his speech with almost all the holy vows of heaven(I. iii. 110 f. ). (2) When, at Ophelia's grave, he declared,     I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers     Could not, with all their quantity of love,     Make up my sum,he must have spoken sincerely; and, further, we may take it for grantedthat he used the past tense, 'loved,' merely because Ophelia was dead,and not to imply that he had once loved her but no longer did so. So much being assumed, we come to what is doubtful, and I will begin bystating what is probably the most popular view. According to this view,Hamlet's love for Ophelia never changed. On the revelation made by theGhost, however, he felt that he must put aside all thoughts of it; andit also seemed to him necessary to convince Ophelia, as well as others,that he was insane, and so to destroy her hopes of any happy issue totheir love. This was the purpose of his appearance in her chamber,though he was probably influenced also by a longing to see her and bidher a silent farewell, and possibly by a faint hope that he might safelyentrust his secret to her. If he entertained any such hope his study ofher face dispelled it; and thereafter, as in the Nunnery-scene (III. i. )and again at the play-scene, he not only feigned madness, but, toconvince her that he had quite lost his love for her, he also addressedher in bitter and insulting language. In all this he was acting a partintensely painful to himself; the very violence of his language in theNunnery-scene arose from this pain; and so the actor should make himshow, in that scene, occasional signs of a tenderness which with all hisefforts he cannot wholly conceal. Finally, over her grave the truthbursts from him in the declaration quoted just now, though it is stillimpossible for him to explain to others why he who loved her soprofoundly was forced to wring her heart. Now this theory, if the view of Hamlet's character which I have taken isanywhere near the truth, is certainly wrong at one point, viz. , in sofar as it supposes that Hamlet's bitterness to Ophelia was a _mere_pretence forced on him by his design of feigning to be insane; and Iproceed to call attention to certain facts and considerations, of whichthe theory seems to take no account. 1. How is it that in his first soliloquy Hamlet makes no referencewhatever to Ophelia? 2. How is it that in his second soliloquy, on the departure of theGhost, he again says nothing about her? When the lover is feeling thathe must make a complete break with his past, why does it not occur tohim at once that he must give up his hopes of happiness in love? 3. Hamlet does not, as the popular theory supposes, break with Opheliadirectly after the Ghost appears to him; on the contrary, he tries tosee her and sends letters to her (II. i. 109). What really happens isthat Ophelia suddenly repels his visits and letters. Now, _we_ know thatshe is simply obeying her father's order; but how would her actionappear to Hamlet, already sick at heart because of his mother'sfrailty,[71] and now finding that, the moment fortune has turned againsthim, the woman who had welcomed his love turns against him too? Even ifhe divined (as his insults to Polonius suggest) that her father wasconcerned in this change, would he not still, in that morbid conditionof mind, certainly suspect her of being less simple than she hadappeared to him? [72] Even if he remained free from _this_ suspicion, andmerely thought her deplorably weak, would he not probably feel angeragainst _her_, an anger like that of the hero of _Locksley Hall_ againsthis Amy? 4. When Hamlet made his way into Ophelia's room, why did he go in thegarb, the conventionally recognised garb, of the distracted _lover_? Ifit was necessary to convince Ophelia of his insanity, how was itnecessary to convince her that disappointment in _love_ was the cause ofhis insanity? His _main_ object in the visit appears to have been toconvince _others_, through her, that his insanity was not due to anymysterious unknown cause, but to this disappointment, and so to allaythe suspicions of the King. But if his feeling for her had been simplythat of love, however unhappy, and had not been in any degree that ofsuspicion or resentment, would he have adopted a plan which must involveher in so much suffering? [73]5. In what way are Hamlet's insults to Ophelia at the play-scenenecessary either to his purpose of convincing her of his insanity or tohis purpose of revenge? And, even if he did regard them as somehow meansto these ends, is it conceivable that he would have uttered them, if hisfeeling for her were one of hopeless but unmingled love? 6. How is it that neither when he kills Polonius, nor afterwards, doeshe appear to reflect that he has killed Ophelia's father, or what theeffect on Ophelia is likely to be? 7. We have seen that there is no reference to Ophelia in the soliloquiesof the First Act. Neither is there the faintest allusion to her in anyone of the soliloquies of the subsequent Acts, unless possibly in thewords (III. i. 72) 'the pangs of despised love. '[74] If the populartheory is true, is not this an astounding fact? 8. Considering this fact, is there no significance in the further fact(which, by itself, would present no difficulty) that in speaking toHoratio Hamlet never alludes to Ophelia, and that at his death he saysnothing of her? 9. If the popular theory is true, how is it that neither in theNunnery-scene nor at the play-scene does Shakespeare insert anything tomake the truth plain? Four words like Othello's 'O hardness todissemble' would have sufficed. These considerations, coupled with others as to Hamlet's state of mind,seem to point to two conclusions. They suggest, first, that Hamlet'slove, though never lost, was, after Ophelia's apparent rejection of him,mingled with suspicion and resentment, and that his treatment of her wasdue in part to this cause. And I find it impossible to resist thisconclusion. But the question how much of his harshness is meant to bereal, and how much assumed, seems to me impossible in some places toanswer. For example, his behaviour at the play-scene seems to me to showan intention to hurt and insult; but in the Nunnery-scene (which cannotbe discussed briefly) he is evidently acting a part and sufferingacutely, while at the same time his invective, however exaggerated,seems to spring from real feelings; and what is pretence, and whatsincerity, appears to me an insoluble problem. Something depends here onthe further question whether or no Hamlet suspects or detects thepresence of listeners; but, in the absence of an authentic stagetradition, this question too seems to be unanswerable. But something further seems to follow from the considerations adduced. Hamlet's love, they seem to show, was not only mingled with bitterness,it was also, like all his healthy feelings, weakened and deadened by hismelancholy. [75] It was far from being extinguished; probably it was_one_ of the causes which drove him to force his way to Ophelia;whenever he saw Ophelia, it awoke and, the circumstances being what theywere, tormented him. But it was not an absorbing passion; it did nothabitually occupy his thoughts; and when he declared that it was such alove as forty thousand brothers could not equal, he spoke sincerelyindeed but not truly. What he said was true, if I may put it thus, ofthe inner healthy self which doubtless in time would have fullyreasserted itself; but it was only partly true of the Hamlet whom we seein the play. And the morbid influence of his melancholy on his love isthe cause of those strange facts, that he never alludes to her in hissoliloquies, and that he appears not to realise how the death of herfather must affect her. The facts seem almost to force this idea on us. That it is less'romantic' than the popular view is no argument against it. Andpsychologically it is quite sound, for a frequent symptom of suchmelancholy as Hamlet's is a more or less complete paralysis, or evenperversion, of the emotion of love. And yet, while feeling no doubt thatup to a certain point it is true, I confess I am not satisfied that theexplanation of Hamlet's silence regarding Ophelia lies in it. And thereason of this uncertainty is that scarcely any spectators or readers of_Hamlet_ notice this silence at all; that I never noticed it myself tillI began to try to solve the problem of Hamlet's relation to Ophelia; andthat even now, when I read the play through without pausing to considerparticular questions, it scarcely strikes me. Now Shakespeare wroteprimarily for the theatre and not for students, and therefore greatweight should be attached to the immediate impressions made by hisworks. And so it seems at least possible that the explanation ofHamlet's silence may be that Shakespeare, having already a verydifficult task to perform in the soliloquies--that of showing the stateof mind which caused Hamlet to delay his vengeance--did not choose tomake his task more difficult by introducing matter which would not onlyadd to the complexity of the subject but might, from its 'sentimental'interest, distract attention from the main point; while, from histheatrical experience, he knew that the audience would not observe howunnatural it was that a man deeply in love, and forced not only torenounce but to wound the woman he loved, should not think of her whenhe was alone. But, as this explanation is no more completely convincingto me than the other, I am driven to suspend judgment, and also tosuspect that the text admits of no sure interpretation. [This paragraphstates my view imperfectly. ]This result may seem to imply a serious accusation against Shakespeare. But it must be remembered that if we could see a contemporaryrepresentation of _Hamlet_, our doubts would probably disappear. Theactor, instructed by the author, would make it clear to us by looks,tones, gestures, and by-play how far Hamlet's feigned harshness toOphelia was mingled with real bitterness, and again how far hismelancholy had deadened his love. 4As we have seen, all the persons in _Hamlet_ except the hero are minorcharacters, who fail to rise to the tragic level. They are not lessinteresting on that account, but the hero has occupied us so long that Ishall refer only to those in regard to whom Shakespeare's intentionappears to be not seldom misunderstood or overlooked. It may seem strange that Ophelia should be one of these; and yetShakespearean literature and the experience of teachers show that thereis much difference of opinion regarding her, and in particular that alarge number of readers feel a kind of personal irritation against her. They seem unable to forgive her for not having been a heroine, and theyfancy her much weaker than she was. They think she ought to have beenable to help Hamlet to fulfil his task. And they betray, it appears tome, the strangest misconceptions as to what she actually did. Now it was essential to Shakespeare's purpose that too great an interestshould not be aroused in the love-story; essential, therefore, thatOphelia should be merely one of the subordinate characters; andnecessary, accordingly, that she should not be the equal, in spirit,power or intelligence, of his famous heroines. If she had been anImogen, a Cordelia, even a Portia or a Juliet, the story must have takenanother shape. Hamlet would either have been stimulated to do his duty,or (which is more likely) he would have gone mad, or (which islikeliest) he would have killed himself in despair. Ophelia, therefore,was made a character who could not help Hamlet, and for whom on theother hand he would not naturally feel a passion so vehement or profoundas to interfere with the main motive of the play. [76] And in the loveand the fate of Ophelia herself there was introduced an element, not ofdeep tragedy but of pathetic beauty, which makes the analysis of hercharacter seem almost a desecration. Ophelia is plainly quite young and inexperienced. She has lost hermother, and has only a father and a brother, affectionate but worldly,to take care of her. Everyone in the drama who has any heart is drawn toher. To the persons in the play, as to the readers of it, she brings thethought of flowers. 'Rose of May' Laertes names her.             Lay her in the earth,     And from her fair and unpolluted flesh     May violets spring! --so he prays at her burial. 'Sweets to the sweet' the Queen murmurs, asshe scatters flowers on the grave; and the flowers which Ophelia herselfgathered--those which she gave to others, and those which floated abouther in the brook--glimmer in the picture of the mind. Her affection forher brother is shown in two or three delicate strokes. Her love for herfather is deep, though mingled with fear. For Hamlet she has, some say,no deep love--and perhaps she is so near childhood that old affectionshave still the strongest hold; but certainly she has given to Hamlet allthe love of which her nature is as yet capable. Beyond these threebeloved ones she seems to have eyes and ears for no one. The Queen isfond of her, but there is no sign of her returning the Queen'saffection. Her existence is wrapped up in these three. On this childlike nature and on Ophelia's inexperience everythingdepends. The knowledge that 'there's tricks in the world' has reachedher only as a vague report. Her father and brother are jealously anxiousfor her because of her ignorance and innocence; and we resent theiranxiety chiefly because we know Hamlet better than they. Her wholecharacter is that of simple unselfish affection. Naturally she isincapable of understanding Hamlet's mind, though she can feel itsbeauty. Naturally, too, she obeys her father when she is forbidden toreceive Hamlet's visits and letters. If we remember not what _we_ knowbut what _she_ knows of her lover and her father; if we remember thatshe had not, like Juliet, confessed her love; and if we remember thatshe was much below her suitor in station, her compliance surely mustseem perfectly natural, apart from the fact that the standard ofobedience to a father was in Shakespeare's day higher than in ours. 'But she does more than obey,' we are told; 'she runs off frightened toreport to her father Hamlet's strange visit and behaviour; she shows toher father one of Hamlet's letters, and tells him[77] the whole story ofthe courtship; and she joins in a plot to win Hamlet's secret from him. 'One must remember, however, that she had never read the tragedy. Consider for a moment how matters looked to _her_. She knows nothingabout the Ghost and its disclosures. She has undergone for some time thepain of repelling her lover and appearing to have turned against him. She sees him, or hears of him, sinking daily into deeper gloom, and sotransformed from what he was that he is considered to be out of hismind. She hears the question constantly discussed what the cause of thissad change can be; and her heart tells her--how can it fail to tellher? --that her unkindness is the chief cause. Suddenly Hamlet forces hisway into her chamber; and his appearance and his behaviour are those ofa man crazed with love. She is frightened--why not? She is not LadyMacbeth. Rosalind would have been frightened. Which of her censors wouldbe wholly unmoved if his room were invaded by a lunatic? She isfrightened, then; frightened, if you will, like a child. Yes, but,observe, her one idea is to help Hamlet. She goes, therefore, at once toher father. To whom else should she go? Her brother is away. Her father,whom she saw with her own eyes and not with Shakespeare's, is kind, andthe wisest of men, and concerned about Hamlet's state. Her father finds,in her report, the solution of the mystery: Hamlet is mad because shehas repulsed him. Why should she not tell her father the whole story andgive him an old letter which may help to convince the King and theQueen? Nay, why should she not allow herself to be used as a 'decoy' tosettle the question why Hamlet is mad? It is all-important that itshould be settled, in order that he may be cured; all her seniors aresimply and solely anxious for his welfare; and, if her unkindness _is_the cause of his sad state, they will permit her to restore him bykindness (III. i. 40). Was she to refuse to play a part just because itwould be painful to her to do so? I find in her joining the 'plot' (asit is absurdly called) a sign not of weakness, but of unselfishness andstrength. 'But she practised deception; she even told a lie. Hamlet asked herwhere her father was, and she said he was at home, when he was reallylistening behind a curtain. ' Poor Ophelia! It is considered angelic inDesdemona to say untruly that she killed herself, but most immoral orpusillanimous in Ophelia to tell _her_ lie. I will not discuss thesecasuistical problems; but, if ever an angry lunatic asks me a questionwhich I cannot answer truly without great danger to him and to one of myrelations, I hope that grace may be given me to imitate Ophelia. Seriously, at such a terrible moment was it weak, was it not ratherheroic, in a simple girl not to lose her presence of mind and not toflinch, but to go through her task for Hamlet's sake and her father's? And, finally, is it really a thing to be taken as matter of course, andno matter for admiration, in this girl that, from beginning to end, andafter a storm of utterly unjust reproach, not a thought of resentmentshould even cross her mind? Still, we are told, it was ridiculously weak in her to lose her reason. And here again her critics seem hardly to realise the situation, hardlyto put themselves in the place of a girl whose lover, estranged fromher, goes mad and kills her father. They seem to forget also thatOphelia must have believed that these frightful calamities were not merecalamities, but followed from _her_ action in repelling her lover. Nordo they realise the utter loneliness that must have fallen on her. Ofthe three persons who were all the world to her, her father has beenkilled, Hamlet has been sent out of the country insane, and her brotheris abroad. Horatio, when her mind gives way, tries to befriend her, butthere is no sign of any previous relation between them, or of Hamlet'shaving commended her to his friend's care. What support she can gainfrom the Queen we can guess from the Queen's character, and from thefact that, when Ophelia is most helpless, the Queen shrinks from thevery sight of her (IV. v. 1). She was left, thus, absolutely alone, andif she looked for her brother's return (as she did, IV. v. 70), shemight reflect that it would mean danger to Hamlet. Whether this idea occurred to her we cannot tell. In any case it waswell for her that her mind gave way before Laertes reached Elsinore; andpathetic as Ophelia's madness is, it is also, we feel, the kindeststroke that now could fall on her. It is evident, I think, that this wasthe effect Shakespeare intended to produce. In her madness Opheliacontinues sweet and lovable.     Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,     She turns to favour and to prettiness. In her wanderings we hear from time to time an undertone of the deepestsorrow, but never the agonised cry of fear or horror which makes madnessdreadful or shocking. [78] And the picture of her death, if our eyes growdim in watching it, is still purely beautiful. Coleridge was true toShakespeare when he wrote of 'the affecting death of Ophelia,--who inthe beginning lay like a little projection of land into a lake orstream, covered with spray-flowers quietly reflected in the quietwaters, but at length is undermined or loosened, and becomes a fairyisle, and after a brief vagrancy sinks almost without an eddy. '[79]5I reluctantly pass by Polonius, Laertes and the beautiful character ofHoratio, to say something in conclusion of the Queen and the King. The answers to two questions asked about the Queen are, it seems to me,practically certain, (1) She did not merely marry a second time withindecent haste; she was false to her husband while he lived. This issurely the most natural interpretation of the words of the Ghost (I. v. 41 f. ), coming, as they do, before his account of the murder. Andagainst this testimony what force has the objection that the queen inthe 'Murder of Gonzago' is not represented as an adulteress? Hamlet'smark in arranging the play-scene was not his mother, whom besides he hadbeen expressly ordered to spare (I. v. 84 f. ). (2) On the other hand, she was _not_ privy to the murder of her husband,either before the deed or after it. There is no sign of her being so,and there are clear signs that she was not. The representation of themurder in the play-scene does not move her; and when her husband startsfrom his throne, she innocently asks him, 'How fares my lord? ' In theinterview with Hamlet, when her son says of his slaughter of Polonius,     'A bloody deed! ' Almost as bad, good mother,     As kill a king and marry with his brother,the astonishment of her repetition 'As kill a king! ' is evidentlygenuine; and, if it had not been so, she would never have had thehardihood to exclaim:     What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue     In noise so rude against me? Further, it is most significant that when she and the King speaktogether alone, nothing that is said by her or to her implies herknowledge of the secret. The Queen was not a bad-hearted woman, not at all the woman to thinklittle of murder. But she had a soft animal nature, and was very dulland very shallow. She loved to be happy, like a sheep in the sun; and,to do her justice, it pleased her to see others happy, like more sheepin the sun. She never saw that drunkenness is disgusting till Hamlettold her so; and, though she knew that he considered her marriage'o'er-hasty' (II. ii. 57), she was untroubled by any shame at thefeelings which had led to it. It was pleasant to sit upon her throne andsee smiling faces round her, and foolish and unkind in Hamlet to persistin grieving for his father instead of marrying Ophelia and makingeverything comfortable. She was fond of Ophelia and genuinely attachedto her son (though willing to see her lover exclude him from thethrone); and, no doubt, she considered equality of rank a mere triflecompared with the claims of love. The belief at the bottom of her heartwas that the world is a place constructed simply that people may behappy in it in a good-humoured sensual fashion. Her only chance was to be made unhappy. When affliction comes to her,the good in her nature struggles to the surface through the heavy massof sloth. Like other faulty characters in Shakespeare's tragedies, shedies a better woman than she had lived. When Hamlet shows her what shehas done she feels genuine remorse. It is true, Hamlet fears it will notlast, and so at the end of the interview (III. iv. 180 ff. ) he adds awarning that, if she betrays him, she will ruin herself as well. [80] Itis true too that there is no sign of her obeying Hamlet in breaking offher most intimate connection with the King. Still she does feel remorse;and she loves her son, and does not betray him.

She gives her husband afalse account of Polonius's death, and is silent about the appearance ofthe Ghost. She becomes miserable;     To her sick soul, as sin's true nature is,     Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. She shows spirit when Laertes raises the mob, and one respects her forstanding up for her husband when she can do nothing to help her son. Ifshe had sense to realise Hamlet's purpose, or the probability of theKing's taking some desperate step to foil it, she must have sufferedtorture in those days. But perhaps she was too dull. The last we see of her, at the fencing-match, is most characteristic. She is perfectly serene. Things have slipped back into their groove, andshe has no apprehensions. She is, however, disturbed and full ofsympathy for her son, who is out of condition and pants and perspires. These are afflictions she can thoroughly feel for, though they are evenmore common than the death of a father. But then she meets her deathbecause she cannot resist the wish to please her son by drinking to hissuccess. And more: when she falls dying, and the King tries to make outthat she is merely swooning at the sight of blood, she collects herenergies to deny it and to warn Hamlet:     No, no, the drink, the drink,--O my dear Hamlet,--     The drink, the drink! I am poison'd.                [_Dies. _Was ever any other writer at once so pitiless and so just asShakespeare? Did ever any other mingle the grotesque and the patheticwith a realism so daring and yet so true to 'the modesty of nature'?       *       *       *       *       *King Claudius rarely gets from the reader the attention he deserves. Buthe is very interesting, both psychologically and dramatically. On theone hand, he is not without respectable qualities. As a king he iscourteous and never undignified; he performs his ceremonial dutiesefficiently; and he takes good care of the national interests. Henowhere shows cowardice, and when Laertes and the mob force their wayinto the palace, he confronts a dangerous situation with coolness andaddress. His love for his ill-gotten wife seems to be quite genuine, andthere is no ground for suspecting him of having used her as a mere meansto the crown. [81] His conscience, though ineffective, is far from beingdead. In spite of its reproaches he plots new crimes to ensure the prizeof the old one; but still it makes him unhappy (III. i. 49 f. , III. iii. 35 f. ). Nor is he cruel or malevolent. On the other hand, he is no tragic character. He had a small nature. IfHamlet may be trusted, he was a man of mean appearance--a mildewed ear,a toad, a bat; and he was also bloated by excess in drinking. Peoplemade mouths at him in contempt while his brother lived; and though, whenhe came to the throne, they spent large sums in buying his portrait, heevidently put little reliance on their loyalty. He was no villain offorce, who thought of winning his brother's crown by a bold and openstroke, but a cut-purse who stole the diadem from a shelf and put it inhis pocket. He had the inclination of natures physically weak andmorally small towards intrigue and crooked dealing. His instinctivepredilection was for poison: this was the means he used in his firstmurder, and he at once recurred to it when he had failed to get Hamletexecuted by deputy. Though in danger he showed no cowardice, his firstthought was always for himself.     I like him not, nor stands it safe with _us_     To let his madness range,--these are the first words we hear him speak after the play-scene. Hisfirst comment on the death of Polonius is,     It had been so with _us_ had we been there;and his second is,     Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answered?     It will be laid to _us_. He was not, however, stupid, but rather quick-witted and adroit. He wonthe Queen partly indeed by presents (how pitifully characteristic ofher! ), but also by 'witch-craft of his wit' or intellect. He seems tohave been soft-spoken, ingratiating in manner, and given to smiling onthe person he addressed ('that one may smile, and smile, and be avillain'). We see this in his speech to Laertes about the young man'sdesire to return to Paris (I. ii. 42 f. ). Hamlet scarcely ever speaks tohim without an insult, but he never shows resentment, hardly evenannoyance. He makes use of Laertes with great dexterity. He hadevidently found that a clear head, a general complaisance, a willingnessto bend and oblige where he could not overawe, would lead him to hisobjects,--that he could trick men and manage them. Unfortunately heimagined he could trick something more than men. This error, together with a decided trait of temperament, leads him tohis ruin. He has a sanguine disposition. When first we see him, all hasfallen out to his wishes, and he confidently looks forward to a happylife. He believes his secret to be absolutely safe, and he is quiteready to be kind to Hamlet, in whose melancholy he sees only excess ofgrief. He has no desire to see him leave the court; he promises him hisvoice for the succession (I. ii. 108, III. ii. 355); he will be a fatherto him. Before long, indeed, he becomes very uneasy, and then more andmore alarmed; but when, much later, he has contrived Hamlet's death inEngland, he has still no suspicion that he need not hope for happiness:                       till I know 'tis done,     Howe'er my haps, my _joys_ were ne'er begun. Nay, his very last words show that he goes to death unchanged:     Oh yet defend me, friends, I am but hurt [=wounded],he cries, although in half a minute he is dead. That his crime hasfailed, and that it could do nothing else, never once comes home to him. He thinks he can over-reach Heaven. When he is praying for pardon, he isall the while perfectly determined to keep his crown; and he knows it. More--it is one of the grimmest things in Shakespeare, but he puts suchthings so quietly that we are apt to miss them--when the King is prayingfor pardon for his first murder he has just made his final arrangementsfor a second, the murder of Hamlet. But he does not allude to that factin his prayer. If Hamlet had really wished to kill him at a moment thathad no relish of salvation in it, he had no need to wait. [82] So we areinclined to say; and yet it was not so. For this was the crisis forClaudius as well as Hamlet. He had better have died at once, before hehad added to his guilt a share in the responsibility for all the woe anddeath that followed. And so, we may allow ourselves to say, here alsoHamlet's indiscretion served him well. The power that shaped his endshaped the King's no less. For--to return in conclusion to the action of the play--in all thathappens or is done we seem to apprehend some vaster power. We do notdefine it, or even name it, or perhaps even say to ourselves that it isthere; but our imagination is haunted by the sense of it, as it worksits way through the deeds or the delays of men to its inevitable end. And most of all do we feel this in regard to Hamlet and the King. Forthese two, the one by his shrinking from his appointed task, and theother by efforts growing ever more feverish to rid himself of his enemy,seem to be bent on avoiding each other. But they cannot. Through deviouspaths, the very paths they take in order to escape, something is pushingthem silently step by step towards one another, until they meet and itputs the sword into Hamlet's hand. He himself must die, for he neededthis compulsion before he could fulfil the demand of destiny; but he_must_ fulfil it. And the King too, turn and twist as he may, must reachthe appointed goal, and is only hastening to it by the windings whichseem to lead elsewhere. Concentration on the character of the hero isapt to withdraw our attention from this aspect of the drama; but in noother tragedy of Shakespeare's, not even in _Macbeth_, is this aspect soimpressive. [83]I mention _Macbeth_ for a further reason. In _Macbeth_ and _Hamlet_ notonly is the feeling of a supreme power or destiny peculiarly marked, butit has also at times a peculiar tone, which may be called, in a sense,religious. I cannot make my meaning clear without using language toodefinite to describe truly the imaginative impression produced; but itis roughly true that, while we do not imagine the supreme power as adivine being who avenges crime, or as a providence which supernaturallyinterferes, our sense of it is influenced by the fact that Shakespeareuses current religious ideas here much more decidedly than in _Othello_or _King Lear_. The horror in Macbeth's soul is more than oncerepresented as desperation at the thought that he is eternally 'lost';the same idea appears in the attempt of Claudius at repentance; and as_Hamlet_ nears its close the 'religious' tone of the tragedy is deepenedin two ways. In the first place, 'accident' is introduced into the plotin its barest and least dramatic form, when Hamlet is brought back toDenmark by the chance of the meeting with the pirate ship. This incidenthas been therefore severely criticised as a lame expedient,[84] but itappears probable that the 'accident' is meant to impress the imaginationas the very reverse of accidental, and with many readers it certainlydoes so. And that this was the intention is made the more likely by asecond fact, the fact that in connection with the events of the voyageShakespeare introduces that feeling, on Hamlet's part, of his being inthe hands of Providence. The repeated expressions of this feeling arenot, I have maintained, a sign that Hamlet has now formed a fixedresolution to do his duty forthwith; but their effect is to strengthenin the spectator the feeling that, whatever may become of Hamlet, andwhether he wills it or not, his task will surely be accomplished,because it is the purpose of a power against which both he and his enemyare impotent, and which makes of them the instruments of its own will. Observing this, we may remember another significant point of resemblancebetween _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, the appearance in each play of aGhost,--a figure which seems quite in place in either, whereas it wouldseem utterly out of place in _Othello_ or _King Lear_. Much might besaid of the Ghost in _Hamlet_, but I confine myself to the matter whichwe are now considering. What is the effect of the appearance of theGhost? And, in particular, why does Shakespeare make this Ghost so_majestical_ a phantom, giving it that measured and solemn utterance,and that air of impersonal abstraction which forbids, for example, allexpression of affection for Hamlet and checks in Hamlet the outburst ofpity for his father? Whatever the intention may have been, the result isthat the Ghost affects imagination not simply as the apparition of adead king who desires the accomplishment of _his_ purposes, but also asthe representative of that hidden ultimate power, the messenger ofdivine justice set upon the expiation of offences which it appearedimpossible for man to discover and avenge, a reminder or a symbol of theconnexion of the limited world of ordinary experience with the vasterlife of which it is but a partial appearance. And as, at the beginningof the play, we have this intimation, conveyed through the medium of thereceived religious idea of a soul come from purgatory, so at the end,conveyed through the similar idea of a soul carried by angels to itsrest, we have an intimation of the same character, and a reminder thatthe apparent failure of Hamlet's life is not the ultimate truthconcerning him. If these various peculiarities of the tragedy are considered, it will beagreed that, while _Hamlet_ certainly cannot be called in the specificsense a 'religious drama,' there is in it nevertheless both a freer useof popular religious ideas, and a more decided, though alwaysimaginative, intimation of a supreme power concerned in human evil andgood, than can be found in any other of Shakespeare's tragedies. Andthis is probably one of the causes of the special popularity of thisplay, just as _Macbeth_, the tragedy which in these respects most nearlyapproaches it, has also the place next to it in general esteem. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 54: In the First Act (I. ii. 138) Hamlet says that his fatherhas been dead not quite two months. In the Third Act (III. ii. 135)Ophelia says King Hamlet has been dead 'twice two months. ' The events ofthe Third Act are separated from those of the Second by one night (II. ii. 565). ][Footnote 55: The only difference is that in the 'To be or not to be'soliloquy there is no reference to the idea that suicide is forbidden by'the Everlasting. ' Even this, however, seems to have been present in theoriginal form of the speech, for the version in the First Quarto has aline about our being 'borne before an everlasting Judge. '][Footnote 56: The present position of the 'To be or not to be'soliloquy, and of the interview with Ophelia, appears to have been dueto an after-thought of Shakespeare's; for in the First Quarto theyprecede, instead of following, the arrival of the players, andconsequently the arrangement for the play-scene. This is a notableinstance of the truth that 'inspiration' is by no means confined to apoet's first conceptions. ][Footnote 57: Cf. again the scene at Ophelia's grave, where a strongstrain of aesthetic disgust is traceable in Hamlet's 'towering passion'with Laertes: 'Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou' (V. i. 306). ][Footnote 58:     O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever     The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom:Nero, who put to death his mother who had poisoned her husband. Thispassage is surely remarkable. And so are the later words (III. iv. 28):     A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,     As kill a king, and marry with his brother. Are we to understand that at this time he really suspected her ofcomplicity in the murder? We must remember that the Ghost had not toldhim she was innocent of that. ][Footnote 59: I am inclined to think that the note of interrogation putafter 'revenged' in a late Quarto is right. ][Footnote 60: III. iii. 1-26. The state of affairs at Court at thistime, though I have not seen it noticed by critics, seems to mepuzzling. It is quite clear from III. ii. 310 ff. , from the passage justcited, and from IV. vii. 1-5 and 30 ff. , that everyone sees in theplay-scene a gross and menacing insult to the King. Yet no one shows anysign of perceiving in it also an accusation of murder. Surely that isstrange. Are we perhaps meant to understand that they do perceive this,but out of subservience choose to ignore the fact? If that wereShakespeare's meaning, the actors could easily indicate it by theirlooks. And if it were so, any sympathy we may feel for Rosencrantz andGuildenstern in their fate would be much diminished. But the mere textdoes not suffice to decide either this question or the question whetherthe two courtiers were aware of the contents of the commission they boreto England. ][Footnote 61: This passage in _Hamlet_ seems to have been in Heywood'smind when, in _The Second Part of the Iron Age_ (Pearson's reprint, vol. iii. , p. 423), he makes the Ghost of Agamemnon appear in order tosatisfy the doubts of Orestes as to his mother's guilt. No reader couldpossibly think that this Ghost was meant to be an hallucination; yetClytemnestra cannot see it. The Ghost of King Hamlet, I may add, goesfurther than that of Agamemnon, for he is audible, as well as visible,to the privileged person. ][Footnote 62: I think it is clear that it is this fear which stands inthe way of the obvious plan of bringing Hamlet to trial and getting himshut up or executed. It is much safer to hurry him off to his doom inEngland before he can say anything about the murder which he has somehowdiscovered. Perhaps the Queen's resistance, and probably Hamlet's greatpopularity with the people, are additional reasons. (It should beobserved that as early as III. i. 194 we hear of the idea of 'confining'Hamlet as an alternative to sending him to England. )][Footnote 63: I am inferring from IV. vii. , 129, 130, and the last wordsof the scene. ][Footnote 64: III. iv. 172:                         For this same lord,     I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so,     To punish me with this and this with me,     That I must be their scourge and minister:_i. e. _ the scourge and minister of 'heaven,' which has a plural senseelsewhere also in Shakespeare. ][Footnote 65: IV. iii. 48:     _Ham. _   For England!     _King. _               Ay, Hamlet.     _Ham. _                            Good.     _King. _  So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes.     _Ham. _   I see a cherub that sees them. ][Footnote 66: On this passage see p. 98. Hamlet's reply to Horatio'swarning sounds, no doubt, determined; but so did 'I know my course. ' Andis it not significant that, having given it, he abruptly changes thesubject? ][Footnote 67: P. 102. ][Footnote 68: It should be observed also that many of Hamlet'srepetitions can hardly be said to occur at moments of great emotion,like Cordelia's 'And so I am, I am,' and 'No cause, no cause. 'Of course, a habit of repetition quite as marked as Hamlet's may befound in comic persons, _e. g. _ Justice Shallow in _2 Henry IV. _][Footnote 69: Perhaps it is from noticing this trait that I findsomething characteristic too in this coincidence of phrase: 'Alas, poorghost! ' (I. v. 4), 'Alas, poor Yorick! ' (V. i. 202). ][Footnote 70: This letter, of course, was written before the time whenthe action of the drama begins, for we know that Ophelia, after herfather's commands in I. iii. , received no more letters (II. i. 109). ][Footnote 71: 'Frailty, thy name is woman! ' he had exclaimed in thefirst soliloquy. Cf. what he says of his mother's act (III. iv. 40):                               Such an act     That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,     Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose     From the fair forehead of an innocent love     And sets a blister there. ][Footnote 72: There are signs that Hamlet was haunted by the horribleidea that he had been deceived in Ophelia as he had been in his mother;that she was shallow and artificial, and even that what had seemedsimple and affectionate love might really have been something verydifferent. The grossness of his language at the play-scene, and somelines in the Nunnery-scene, suggest this; and, considering the state ofhis mind, there is nothing unnatural in his suffering from such asuspicion. I do not suggest that he _believed_ in it, and in theNunnery-scene it is clear that his healthy perception of her innocenceis in conflict with it. He seems to have divined that Polonius suspected him of dishonourableintentions towards Ophelia; and there are also traces of the idea thatPolonius had been quite ready to let his daughter run the risk as longas Hamlet was prosperous. But it is dangerous, of course, to lay stresson inferences drawn from his conversations with Polonius. ][Footnote 73: Many readers and critics imagine that Hamlet went straightto Ophelia's room after his interview with the Ghost. But we have justseen that on the contrary he tried to visit her and was repelled, and itis absolutely certain that a long interval separates the events of I. v. and II. i. They think also, of course, that Hamlet's visit to Opheliawas the first announcement of his madness. But the text flatlycontradicts that idea also. Hamlet has for some time appeared totallychanged (II. ii. 1-10); the King is very uneasy at his 'transformation,'and has sent for his school-fellows in order to discover its cause. Polonius now, after Ophelia has told him of the interview, comes toannounce his discovery, not of Hamlet's madness, but of its cause (II. ii. 49). That, it would seem, was the effect Hamlet aimed at in hisinterview. I may add that Ophelia's description of his intentexamination of her face suggests doubt rather as to her 'honesty' orsincerity than as to her strength of mind. I cannot believe that he everdreamed of confiding his secret to her. ][Footnote 74: If this _is_ an allusion to his own love, the adjective'despised' is significant. But I doubt the allusion. The othercalamities mentioned by Hamlet, 'the oppressor's wrong, the proud man'scontumely, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns thatpatient merit of the unworthy takes,' are not at all specially his own. ][Footnote 75: It should be noticed that it was not apparently of longstanding. See the words 'of late' in I. iii. 91, 99. ][Footnote 76: This, I think, may be said on almost any sane view ofHamlet's love. ][Footnote 77: Polonius says so, and it _may_ be true. ][Footnote 78: I have heard an actress in this part utter such a cry asis described above, but there is absolutely nothing in the text tojustify her rendering. Even the exclamation 'O, ho! ' found in theQuartos at IV. v. 33, but omitted in the Folios and by almost all moderneditors, coming as it does after the stanza, 'He is dead and gone,lady,' evidently expresses grief, not terror. ][Footnote 79: In the remarks above I have not attempted, of course, acomplete view of the character, which has often been well described; butI cannot forbear a reference to one point which I do not remember tohave seen noticed. In the Nunnery-scene Ophelia's first wordspathetically betray her own feeling:                       Good my lord,     How does your honour _for this many a day_? She then offers to return Hamlet's presents. This has not been suggestedto her by her father: it is her own thought. And the next lines, inwhich she refers to the sweet words which accompanied those gifts, andto the unkindness which has succeeded that kindness, imply a reproach. So again do those most touching little speeches:     _Hamlet. _    . . . I did love you once.     _Ophelia. _  Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.     _Hamlet. _   You should not have believed me . . . I loved you not.     _Ophelia. _  I was the more deceived. Now the obvious surface fact was not that Hamlet had forsaken her, butthat _she_ had repulsed _him_; and here, with his usual unobtrusivesubtlety, Shakespeare shows how Ophelia, even though she may haveaccepted from her elders the theory that her unkindness has drivenHamlet mad, knows within herself that she is forsaken, and cannotrepress the timid attempt to win her lover back by showing that her ownheart is unchanged. I will add one note. There are critics who, after all the help giventhem in different ways by Goethe and Coleridge and Mrs. Jameson, stillshake their heads over Ophelia's song, 'To-morrow is Saint Valentine'sday. ' Probably they are incurable, but they may be asked to considerthat Shakespeare makes Desdemona, 'as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,'sing an old song containing the line,     If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men. ][Footnote 80: _I. e. _ the King will kill _her_ to make all sure. ][Footnote 81: I do not rely so much on his own statement to Laertes (IV. vii. 12 f. ) as on the absence of contrary indications, on his tone inspeaking to her, and on such signs as his mention of her in soliloquy(III. iii. 55). ][Footnote 82: This also is quietly indicated. Hamlet spares the King, hesays, because if the King is killed praying he will _go to heaven_. OnHamlet's departure, the King rises from his knees, and mutters:     My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:     Words without thoughts _never to heaven go_. ][Footnote 83: I am indebted to Werder in this paragraph. ][Footnote 84: The attempt to explain this meeting as pre-arranged byHamlet is scarcely worth mention. ]LECTURE VOTHELLOThere is practically no doubt that _Othello_ was the tragedy writtennext after _Hamlet_. Such external evidence as we possess points to thisconclusion, and it is confirmed by similarities of style, diction andversification, and also by the fact that ideas and phrases of theearlier play are echoed in the later. [85] There is, further (not tospeak of one curious point, to be considered when we come to Iago), acertain resemblance in the subjects. The heroes of the two plays aredoubtless extremely unlike, so unlike that each could have dealt withoutmuch difficulty with the situation which proved fatal to the other; butstill each is a man exceptionally noble and trustful, and each enduresthe shock of a terrible disillusionment. This theme is treated byShakespeare for the first time in _Hamlet_, for the second in _Othello_. It recurs with modifications in _King Lear_, and it probably formed theattraction which drew Shakespeare to refashion in part another writer'stragedy of _Timon_. These four dramas may so far be grouped together indistinction from the remaining tragedies. But in point of substance, and, in certain respects, in point of style,the unlikeness of _Othello_ to _Hamlet_ is much greater than thelikeness, and the later play belongs decidedly to one group with itssuccessors. We have seen that, like them, it is a tragedy of passion, adescription inapplicable to _Julius Caesar_ or _Hamlet_. And with thischange goes another, an enlargement in the stature of the hero. There isin most of the later heroes something colossal, something which remindsus of Michael Angelo's figures. They are not merely exceptional men,they are huge men; as it were, survivors of the heroic age living in alater and smaller world. We do not receive this impression from Romeo orBrutus or Hamlet, nor did it lie in Shakespeare's design to allow morethan touches of this trait to Julius Caesar himself; but it is stronglymarked in Lear and Coriolanus, and quite distinct in Macbeth and even inAntony. Othello is the first of these men, a being essentially large andgrand, towering above his fellows, holding a volume of force which inrepose ensures preeminence without an effort, and in commotion remindsus rather of the fury of the elements than of the tumult of common humanpassion. 1What is the peculiarity of _Othello_? What is the distinctive impressionthat it leaves? Of all Shakespeare's tragedies, I would answer, not evenexcepting _King Lear_, _Othello_ is the most painfully exciting and themost terrible. From the moment when the temptation of the hero begins,the reader's heart and mind are held in a vice, experiencing theextremes of pity and fear, sympathy and repulsion, sickening hope anddreadful expectation. Evil is displayed before him, not indeed with theprofusion found in _King Lear_, but forming, as it were, the soul of asingle character, and united with an intellectual superiority so greatthat he watches its advance fascinated and appalled. He sees it, initself almost irresistible, aided at every step by fortunate accidentsand the innocent mistakes of its victims. He seems to breathe anatmosphere as fateful as that of _King Lear_, but more confined andoppressive, the darkness not of night but of a close-shut murderousroom. His imagination is excited to intense activity, but it is theactivity of concentration rather than dilation. I will not dwell now on aspects of the play which modify thisimpression, and I reserve for later discussion one of its principalsources, the character of Iago. But if we glance at some of its othersources, we shall find at the same time certain distinguishingcharacteristics of _Othello_. (1) One of these has been already mentioned in our discussion ofShakespeare's technique. _Othello_ is not only the most masterly of thetragedies in point of construction, but its method of construction isunusual. And this method, by which the conflict begins late, andadvances without appreciable pause and with accelerating speed to thecatastrophe, is a main cause of the painful tension just described. Tothis may be added that, after the conflict has begun, there is verylittle relief by way of the ridiculous. Henceforward at any rate Iago'shumour never raises a smile. The clown is a poor one; we hardly attendto him and quickly forget him; I believe most readers of Shakespeare, ifasked whether there is a clown in _Othello_, would answer No. (2) In the second place, there is no subject more exciting than sexualjealousy rising to the pitch of passion; and there can hardly be anyspectacle at once so engrossing and so painful as that of a great naturesuffering the torment of this passion, and driven by it to a crime whichis also a hideous blunder. Such a passion as ambition, however terribleits results, is not itself ignoble; if we separate it in thought fromthe conditions which make it guilty, it does not appear despicable; itis not a kind of suffering, its nature is active; and therefore we canwatch its course without shrinking. But jealousy, and especially sexualjealousy, brings with it a sense of shame and humiliation. For thisreason it is generally hidden; if we perceive it we ourselves areashamed and turn our eyes away; and when it is not hidden it commonlystirs contempt as well as pity. Nor is this all. Such jealousy asOthello's converts human nature into chaos, and liberates the beast inman; and it does this in relation to one of the most intense and alsothe most ideal of human feelings. What spectacle can be more painfulthan that of this feeling turned into a tortured mixture of longing andloathing, the 'golden purity' of passion split by poison into fragments,the animal in man forcing itself into his consciousness in nakedgrossness, and he writhing before it but powerless to deny it entrance,gasping inarticulate images of pollution, and finding relief only in abestial thirst for blood? This is what we have to witness in one who wasindeed 'great of heart' and no less pure and tender than he was great. And this, with what it leads to, the blow to Desdemona, and the scenewhere she is treated as the inmate of a brothel, a scene far morepainful than the murder scene, is another cause of the special effect ofthis tragedy. [86](3) The mere mention of these scenes will remind us painfully of a thirdcause; and perhaps it is the most potent of all. I mean the suffering ofDesdemona. This is, unless I mistake, the most nearly intolerablespectacle that Shakespeare offers us. For one thing, it is _mere_suffering; and, _ceteris paribus_, that is much worse to witness thansuffering that issues in action. Desdemona is helplessly passive. Shecan do nothing whatever. She cannot retaliate even in speech; no, noteven in silent feeling. And the chief reason of her helplessness onlymakes the sight of her suffering more exquisitely painful. She ishelpless because her nature is infinitely sweet and her love absolute. Iwould not challenge Mr. Swinburne's statement that we _pity_ Othelloeven more than Desdemona; but we watch Desdemona with more unmitigateddistress. We are never wholly uninfluenced by the feeling that Othellois a man contending with another man; but Desdemona's suffering is likethat of the most loving of dumb creatures tortured without cause by thebeing he adores. (4) Turning from the hero and heroine to the third principal character,we observe (what has often been pointed out) that the action andcatastrophe of _Othello_ depend largely on intrigue. We must not saymore than this. We must not call the play a tragedy of intrigue asdistinguished from a tragedy of character. Iago's plot is Iago'scharacter in action; and it is built on his knowledge of Othello'scharacter, and could not otherwise have succeeded. Still it remains truethat an elaborate plot was necessary to elicit the catastrophe; forOthello was no Leontes, and his was the last nature to engender suchjealousy from itself. Accordingly Iago's intrigue occupies a position inthe drama for which no parallel can be found in the other tragedies; theonly approach, and that a distant one, being the intrigue of Edmund inthe secondary plot of _King Lear_. Now in any novel or play, even if thepersons rouse little interest and are never in serious danger, askilfully-worked intrigue will excite eager attention and suspense. Andwhere, as in _Othello_, the persons inspire the keenest sympathy andantipathy, and life and death depend on the intrigue, it becomes thesource of a tension in which pain almost overpowers pleasure. Nowhereelse in Shakespeare do we hold our breath in such anxiety and for solong a time as in the later Acts of _Othello_. (5) One result of the prominence of the element of intrigue is that_Othello_ is less unlike a story of private life than any other of thegreat tragedies. And this impression is strengthened in further ways. Inthe other great tragedies the action is placed in a distant period, sothat its general significance is perceived through a thin veil whichseparates the persons from ourselves and our own world. But _Othello_ isa drama of modern life; when it first appeared it was a drama almost ofcontemporary life, for the date of the Turkish attack on Cyprus is 1570. The characters come close to us, and the application of the drama toourselves (if the phrase may be pardoned) is more immediate than it canbe in _Hamlet_ or _Lear_. Besides this, their fortunes affect us asthose of private individuals more than is possible in any of the latertragedies with the exception of _Timon_. I have not forgotten theSenate, nor Othello's position, nor his service to the State;[87] buthis deed and his death have not that influence on the interests of anation or an empire which serves to idealise, and to remove far from ourown sphere, the stories of Hamlet and Macbeth, of Coriolanus and Antony. Indeed he is already superseded at Cyprus when his fate is consummated,and as we leave him no vision rises on us, as in other tragedies, ofpeace descending on a distracted land. (6) The peculiarities so far considered combine with others to producethose feelings of oppression, of confinement to a comparatively narrowworld, and of dark fatality, which haunt us in reading _Othello_. In_Macbeth_ the fate which works itself out alike in the external conflictand in the hero's soul, is obviously hostile to evil; and theimagination is dilated both by the consciousness of its presence and bythe appearance of supernatural agencies. These, as we have seen, producein _Hamlet_ a somewhat similar effect, which is increased by the hero'sacceptance of the accidents as a providential shaping of his end. _KingLear_ is undoubtedly the tragedy which comes nearest to _Othello_ in theimpression of darkness and fatefulness, and in the absence of directindications of any guiding power. [88] But in _King Lear_, apart fromother differences to be considered later, the conflict assumesproportions so vast that the imagination seems, as in _Paradise Lost_,to traverse spaces wider than the earth. In reading _Othello_ the mindis not thus distended. It is more bound down to the spectacle of noblebeings caught in toils from which there is no escape; while theprominence of the intrigue diminishes the sense of the dependence of thecatastrophe on character, and the part played by accident[89] in thiscatastrophe accentuates the feeling of fate. This influence of accidentis keenly felt in _King Lear_ only once, and at the very end of theplay. In _Othello_, after the temptation has begun, it is incessant andterrible. The skill of Iago was extraordinary, but so was his goodfortune. Again and again a chance word from Desdemona, a chance meetingof Othello and Cassio, a question which starts to our lips and whichanyone but Othello would have asked, would have destroyed Iago's plotand ended his life. In their stead, Desdemona drops her handkerchief atthe moment most favourable to him,[90] Cassio blunders into the presenceof Othello only to find him in a swoon, Bianca arrives precisely whenshe is wanted to complete Othello's deception and incense his anger intofury. All this and much more seems to us quite natural, so potent is theart of the dramatist; but it confounds us with a feeling, such as weexperience in the _Oedipus Tyrannus_, that for these star-crossedmortals--both [Greek: dysdaimones]--there is no escape from fate, andeven with a feeling, absent from that play, that fate has taken sideswith villainy. [91] It is not surprising, therefore, that _Othello_should affect us as _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ never do, and as _King Lear_does only in slighter measure. On the contrary, it is marvellous that,before the tragedy is over, Shakespeare should have succeeded in toningdown this impression into harmony with others more solemn and serene. But has he wholly succeeded? Or is there a justification for the fact--afact it certainly is--that some readers, while acknowledging, of course,the immense power of _Othello_, and even admitting that it isdramatically perhaps Shakespeare's greatest triumph, still regard itwith a certain distaste, or, at any rate, hardly allow it a place intheir minds beside _Hamlet_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_? The distaste to which I refer is due chiefly to two causes. First, tomany readers in our time, men as well as women, the subject of sexualjealousy, treated with Elizabethan fulness and frankness, is not merelypainful but so repulsive that not even the intense tragic emotions whichthe story generates can overcome this repulsion. But, while it is easyto understand a dislike of _Othello_ thus caused, it does not seemnecessary to discuss it, for it may fairly be called personal orsubjective. It would become more than this, and would amount to acriticism of the play, only if those who feel it maintained that thefulness and frankness which are disagreeable to them are also needlessfrom a dramatic point of view, or betray a design of appealing tounpoetic feelings in the audience. But I do not think that this ismaintained, or that such a view would be plausible. To some readers, again, parts of _Othello_ appear shocking or evenhorrible. They think--if I may formulate their objection--that in theseparts Shakespeare has sinned against the canons of art, by representingon the stage a violence or brutality the effect of which isunnecessarily painful and rather sensational than tragic. The passageswhich thus give offence are probably those already referred to,--thatwhere Othello strikes Desdemona (IV. i. 251), that where he affects totreat her as an inmate of a house of ill-fame (IV. ii. ), and finally thescene of her death. The issues thus raised ought not to be ignored or impatiently dismissed,but they cannot be decided, it seems to me, by argument. All we canprofitably do is to consider narrowly our experience, and to askourselves this question: If we feel these objections, do we feel themwhen we are reading the play with all our force, or only when we arereading it in a half-hearted manner? For, however matters may stand inthe former case, in the latter case evidently the fault is ours and notShakespeare's. And if we try the question thus, I believe we shall findthat on the whole the fault is ours. The first, and least important, ofthe three passages--that of the blow--seems to me the most doubtful. Iconfess that, do what I will, I cannot reconcile myself with it. Itseems certain that the blow is by no means a tap on the shoulder with aroll of paper, as some actors, feeling the repulsiveness of the passage,have made it. It must occur, too, on the open stage. And there is not, Ithink, a sufficiently overwhelming tragic feeling in the passage to makeit bearable. But in the other two scenes the case is different. There,it seems to me, if we fully imagine the inward tragedy in the souls ofthe persons as we read, the more obvious and almost physical sensationsof pain or horror do not appear in their own likeness, and only serve tointensify the tragic feelings in which they are absorbed. Whether thiswould be so in the murder-scene if Desdemona had to be imagined asdragged about the open stage (as in some modern performances) may bedoubtful; but there is absolutely no warrant in the text for imaginingthis, and it is also quite clear that the bed where she is stifled waswithin the curtains,[92] and so, presumably, in part concealed. Here, then, _Othello_ does not appear to be, unless perhaps at onepoint,[93] open to criticism, though it has more passages than the otherthree tragedies where, if imagination is not fully exerted, it isshocked or else sensationally excited. If nevertheless we feel it tooccupy a place in our minds a little lower than the other three (and Ibelieve this feeling, though not general, is not rare), the reason liesnot here but in another characteristic, to which I have alreadyreferred,--the comparative confinement of the imaginative atmosphere. _Othello_ has not equally with the other three the power of dilating theimagination by vague suggestions of huge universal powers working in theworld of individual fate and passion. It is, in a sense, less'symbolic. ' We seem to be aware in it of a certain limitation, a partialsuppression of that element in Shakespeare's mind which unites him withthe mystical poets and with the great musicians and philosophers. In oneor two of his plays, notably in _Troilus and Cressida_, we are almostpainfully conscious of this suppression; we feel an intense intellectualactivity, but at the same time a certain coldness and hardness, asthough some power in his soul, at once the highest and the sweetest,were for a time in abeyance. In other plays, notably in the _Tempest_,we are constantly aware of the presence of this power; and in such caseswe seem to be peculiarly near to Shakespeare himself. Now this is so in_Hamlet_ and _King Lear_, and, in a slighter degree, in _Macbeth_; butit is much less so in _Othello_. I do not mean that in _Othello_ thesuppression is marked, or that, as in _Troilus and Cressida_, it strikesus as due to some unpleasant mood; it seems rather to follow simply fromthe design of a play on a contemporary and wholly mundane subject. Stillit makes a difference of the kind I have attempted to indicate, and itleaves an impression that in _Othello_ we are not in contact with thewhole of Shakespeare. And it is perhaps significant in this respect thatthe hero himself strikes us as having, probably, less of the poet'spersonality in him than many characters far inferior both as dramaticcreations and as men. 2The character of Othello is comparatively simple, but, as I have dwelton the prominence of intrigue and accident in the play, it is desirableto show how essentially the success of Iago's plot is connected withthis character. Othello's description of himself as              one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,     Perplexed in the extreme,is perfectly just. His tragedy lies in this--that his whole nature wasindisposed to jealousy, and yet was such that he was unusually open todeception, and, if once wrought to passion, likely to act with littlereflection, with no delay, and in the most decisive manner conceivable. Let me first set aside a mistaken view. I do not mean the ridiculousnotion that Othello was jealous by temperament, but the idea, which hassome little plausibility, that the play is primarily a study of a noblebarbarian, who has become a Christian and has imbibed some of thecivilisation of his employers, but who retains beneath the surface thesavage passions of his Moorish blood and also the suspiciousnessregarding female chastity common among Oriental peoples, and that thelast three Acts depict the outburst of these original feelings throughthe thin crust of Venetian culture. It would take too long to discussthis idea,[94] and it would perhaps be useless to do so, for allarguments against it must end in an appeal to the reader's understandingof Shakespeare. If he thinks it is like Shakespeare to look at things inthis manner; that he had a historical mind and occupied himself withproblems of 'Culturgeschichte'; that he laboured to make his Romansperfectly Roman, to give a correct view of the Britons in the days ofLear or Cymbeline, to portray in Hamlet a stage of the moralconsciousness not yet reached by the people around him, the reader willalso think this interpretation of _Othello_ probable. To me it appearshopelessly un-Shakespearean. I could as easily believe that Chaucermeant the Wife of Bath for a study of the peculiarities ofSomersetshire. I do not mean that Othello's race is a matter of noaccount. It has, as we shall presently see, its importance in the play. It makes a difference to our idea of him; it makes a difference to theaction and catastrophe. But in regard to the essentials of his characterit is not important; and if anyone had told Shakespeare that noEnglishman would have acted like the Moor, and had congratulated him onthe accuracy of his racial psychology, I am sure he would have laughed. Othello is, in one sense of the word, by far the most romantic figureamong Shakespeare's heroes; and he is so partly from the strange life ofwar and adventure which he has lived from childhood. He does not belongto our world, and he seems to enter it we know not whence--almost as iffrom wonderland. There is something mysterious in his descent from menof royal siege; in his wanderings in vast deserts and among marvellouspeoples; in his tales of magic handkerchiefs and prophetic Sibyls; inthe sudden vague glimpses we get of numberless battles and sieges inwhich he has played the hero and has borne a charmed life; even inchance references to his baptism, his being sold to slavery, his sojournin Aleppo. And he is not merely a romantic figure; his own nature is romantic. Hehas not, indeed, the meditative or speculative imagination of Hamlet;but in the strictest sense of the word he is more poetic than Hamlet. Indeed, if one recalls Othello's most famous speeches--those that begin,'Her father loved me,' 'O now for ever,' 'Never, Iago,' 'Had it pleasedHeaven,' 'It is the cause,' 'Behold, I have a weapon,' 'Soft you, a wordor two before you go'--and if one places side by side with thesespeeches an equal number by any other hero, one will not doubt thatOthello is the greatest poet of them all. There is the same poetry inhis casual phrases--like 'These nine moons wasted,' 'Keep up your brightswords, for the dew will rust them,' 'You chaste stars,' 'It is a swordof Spain, the ice-brook's temper,' 'It is the very error of themoon'--and in those brief expressions of intense feeling which eversince have been taken as the absolute expression, like                      If it were now to die,     'Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,     My soul hath her content so absolute     That not another comfort like to this     Succeeds in unknown fate,or     If she be false, O then Heaven mocks itself.     I'll not believe it;or     No, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand,or     But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! or                                 O thou weed,     Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet     That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born. And this imagination, we feel, has accompanied his whole life. He haswatched with a poet's eye the Arabian trees dropping their med'cinablegum, and the Indian throwing away his chance-found pearl; and has gazedin a fascinated dream at the Pontic sea rushing, never to return, to thePropontic and the Hellespont; and has felt as no other man ever felt(for he speaks of it as none other ever did) the poetry of the pride,pomp, and circumstance of glorious war. So he comes before us, dark and grand, with a light upon him from thesun where he was born; but no longer young, and now grave,self-controlled, steeled by the experience of countless perils,hardships and vicissitudes, at once simple and stately in bearing and inspeech, a great man naturally modest but fully conscious of his worth,proud of his services to the state, unawed by dignitaries and unelatedby honours, secure, it would seem, against all dangers from without andall rebellion from within. And he comes to have his life crowned withthe final glory of love, a love as strange, adventurous and romantic asany passage of his eventful history, filling his heart with tendernessand his imagination with ecstasy. For there is no love, not that ofRomeo in his youth, more steeped in imagination than Othello's. The sources of danger in this character are revealed but too clearly bythe story. In the first place, Othello's mind, for all its poetry, isvery simple. He is not observant. His nature tends outward. He is quitefree from introspection, and is not given to reflection. Emotion exciteshis imagination, but it confuses and dulls his intellect. On this sidehe is the very opposite of Hamlet, with whom, however, he shares a greatopenness and trustfulness of nature. In addition, he has littleexperience of the corrupt products of civilised life, and is ignorant ofEuropean women. In the second place, for all his dignity and massive calm (and he hasgreater dignity than any other of Shakespeare's men), he is by naturefull of the most vehement passion. Shakespeare emphasises hisself-control, not only by the wonderful pictures of the First Act, butby references to the past. Lodovico, amazed at his violence, exclaims:     Is this the noble Moor whom our full Senate     Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature     Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue     The shot of accident nor dart of chance     Could neither graze nor pierce? Iago, who has here no motive for lying, asks:     Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon     When it hath blown his ranks into the air,     And, like the devil, from his very arm     Puffed his own brother--and can he be angry? [95]This, and other aspects of his character, are best exhibited by a singleline--one of Shakespeare's miracles--the words by which Othello silencesin a moment the night-brawl between his attendants and those ofBrabantio:     Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. And the same self-control is strikingly shown where Othello endeavoursto elicit some explanation of the fight between Cassio and Montano. Here, however, there occur ominous words, which make us feel hownecessary was this self-control, and make us admire it the more:                          Now, by heaven,     My blood begins my safer guides to rule,     And passion, having my best judgment collied,     Assays to lead the way. We remember these words later, when the sun of reason is 'collied,'blackened and blotted out in total eclipse. Lastly, Othello's nature is all of one piece. His trust, where hetrusts, is absolute. Hesitation is almost impossible to him. He isextremely self-reliant, and decides and acts instantaneously. If stirredto indignation, as 'in Aleppo once,' he answers with one lightningstroke. Love, if he loves, must be to him the heaven where either hemust live or bear no life. If such a passion as jealousy seizes him, itwill swell into a well-nigh incontrollable flood. He will press forimmediate conviction or immediate relief. Convinced, he will act withthe authority of a judge and the swiftness of a man in mortal pain. Undeceived, he will do like execution on himself. This character is so noble, Othello's feelings and actions follow soinevitably from it and from the forces brought to bear on it, and hissufferings are so heart-rending, that he stirs, I believe, in mostreaders a passion of mingled love and pity which they feel for no otherhero in Shakespeare, and to which not even Mr. Swinburne can do morethan justice. Yet there are some critics and not a few readers whocherish a grudge against him. They do not merely think that in the laterstages of his temptation he showed a certain obtuseness, and that, tospeak pedantically, he acted with unjustifiable precipitance andviolence; no one, I suppose, denies that. But, even when they admit thathe was not of a jealous temper, they consider that he _was_ 'easilyjealous'; they seem to think that it was inexcusable in him to feel anysuspicion of his wife at all; and they blame him for never suspectingIago or asking him for evidence. I refer to this attitude of mindchiefly in order to draw attention to certain points in the story. Itcomes partly from mere inattention (for Othello did suspect Iago and didask him for evidence); partly from a misconstruction of the text whichmakes Othello appear jealous long before he really is so;[96] and partlyfrom failure to realise certain essential facts. I will begin withthese. (1) Othello, we have seen, was trustful, and thorough in his trust. Heput entire confidence in the honesty of Iago, who had not only been hiscompanion in arms, but, as he believed, had just proved his faithfulnessin the matter of the marriage. This confidence was misplaced, and wehappen to know it; but it was no sign of stupidity in Othello. For hisopinion of Iago was the opinion of practically everyone who knew him:and that opinion was that Iago was before all things 'honest,' his veryfaults being those of excess in honesty. This being so, even if Othellohad not been trustful and simple, it would have been quite unnatural inhim to be unmoved by the warnings of so honest a friend, warningsoffered with extreme reluctance and manifestly from a sense of afriend's duty. [97] _Any_ husband would have been troubled by them. (2) Iago does not bring these warnings to a husband who had lived with awife for months and years and knew her like his sister or hisbosom-friend. Nor is there any ground in Othello's character forsupposing that, if he had been such a man, he would have felt and actedas he does in the play.

But he was newly married; in the circumstanceshe cannot have known much of Desdemona before his marriage; and furtherhe was conscious of being under the spell of a feeling which can giveglory to the truth but can also give it to a dream. (3) This consciousness in any imaginative man is enough, in suchcircumstances, to destroy his confidence in his powers of perception. InOthello's case, after a long and most artful preparation, there nowcomes, to reinforce its effect, the suggestions that he is not anItalian, not even a European; that he is totally ignorant of thethoughts and the customary morality of Venetian women;[98] that he hadhimself seen in Desdemona's deception of her father how perfect anactress she could be. As he listens in horror, for a moment at least thepast is revealed to him in a new and dreadful light, and the groundseems to sink under his feet. These suggestions are followed by atentative but hideous and humiliating insinuation of what his honest andmuch-experienced friend fears may be the true explanation of Desdemona'srejection of acceptable suitors, and of her strange, and naturallytemporary, preference for a black man. Here Iago goes too far. He seessomething in Othello's face that frightens him, and he breaks off. Nordoes this idea take any hold of Othello's mind. But it is not surprisingthat his utter powerlessness to repel it on the ground of knowledge ofhis wife, or even of that instinctive interpretation of character whichis possible between persons of the same race,[99] should complete hismisery, so that he feels he can bear no more, and abruptly dismisses hisfriend (III. iii. 238). Now I repeat that _any_ man situated as Othello was would have beendisturbed by Iago's communications, and I add that many men would havebeen made wildly jealous. But up to this point, where Iago is dismissed,Othello, I must maintain, does not show jealousy. His confidence isshaken, he is confused and deeply troubled, he feels even horror; but heis not yet jealous in the proper sense of that word. In his soliloquy(III. iii. 258 ff. ) the beginning of this passion may be traced; but itis only after an interval of solitude, when he has had time to dwell onthe idea presented to him, and especially after statements of fact, notmere general grounds of suspicion, are offered, that the passion layshold of him. Even then, however, and indeed to the very end, he is quiteunlike the essentially jealous man, quite unlike Leontes. No doubt thethought of another man's possessing the woman he loves is intolerable tohim; no doubt the sense of insult and the impulse of revenge are attimes most violent; and these are the feelings of jealousy proper. Butthese are not the chief or the deepest source of Othello's suffering. Itis the wreck of his faith and his love. It is the feeling,     If she be false, oh then Heaven mocks itself;the feeling,     O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! the feeling,     But there where I have garner'd up my heart,     Where either I must live, or bear no life;     The fountain from the which my current runs,     Or else dries up--to be discarded thence. . . . You will find nothing like this in Leontes. Up to this point, it appears to me, there is not a syllable to be saidagainst Othello. But the play is a tragedy, and from this point we mayabandon the ungrateful and undramatic task of awarding praise and blame. When Othello, after a brief interval, re-enters (III. iii. 330), we seeat once that the poison has been at work and 'burns like the mines ofsulphur. '     Look where he comes! Not poppy, nor mandragora,     Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,     Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep     Which thou owedst yesterday. He is 'on the rack,' in an agony so unbearable that he cannot endure thesight of Iago. Anticipating the probability that Iago has spared him thewhole truth, he feels that in that case his life is over and his'occupation gone' with all its glories. But he has not abandoned hope. The bare possibility that his friend is deliberately deceivinghim--though such a deception would be a thing so monstrously wicked thathe can hardly conceive it credible--is a kind of hope. He furiouslydemands proof, ocular proof. And when he is compelled to see that he isdemanding an impossibility he still demands evidence. He forces it fromthe unwilling witness, and hears the maddening tale of Cassio's dream. It is enough. And if it were not enough, has he not sometimes seen ahandkerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand? Yes, it washis first gift to her.     I know not that; but such a handkerchief--     I am sure it was your wife's--did I to-day     See Cassio wipe his beard with. 'If it be that,' he answers--but what need to test the fact? The'madness of revenge' is in his blood, and hesitation is a thing he neverknew. He passes judgment, and controls himself only to make his sentencea solemn vow. The Othello of the Fourth Act is Othello in his fall. His fall is nevercomplete, but he is much changed. Towards the close of theTemptation-scene he becomes at times most terrible, but his grandeurremains almost undiminished. Even in the following scene (III. iv. ),where he goes to test Desdemona in the matter of the handkerchief, andreceives a fatal confirmation of her guilt, our sympathy with him ishardly touched by any feeling of humiliation. But in the Fourth Act'Chaos has come. ' A slight interval of time may be admitted here. It isbut slight; for it was necessary for Iago to hurry on, and terriblydangerous to leave a chance for a meeting of Cassio with Othello; andhis insight into Othello's nature taught him that his plan was todeliver blow on blow, and never to allow his victim to recover from theconfusion of the first shock. Still there is a slight interval; and whenOthello reappears we see at a glance that he is a changed man. He isphysically exhausted, and his mind is dazed. [100] He sees everythingblurred through a mist of blood and tears. He has actually forgotten theincident of the handkerchief, and has to be reminded of it. When Iago,perceiving that he can now risk almost any lie, tells him that Cassiohas confessed his guilt, Othello, the hero who has seemed to us onlysecond to Coriolanus in physical power, trembles all over; he muttersdisjointed words; a blackness suddenly intervenes between his eyes andthe world; he takes it for the shuddering testimony of nature to thehorror he has just heard,[101] and he falls senseless to the ground. When he recovers it is to watch Cassio, as he imagines, laughing overhis shame. It is an imposition so gross, and should have been one soperilous, that Iago would never have ventured it before. But he is safenow. The sight only adds to the confusion of intellect the madness ofrage; and a ravenous thirst for revenge, contending with motions ofinfinite longing and regret, conquers them. The delay till night-fall istorture to him. His self-control has wholly deserted him, and he strikeshis wife in the presence of the Venetian envoy. He is so lost to allsense of reality that he never asks himself what will follow the deathsof Cassio and his wife. An ineradicable instinct of justice, rather thanany last quiver of hope, leads him to question Emilia; but nothing couldconvince him now, and there follows the dreadful scene of accusation;and then, to allow us the relief of burning hatred and burning tears,the interview of Desdemona with Iago, and that last talk of hers withEmilia, and her last song. But before the end there is again a change. The supposed death of Cassio(V. i. ) satiates the thirst for vengeance. The Othello who enters thebed-chamber with the words,     It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,is not the man of the Fourth Act. The deed he is bound to do is nomurder, but a sacrifice. He is to save Desdemona from herself, not inhate but in honour; in honour, and also in love. His anger has passed; aboundless sorrow has taken its place; and                  this sorrow's heavenly:     It strikes where it doth love. Even when, at the sight of her apparent obduracy, and at the hearing ofwords which by a crowning fatality can only reconvince him of her guilt,these feelings give way to others, it is to righteous indignation theygive way, not to rage; and, terribly painful as this scene is, there isalmost nothing here to diminish the admiration and love which heightenpity. [102] And pity itself vanishes, and love and admiration aloneremain, in the majestic dignity and sovereign ascendancy of the close. Chaos has come and gone; and the Othello of the Council-chamber and thequay of Cyprus has returned, or a greater and nobler Othello still. Ashe speaks those final words in which all the glory and agony of hislife--long ago in India and Arabia and Aleppo, and afterwards in Venice,and now in Cyprus--seem to pass before us, like the pictures that flashbefore the eyes of a drowning man, a triumphant scorn for the fetters ofthe flesh and the littleness of all the lives that must survive himsweeps our grief away, and when he dies upon a kiss the most painful ofall tragedies leaves us for the moment free from pain, and exulting inthe power of 'love and man's unconquerable mind. '3The words just quoted come from Wordsworth's sonnet to Toussaintl'Ouverture. Toussaint was a Negro; and there is a question, which,though of little consequence, is not without dramatic interest, whetherShakespeare imagined Othello as a Negro or as a Moor. Now I will not saythat Shakespeare imagined him as a Negro and not as a Moor, for thatmight imply that he distinguished Negroes and Moors precisely as we do;but what appears to me nearly certain is that he imagined Othello as ablack man, and not as a light-brown one. In the first place, we must remember that the brown or bronze to whichwe are now accustomed in the Othellos of our theatres is a recentinnovation. Down to Edmund Kean's time, so far as is known, Othello wasalways quite black. This stage-tradition goes back to the Restoration,and it almost settles our question. For it is impossible that the colourof the original Othello should have been forgotten so soon afterShakespeare's time, and most improbable that it should have been changedfrom brown to black. If we turn to the play itself, we find many references to Othello'scolour and appearance. Most of these are indecisive; for the word'black' was of course used then where we should speak of a 'dark'complexion now; and even the nickname 'thick-lips,' appealed to as proofthat Othello was a Negro, might have been applied by an enemy to what wecall a Moor. On the other hand, it is hard to believe that, if Othellohad been light-brown, Brabantio would have taunted him with having a'sooty bosom,' or that (as Mr. Furness observes) he himself would haveused the words,                    her name, that was as fresh     As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black     As mine own face. These arguments cannot be met by pointing out that Othello was of royalblood, is not called an Ethiopian, is called a Barbary horse, and issaid to be going to Mauritania. All this would be of importance if wehad reason to believe that Shakespeare shared our ideas, knowledge andterms. Otherwise it proves nothing. And we know that sixteenth-centurywriters called any dark North-African a Moor, or a black Moor, or ablackamoor. Sir Thomas Elyot, according to Hunter,[103] calls EthiopiansMoors; and the following are the first two illustrations of 'Blackamoor'in the Oxford _English Dictionary_: 1547, 'I am a blake More borne inBarbary'; 1548, '_Ethiopo_, a blake More, or a man of Ethiope. ' Thusgeographical names can tell us nothing about the question howShakespeare imagined Othello. He may have known that a Mauritanian isnot a Negro nor black, but we cannot assume that he did. He may haveknown, again, that the Prince of Morocco, who is described in the_Merchant of Venice_ as having, like Othello, the complexion of a devil,was no Negro. But we cannot tell: nor is there any reason why he shouldnot have imagined the Prince as a brown Moor and Othello as aBlackamoor. _Titus Andronicus_ appeared in the Folio among Shakespeare's works. Itis believed by some good critics to be his: hardly anyone doubts that hehad a hand in it: it is certain that he knew it, for reminiscences of itare scattered through his plays. Now no one who reads _Titus Andronicus_with an open mind can doubt that Aaron was, in our sense, black; and heappears to have been a Negro. To mention nothing else, he is twicecalled 'coal-black'; his colour is compared with that of a raven and aswan's legs; his child is coal-black and thick-lipped; he himself has a'fleece of woolly hair. ' Yet he is 'Aaron the Moor,' just as Othello is'Othello the Moor. ' In the _Battle of Alcazar_ (Dyce's _Peele_, p. 421)Muly the Moor is called 'the negro'; and Shakespeare himself in a singleline uses 'negro' and 'Moor' of the same person (_Merchant of Venice_,III. v. 42). The horror of most American critics (Mr. Furness is a bright exception)at the idea of a black Othello is very amusing, and their arguments arehighly instructive. But they were anticipated, I regret to say, byColeridge, and we will hear him. 'No doubt Desdemona saw Othello'svisage in his mind; yet, as we are constituted, and most surely as anEnglish audience was disposed in the beginning of the seventeenthcentury, it would be something monstrous to conceive this beautifulVenetian girl falling in love with a veritable negro. It would argue adisproportionateness, a want of balance, in Desdemona, which Shakespearedoes not appear to have in the least contemplated. '[104] Could anyargument be more self-destructive? It actually _did_ appear to Brabantio'something monstrous to conceive' his daughter falling in love withOthello,--so monstrous that he could account for her love only by drugsand foul charms. And the suggestion that such love would argue'disproportionateness' is precisely the suggestion that Iago _did_ makein Desdemona's case:     Foh! one may smell in such a will most rank,     Foul _disproportion_, thoughts unnatural. In fact he spoke of the marriage exactly as a filthy-minded cynic nowmight speak of the marriage of an English lady to a negro likeToussaint. Thus the argument of Coleridge and others points straight tothe conclusion against which they argue. But this is not all. The question whether to Shakespeare Othello wasblack or brown is not a mere question of isolated fact or historicalcuriosity; it concerns the character of Desdemona. Coleridge, and stillmore the American writers, regard her love, in effect, as Brabantioregarded it, and not as Shakespeare conceived it. They are simplyblurring this glorious conception when they try to lessen the distancebetween her and Othello, and to smooth away the obstacle which his'visage' offered to her romantic passion for a hero. Desdemona, the'eternal womanly' in its most lovely and adorable form, simple andinnocent as a child, ardent with the courage and idealism of a saint,radiant with that heavenly purity of heart which men worship the morebecause nature so rarely permits it to themselves, had no theories aboutuniversal brotherhood, and no phrases about 'one blood in all thenations of the earth' or 'barbarian, Scythian, bond and free'; but whenher soul came in sight of the noblest soul on earth, she made nothing ofthe shrinking of her senses, but followed her soul until her senses tookpart with it, and 'loved him with the love which was her doom. ' It wasnot prudent. It even turned out tragically. She met in life with thereward of those who rise too far above our common level; and we continueto allot her the same reward when we consent to forgive her for loving abrown man, but find it monstrous that she should love a black one. [105]There is perhaps a certain excuse for our failure to rise toShakespeare's meaning, and to realise how extraordinary and splendid athing it was in a gentle Venetian girl to love Othello, and to assailfortune with such a 'downright violence and storm' as is expected onlyin a hero. It is that when first we hear of her marriage we have not yetseen the Desdemona of the later Acts; and therefore we do not perceivehow astonishing this love and boldness must have been in a maiden soquiet and submissive. And when we watch her in her suffering and deathwe are so penetrated by the sense of her heavenly sweetness andself-surrender that we almost forget that she had shown herself quite asexceptional in the active assertion of her own soul and will. She tendsto become to us predominantly pathetic, the sweetest and most patheticof Shakespeare's women, as innocent as Miranda and as loving as Viola,yet suffering more deeply than Cordelia or Imogen. And she seems to lackthat independence and strength of spirit which Cordelia and Imogenpossess, and which in a manner raises them above suffering. She appearspassive and defenceless, and can oppose to wrong nothing but theinfinite endurance and forgiveness of a love that knows not how toresist or resent. She thus becomes at once the most beautiful example ofthis love, and the most pathetic heroine in Shakespeare's world. If herpart were acted by an artist equal to Salvini, and with a Salvini forOthello, I doubt if the spectacle of the last two Acts would not bepronounced intolerable. Of course this later impression of Desdemona is perfectly right, but itmust be carried back and united with the earlier before we can see whatShakespeare imagined. Evidently, we are to understand, innocence,gentleness, sweetness, lovingness were the salient and, in a sense, theprincipal traits in Desdemona's character. She was, as her fathersupposed her to be,                         a maiden never bold,     Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion     Blushed at herself. But suddenly there appeared something quite different--something whichcould never have appeared, for example, in Ophelia--a love not only fullof romance but showing a strange freedom and energy of spirit, andleading to a most unusual boldness of action; and this action wascarried through with a confidence and decision worthy of Juliet orCordelia. Desdemona does not shrink before the Senate; and her languageto her father, though deeply respectful, is firm enough to stir in ussome sympathy with the old man who could not survive his daughter'sloss. This then, we must understand, was the emergence in Desdemona, asshe passed from girlhood to womanhood, of an individuality and strengthwhich, if she had lived, would have been gradually fused with her moreobvious qualities and have issued in a thousand actions, sweet and good,but surprising to her conventional or timid neighbours. And, indeed, wehave already a slight example in her overflowing kindness, her boldnessand her ill-fated persistence in pleading Cassio's cause. But the fullripening of her lovely and noble nature was not to be. In her briefwedded life she appeared again chiefly as the sweet and submissive beingof her girlhood; and the strength of her soul, first evoked by love,found scope to show itself only in a love which, when harshly repulsed,blamed only its own pain; when bruised, only gave forth a more exquisitefragrance; and, when rewarded with death, summoned its last labouringbreath to save its murderer. Many traits in Desdemona's character have been described withsympathetic insight by Mrs. Jameson, and I will pass them by and add buta few words on the connection between this character and the catastropheof _Othello_. Desdemona, as Mrs. Jameson remarks, shows less quicknessof intellect and less tendency to reflection than most of Shakespeare'sheroines; but I question whether the critic is right in adding that sheshows much of the 'unconscious address common in women. ' She seems to medeficient in this address, having in its place a frank childlikeboldness and persistency, which are full of charm but are unhappilyunited with a certain want of perception. And these graces and thisdeficiency appear to be inextricably intertwined, and in thecircumstances conspire tragically against her. They, with her innocence,hinder her from understanding Othello's state of mind, and lead her tothe most unlucky acts and words; and unkindness or anger subdues her socompletely that she becomes passive and seems to drift helplesslytowards the cataract in front. In Desdemona's incapacity to resist there is also, in addition to herperfect love, something which is very characteristic. She is, in asense, a child of nature. That deep inward division which leads to clearand conscious oppositions of right and wrong, duty and inclination,justice and injustice, is alien to her beautiful soul. She is not good,kind and true in spite of a temptation to be otherwise, any more thanshe is charming in spite of a temptation to be otherwise. She seems toknow evil only by name, and, her inclinations being good, she acts oninclination. This trait, with its results, may be seen if we compareher, at the crises of the story, with Cordelia. In Desdemona's place,Cordelia, however frightened at Othello's anger about the losthandkerchief, would not have denied its loss. Painful experience hadproduced in her a conscious principle of rectitude and a proud hatred offalseness, which would have made a lie, even one wholly innocent inspirit, impossible to her; and the clear sense of justice and rightwould have led her, instead, to require an explanation of Othello'sagitation which would have broken Iago's plot to pieces. In the sameway, at the final crisis, no instinctive terror of death would havecompelled Cordelia suddenly to relinquish her demand for justice and toplead for life. But these moments are fatal to Desdemona, who actsprecisely as if she were guilty; and they are fatal because they ask forsomething which, it seems to us, could hardly be united with thepeculiar beauty of her nature. This beauty is all her own. Something as beautiful may be found inCordelia, but not the same beauty. Desdemona, confronted with Lear'sfoolish but pathetic demand for a profession of love, could have done, Ithink, what Cordelia could not do--could have refused to compete withher sisters, and yet have made her father feel that she loved him well. And I doubt if Cordelia, 'falsely murdered,' would have been capable ofthose last words of Desdemona--her answer to Emilia's 'O, who hath donethis deed? '               Nobody: I myself. Farewell.     Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell! Were we intended to remember, as we hear this last 'falsehood,' thatother falsehood, 'It is not lost,' and to feel that, alike in themomentary child's fear and the deathless woman's love, Desdemona isherself and herself alone? [106]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 85: One instance is worth pointing out, because the passage in_Othello_ has, oddly enough, given trouble. Desdemona says of the maidBarbara: 'She was in love, and he she loved proved mad And did forsakeher. ' Theobald changed 'mad' to 'bad. ' Warburton read 'and he she lovedforsook her, And she proved mad'! Johnson said 'mad' meant only 'wild,frantic, uncertain. ' But what Desdemona says of Barbara is just whatOphelia might have said of herself. ][Footnote 86: The whole force of the passages referred to can be feltonly by a reader. The Othello of our stage can never be Shakespeare'sOthello, any more than the Cleopatra of our stage can be his Cleopatra. ][Footnote 87: See p. 9. ][Footnote 88: Even here, however, there is a great difference; foralthough the idea of such a power is not suggested by _King Lear_ as itis by _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, it is repeatedly expressed by persons _in_the drama. Of such references there are very few in _Othello_. But forsomewhat frequent allusions to hell and the devil the view of thecharacters is almost strictly secular. Desdemona's sweetness andforgivingness are not based on religion, and her only way of accountingfor her undeserved suffering is by an appeal to Fortune: 'It is mywretched fortune' (IV. ii. 128). In like manner Othello can only appealto Fate (V. ii. 264):           but, oh vain boast!     Who can control his fate? ][Footnote 89: Ulrici has good remarks, though he exaggerates, on thispoint and the element of intrigue. ][Footnote 90: And neither she nor Othello observes what handkerchief itis. Else she would have remembered how she came to lose it, and wouldhave told Othello; and Othello, too, would at once have detected Iago'slie (III. iii. 438) that he had seen Cassio wipe his beard with thehandkerchief 'to-day. ' For in fact the handkerchief had been lost _notan hour_ before Iago told that lie (line 288 of the _same scene_), andit was at that moment in his pocket. He lied therefore most rashly, butwith his usual luck. ][Footnote 91: For those who know the end of the story there is aterrible irony in the enthusiasm with which Cassio greets the arrival ofDesdemona in Cyprus. Her ship (which is also Iago's) sets out fromVenice a week later than the others, but reaches Cyprus on the same daywith them:     Tempests themselves, high seas and howling winds,     The gutter'd rocks and congregated sands--     Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel--     As having sense of beauty, do omit     Their mortal natures, letting go safely by     The divine Desdemona. So swiftly does Fate conduct her to her doom. ][Footnote 92: The dead bodies are not carried out at the end, as theymust have been if the bed had been on the main stage (for this had nofront curtain). The curtains within which the bed stood were drawntogether at the words, 'Let it be hid' (V. ii. 365). ][Footnote 93: Against which may be set the scene of the blinding ofGloster in _King Lear_. ][Footnote 94: The reader who is tempted by it should, however, first askhimself whether Othello does act like a barbarian, or like a man who,though wrought almost to madness, does 'all in honour. '][Footnote 95: For the actor, then, to represent him as violently angrywhen he cashiers Cassio is an utter mistake. ][Footnote 96: I cannot deal fully with this point in the lecture. SeeNote L. ][Footnote 97: It is important to observe that, in his attempt to arriveat the facts about Cassio's drunken misdemeanour, Othello had just hadan example of Iago's unwillingness to tell the whole truth where it mustinjure a friend. No wonder he feels in the Temptation-scene that 'thishonest creature doubtless Sees and knows more, much more, than heunfolds. '][Footnote 98: To represent that Venetian women do not regard adultery soseriously as Othello does, and again that Othello would be wise toaccept the situation like an Italian husband, is one of Iago's mostartful and most maddening devices. ][Footnote 99: If the reader has ever chanced to see an African violentlyexcited, he may have been startled to observe how completely at a losshe was to interpret those bodily expressions of passion which in afellow-countryman he understands at once, and in a European foreignerwith somewhat less certainty. The effect of difference in blood inincreasing Othello's bewilderment regarding his wife is not sufficientlyrealised. The same effect has to be remembered in regard to Desdemona'smistakes in dealing with Othello in his anger. ][Footnote 100: See Note M. ][Footnote 101: Cf. _Winter's Tale_, I. ii. 137 ff. :              Can thy dam? --may't be? --     Affection! thy intention stabs the centre:     Thou dost make possible things not so held,     Communicatest with dreams;--how can this be?     With what's unreal thou coactive art,     And fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent     Thou may'st cojoin with something; and thou dost,     And that beyond commission, and I find it,     And that to the infection of my brains     And hardening of my brows. ][Footnote 102: See Note O. ][Footnote 103: New Illustrations, ii. 281. ][Footnote 104: _Lectures on Shakespeare_, ed. Ashe, p. 386. ][Footnote 105: I will not discuss the further question whether, grantedthat to Shakespeare Othello was a black, he should be represented as ablack in our theatres now. I dare say not. We do not like the realShakespeare. We like to have his language pruned and his conceptionsflattened into something that suits our mouths and minds. And even if wewere prepared to make an effort, still, as Lamb observes, to imagine isone thing and to see is another. Perhaps if we saw Othello coal-blackwith the bodily eye, the aversion of our blood, an aversion which comesas near to being merely physical as anything human can, would overpowerour imagination and sink us below not Shakespeare only but the audiencesof the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. As I have mentioned Lamb, I may observe that he differed from Coleridgeas to Othello's colour, but, I am sorry to add, thought Desdemona tostand in need of excuse. 'This noble lady, with a singularity rather tobe wondered at than imitated, had chosen for the object of heraffections a Moor, a black. . . . Neither is Desdemona to be altogethercondemned for the unsuitableness of the person whom she selected for herlover' (_Tales from Shakespeare_). Others, of course, have gone muchfurther and have treated all the calamities of the tragedy as a sort ofjudgment on Desdemona's rashness, wilfulness and undutifulness. There isno arguing with opinions like this; but I cannot believe that even Lambis true to Shakespeare in implying that Desdemona is in some degree tobe condemned. What is there in the play to show that Shakespeareregarded her marriage differently from Imogen's? ][Footnote 106: When Desdemona spoke her last words, perhaps that line ofthe ballad which she sang an hour before her death was still busy in herbrain,     Let nobody blame him: his scorn I approve. Nature plays such strange tricks, and Shakespeare almost alone amongpoets seems to create in somewhat the same manner as Nature. In the sameway, as Malone pointed out, Othello's exclamation, 'Goats and monkeys! '(IV. i. 274) is an unconscious reminiscence of Iago's words at III. iii. 403. ]LECTURE VIOTHELLO1Evil has nowhere else been portrayed with such mastery as in thecharacter of Iago. Richard III. , for example, beside being less subtlyconceived, is a far greater figure and a less repellent. His physicaldeformity, separating him from other men, seems to offer some excuse forhis egoism. In spite of his egoism, too, he appears to us more than amere individual: he is the representative of his family, the Fury of theHouse of York. Nor is he so negative as Iago: he has strong passions, hehas admirations, and his conscience disturbs him. There is the glory ofpower about him. Though an excellent actor, he prefers force to fraud,and in his world there is no general illusion as to his true nature. Again, to compare Iago with the Satan of _Paradise Lost_ seems almostabsurd, so immensely does Shakespeare's man exceed Milton's Fiend inevil. That mighty Spirit, whose                   form had yet not lost     All her original brightness, nor appeared     Less than archangel ruined and the excess     Of glory obscured;who knew loyalty to comrades and pity for victims; who               felt how awful goodness is, and saw     Virtue in her shape how lovely; saw, and pined     His loss;who could still weep--how much further distant is he than Iago fromspiritual death, even when, in procuring the fall of Man, he completeshis own fall! It is only in Goethe's Mephistopheles that a fit companionfor Iago can be found. Here there is something of the same deadlycoldness, the same gaiety in destruction. But then Mephistopheles, likeso many scores of literary villains, has Iago for his father. AndMephistopheles, besides, is not, in the strict sense, a character. He ishalf person, half symbol. A metaphysical idea speaks through him. He isearthy, but could never live upon the earth. Of Shakespeare's characters Falstaff, Hamlet, Iago, and Cleopatra (Iname them in the order of their births) are probably the most wonderful. Of these, again, Hamlet and Iago, whose births come nearest together,are perhaps the most subtle. And if Iago had been a person as attractiveas Hamlet, as many thousands of pages might have been written about him,containing as much criticism good and bad. As it is, the majority ofinterpretations of his character are inadequate not only toShakespeare's conception, but, I believe, to the impressions of mostreaders of taste who are unbewildered by analysis. These falseinterpretations, if we set aside the usual lunacies,[107] fall into twogroups. The first contains views which reduce Shakespeare tocommonplace. In different ways and degrees they convert his Iago intoan ordinary villain. Their Iago is simply a man who has been slightedand revenges himself; or a husband who believes he has been wronged, andwill make his enemy suffer a jealousy worse than his own; or anambitious man determined to ruin his successful rival--one of these, ora combination of these, endowed with unusual ability and cruelty. Theseare the more popular views. The second group of false interpretations ismuch smaller, but it contains much weightier matter than the first. HereIago is a being who hates good simply because it is good, and loves evilpurely for itself. His action is not prompted by any plain motive likerevenge, jealousy or ambition. It springs from a 'motiveless malignity,'or a disinterested delight in the pain of others; and Othello, Cassioand Desdemona are scarcely more than the material requisite for the fullattainment of this delight. This second Iago, evidently, is noconventional villain, and he is much nearer to Shakespeare's Iago thanthe first. Only he is, if not a psychological impossibility, at any ratenot a _human_ being. He might be in place, therefore, in a symbolicalpoem like _Faust_, but in a purely human drama like _Othello_ he wouldbe a ruinous blunder. Moreover, he is not in _Othello_: he is a productof imperfect observation and analysis. Coleridge, the author of that misleading phrase 'motiveless malignity,'has some fine remarks on Iago; and the essence of the character has beendescribed, first in some of the best lines Hazlitt ever wrote, and thenrather more fully by Mr. Swinburne,--so admirably described that I amtempted merely to read and illustrate these two criticisms. This plan,however, would make it difficult to introduce all that I wish to say. Ipropose, therefore, to approach the subject directly, and, first, toconsider how Iago appeared to those who knew him, and what inferencesmay be drawn from their illusions; and then to ask what, if we judgefrom the play, his character really was. And I will indicate the pointswhere I am directly indebted to the criticisms just mentioned. But two warnings are first required. One of these concerns Iago'snationality. It has been held that he is a study of that peculiarlyItalian form of villainy which is considered both too clever and toodiabolical for an Englishman. I doubt if there is much more to be saidfor this idea than for the notion that Othello is a study of Moorishcharacter. No doubt the belief in that Italian villainy was prevalent inShakespeare's time, and it may perhaps have influenced him in someslight degree both here and in drawing the character of Iachimo in_Cymbeline_. But even this slight influence seems to me doubtful. If DonJohn in _Much Ado_ had been an Englishman, critics would have admiredShakespeare's discernment in making his English villain sulky andstupid. If Edmund's father had been Duke of Ferrara instead of Earl ofGloster, they would have said that Edmund could have been nothing but anItalian. Change the name and country of Richard III. , and he would becalled a typical despot of the Italian Renaissance. Change those ofJuliet, and we should find her wholesome English nature contrasted withthe southern dreaminess of Romeo. But this way of interpretingShakespeare is not Shakespearean. With him the differences of period,race, nationality and locality have little bearing on the inwardcharacter, though they sometimes have a good deal on the totalimaginative effect, of his figures. When he does lay stress on suchdifferences his intention is at once obvious, as in characters likeFluellen or Sir Hugh Evans, or in the talk of the French princes beforethe battle of Agincourt. I may add that Iago certainly cannot be takento exemplify the popular Elizabethan idea of a disciple of Macchiavelli. There is no sign that he is in theory an atheist or even an unbelieverin the received religion. On the contrary, he uses its language, andsays nothing resembling the words of the prologue to the _Jew of Malta_:     I count religion but a childish toy,     And hold there is no sin but ignorance. Aaron in _Titus Andronicus_ might have said this (and is not more likelyto be Shakespeare's creation on that account), but not Iago. I come to a second warning. One must constantly remember not to believea syllable that Iago utters on any subject, including himself, until onehas tested his statement by comparing it with known facts and with otherstatements of his own or of other people, and by considering whether hehad in the particular circumstances any reason for telling a lie or fortelling the truth. The implicit confidence which his acquaintancesplaced in his integrity has descended to most of his critics; and this,reinforcing the comical habit of quoting as Shakespeare's own statementeverything said by his characters, has been a fruitful source ofmisinterpretation. I will take as an instance the very first assertionsmade by Iago. In the opening scene he tells his dupe Roderigo that threegreat men of Venice went to Othello and begged him to make Iago hislieutenant; that Othello, out of pride and obstinacy, refused; that inrefusing he talked a deal of military rigmarole, and ended by declaring(falsely, we are to understand) that he had already filled up thevacancy; that Cassio, whom he chose, had absolutely no practicalknowledge of war, nothing but bookish theoric, mere prattle, arithmetic,whereas Iago himself had often fought by Othello's side, and by 'oldgradation' too ought to have been preferred. Most or all of this isrepeated by some critics as though it were information given byShakespeare, and the conclusion is quite naturally drawn that Iago hadsome reason to feel aggrieved. But if we ask ourselves how much of allthis is true we shall answer, I believe, as follows. It is absolutelycertain that Othello appointed Cassio his lieutenant, and _nothing_ elseis absolutely certain. But there is no reason to doubt the statementthat Iago had seen service with him, nor is there anything inherentlyimprobable in the statement that he was solicited by three greatpersonages on Iago's behalf. On the other hand, the suggestions that herefused out of pride and obstinacy, and that he lied in saying he hadalready chosen his officer, have no verisimilitude; and if there is anyfact at all (as there probably is) behind Iago's account of theconversation, it doubtless is the fact that Iago himself was ignorant ofmilitary science, while Cassio was an expert, and that Othello explainedthis to the great personages. That Cassio, again, was an interloper anda mere closet-student without experience of war is incredible,considering first that Othello chose him for lieutenant, and secondlythat the senate appointed him to succeed Othello in command at Cyprus;and we have direct evidence that part of Iago's statement is a lie, forDesdemona happens to mention that Cassio was a man who 'all his time hadfounded his good fortunes' on Othello's love and had 'shared dangers'with him (III. iv. 93). There remains only the implied assertion that,if promotion had gone by old gradation, Iago, as the senior, would havebeen preferred. It may be true: Othello was not the man to hesitate topromote a junior for good reasons. But it is just as likely to be a pureinvention; and, though Cassio was young, there is nothing to show thathe was younger, in years or in service, than Iago. Iago, for instance,never calls him 'young,' as he does Roderigo; and a mere youth would nothave been made Governor of Cyprus. What is certain, finally, in thewhole business is that Othello's mind was perfectly at ease about theappointment, and that he never dreamed of Iago's being discontented atit, not even when the intrigue was disclosed and he asked himself how hehad offended Iago. 2It is necessary to examine in this manner every statement made by Iago. But it is not necessary to do so in public, and I proceed to thequestion what impression he made on his friends and acquaintances. Inthe main there is here no room for doubt. Nothing could be less likeIago than the melodramatic villain so often substituted for him on thestage, a person whom everyone in the theatre knows for a scoundrel atthe first glance. Iago, we gather, was a Venetian[108] soldier,eight-and-twenty years of age, who had seen a good deal of service andhad a high reputation for courage. Of his origin we are ignorant, but,unless I am mistaken, he was not of gentle birth or breeding. [109] Hedoes not strike one as a degraded man of culture: for all his greatpowers, he is vulgar, and his probable want of military science may wellbe significant. He was married to a wife who evidently lackedrefinement, and who appears in the drama almost in the relation of aservant to Desdemona. His manner was that of a blunt, bluff soldier, whospoke his mind freely and plainly. He was often hearty, and could bethoroughly jovial; but he was not seldom rather rough and caustic ofspeech, and he was given to making remarks somewhat disparaging to humannature. He was aware of this trait in himself, and frankly admitted thathe was nothing if not critical, and that it was his nature to spy intoabuses. In these admissions he characteristically exaggerated his fault,as plain-dealers are apt to do; and he was liked none the less for it,seeing that his satire was humorous, that on serious matters he did notspeak lightly (III. iii. 119), and that the one thing perfectly obviousabout him was his honesty. 'Honest' is the word that springs to the lipsof everyone who speaks of him. It is applied to him some fifteen timesin the play, not to mention some half-dozen where he employs it, inderision, of himself. In fact he was one of those sterling men who, indisgust at gush, say cynical things which they do not believe, and then,the moment you are in trouble, put in practice the very sentiment theyhad laughed at. On such occasions he showed the kindliest sympathy andthe most eager desire to help. When Cassio misbehaved so dreadfully andwas found fighting with Montano, did not Othello see that 'honest Iagolooked dead with grieving'? With what difficulty was he induced, nay,compelled, to speak the truth against the lieutenant! Another man mighthave felt a touch of satisfaction at the thought that the post he hadcoveted was now vacant; but Iago not only comforted Cassio, talking tohim cynically about reputation, just to help him over his shame, but heset his wits to work and at once perceived that the right plan forCassio to get his post again was to ask Desdemona to intercede. Sotroubled was he at his friend's disgrace that his own wife was sure 'itgrieved her husband as if the case was his. ' What wonder that anyone insore trouble, like Desdemona, should send at once for Iago (IV. ii. 106)? If this rough diamond had any flaw, it was that Iago's warm loyalheart incited him to too impulsive action. If he merely heard a friendlike Othello calumniated, his hand flew to his sword; and though herestrained himself he almost regretted his own virtue (I. ii. 1-10). Such seemed Iago to the people about him, even to those who, likeOthello, had known him for some time. And it is a fact too littlenoticed but most remarkable, that he presented an appearance not verydifferent to his wife. There is no sign either that Emilia's marriagewas downright unhappy, or that she suspected the true nature of herhusband. [110] No doubt she knew rather more of him than others. Thus wegather that he was given to chiding and sometimes spoke shortly andsharply to her (III. iii. 300 f. ); and it is quite likely that she gavehim a good deal of her tongue in exchange (II. i. 101 f. ). He was alsounreasonably jealous; for his own statement that he was jealous ofOthello is confirmed by Emilia herself, and must therefore be believed(IV. ii. 145). [111] But it seems clear that these defects of his had notseriously impaired Emilia's confidence in her husband or her affectionfor him. She knew in addition that he was not quite so honest as heseemed, for he had often begged her to steal Desdemona's handkerchief. But Emilia's nature was not very delicate or scrupulous about trifles. She thought her husband odd and 'wayward,' and looked on his fancy forthe handkerchief as an instance of this (III. iii. 292); but she neverdreamed he was a villain, and there is no reason to doubt the sincerityof her belief that he was heartily sorry for Cassio's disgrace. Herfailure, on seeing Othello's agitation about the handkerchief, to formany suspicion of an intrigue, shows how little she doubted her husband. Even when, later, the idea strikes her that some scoundrel has poisonedOthello's mind, the tone of all her speeches, and her mention of therogue who (she believes) had stirred up Iago's jealousy of her, provebeyond doubt that the thought of Iago's being the scoundrel has notcrossed her mind (IV. ii. 115-147). And if any hesitation on the subjectcould remain, surely it must be dispelled by the thrice-repeated cry ofastonishment and horror, 'My husband! ', which follows Othello's words,'Thy husband knew it all'; and by the choking indignation and desperatehope which we hear in her appeal when Iago comes in:     Disprove this villain if thou be'st a man:     He says thou told'st him that his wife was false:     I know thou did'st not, thou'rt not such a villain:     Speak, for my heart is full. Even if Iago _had_ betrayed much more of his true self to his wife thanto others, it would make no difference to the contrast between his trueself and the self he presented to the world in general. But he never didso. Only the feeble eyes of the poor gull Roderigo were allowed aglimpse into that pit. The bearing of this contrast upon the apparently excessive credulity ofOthello has been already pointed out. What further conclusions can bedrawn from it? Obviously, to begin with, the inference, which isaccompanied by a thrill of admiration, that Iago's powers ofdissimulation and of self-control must have been prodigious: for he wasnot a youth, like Edmund, but had worn this mask for years, and he hadapparently never enjoyed, like Richard, occasional explosions of thereality within him. In fact so prodigious does his self-control appearthat a reader might be excused for feeling a doubt of its possibility. But there are certain observations and further inferences which, apartfrom confidence in Shakespeare, would remove this doubt. It is to beobserved, first, that Iago was able to find a certain relief from thediscomfort of hypocrisy in those caustic or cynical speeches which,being misinterpreted, only heightened confidence in his honesty. Theyacted as a safety-valve, very much as Hamlet's pretended insanity did. Next, I would infer from the entire success of his hypocrisy--what mayalso be inferred on other grounds, and is of great importance--that hewas by no means a man of strong feelings and passions, like Richard, butdecidedly cold by temperament. Even so, his self-control was wonderful,but there never was in him any violent storm to be controlled. Thirdly,I would suggest that Iago, though thoroughly selfish and unfeeling, wasnot by nature malignant, nor even morose, but that, on the contrary, hehad a superficial good-nature, the kind of good-nature that winspopularity and is often taken as the sign, not of a good digestion, butof a good heart. And lastly, it may be inferred that, before the giantcrime which we witness, Iago had never been detected in any seriousoffence and may even never have been guilty of one, but had pursued aselfish but outwardly decent life, enjoying the excitement of war and ofcasual pleasures, but never yet meeting with any sufficient temptationto risk his position and advancement by a dangerous crime. So that, infact, the tragedy of _Othello_ is in a sense his tragedy too. It showsus not a violent man, like Richard, who spends his life in murder, but athoroughly bad, _cold_ man, who is at last tempted to let loose theforces within him, and is at once destroyed. 3In order to see how this tragedy arises let us now look more closelyinto Iago's inner man. We find here, in the first place, as has beenimplied in part, very remarkable powers both of intellect and of will. Iago's insight, within certain limits, into human nature; his ingenuityand address in working upon it; his quickness and versatility in dealingwith sudden difficulties and unforeseen opportunities, have probably noparallel among dramatic characters. Equally remarkable is his strengthof will. Not Socrates himself, not the ideal sage of the Stoics, wasmore lord of himself than Iago appears to be. It is not merely that henever betrays his true nature; he seems to be master of _all_ themotions that might affect his will. In the most dangerous moments of hisplot, when the least slip or accident would be fatal, he never shows atrace of nervousness. When Othello takes him by the throat he merelyshifts his part with his usual instantaneous adroitness. When he isattacked and wounded at the end he is perfectly unmoved. As Mr. Swinburne says, you cannot believe for a moment that the pain of torturewill ever open Iago's lips. He is equally unassailable by thetemptations of indolence or of sensuality. It is difficult to imaginehim inactive; and though he has an obscene mind, and doubtless took hispleasures when and how he chose, he certainly took them by choice andnot from weakness, and if pleasure interfered with his purposes theholiest of ascetics would not put it more resolutely by. 'What should Ido? ' Roderigo whimpers to him; 'I confess it is my shame to be so fond;but it is not in my virtue to amend it. ' He answers: 'Virtue! a fig! 'tis in ourselves that we are thus and thus. It all depends on our will. Love is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come,be a man. . . . Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of aguinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon. ' Forget for amoment that love is for Iago the appetite of a baboon; forget that he isas little assailable by pity as by fear or pleasure; and you willacknowledge that this lordship of the will, which is his practice aswell as his doctrine, is great, almost sublime. Indeed, in intellect(always within certain limits) and in will (considered as a mere power,and without regard to its objects) Iago _is_ great. To what end does he use these great powers? His creed--for he is nosceptic, he has a definite creed--is that absolute egoism is the onlyrational and proper attitude, and that conscience or honour or any kindof regard for others is an absurdity. He does not deny that thisabsurdity exists. He does not suppose that most people secretly sharehis creed, while pretending to hold and practise another. On thecontrary, he regards most people as honest fools. He declares that hehas never yet met a man who knew how to love himself; and his oneexpression of admiration in the play is for servants     Who, trimmed in forms and visages of duty,     Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves. 'These fellows,' he says, 'have some soul. ' He professes to stand, andhe, attempts to stand, wholly outside the world of morality. The existence of Iago's creed and of his corresponding practice isevidently connected with a characteristic in which he surpasses nearlyall the other inhabitants of Shakespeare's world. Whatever he may oncehave been, he appears, when we meet him, to be almost destitute ofhumanity, of sympathetic or social feeling. He shows no trace ofaffection, and in presence of the most terrible suffering he showseither pleasure or an indifference which, if not complete, is nearly so. Here, however, we must be careful. It is important to realise, and fewreaders are in danger of ignoring, this extraordinary deadness offeeling, but it is also important not to confuse it with a generalpositive ill-will. When Iago has no dislike or hostility to a person hedoes _not_ show pleasure in the suffering of that person: he shows atmost the absence of pain. There is, for instance, not the least sign ofhis enjoying the distress of Desdemona. But his sympathetic feelings areso abnormally feeble and cold that, when his dislike is roused, or whenan indifferent person comes in the way of his purpose, there is scarcelyanything within him to prevent his applying the torture. What is it that provokes his dislike or hostility? Here again we mustlook closely. Iago has been represented as an incarnation of envy, as aman who, being determined to get on in the world, regards everyone elsewith enmity as his rival. But this idea, though containing truth, seemsmuch exaggerated. Certainly he is devoted to himself; but if he were aneagerly ambitious man, surely we should see much more positive signs ofthis ambition; and surely too, with his great powers, he would alreadyhave risen high, instead of being a mere ensign, short of money, andplaying Captain Rook to Roderigo's Mr. Pigeon. Taking all the facts, onemust conclude that his desires were comparatively moderate and hisambition weak; that he probably enjoyed war keenly, but, if he had moneyenough, did not exert himself greatly to acquire reputation or position;and, therefore, that he was not habitually burning with envy andactively hostile to other men as possible competitors. But what is clear is that Iago is keenly sensitive to anything thattouches his pride or self-esteem. It would be most unjust to call himvain, but he has a high opinion of himself and a great contempt forothers. He is quite aware of his superiority to them in certainrespects; and he either disbelieves in or despises the qualities inwhich they are superior to him. Whatever disturbs or wounds his sense ofsuperiority irritates him at once; and in _that_ sense he is highlycompetitive. This is why the appointment of Cassio provokes him. This iswhy Cassio's scientific attainments provoke him. This is the reason ofhis jealousy of Emilia. He does not care for his wife; but the fear ofanother man's getting the better of him, and exposing him to pity orderision as an unfortunate husband, is wormwood to him; and as he issure that no woman is virtuous at heart, this fear is ever with him. Formuch the same reason he has a spite against goodness in men (for it ischaracteristic that he is less blind to its existence in men, thestronger, than in women, the weaker). He has a spite against it, notfrom any love of evil for evil's sake, but partly because it annoys hisintellect as a stupidity; partly (though he hardly knows this) becauseit weakens his satisfaction with himself, and disturbs his faith thategoism is the right and proper thing; partly because, the world beingsuch a fool, goodness is popular and prospers. But he, a man ten timesas able as Cassio or even Othello, does not greatly prosper. Somehow,for all the stupidity of these open and generous people, they get onbetter than the 'fellow of some soul' And this, though he is notparticularly eager to get on, wounds his pride. Goodness thereforeannoys him. He is always ready to scoff at it, and would like to strikeat it. In ordinary circumstances these feelings of irritation are notvivid in Iago--_no_ feeling is so--but they are constantly present. 4Our task of analysis is not finished; but we are now in a position toconsider the rise of Iago's tragedy.

Why did he act as we see him actingin the play? What is the answer to that appeal of Othello's:     Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil     Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body? This question Why? is _the_ question about Iago, just as the questionWhy did Hamlet delay? is _the_ question about Hamlet. Iago refused toanswer it; but I will venture to say that he _could_ not have answeredit, any more than Hamlet could tell why he delayed. But Shakespeare knewthe answer, and if these characters are great creations and not blunderswe ought to be able to find it too. Is it possible to elicit it from Iago himself against his will? He makesvarious statements to Roderigo, and he has several soliloquies. Fromthese sources, and especially from the latter, we should learnsomething. For with Shakespeare soliloquy generally gives informationregarding the secret springs as well as the outward course of the plot;and, moreover, it is a curious point of technique with him that thesoliloquies of his villains sometimes read almost like explanationsoffered to the audience. [112] Now, Iago repeatedly offers explanationseither to Roderigo or to himself. In the first place, he says more thanonce that he 'hates' Othello. He gives two reasons for his hatred. Othello has made Cassio lieutenant; and he suspects, and has heard itreported, that Othello has an intrigue with Emilia. Next there isCassio. He never says he hates Cassio, but he finds in him three causesof offence: Cassio has been preferred to him; he suspects _him_ too ofan intrigue with Emilia; and, lastly, Cassio has a daily beauty in hislife which makes Iago ugly. In addition to these annoyances he wantsCassio's place. As for Roderigo, he calls him a snipe, and who can hatea snipe? But Roderigo knows too much; and he is becoming a nuisance,getting angry, and asking for the gold and jewels he handed to Iago togive to Desdemona. So Iago kills Roderigo. Then for Desdemona: afig's-end for her virtue! but he has no ill-will to her. In fact he'loves' her, though he is good enough to explain, varying the word, thathis 'lust' is mixed with a desire to pay Othello in his own coin. To besure she must die, and so must Emilia, and so would Bianca if only theauthorities saw things in their true light; but he did not set out withany hostile design against these persons. Is the account which Iago gives of the causes of his action the trueaccount? The answer of the most popular view will be, 'Yes. Iago was, ashe says, chiefly incited by two things, the desire of advancement, and ahatred of Othello due principally to the affair of the lieutenancy. These are perfectly intelligible causes; we have only to add to themunusual ability and cruelty, and all is explained. Why should Coleridgeand Hazlitt and Swinburne go further afield? ' To which last question Iwill at once oppose these: If your view is correct, why should Iago beconsidered an extraordinary creation; and is it not odd that the peoplewho reject it are the people who elsewhere show an exceptionalunderstanding of Shakespeare? The difficulty about this popular view is, in the first place, that itattributes to Iago what cannot be found in the Iago of the play. ItsIago is impelled by _passions_, a passion of ambition and a passion ofhatred; for no ambition or hatred short of passion could drive a man whois evidently so clear-sighted, and who must hitherto have been soprudent, into a plot so extremely hazardous. Why, then, in the Iago ofthe play do we find no sign of these passions or of anything approachingto them? Why, if Shakespeare meant that Iago was impelled by them, doeshe suppress the signs of them? Surely not from want of ability todisplay them. The poet who painted Macbeth and Shylock understood hisbusiness. Who ever doubted Macbeth's ambition or Shylock's hate? Andwhat resemblance is there between these passions and any feeling that wecan trace in Iago? The resemblance between a volcano in eruption and aflameless fire of coke; the resemblance between a consuming desire tohack and hew your enemy's flesh, and the resentful wish, only toofamiliar in common life, to inflict pain in return for a slight. Passion, in Shakespeare's plays, is perfectly easy to recognise. Whatvestige of it, of passion unsatisfied or of passion gratified, isvisible in Iago? None: that is the very horror of him. He has _less_passion than an ordinary man, and yet he does these frightful things. The only ground for attributing to him, I do not say a passionatehatred, but anything deserving the name of hatred at all, is his ownstatement, 'I hate Othello'; and we know what his statements are worth. But the popular view, beside attributing to Iago what he does not show,ignores what he does show. It selects from his own account of hismotives one or two, and drops the rest; and so it makes everythingnatural. But it fails to perceive how unnatural, how strange andsuspicious, his own account is. Certainly he assigns motives enough; thedifficulty is that he assigns so many. A man moved by simple passionsdue to simple causes does not stand fingering his feelings,industriously enumerating their sources, and groping about for new ones. But this is what Iago does. And this is not all. These motives appearand disappear in the most extraordinary manner. Resentment at Cassio'sappointment is expressed in the first conversation with Roderigo, andfrom that moment is never once mentioned again in the whole play. Hatredof Othello is expressed in the First Act alone. Desire to get Cassio'splace scarcely appears after the first soliloquy, and when it isgratified Iago does not refer to it by a single word. The suspicion ofCassio's intrigue with Emilia emerges suddenly, as an after-thought, notin the first soliloquy but the second, and then disappears forever. [113] Iago's 'love' of Desdemona is alluded to in the secondsoliloquy; there is not the faintest trace of it in word or deed eitherbefore or after. The mention of jealousy of Othello is followed bydeclarations that Othello is infatuated about Desdemona and is of aconstant nature, and during Othello's sufferings Iago never shows a signof the idea that he is now paying his rival in his own coin. In thesecond soliloquy he declares that he quite believes Cassio to be in lovewith Desdemona; it is obvious that he believes no such thing, for henever alludes to the idea again, and within a few hours describes Cassioin soliloquy as an honest fool. His final reason for ill-will to Cassionever appears till the Fifth Act. What is the meaning of all this? Unless Shakespeare was out of his mind,it must have a meaning. And certainly this meaning is not contained inany of the popular accounts of Iago. Is it contained then in Coleridge's word 'motive-hunting'? Yes,'motive-hunting' exactly answers to the impression that Iago'ssoliloquies produce. He is pondering his design, and unconsciouslytrying to justify it to himself. He speaks of one or two real feelings,such as resentment against Othello, and he mentions one or two realcauses of these feelings. But these are not enough for him. Along withthem, or alone, there come into his head, only to leave it again, ideasand suspicions, the creations of his own baseness or uneasiness, someold, some new, caressed for a moment to feed his purpose and give it areasonable look, but never really believed in, and never the main forceswhich are determining his action. In fact, I would venture to describeIago in these soliloquies as a man setting out on a project whichstrongly attracts his desire, but at the same time conscious of aresistance to the desire, and unconsciously trying to argue theresistance away by assigning reasons for the project. He is thecounterpart of Hamlet, who tries to find reasons for his delay inpursuing a design which excites his aversion. And most of Iago's reasonsfor action are no more the real ones than Hamlet's reasons for delaywere the real ones. Each is moved by forces which he does notunderstand; and it is probably no accident that these two studies ofstates psychologically so similar were produced at about the sameperiod. What then were the real moving forces of Iago's action? Are we to fallback on the idea of a 'motiveless malignity;'[114] that is to say, adisinterested love of evil, or a delight in the pain of others as simpleand direct as the delight in one's own pleasure? Surely not. I will notinsist that this thing or these things are inconceivable, mere phrases,not ideas; for, even so, it would remain possible that Shakespeare hadtried to represent an inconceivability. But there is not the slightestreason to suppose that he did so. Iago's action is intelligible; andindeed the popular view contains enough truth to refute this desperatetheory. It greatly exaggerates his desire for advancement, and theill-will caused by his disappointment, and it ignores other forces moreimportant than these; but it is right in insisting on the presence ofthis desire and this ill-will, and their presence is enough to destroyIago's claims to be more than a demi-devil. For love of the evil thatadvances my interest and hurts a person I dislike, is a very differentthing from love of evil simply as evil; and pleasure in the pain of aperson disliked or regarded as a competitor is quite distinct frompleasure in the pain of others simply as others. The first isintelligible, and we find it in Iago. The second, even if it wereintelligible, we do not find in Iago. Still, desire of advancement and resentment about the lieutenancy,though factors and indispensable factors in the cause of Iago's action,are neither the principal nor the most characteristic factors. To findthese, let us return to our half-completed analysis of the character. Let us remember especially the keen sense of superiority, the contemptof others, the sensitiveness to everything which wounds these feelings,the spite against goodness in men as a thing not only stupid but, bothin its nature and by its success, contrary to Iago's nature andirritating to his pride. Let us remember in addition the annoyance ofhaving always to play a part, the consciousness of exceptional butunused ingenuity and address, the enjoyment of action, and the absenceof fear. And let us ask what would be the greatest pleasure of such aman, and what the situation which might tempt him to abandon hishabitual prudence and pursue this pleasure. Hazlitt and Mr. Swinburne donot put this question, but the answer I proceed to give to it is inprinciple theirs. [115]The most delightful thing to such a man would be something that gave anextreme satisfaction to his sense of power and superiority; and if itinvolved, secondly, the triumphant exertion of his abilities, and,thirdly, the excitement of danger, his delight would be consummated. Andthe moment most dangerous to such a man would be one when his sense ofsuperiority had met with an affront, so that its habitual craving wasreinforced by resentment, while at the same time he saw an opportunityof satisfying it by subjecting to his will the very persons who hadaffronted it. Now, this is the temptation that comes to Iago. Othello'seminence, Othello's goodness, and his own dependence on Othello, musthave been a perpetual annoyance to him. At _any_ time he would haveenjoyed befooling and tormenting Othello. Under ordinary circumstanceshe was restrained, chiefly by self-interest, in some slight degreeperhaps by the faint pulsations of conscience or humanity. Butdisappointment at the loss of the lieutenancy supplied the touch oflively resentment that was required to overcome these obstacles; and theprospect of satisfying the sense of power by mastering Othello throughan intricate and hazardous intrigue now became irresistible. Iago didnot clearly understand what was moving his desire; though he tried togive himself reasons for his action, even those that had some realitymade but a small part of the motive force; one may almost say they wereno more than the turning of the handle which admits the driving powerinto the machine. Only once does he appear to see something of thetruth. It is when he uses the phrase '_to plume up my will_ in doubleknavery. 'To 'plume up the will,' to heighten the sense of power orsuperiority--this seems to be the unconscious motive of many acts ofcruelty which evidently do not spring chiefly from ill-will, and whichtherefore puzzle and sometimes horrify us most. It is often this thatmakes a man bully the wife or children of whom he is fond. The boy whotorments another boy, as we say, 'for no reason,' or who without anyhatred for frogs tortures a frog, is pleased with his victim's pain, notfrom any disinterested love of evil or pleasure in pain, but mainlybecause this pain is the unmistakable proof of his own power over hisvictim. So it is with Iago. His thwarted sense of superiority wantssatisfaction. What fuller satisfaction could it find than theconsciousness that he is the master of the General who has undervaluedhim and of the rival who has been preferred to him; that these worthypeople, who are so successful and popular and stupid, are mere puppetsin his hands, but living puppets, who at the motion of his finger mustcontort themselves in agony, while all the time they believe that he istheir one true friend and comforter? It must have been an ecstasy ofbliss to him. And this, granted a most abnormal deadness of humanfeeling, is, however horrible, perfectly intelligible. There is nomystery in the psychology of Iago; the mystery lies in a furtherquestion, which the drama has not to answer, the question why such abeing should exist. Iago's longing to satisfy the sense of power is, I think, the strongestof the forces that drive him on. But there are two others to be noticed. One is the pleasure in an action very difficult and perilous and,therefore, intensely exciting. This action sets all his powers on thestrain. He feels the delight of one who executes successfully a featthoroughly congenial to his special aptitude, and only just within hiscompass; and, as he is fearless by nature, the fact that a single slipwill cost him his life only increases his pleasure. His exhilarationbreaks out in the ghastly words with which he greets the sunrise afterthe night of the drunken tumult which has led to Cassio's disgrace: 'Bythe mass, 'tis morning. Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. 'Here, however, the joy in exciting action is quickened by otherfeelings. It appears more simply elsewhere in such a way as to suggestthat nothing but such actions gave him happiness, and that his happinesswas greater if the action was destructive as well as exciting. We findit, for instance, in his gleeful cry to Roderigo, who proposes to shoutto Brabantio in order to wake him and tell him of his daughter's flight:     Do, with like timorous[116] accent and dire yell     As when, by night and negligence, the fire     Is spied in populous cities. All through that scene; again, in the scene where Cassio is attacked andRoderigo murdered; everywhere where Iago is in physical action, we catchthis sound of almost feverish enjoyment. His blood, usually so cold andslow, is racing through his veins. But Iago, finally, is not simply a man of action; he is an artist. Hisaction is a plot, the intricate plot of a drama, and in the conceptionand execution of it he experiences the tension and the joy of artisticcreation. 'He is,' says Hazlitt, 'an amateur of tragedy in real life;and, instead of employing his invention on imaginary characters orlong-forgotten incidents, he takes the bolder and more dangerous courseof getting up his plot at home, casts the principal parts among hisnewest friends and connections, and rehearses it in downright earnest,with steady nerves and unabated resolution. ' Mr. Swinburne lays evengreater stress on this aspect of Iago's character, and even declaresthat 'the very subtlest and strongest component of his complex nature'is 'the instinct of what Mr. Carlyle would call an inarticulate poet. 'And those to whom this idea is unfamiliar, and who may suspect it atfirst sight of being fanciful, will find, if they examine the play inthe light of Mr. Swinburne's exposition, that it rests on a true anddeep perception, will stand scrutiny, and might easily be illustrated. They may observe, to take only one point, the curious analogy betweenthe early stages of dramatic composition and those soliloquies in whichIago broods over his plot, drawing at first only an outline, puzzled howto fix more than the main idea, and gradually seeing it develop andclarify as he works upon it or lets it work. Here at any rateShakespeare put a good deal of himself into Iago. But the tragedian inreal life was not the equal of the tragic poet. His psychology, as weshall see, was at fault at a critical point, as Shakespeare's never was. And so his catastrophe came out wrong, and his piece was ruined. Such, then, seem to be the chief ingredients of the force which,liberated by his resentment at Cassio's promotion, drives Iago frominactivity into action, and sustains him through it. And, to pass to anew point, this force completely possesses him; it is his fate. It islike the passion with which a tragic hero wholly identifies himself, andwhich bears him on to his doom. It is true that, once embarked on hiscourse, Iago _could_ not turn back, even if this passion did abate; andit is also true that he is compelled, by his success in convincingOthello, to advance to conclusions of which at the outset he did notdream. He is thus caught in his own web, and could not liberate himselfif he would. But, in fact, he never shows a trace of wishing to do so,not a trace of hesitation, of looking back, or of fear, any more than ofremorse; there is no ebb in the tide. As the crisis approaches therepasses through his mind a fleeting doubt whether the deaths of Cassioand Roderigo are indispensable; but that uncertainty, which does notconcern the main issue, is dismissed, and he goes forward withundiminished zest. Not even in his sleep--as in Richard's before hisfinal battle--does any rebellion of outraged conscience or pity, or anyforeboding of despair, force itself into clear consciousness. Hisfate--which is himself--has completely mastered him: so that, in thelater scenes, where the improbability of the entire success of a designbuilt on so many different falsehoods forces itself on the reader, Iagoappears for moments not as a consummate schemer, but as a man absolutelyinfatuated and delivered over to certain destruction. 5Iago stands supreme among Shakespeare's evil characters because thegreatest intensity and subtlety of imagination have gone to his making,and because he illustrates in the most perfect combination the two factsconcerning evil which seem to have impressed Shakespeare most. The firstof these is the fact that perfectly sane people exist in whomfellow-feeling of any kind is so weak that an almost absolute egoismbecomes possible to them, and with it those hard vices--such asingratitude and cruelty--which to Shakespeare were far the worst. Thesecond is that such evil is compatible, and even appears to ally itselfeasily, with exceptional powers of will and intellect. In the latterrespect Iago is nearly or quite the equal of Richard, in egoism he isthe superior, and his inferiority in passion and massive force onlymakes him more repulsive. How is it then that we can bear to contemplatehim; nay, that, if we really imagine him, we feel admiration and somekind of sympathy? Henry the Fifth tells us:     There is some soul of goodness in things evil,     Would men observingly distil it out;but here, it may be said, we are shown a thing absolutely evil,and--what is more dreadful still--this absolute evil is united withsupreme intellectual power. Why is the representation tolerable, and whydo we not accuse its author either of untruth or of a desperatepessimism? To these questions it might at once be replied: Iago does not standalone; he is a factor in a whole; and we perceive him there and not inisolation, acted upon as well as acting, destroyed as well asdestroying. [117] But, although this is true and important, I pass it byand, continuing to regard him by himself, I would make three remarks inanswer to the questions. In the first place, Iago is not merely negative or evil--far from it. Those very forces that moved him and made his fate--sense of power,delight in performing a difficult and dangerous action, delight in theexercise of artistic skill--are not at all evil things. We sympathisewith one or other of them almost every day of our lives. And,accordingly, though in Iago they are combined with something detestableand so contribute to evil, our perception of them is accompanied withsympathy. In the same way, Iago's insight, dexterity, quickness,address, and the like, are in themselves admirable things; the perfectman would possess them. And certainly he would possess also Iago'scourage and self-control, and, like Iago, would stand above the impulsesof mere feeling, lord of his inner world. All this goes to evil ends inIago, but in itself it has a great worth; and, although in reading, ofcourse, we do not sift it out and regard it separately, it inevitablyaffects us and mingles admiration with our hatred or horror. All this, however, might apparently co-exist with absolute egoism andtotal want of humanity. But, in the second place, it is not true that inIago this egoism and this want are absolute, and that in this sense heis a thing of mere evil. They are frightful, but if they were absoluteIago would be a monster, not a man. The fact is, he _tries_ to make themabsolute and cannot succeed; and the traces of conscience, shame andhumanity, though faint, are discernible. If his egoism were absolute hewould be perfectly indifferent to the opinion of others; and he clearlyis not so. His very irritation at goodness, again, is a sign that hisfaith in his creed is not entirely firm; and it is not entirely firmbecause he himself has a perception, however dim, of the goodness ofgoodness. What is the meaning of the last reason he gives himself forkilling Cassio:     He hath a daily beauty in his life     That makes me ugly? Does he mean that he is ugly to others? Then he is not an absoluteegoist. Does he mean that he is ugly to himself? Then he makes an openconfession of moral sense. And, once more, if he really possessed nomoral sense, we should never have heard those soliloquies which soclearly betray his uneasiness and his unconscious desire to persuadehimself that he has some excuse for the villainy he contemplates. Theseseem to be indubitable proofs that, against his will, Iago is a littlebetter than his creed, and has failed to withdraw himself wholly fromthe human atmosphere about him. And to these proofs I would add, thoughwith less confidence, two others. Iago's momentary doubt towards the endwhether Roderigo and Cassio must be killed has always surprised me. As amere matter of calculation it is perfectly obvious that they must; and Ibelieve his hesitation is not merely intellectual, it is another symptomof the obscure working of conscience or humanity. Lastly, is it notsignificant that, when once his plot has begun to develop, Iago neverseeks the presence of Desdemona; that he seems to leave her as quicklyas he can (III. iv. 138); and that, when he is fetched byEmilia to see her in her distress (IV. ii. 110 ff. ), we fail tocatch in his words any sign of the pleasure he shows in Othello'smisery, and seem rather to perceive a certain discomfort, and, if onedare say it, a faint touch of shame or remorse? This interpretation ofthe passage, I admit, is not inevitable, but to my mind (quite apartfrom any theorising about Iago) it seems the natural one. [118] And if itis right, Iago's discomfort is easily understood; for Desdemona is theone person concerned against whom it is impossible for him even toimagine a ground of resentment, and so an excuse for cruelty. [119]There remains, thirdly, the idea that Iago is a man of supremeintellect who is at the same time supremely wicked. That he is supremelywicked nobody will doubt; and I have claimed for him nothing that willinterfere with his right to that title. But to say that his intellectualpower is supreme is to make a great mistake. Within certain limits hehas indeed extraordinary penetration, quickness, inventiveness,adaptiveness; but the limits are defined with the hardest of lines, andthey are narrow limits. It would scarcely be unjust to call him simplyastonishingly clever, or simply a consummate master of intrigue. Butcompare him with one who may perhaps be roughly called a bad man ofsupreme intellectual power, Napoleon, and you see how small and negativeIago's mind is, incapable of Napoleon's military achievements, and muchmore incapable of his political constructions. Or, to keep within theShakespearean world, compare him with Hamlet, and you perceive howmiserably close is his intellectual horizon; that such a thing as athought beyond the reaches of his soul has never come near him; that heis prosaic through and through, deaf and blind to all but a tinyfragment of the meaning of things. Is it not quite absurd, then, to callhim a man of supreme intellect? And observe, lastly, that his failure in perception is closely connectedwith his badness. He was destroyed by the power that he attacked, thepower of love; and he was destroyed by it because he could notunderstand it; and he could not understand it because it was not in him. Iago never meant his plot to be so dangerous to himself. He knew thatjealousy is painful, but the jealousy of a love like Othello's he couldnot imagine, and he found himself involved in murders which were no partof his original design. That difficulty he surmounted, and his changedplot still seemed to prosper. Roderigo and Cassio and Desdemona oncedead, all will be well. Nay, when he fails to kill Cassio, all may stillbe well. He will avow that he told Othello of the adultery, and persistthat he told the truth, and Cassio will deny it in vain. And then, in amoment, his plot is shattered by a blow from a quarter where he neverdreamt of danger. He knows his wife, he thinks. She is notover-scrupulous, she will do anything to please him, and she has learntobedience. But one thing in her he does not know--that she _loves_ hermistress and would face a hundred deaths sooner than see her fair famedarkened. There is genuine astonishment in his outburst 'What! Are youmad? ' as it dawns upon him that she means to speak the truth about thehandkerchief. But he might well have applied to himself the words sheflings at Othello,                          O gull! O dolt!     As ignorant as dirt! The foulness of his own soul made him so ignorant that he built into themarvellous structure of his plot a piece of crass stupidity. To the thinking mind the divorce of unusual intellect from goodness is athing to startle; and Shakespeare clearly felt it so. The combination ofunusual intellect with extreme evil is more than startling, it isfrightful. It is rare, but it exists; and Shakespeare represented it inIago. But the alliance of evil like Iago's with _supreme_ intellect isan impossible fiction; and Shakespeare's fictions were truth. 6The characters of Cassio and Emilia hardly require analysis, and I willtouch on them only from a single point of view. In their combination ofexcellences and defects they are good examples of that truth to naturewhich in dramatic art is the one unfailing source of moral instruction. Cassio is a handsome, light-hearted, good-natured young fellow, whotakes life gaily, and is evidently very attractive and popular. Othello,who calls him by his Christian name, is fond of him; Desdemona likes himmuch; Emilia at once interests herself on his behalf. He has warmgenerous feelings, an enthusiastic admiration for the General, and achivalrous adoration for his peerless wife. But he is too easy-going. Hefinds it hard to say No; and accordingly, although he is aware that hehas a very weak head, and that the occasion is one on which he is boundto run no risk, he gets drunk--not disgustingly so, but ludicrouslyso. [120] And, besides, he amuses himself without any scruple byfrequenting the company of a woman of more than doubtful reputation, whohas fallen in love with his good looks. Moralising critics point outthat he pays for the first offence by losing his post, and for thesecond by nearly losing his life. They are quite entitled to do so,though the careful reader will not forget Iago's part in thesetransactions. But they ought also to point out that Cassio's loosenessdoes not in the least disturb our confidence in him in his relationswith Desdemona and Othello. He is loose, and we are sorry for it; but wenever doubt that there was 'a daily beauty in his life,' or that hisrapturous admiration of Desdemona was as wholly beautiful a thing as itappears, or that Othello was perfectly safe when in his courtship heemployed Cassio to 'go between' Desdemona and himself. It is fortunatelya fact in human nature that these aspects of Cassio's character arequite compatible. Shakespeare simply sets it down; and it is justbecause he is truthful in these smaller things that in greater things wetrust him absolutely never to pervert the truth for the sake of somedoctrine or purpose of his own. There is something very lovable about Cassio, with his fresh eagerfeelings; his distress at his disgrace and still more at having lostOthello's trust; his hero-worship; and at the end his sorrow and pity,which are at first too acute for words. He is carried in, wounded, on achair. He looks at Othello and cannot speak. His first words come laterwhen, to Lodovico's question, 'Did you and he consent in Cassio'sdeath? ' Othello answers 'Ay. ' Then he falters out, 'Dear General, Inever gave you cause. ' One is sure he had never used that adjectivebefore. The love in it makes it beautiful, but there is something elsein it, unknown to Cassio, which goes to one's heart. It tells us thathis hero is no longer unapproachably above him. Few of Shakespeare's minor characters are more distinct than Emilia, andtowards few do our feelings change so much within the course of a play. Till close to the end she frequently sets one's teeth on edge; and atthe end one is ready to worship her. She nowhere shows any sign ofhaving a bad heart; but she is common, sometimes vulgar, in minormatters far from scrupulous, blunt in perception and feeling, and quitedestitute of imagination. She let Iago take the handkerchief though sheknew how much its loss would distress Desdemona; and she said nothingabout it though she saw that Othello was jealous. We rightly resent herunkindness in permitting the theft, but--it is an important point--weare apt to misconstrue her subsequent silence, because we know thatOthello's jealousy was intimately connected with the loss of thehandkerchief. Emilia, however, certainly failed to perceive this; forotherwise, when Othello's anger showed itself violently and she wasreally distressed for her mistress, she could not have failed to thinkof the handkerchief, and would, I believe, undoubtedly have told thetruth about it. But, in fact, she never thought of it, although sheguessed that Othello was being deceived by some scoundrel. Even afterDesdemona's death, nay, even when she knew that Iago had brought itabout, she still did not remember the handkerchief; and when Othello atlast mentions, as a proof of his wife's guilt, that he had seen thehandkerchief in Cassio's hand, the truth falls on Emilia like athunder-bolt. 'O God! ' she bursts out, 'O heavenly God! '[121] Herstupidity in this matter is gross, but it is stupidity and nothingworse. But along with it goes a certain coarseness of nature. The contrastbetween Emilia and Desdemona in their conversation about the infidelityof wives (IV. iii. ) is too famous to need a word,--unless it be a wordof warning against critics who take her light talk too seriously. Butthe contrast in the preceding scene is hardly less remarkable. Othello,affecting to treat Emilia as the keeper of a brothel, sends her away,bidding her shut the door behind her; and then he proceeds to torturehimself as well as Desdemona by accusations of adultery. But, as acritic has pointed out, Emilia listens at the door, for we find, as soonas Othello is gone and Iago has been summoned, that she knows whatOthello has said to Desdemona. And what could better illustrate thosedefects of hers which make one wince, than her repeating again and againin Desdemona's presence the word Desdemona could not repeat; than hertalking before Desdemona of Iago's suspicions regarding Othello andherself; than her speaking to Desdemona of husbands who strike theirwives; than the expression of her honest indignation in the words,     Has she forsook so many noble matches,     Her father and her country and her friends,     To be called whore? If one were capable of laughing or even of smiling when this point inthe play is reached, the difference between Desdemona's anguish at theloss of Othello's love, and Emilia's recollection of the noble matchesshe might have secured, would be irresistibly ludicrous. And yet how all this, and all her defects, vanish into nothingness whenwe see her face to face with that which she can understand and feel! From the moment of her appearance after the murder to the moment of herdeath she is transfigured; and yet she remains perfectly true toherself, and we would not have her one atom less herself. She is theonly person who utters for us the violent common emotions which we feel,together with those more tragic emotions which she does not comprehend. She has done this once already, to our great comfort. When she suggeststhat some villain has poisoned Othello's mind, and Iago answers,     Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible;and Desdemona answers,     If any such there be, Heaven pardon him;Emilia's retort,     A halter pardon him, and Hell gnaw his bones,says what we long to say, and helps us. And who has not felt in the lastscene how her glorious carelessness of her own life, and her outburstsagainst Othello--even that most characteristic one,     She was too fond of her most filthy bargain--lift the overwhelming weight of calamity that oppresses us, and bring usan extraordinary lightening of the heart? Terror and pity are here toomuch to bear; we long to be allowed to feel also indignation, if notrage; and Emilia lets us feel them and gives them words. She brings ustoo the relief of joy and admiration,--a joy that is not lessened by herdeath. Why should she live? If she lived for ever she never could soar ahigher pitch, and nothing in her life became her like the losingit. [122]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 107: It has been held, for example, that Othello treated Iagoabominably in preferring Cassio to him; that he _did_ seduce Emilia;that he and Desdemona were too familiar before marriage; and that in anycase his fate was a moral judgment on his sins, and Iago a righteous, ifsharp, instrument of Providence. ][Footnote 108: See III. iii. 201, V. i. 89 f. The statements are hisown, but he has no particular reason for lying. One reason of hisdisgust at Cassio's appointment was that Cassio was a Florentine (I. i. 20). When Cassio says (III. i. 42) 'I never knew a Florentine more kindand honest,' of course he means, not that Iago is a Florentine, but thathe could not be kinder and honester if he were one. ][Footnote 109: I am here merely recording a general impression. There isno specific evidence, unless we take Cassio's language in his drink (II. ii. 105 f. ) to imply that Iago was not a 'man of quality' like himself. I do not know if it has been observed that Iago uses more nauticalphrases and metaphors than is at all usual with Shakespeare'scharacters. This might naturally be explained by his roving militarylife, but it is curious that almost all the examples occur in theearlier scenes (see _e. g. _ I. i. 30, 153, 157; I. ii. 17, 50; I. iii. 343; II. iii. 65), so that the use of these phrases and metaphors maynot be characteristic of Iago but symptomatic of a particular state ofShakespeare's mind. ][Footnote 110: See further Note P. ][Footnote 111: But it by no means follows that we are to believe hisstatement that there was a report abroad about an intrigue between hiswife and Othello (I. iii. 393), or his statement (which may be divinedfrom IV. ii. 145) that someone had spoken to him on the subject. ][Footnote 112: See, for instance, Aaron in _Titus Andronicus_, II. iii. ;Richard in _3 Henry VI. _, III. ii. and V. vi. , and in _Richard III. _, I. i. (twice), I. ii. ; Edmund in _King Lear_, I. ii. (twice), III. iii. andv. , V. i. ][Footnote 113: See, further, Note Q. ][Footnote 114: On the meaning which this phrase had for its author,Coleridge, see note on p. 228. ][Transcriber's note: Reference is toFootnote 115. ][Footnote 115: Coleridge's view is not materially different, though lesscomplete. When he speaks of 'the motive-hunting of a motivelessmalignity,' he does not mean by the last two words that 'disinterestedlove of evil' or 'love of evil for evil's sake' of which I spoke justnow, and which other critics attribute to Iago. He means really thatIago's malignity does not spring from the causes to which Iago himselfrefers it, nor from any 'motive' in the sense of an idea present toconsciousness. But unfortunately his phrase suggests the theory whichhas been criticised above. On the question whether there is such a thingas this supposed pure malignity, the reader may refer to a discussionbetween Professor Bain and F. H. Bradley in _Mind_, vol. viii. ][Footnote 116: _I. e. _ terrifying. ][Footnote 117: Cf. note at end of lecture. ][Transcriber's note: Refersto Footnote 122. ][Footnote 118: It was suggested to me by a Glasgow student. ][Footnote 119: A curious proof of Iago's inability to hold by his creedthat absolute egoism is the only proper attitude, and that loyalty andaffection are mere stupidity or want of spirit, may be found in his onemoment of real passion, where he rushes at Emilia with the cry,'Villainous whore! ' (V. ii. 229). There is more than fury in his cry,there is indignation. She has been false to him, she has betrayed him. Well, but why should she not, if his creed is true? And what amelancholy exhibition of human inconsistency it is that he should use asterms of reproach words which, according to him, should be quiteneutral, if not complimentary! ][Footnote 120: Cassio's invective against drink may be compared withHamlet's expressions of disgust at his uncle's drunkenness. Possibly thesubject may for some reason have been prominent in Shakespeare's mindabout this time. ][Footnote 121: So the Quarto, and certainly rightly, though moderneditors reprint the feeble alteration of the Folio, due to fear of theCensor, 'O heaven! O heavenly Powers! '][Footnote 122: The feelings evoked by Emilia are one of the causes whichmitigate the excess of tragic pain at the conclusion. Others are thedownfall of Iago, and the fact, already alluded to, that both Desdemonaand Othello show themselves at their noblest just before death. ]LECTURE VIIKING LEAR_King Lear_ has again and again been described as Shakespeare's greatestwork, the best of his plays, the tragedy in which he exhibits most fullyhis multitudinous powers; and if we were doomed to lose all his dramasexcept one, probably the majority of those who know and appreciate himbest would pronounce for keeping _King Lear_. Yet this tragedy is certainly the least popular of the famous four. The'general reader' reads it less often than the others, and, though heacknowledges its greatness, he will sometimes speak of it with a certaindistaste. It is also the least often presented on the stage, and theleast successful there. And when we look back on its history we find acurious fact. Some twenty years after the Restoration, Nahum Tatealtered _King Lear_ for the stage, giving it a happy ending, and puttingEdgar in the place of the King of France as Cordelia's lover. From thattime Shakespeare's tragedy in its original form was never seen on thestage for a century and a half. Betterton acted Tate's version; Garrickacted it and Dr. Johnson approved it. Kemble acted it, Kean acted it. In1823 Kean, 'stimulated by Hazlitt's remonstrances and Charles Lamb'sessays,' restored the original tragic ending. At last, in 1838, Macreadyreturned to Shakespeare's text throughout. What is the meaning of these opposite sets of facts? Are the lovers ofShakespeare wholly in the right; and is the general reader andplay-goer, were even Tate and Dr. Johnson, altogether in the wrong? Iventure to doubt it. When I read _King Lear_ two impressions are left onmy mind, which seem to answer roughly to the two sets of facts. _KingLear_ seems to me Shakespeare's greatest achievement, but it seems to me_not_ his best play. And I find that I tend to consider it from tworather different points of view. When I regard it strictly as a drama,it appears to me, though in certain parts overwhelming, decidedlyinferior as a whole to _Hamlet_, _Othello_ and _Macbeth_. When I amfeeling that it is greater than any of these, and the fullest revelationof Shakespeare's power, I find I am not regarding it simply as a drama,but am grouping it in my mind with works like the _Prometheus Vinctus_and the _Divine Comedy_, and even with the greatest symphonies ofBeethoven and the statues in the Medici Chapel. This two-fold character of the play is to some extent illustrated by theaffinities and the probable chronological position of _King Lear_. It isallied with two tragedies, _Othello_ and _Timon of Athens_; and thesetwo tragedies are utterly unlike. [123] _Othello_ was probably composedabout 1604, and _King Lear_ about 1605; and though there is a somewhatmarked change in style and versification, there are obvious resemblancesbetween the two. The most important have been touched on already: theseare the most painful and the most pathetic of the four tragedies, thosein which evil appears in its coldest and most inhuman forms, and thosewhich exclude the supernatural from the action. But there is also in_King Lear_ a good deal which sounds like an echo of _Othello_,--a factwhich should not surprise us, since there are other instances where thematter of a play seems to go on working in Shakespeare's mind andre-appears, generally in a weaker form, in his next play. So, in _KingLear_, the conception of Edmund is not so fresh as that of Goneril. Goneril has no predecessor; but Edmund, though of course essentiallydistinguished from Iago, often reminds us of him, and the soliloquy,'This is the excellent foppery of the world,' is in the very tone ofIago's discourse on the sovereignty of the will. The gulling of Gloster,again, recalls the gulling of Othello. Even Edmund's idea (not carriedout) of making his father witness, without over-hearing, hisconversation with Edgar, reproduces the idea of the passage whereOthello watches Iago and Cassio talking about Bianca; and the conclusionof the temptation, where Gloster says to Edmund:                              and of my land,     Loyal and natural boy, I'll work the means     To make thee capable,reminds us of Othello's last words in the scene of temptation, 'Now artthou my lieutenant. ' This list might be extended; and the appearance ofcertain unusual words and phrases in both the plays increases thelikelihood that the composition of the one followed at no great distanceon that of the other. [124]When we turn from _Othello_ to _Timon of Athens_ we find a play of quiteanother kind. _Othello_ is dramatically the most perfect of thetragedies. _Timon_, on the contrary, is weak, ill-constructed andconfused; and, though care might have made it clear, no mere care couldmake it really dramatic. Yet it is undoubtedly Shakespearean in part,probably in great part; and it immediately reminds us of _King Lear_. Both plays deal with the tragic effects of ingratitude. In both thevictim is exceptionally unsuspicious, soft-hearted and vehement. In bothhe is completely overwhelmed, passing through fury to madness in the onecase, to suicide in the other. Famous passages in both plays are curses. The misanthropy of Timon pours itself out in a torrent of maledictionson the whole race of man; and these at once recall, alike by their formand their substance, the most powerful speeches uttered by Lear in hismadness. In both plays occur repeated comparisons between man and thebeasts; the idea that 'the strain of man's bred out into baboon,' wolf,tiger, fox; the idea that this bestial degradation will end in a furiousstruggle of all with all, in which the race will perish. The'pessimistic' strain in _Timon_ suggests to many readers, even moreimperatively than _King Lear_, the notion that Shakespeare was givingvent to some personal feeling, whether present or past; for the signs ofhis hand appear most unmistakably when the hero begins to pour the vialsof his wrath upon mankind. _Timon_, lastly, in some of theunquestionably Shakespearean parts, bears (as it appears to me) sostrong a resemblance to _King Lear_ in style and in versification thatit is hard to understand how competent judges can suppose that itbelongs to a time at all near that of the final romances, or even thatit was written so late as the last Roman plays. It is more likely tohave been composed immediately after _King Lear_ and before_Macbeth_. [125]Drawing these comparisons together, we may say that, while as a work ofart and in tragic power _King Lear_ is infinitely nearer to _Othello_than to _Timon_, in its spirit and substance its affinity with _Timon_is a good deal the stronger. And, returning to the point from whichthese comparisons began, I would now add that there is in _King Lear_ areflection or anticipation, however faint, of the structural weakness of_Timon_. This weakness in _King Lear_ is not due, however, to anythingintrinsically undramatic in the story, but to characteristics which werenecessary to an effect not wholly dramatic. The stage is the test ofstrictly dramatic quality, and _King Lear_ is too huge for the stage. Ofcourse, I am not denying that it is a great stage-play. It has scenesimmensely effective in the theatre; three of them--the two between Learand Goneril and between Lear, Goneril and Regan, and the ineffablybeautiful scene in the Fourth Act between Lear and Cordelia--lose in thetheatre very little of the spell they have for imagination; and thegradual interweaving of the two plots is almost as masterly as in _MuchAdo_. But (not to speak of defects due to mere carelessness) that whichmakes the _peculiar_ greatness of King Lear,--the immense scope of thework; the mass and variety of intense experience which it contains; theinterpenetration of sublime imagination, piercing pathos, and humouralmost as moving as the pathos; the vastness of the convulsion both ofnature and of human passion; the vagueness of the scene where the actiontakes place, and of the movements of the figures which cross this scene;the strange atmosphere, cold and dark, which strikes on us as we enterthis scene, enfolding these figures and magnifying their dim outlineslike a winter mist; the half-realised suggestions of vast universalpowers working in the world of individual fates and passions,--all thisinterferes with dramatic clearness even when the play is read, and inthe theatre not only refuses to reveal itself fully through the sensesbut seems to be almost in contradiction with their reports. This is notso with the other great tragedies. No doubt, as Lamb declared,theatrical representation gives only a part of what we imagine when weread them; but there is no _conflict_ between the representation and theimagination, because these tragedies are, in essentials, perfectlydramatic. But _King Lear_, as a whole, is imperfectly dramatic, andthere is something in its very essence which is at war with the senses,and demands a purely imaginative realisation. It is thereforeShakespeare's greatest work, but it is not what Hazlitt called it, thebest of his plays; and its comparative unpopularity is due, not merelyto the extreme painfulness of the catastrophe, but in part to itsdramatic defects, and in part to a failure in many readers to catch thepeculiar effects to which I have referred,--a failure which is naturalbecause the appeal is made not so much to dramatic perception as to ararer and more strictly poetic kind of imagination. For this reason,too, even the best attempts at exposition of _King Lear_ aredisappointing; they remind us of attempts to reduce to prose theimpalpable spirit of the _Tempest_. I propose to develop some of these ideas by considering, first, thedramatic defects of the play, and then some of the causes of itsextraordinary imaginative effect. 1We may begin, however, by referring to two passages which have oftenbeen criticised with injustice. The first is that where the blindedGloster, believing that he is going to leap down Dover cliff, does infact fall flat on the ground at his feet, and then is persuaded that he_has_ leaped down Dover cliff but has been miraculously preserved. Imagine this incident transferred to _Othello_, and you realise howcompletely the two tragedies differ in dramatic atmosphere. In _Othello_it would be a shocking or a ludicrous dissonance, but it is in harmonywith the spirit of _King Lear_. And not only is this so, but, contraryto expectation, it is not, if properly acted, in the least absurd on thestage. The imagination and the feelings have been worked upon with sucheffect by the description of the cliff, and by the portrayal of the oldman's despair and his son's courageous and loving wisdom, that we areunconscious of the grotesqueness of the incident for common sense. The second passage is more important, for it deals with the origin ofthe whole conflict. The oft-repeated judgment that the first scene of_King Lear_ is absurdly improbable, and that no sane man would think ofdividing his kingdom among his daughters in proportion to the strengthof their several protestations of love, is much too harsh and is basedupon a strange misunderstanding. This scene acts effectively, and toimagination the story is not at all incredible. It is merely strange,like so many of the stories on which our romantic dramas are based. Shakespeare, besides, has done a good deal to soften the improbabilityof the legend, and he has done much more than the casual readerperceives. The very first words of the drama, as Coleridge pointed out,tell us that the division of the kingdom is already settled in all itsdetails, so that only the public announcement of it remains. [126] Laterwe find that the lines of division have already been drawn on the map ofBritain (l. 38), and again that Cordelia's share, which is her dowry, isperfectly well known to Burgundy, if not to France (ll. 197, 245). Thatthen which is censured as absurd, the dependence of the division on thespeeches of the daughters, was in Lear's intention a mere form, devisedas a childish scheme to gratify his love of absolute power and hishunger for assurances of devotion. And this scheme is perfectly incharacter. We may even say that the main cause of its failure was notthat Goneril and Regan were exceptionally hypocritical, but thatCordelia was exceptionally sincere and unbending. And it is essential toobserve that its failure, and the consequent necessity of publiclyreversing his whole well-known intention, is one source of Lear'sextreme anger. He loved Cordelia most and knew that she loved him best,and the supreme moment to which he looked forward was that in which sheshould outdo her sisters in expressions of affection, and should berewarded by that 'third' of the kingdom which was the most 'opulent. 'And then--so it naturally seemed to him--she put him to open shame. There is a further point, which seems to have escaped the attention ofColeridge and others. Part of the absurdity of Lear's plan is taken tobe his idea of living with his three daughters in turn. But he nevermeant to do this. He meant to live with Cordelia, and with heralone. [127] The scheme of his alternate monthly stay with Goneril andRegan is forced on him at the moment by what he thinks the undutifulnessof his favourite child. In fact his whole original plan, though foolishand rash, was not a 'hideous rashness'[128] or incredible folly. Ifcarried out it would have had no such consequences as followed itsalteration. It would probably have led quickly to war,[129] but not tothe agony which culminated in the storm upon the heath. The first scene,therefore, is not absurd, though it must be pronounced dramaticallyfaulty in so far as it discloses the true position of affairs only to anattention more alert than can be expected in a theatrical audience orhas been found in many critics of the play. Let us turn next to two passages of another kind, the two which aremainly responsible for the accusation of excessive painfulness, and sofor the distaste of many readers and the long theatrical eclipse of_King Lear_. The first of these is much the less important; it is thescene of the blinding of Gloster. The blinding of Gloster on the stagehas been condemned almost universally; and surely with justice, becausethe mere physical horror of such a spectacle would in the theatre be asensation so violent as to overpower the purely tragic emotions, andtherefore the spectacle would seem revolting or shocking. But it isotherwise in reading. For mere imagination the physical horror, thoughnot lost, is so far deadened that it can do its duty as a stimulus topity, and to that appalled dismay at the extremity of human crueltywhich it is of the essence of the tragedy to excite. Thus the blindingof Gloster belongs rightly to _King Lear_ in its proper world ofimagination; it is a blot upon _King Lear_ as a stage-play. But what are we to say of the second and far more important passage, theconclusion of the tragedy, the 'unhappy ending,' as it is called, thoughthe word 'unhappy' sounds almost ironical in its weakness? Is this too ablot upon _King Lear_ as a stage-play? The question is not so easilyanswered as might appear. Doubtless we are right when we turn withdisgust from Tate's sentimental alterations, from his marriage of Edgarand Cordelia, and from that cheap moral which every one of Shakespeare'stragedies contradicts, 'that Truth and Virtue shall at last succeed. 'But are we so sure that we are right when we unreservedly condemn thefeeling which prompted these alterations, or at all events the feelingwhich beyond question comes naturally to many readers of _King Lear_ whowould like Tate as little as we? What they wish, though they have notalways the courage to confess it even to themselves, is that the deathsof Edmund, Goneril, Regan and Gloster should be followed by the escapeof Lear and Cordelia from death, and that we should be allowed toimagine the poor old King passing quietly in the home of his belovedchild to the end which cannot be far off. Now, I do not dream of sayingthat we ought to wish this, so long as we regard _King Lear_ simply as awork of poetic imagination. But if _King Lear_ is to be consideredstrictly as a drama, or simply as we consider _Othello_, it is not soclear that the wish is unjustified. In fact I will take my courage inboth hands and say boldly that I share it, and also that I believeShakespeare would have ended his play thus had he taken the subject inhand a few years later, in the days of _Cymbeline_ and the _Winter'sTale_. If I read _King Lear_ simply as a drama, I find that my feelingscall for this 'happy ending. ' I do not mean the human, thephilanthropic, feelings, but the dramatic sense. The former wish Hamletand Othello to escape their doom; the latter does not; but it does wishLear and Cordelia to be saved. Surely, it says, the tragic emotions havebeen sufficiently stirred already. Surely the tragic outcome of Lear'serror and his daughters' ingratitude has been made clear enough andmoving enough. And, still more surely, such a tragic catastrophe as thisshould seem _inevitable_. But this catastrophe, unlike those of all theother mature tragedies, does not seem at all inevitable. It is not evensatisfactorily motived. [130] In fact it seems expressly designed to fallsuddenly like a bolt from a sky cleared by the vanished storm. Andalthough from a wider point of view one may fully recognise the value ofthis effect, and may even reject with horror the wish for a 'happyending,' this wider point of view, I must maintain, is not strictlydramatic or tragic. Of course this is a heresy and all the best authority is against it. Butthen the best authority, it seems to me, is either influencedunconsciously by disgust at Tate's sentimentalism or unconsciously takesthat wider point of view.

When Lamb--there is no higherauthority--writes, 'A happy ending! --as if the living martyrdom thatLear had gone through, the flaying of his feelings alive, did not make afair dismissal from the stage of life the only decorous thing for him,'I answer, first, that it is precisely this _fair_ dismissal which wedesire for him instead of renewed anguish; and, secondly, that what wedesire for him during the brief remainder of his days is not 'thechildish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again,' not whatTate gives him, but what Shakespeare himself might have given him--peaceand happiness by Cordelia's fireside. And if I am told that he hassuffered too much for this, how can I possibly believe it with thesewords ringing in my ears:                      Come, let's away to prison:     We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage.     When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,     And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,     And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh     At gilded butterflies? And again when Schlegel declares that, if Lear were saved, 'the whole'would 'lose its significance,' because it would no longer show us thatthe belief in Providence 'requires a wider range than the darkpilgrimage on earth to be established in its whole extent,' I answerthat, if the drama does show us that, it takes us beyond the strictlytragic point of view. [131]A dramatic mistake in regard to the catastrophe, however, even supposingit to exist, would not seriously affect the whole play. The principalstructural weakness of _King Lear_ lies elsewhere. It is felt to someextent in the earlier Acts, but still more (as from our study ofShakespeare's technique we have learnt to expect) in the Fourth and thefirst part of the Fifth. And it arises chiefly from the double action,which is a peculiarity of _King Lear_ among the tragedies. By the sideof Lear, his daughters, Kent, and the Fool, who are the principalfigures in the main plot, stand Gloster and his two sons, the chiefpersons of the secondary plot. Now by means of this double actionShakespeare secured certain results highly advantageous even from thestrictly dramatic point of view, and easy to perceive. But thedisadvantages were dramatically greater. The number of essentialcharacters is so large, their actions and movements are so complicated,and events towards the close crowd on one another so thickly, that thereader's attention,[132] rapidly transferred from one centre of interestto another, is overstrained. He becomes, if not intellectually confused,at least emotionally fatigued. The battle, on which everything turns,scarcely affects him. The deaths of Edmund, Goneril, Regan and Glosterseem 'but trifles here'; and anything short of the incomparable pathosof the close would leave him cold. There is something almost ludicrousin the insignificance of this battle, when it is compared with thecorresponding battles in _Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_; and though theremay have been further reasons for its insignificance, the main one issimply that there was no room to give it its due effect among such ahost of competing interests. [133]A comparison of the last two Acts of _Othello_ with the last two Acts of_King Lear_ would show how unfavourable to dramatic clearness is amultiplicity of figures. But that this multiplicity is not in itself afatal obstacle is evident from the last two Acts of _Hamlet_, andespecially from the final scene. This is in all respects one ofShakespeare's triumphs, yet the stage is crowded with characters. Onlythey are not _leading_ characters. The plot is single; Hamlet and theKing are the 'mighty opposites'; and Ophelia, the only other person inwhom we are obliged to take a vivid interest, has already disappeared. It is therefore natural and right that the deaths of Laertes and theQueen should affect us comparatively little. But in _King Lear_, becausethe plot is double, we have present in the last scene no less than fivepersons who are technically of the first importance--Lear, his threedaughters and Edmund; not to speak of Kent and Edgar, of whom the latterat any rate is technically quite as important as Laertes. And again,owing to the pressure of persons and events, and owing to theconcentration of our anxiety on Lear and Cordelia, the combat of Edgarand Edmund, which occupies so considerable a space, fails to excite atithe of the interest of the fencing-match in _Hamlet_. The truth isthat all through these Acts Shakespeare has too vast a material to usewith complete dramatic effectiveness, however essential this veryvastness was for effects of another kind. Added to these defects there are others, which suggest that in _KingLear_ Shakespeare was less concerned than usual with dramatic fitness:improbabilities, inconsistencies, sayings and doings which suggestquestions only to be answered by conjecture. The improbabilities in_King Lear_ surely far surpass those of the other great tragedies innumber and in grossness. And they are particularly noticeable in thesecondary plot. For example, no sort of reason is given why Edgar, wholives in the same house with Edmund, should write a letter to himinstead of speaking; and this is a letter absolutely damning to hischaracter. Gloster was very foolish, but surely not so foolish as topass unnoticed this improbability; or, if so foolish, what need forEdmund to forge a letter rather than a conversation, especially asGloster appears to be unacquainted with his son's handwriting? [134] Isit in character that Edgar should be persuaded without the slightestdemur to avoid his father instead of confronting him and asking him thecause of his anger? Why in the world should Gloster, when expelled fromhis castle, wander painfully all the way to Dover simply in order todestroy himself (IV. i. 80)? And is it not extraordinary that, afterGloster's attempted suicide, Edgar should first talk to him in thelanguage of a gentleman, then to Oswald in his presence in broad peasantdialect, then again to Gloster in gentle language, and yet that Glostershould not manifest the least surprise? Again, to take three instances of another kind; (_a_) only a fortnightseems to have elapsed between the first scene and the breach withGoneril; yet already there are rumours not only of war between Goneriland Regan but of the coming of a French army; and this, Kent says, isperhaps connected with the harshness of _both_ the sisters to theirfather, although Regan has apparently had no opportunity of showing anyharshness till the day before. (_b_) In the quarrel with Goneril Learspeaks of his having to dismiss fifty of his followers at a clap, yetshe has neither mentioned any number nor had any opportunity ofmentioning it off the stage. (_c_) Lear and Goneril, intending to hurryto Regan, both send off messengers to her, and both tell the messengersto bring back an answer. But it does not appear either how themessengers _could_ return or what answer could be required, as theirsuperiors are following them with the greatest speed. Once more, (_a_) why does Edgar not reveal himself to his blind father,as he truly says he ought to have done? The answer is left to mereconjecture. (_b_) Why does Kent so carefully preserve his incognito tillthe last scene? He says he does it for an important purpose, but whatthe purpose is we have to guess. (_c_) Why Burgundy rather than Franceshould have first choice of Cordelia's hand is a question we cannot helpasking, but there is no hint of any answer. [135] (_d_) I have referredalready to the strange obscurity regarding Edmund's delay in trying tosave his victims, and I will not extend this list of examples. No one ofsuch defects is surprising when considered by itself, but their numberis surely significant. Taken in conjunction with other symptoms it meansthat Shakespeare, set upon the dramatic effect of the great scenes andupon certain effects not wholly dramatic, was exceptionally careless ofprobability, clearness and consistency in smaller matters, introducingwhat was convenient or striking for a momentary purpose withouttroubling himself about anything more than the moment. In presence ofthese signs it seems doubtful whether his failure to give informationabout the fate of the Fool was due to anything more than carelessness oran impatient desire to reduce his overloaded material. [136]Before I turn to the other side of the subject I will refer to one morecharacteristic of this play which is dramatically disadvantageous. InShakespeare's dramas, owing to the absence of scenery from theElizabethan stage, the question, so vexatious to editors, of the exactlocality of a particular scene is usually unimportant and oftenunanswerable; but, as a rule, we know, broadly speaking, where thepersons live and what their journeys are. The text makes this plain, forexample, almost throughout _Hamlet_, _Othello_ and _Macbeth_; and theimagination is therefore untroubled. But in _King Lear_ the indicationsare so scanty that the reader's mind is left not seldom both vague andbewildered. Nothing enables us to imagine whereabouts in Britain Lear'spalace lies, or where the Duke of Albany lives. In referring to thedividing-lines on the map, Lear tells us of shadowy forests andplenteous rivers, but, unlike Hotspur and his companions, he studiouslyavoids proper names. The Duke of Cornwall, we presume in the absence ofinformation, is likely to live in Cornwall; but we suddenly find, fromthe introduction of a place-name which all readers take at first for asurname, that he lives at Gloster (I. v. 1). [137] This seems likely tobe also the home of the Earl of Gloster, to whom Cornwall is patron. Butno: it is a night's journey from Cornwall's 'house' to Gloster's, andGloster's is in the middle of an uninhabited heath. [138] Here, for thepurpose of the crisis, nearly all the persons assemble, but they do soin a manner which no casual spectator or reader could follow. Afterwardsthey all drift towards Dover for the purpose of the catastrophe; butagain the localities and movements are unusually indefinite. And thisindefiniteness is found in smaller matters. One cannot help asking, forexample, and yet one feels one had better not ask, where that 'lodging'of Edmund's can be, in which he hides Edgar from his father, and whetherEdgar is mad that he should return from his hollow tree (in a districtwhere 'for many miles about there's scarce a bush') to his father'scastle in order to soliloquise (II. iii. ):--for the favouritestage-direction, 'a wood' (which is more than 'a bush'), howeverconvenient to imagination, is scarcely compatible with the presence ofKent asleep in the stocks. [139] Something of the confusion whichbewilders the reader's mind in _King Lear_ recurs in _Antony andCleopatra_, the most faultily constructed of all the tragedies; butthere it is due not so much to the absence or vagueness of theindications as to the necessity of taking frequent and fatiguingjourneys over thousands of miles. Shakespeare could not help himself inthe Roman play: in _King Lear_ he did not choose to help himself,perhaps deliberately chose to be vague. From these defects, or from some of them, follows one result which mustbe familiar to many readers of _King Lear_. It is far more difficult toretrace in memory the steps of the action in this tragedy than in_Hamlet_, _Othello_, or _Macbeth_. The outline is of course quite clear;anyone could write an 'argument' of the play. But when an attempt ismade to fill in the detail, it issues sooner or later in confusion evenwith readers whose dramatic memory is unusually strong. [140]2How is it, now, that this defective drama so overpowers us that we areeither unconscious of its blemishes or regard them as almost irrelevant? As soon as we turn to this question we recognise, not merely that _KingLear_ possesses purely dramatic qualities which far outweigh itsdefects, but that its greatness consists partly in imaginative effectsof a wider kind. And, looking for the sources of these effects, we findamong them some of those very things which appeared to us dramaticallyfaulty or injurious. Thus, to take at once two of the simplest examplesof this, that very vagueness in the sense of locality which we have justconsidered, and again that excess in the bulk of the material and thenumber of figures, events and movements, while they interfere with theclearness of vision, have at the same time a positive value forimagination. They give the feeling of vastness, the feeling not of ascene or particular place, but of a world; or, to speak more accurately,of a particular place which is also a world. This world is dim to us,partly from its immensity, and partly because it is filled with gloom;and in the gloom shapes approach and recede, whose half-seen faces andmotions touch us with dread, horror, or the most painfulpity,--sympathies and antipathies which we seem to be feeling not onlyfor them but for the whole race. This world, we are told, is calledBritain; but we should no more look for it in an atlas than for theplace, called Caucasus, where Prometheus was chained by Strength andForce and comforted by the daughters of Ocean, or the place whereFarinata stands erect in his glowing tomb, 'Come avesse lo Inferno ingran dispitto. 'Consider next the double action. It has certain strictly dramaticadvantages, and may well have had its origin in purely dramaticconsiderations. To go no further, the secondary plot fills out a storywhich would by itself have been somewhat thin, and it provides a mosteffective contrast between its personages and those of the main plot,the tragic strength and stature of the latter being heightened bycomparison with the slighter build of the former. But its chief valuelies elsewhere, and is not merely dramatic. It lies in the fact--inShakespeare without a parallel--that the sub-plot simply repeats thetheme of the main story. Here, as there, we see an old man 'with a whitebeard. ' He, like Lear, is affectionate, unsuspicious, foolish, andself-willed. He, too, wrongs deeply a child who loves him not less forthe wrong. He, too, meets with monstrous ingratitude from the child whomhe favours, and is tortured and driven to death. This repetition doesnot simply double the pain with which the tragedy is witnessed: itstartles and terrifies by suggesting that the folly of Lear and theingratitude of his daughters are no accidents or merely individualaberrations, but that in that dark cold world some fateful malignantinfluence is abroad, turning the hearts of the fathers against theirchildren and of the children against their fathers, smiting the earthwith a curse, so that the brother gives the brother to death and thefather the son, blinding the eyes, maddening the brain, freezing thesprings of pity, numbing all powers except the nerves of anguish and thedull lust of life. [141]Hence too, as well as from other sources, comes that feeling whichhaunts us in _King Lear_, as though we were witnessing somethinguniversal,--a conflict not so much of particular persons as of thepowers of good and evil in the world. And the treatment of many of thecharacters confirms this feeling. Considered simply as psychologicalstudies few of them, surely, are of the highest interest. Fine andsubtle touches could not be absent from a work of Shakespeare'smaturity; but, with the possible exception of Lear himself, no one ofthe characters strikes us as psychologically a _wonderful_ creation,like Hamlet or Iago or even Macbeth; one or two seem even to be somewhatfaint and thin. And, what is more significant, it is not quite naturalto us to regard them from this point of view at all. Rather we observe amost unusual circumstance. If Lear, Gloster and Albany are set apart,the rest fall into two distinct groups, which are strongly, evenviolently, contrasted: Cordelia, Kent, Edgar, the Fool on one side,Goneril, Regan, Edmund, Cornwall, Oswald on the other. These charactersare in various degrees individualised, most of them completely so; butstill in each group there is a quality common to all the members, or onespirit breathing through them all. Here we have unselfish and devotedlove, there hard self-seeking. On both sides, further, the commonquality takes an extreme form; the love is incapable of being chilled byinjury, the selfishness of being softened by pity; and, it may be added,this tendency to extremes is found again in the characters of Lear andGloster, and is the main source of the accusations of improbabilitydirected against their conduct at certain points. Hence the members ofeach group tend to appear, at least in part, as varieties of onespecies; the radical differences of the two species are emphasized inbroad hard strokes; and the two are set in conflict, almost as ifShakespeare, like Empedocles, were regarding Love and Hate as the twoultimate forces of the universe. The presence in _King Lear_ of so large a number of characters in whomlove or self-seeking is so extreme, has another effect. They do notmerely inspire in us emotions of unusual strength, but they also stirthe intellect to wonder and speculation. How can there be such men andwomen? we ask ourselves. How comes it that humanity can take suchabsolutely opposite forms? And, in particular, to what omission ofelements which should be present in human nature, or, if there is noomission, to what distortion of these elements is it due that suchbeings as some of these come to exist? This is a question which Iago(and perhaps no previous creation of Shakespeare's) forces us to ask,but in _King Lear_ it is provoked again and again. And more, it seems tous that the author himself is asking this question. 'Then let themanatomise Regan, see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause innature that makes these hard hearts? '--the strain of thought whichappears here seems to be present in some degree throughout the play. Weseem to trace the tendency which, a few years later, produced Ariel andCaliban, the tendency of imagination to analyse and abstract, todecompose human nature into its constituent factors, and then toconstruct beings in whom one or more of these factors is absent oratrophied or only incipient. This, of course, is a tendency whichproduces symbols, allegories, personifications of qualities and abstractideas; and we are accustomed to think it quite foreign to Shakespeare'sgenius, which was in the highest degree concrete. No doubt in the mainwe are right here; but it is hazardous to set limits to that genius. TheSonnets, if nothing else, may show us how easy it was to Shakespeare'smind to move in a world of 'Platonic' ideas;[142] and, while it would begoing too far to suggest that he was employing conscious symbolism orallegory in _King Lear_, it does appear to disclose a mode ofimagination not so very far removed from the mode with which, we mustremember, Shakespeare was perfectly familiar in Morality plays and inthe _Fairy Queen_. This same tendency shows itself in _King Lear_ in other forms. To it isdue the idea of monstrosity--of beings, actions, states of mind, whichappear not only abnormal but absolutely contrary to nature; an idea,which, of course, is common enough in Shakespeare, but appears withunusual frequency in _King Lear_, for instance in the lines:     Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend,     More hideous when thou show'st thee in a child     Than the sea-monster! or in the exclamation,                               Filial ingratitude!     Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand     For lifting food to't? It appears in another shape in that most vivid passage where Albany, ashe looks at the face which had bewitched him, now distorted withdreadful passions, suddenly sees it in a new light and exclaims inhorror:     Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame.     Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness     To let these hands obey my blood,     They are apt enough to dislocate and tear     Thy flesh and bones: howe'er thou art a fiend,     A woman's shape doth shield thee. [143]It appears once more in that exclamation of Kent's, as he listens tothe description of Cordelia's grief:                             It is the stars,     The stars above us, govern our conditions;     Else one self mate and mate could not beget     Such different issues. (This is not the only sign that Shakespeare had been musing overheredity, and wondering how it comes about that the composition of twostrains of blood or two parent souls can produce such astonishinglydifferent products. )This mode of thought is responsible, lastly, for a very strikingcharacteristic of _King Lear_--one in which it has no parallel except_Timon_--the incessant references to the lower animals[144] and man'slikeness to them. These references are scattered broadcast through thewhole play, as though Shakespeare's mind were so busy with the subjectthat he could hardly write a page without some allusion to it. The dog,the horse, the cow, the sheep, the hog, the lion, the bear, the wolf,the fox, the monkey, the pole-cat, the civet-cat, the pelican, the owl,the crow, the chough, the wren, the fly, the butterfly, the rat, themouse, the frog, the tadpole, the wall-newt, the water-newt, the worm--Iam sure I cannot have completed the list, and some of them are mentionedagain and again. Often, of course, and especially in the talk of Edgaras the Bedlam, they have no symbolical meaning; but not seldom, even inhis talk, they are expressly referred to for their typicalqualities--'hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog inmadness, lion in prey,' 'The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't Witha more riotous appetite. ' Sometimes a person in the drama is compared,openly or implicitly, with one of them. Goneril is a kite: heringratitude has a serpent's tooth: she has struck her father mostserpent-like upon the very heart: her visage is wolvish: she has tiedsharp-toothed unkindness like a vulture on her father's breast: for herhusband she is a gilded serpent: to Gloster her cruelty seems to havethe fangs of a boar. She and Regan are dog-hearted: they are tigers, notdaughters: each is an adder to the other: the flesh of each is coveredwith the fell of a beast. Oswald is a mongrel, and the son and heir of amongrel: ducking to everyone in power, he is a wag-tail: white withfear, he is a goose. Gloster, for Regan, is an ingrateful fox: Albany,for his wife, has a cowish spirit and is milk-liver'd: when Edgar as theBedlam first appeared to Lear he made him think a man a worm. As weread, the souls of all the beasts in turn seem to us to have entered thebodies of these mortals; horrible in their venom, savagery, lust,deceitfulness, sloth, cruelty, filthiness; miserable in theirfeebleness, nakedness, defencelessness, blindness; and man, 'considerhim well,' is even what they are. Shakespeare, to whom the idea of thetransmigration of souls was familiar and had once been material forjest,[145] seems to have been brooding on humanity in the light of it. It is remarkable, and somewhat sad, that he seems to find none of man'sbetter qualities in the world of the brutes (though he might well havefound the prototype of the self-less love of Kent and Cordelia in thedog whom he so habitually maligns);[146] but he seems to have beenasking himself whether that which he loathes in man may not be due tosome strange wrenching of this frame of things, through which the loweranimal souls have found a lodgment in human forms, and there found--tothe horror and confusion of the thinking mind--brains to forge, tonguesto speak, and hands to act, enormities which no mere brute can conceiveor execute. He shows us in _King Lear_ these terrible forces burstinginto monstrous life and flinging themselves upon those human beings whoare weak and defenceless, partly from old age, but partly because they_are_ human and lack the dreadful undivided energy of the beast. And theonly comfort he might seem to hold out to us is the prospect that atleast this bestial race, strong only where it is vile, cannot endure:though stars and gods are powerless, or careless, or empty dreams, yetthere must be an end of this horrible world:     It will come;     Humanity must perforce prey on itself     Like monsters of the deep. [147]The influence of all this on imagination as we read _King Lear_ is verygreat; and it combines with other influences to convey to us, not in theform of distinct ideas but in the manner proper to poetry, the wider oruniversal significance of the spectacle presented to the inward eye. Butthe effect of theatrical exhibition is precisely the reverse. There thepoetic atmosphere is dissipated; the meaning of the very words whichcreate it passes half-realised; in obedience to the tyranny of the eyewe conceive the characters as mere particular men and women; and allthat mass of vague suggestion, if it enters the mind at all, appears inthe shape of an allegory which we immediately reject. A similar conflictbetween imagination and sense will be found if we consider the dramaticcentre of the whole tragedy, the Storm-scenes. The temptation of Othelloand the scene of Duncan's murder may lose upon the stage, but they donot lose their essence, and they gain as well as lose. The Storm-scenesin _King Lear_ gain nothing and their very essence is destroyed. It iscomparatively a small thing that the theatrical storm, not to drown thedialogue, must be silent whenever a human being wishes to speak, and iswretchedly inferior to many a storm we have witnessed. Nor is it simplythat, as Lamb observed, the corporal presence of Lear, 'an old mantottering about the stage with a walking-stick,' disturbs and depressesthat sense of the greatness of his mind which fills the imagination. There is a further reason, which is not expressed, but still emerges, inthese words of Lamb's: 'the explosions of his passion are terrible as avolcano: they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom thatsea, his mind, with all its vast riches. ' Yes, 'they are _storms_. ' Forimagination, that is to say, the explosions of Lear's passion, and thebursts of rain and thunder, are not, what for the senses they must be,two things, but manifestations of one thing. It is the powers of thetormented soul that we hear and see in the 'groans of roaring wind andrain' and the 'sheets of fire'; and they that, at intervals almost moreoverwhelming, sink back into darkness and silence. Nor yet is even thisall; but, as those incessant references to wolf and tiger made us seehumanity 'reeling back into the beast' and ravening against itself, soin the storm we seem to see Nature herself convulsed by the samehorrible passions; the 'common mother,'     Whose womb immeasurable and infinite breast     Teems and feeds all,turning on her children, to complete the ruin they have wrought uponthemselves. Surely something not less, but much more, than thesehelpless words convey, is what comes to us in these astounding scenes;and if, translated thus into the language of prose, it becomes confusedand inconsistent, the reason is simply that it itself is poetry, andsuch poetry as cannot be transferred to the space behind thefoot-lights, but has its being only in imagination. Here then isShakespeare at his very greatest, but not the mere dramatistShakespeare. [148]And now we may say this also of the catastrophe, which we foundquestionable from the strictly dramatic point of view. Its purpose isnot merely dramatic. This sudden blow out of the darkness, which seemsso far from inevitable, and which strikes down our reviving hopes forthe victims of so much cruelty, seems now only what we might haveexpected in a world so wild and monstrous. It is as if Shakespeare saidto us: 'Did you think weakness and innocence have any chance here? Wereyou beginning to dream that? I will show you it is not so. 'I come to a last point. As we contemplate this world, the questionpresses on us, What can be the ultimate power that moves it, thatexcites this gigantic war and waste, or, perhaps, that suffers them andoverrules them? And in _King Lear_ this question is not left to us toask, it is raised by the characters themselves. References to religiousor irreligious beliefs and feelings are more frequent than is usual inShakespeare's tragedies, as frequent perhaps as in his final plays. Heintroduces characteristic differences in the language of the differentpersons about fortune or the stars or the gods, and shows how thequestion What rules the world? is forced upon their minds. They answerit in their turn: Kent, for instance:                           It is the stars,     The stars above us, govern our condition:Edmund:     Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law     My services are bound:and again,     This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are     sick in fortune--often the surfeit of our own behaviour--we     make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon and the stars;     as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly     compulsion, . . . and all that we are evil in by a divine     thrusting on:Gloster:     As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;     They kill us for their sport;Edgar:     Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours     Of men's impossibilities, have preserved thee. Here we have four distinct theories of the nature of the ruling power. And besides this, in such of the characters as have any belief in godswho love good and hate evil, the spectacle of triumphant injustice orcruelty provokes questionings like those of Job, or else the thought,often repeated, of divine retribution. To Lear at one moment the stormseems the messenger of heaven:                         Let the great gods,     That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,     Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,     That hast within thee undivulged crimes. . . . At another moment those habitual miseries of the poor, of which he hastaken too little account, seem to him to accuse the gods of injustice:                Take physic, pomp;     Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,     That thou mayst shake the superflux to them     And show the heavens more just;and Gloster has almost the same thought (IV. i. 67 ff. ). Gloster again,thinking of the cruelty of Lear's daughters, breaks out,                       but I shall see     The winged vengeance overtake such children. The servants who have witnessed the blinding of Gloster by Cornwall andRegan, cannot believe that cruelty so atrocious will pass unpunished. One cries,     I'll never care what wickedness I do,     If this man come to good;and another,                       if she live long,     And in the end meet the old course of death,     Women will all turn monsters. Albany greets the news of Cornwall's death with the exclamation,              This shows you are above,     You justicers, that these our nether crimes     So speedily can venge;and the news of the deaths of the sisters with the words,     This judgment[149] of the heavens, that makes us tremble,     Touches us not with pity. Edgar, speaking to Edmund of their father, declares     The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices     Make instruments to plague us,and Edmund himself assents. Almost throughout the latter half of thedrama we note in most of the better characters a pre-occupation with thequestion of the ultimate power, and a passionate need to explain byreference to it what otherwise would drive them to despair. And theinfluence of this pre-occupation and need joins with other influences inaffecting the imagination, and in causing it to receive from _King Lear_an impression which is at least as near of kin to the _Divine Comedy_ asto _Othello_. 3For Dante that which is recorded in the _Divine Comedy_ was the justiceand love of God. What did _King Lear_ record for Shakespeare? Something,it would seem, very different. This is certainly the most terriblepicture that Shakespeare painted of the world. In no other of histragedies does humanity appear more pitiably infirm or more hopelesslybad. What is Iago's malignity against an envied stranger compared withthe cruelty of the son of Gloster and the daughters of Lear? What arethe sufferings of a strong man like Othello to those of helpless age? Much too that we have already observed--the repetition of the main themein that of the under-plot, the comparisons of man with the most wretchedand the most horrible of the beasts, the impression of Nature'shostility to him, the irony of the unexpected catastrophe--these, withmuch else, seem even to indicate an intention to show things at theirworst, and to return the sternest of replies to that question of theultimate power and those appeals for retribution. Is it an accident, forexample, that Lear's first appeal to something beyond the earth,                      O heavens,     If you do love old men, if your sweet sway     Allow[150] obedience, if yourselves are old,     Make it your cause:is immediately answered by the iron voices of his daughters, raising byturns the conditions on which they will give him a humiliatingharbourage; or that his second appeal, heart-rending in its piteousness,     You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,     As full of grief as age; wretched in both:is immediately answered from the heavens by the sounds of the breakingstorm? [151] Albany and Edgar may moralise on the divine justice as theywill, but how, in face of all that we see, shall we believe that theyspeak Shakespeare's mind? Is not his mind rather expressed in the bittercontrast between their faith and the events we witness, or in thescornful rebuke of those who take upon them the mystery of things as ifthey were God's spies? [152] Is it not Shakespeare's judgment on his kindthat we hear in Lear's appeal,                   And thou, all-shaking thunder,     Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world!     Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once,     That make ingrateful man! and Shakespeare's judgment on the worth of existence that we hear inLear's agonised cry, 'No, no, no life! '? Beyond doubt, I think, some such feelings as these possess us, and, ifwe follow Shakespeare, ought to possess us, from time to time as we read_King Lear_. And some readers will go further and maintain that this isalso the ultimate and total impression left by the tragedy. _King Lear_has been held to be profoundly 'pessimistic' in the full meaning of thatword,--the record of a time when contempt and loathing for his kind hadovermastered the poet's soul, and in despair he pronounced man's life tobe simply hateful and hideous. And if we exclude the biographical partof this view,[153] the rest may claim some support even from thegreatest of Shakespearean critics since the days of Coleridge, Hazlittand Lamb. Mr. Swinburne, after observing that _King Lear_ is 'by far themost Aeschylean' of Shakespeare's works, proceeds thus:'But in one main point it differs radically from the work and the spiritof Aeschylus. Its fatalism is of a darker and harder nature. ToPrometheus the fetters of the lord and enemy of mankind were bitter;upon Orestes the hand of heaven was laid too heavily to bear; yet in thenot utterly infinite or everlasting distance we see beyond them thepromise of the morning on which mystery and justice shall be made one;when righteousness and omnipotence at last shall kiss each other. But onthe horizon of Shakespeare's tragic fatalism we see no such twilight ofatonement, such pledge of reconciliation as this. Requital, redemption,amends, equity, explanation, pity and mercy, are words without a meaninghere.     As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;     They kill us for their sport. Here is no need of the Eumenides, children of Night everlasting; forhere is very Night herself. 'The words just cited are not casual or episodical; they strike thekeynote of the whole poem, lay the keystone of the whole arch ofthought. There is no contest of conflicting forces, no judgment so muchas by casting of lots: far less is there any light of heavenly harmonyor of heavenly wisdom, of Apollo or Athene from above. We have heardmuch and often from theologians of the light of revelation: and somesuch thing indeed we find in Aeschylus; but the darkness of revelationis here. '[154]It is hard to refuse assent to these eloquent words, for they express inthe language of a poet what we feel at times in reading _King Lear_ butcannot express. But do they represent the total and final impressionproduced by the play? If they do, this impression, so far as thesubstance of the drama is concerned (and nothing else is in questionhere), must, it would seem, be one composed almost wholly of painfulfeelings,--utter depression, or indignant rebellion, or appalleddespair. And that would surely be strange. For _King Lear_ is admittedlyone of the world's greatest poems, and yet there is surely no other ofthese poems which produces on the whole this effect, and we regard it asa very serious flaw in any considerable work of art that this should beits ultimate effect. [155] So that Mr. Swinburne's description, if takenas final, and any description of King Lear as 'pessimistic' in theproper sense of that word, would imply a criticism which is notintended, and which would make it difficult to leave the work in theposition almost universally assigned to it. But in fact these descriptions, like most of the remarks made on _KingLear_ in the present lecture, emphasise only certain aspects of the playand certain elements in the total impression; and in that impression theeffect of these aspects, though far from being lost, is modified by thatof others. I do not mean that the final effect resembles that of the_Divine Comedy_ or the _Oresteia_: how should it, when the first ofthese can be called by its author a 'Comedy,' and when the second,ending (as doubtless the _Prometheus_ trilogy also ended) with asolution, is not in the Shakespearean sense a tragedy at all? [156] Nordo I mean that _King Lear_ contains a revelation of righteousomnipotence or heavenly harmony, or even a promise of the reconciliationof mystery and justice. But then, as we saw, neither do Shakespeare'sother tragedies contain these things. Any theological interpretation ofthe world on the author's part is excluded from them, and their effectwould be disordered or destroyed equally by the ideas of righteous or ofunrighteous omnipotence. Nor, in reading them, do we think of 'justice'or 'equity' in the sense of a strict requital or such an adjustment ofmerit and prosperity as our moral sense is said to demand; and therenever was vainer labour than that of critics who try to make out thatthe persons in these dramas meet with 'justice' or their 'deserts. '[157]But, on the other hand, man is not represented in these tragedies as themere plaything of a blind or capricious power, suffering woes which haveno relation to his character and actions; nor is the world representedas given over to darkness. And in these respects _King Lear_, though themost terrible of these works, does not differ in essence from the rest. Its keynote is surely to be heard neither in the words wrung fromGloster in his anguish, nor in Edgar's words 'the gods are just. ' Itsfinal and total result is one in which pity and terror, carried perhapsto the extreme limits of art, are so blended with a sense of law andbeauty that we feel at last, not depression and much less despair, but aconsciousness of greatness in pain, and of solemnity in the mystery wecannot fathom. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 123: I leave undiscussed the position of _King Lear_ inrelation to the 'comedies' of _Measure for Measure_, _Troilus andCressida_ and _All's Well_. ][Footnote 124: See Note R. ][Footnote 125: On some of the points mentioned in this paragraph seeNote S. ][Footnote 126:     '_Kent. _ I thought the king had more affected the Duke of                Albany than Cornwall.      _Glos. _ It did always seem so to us: but now, in the division                of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes                he values most. 'For (Gloster goes on to say) their shares are exactly equal in value. And if the shares of the two elder daughters are fixed, obviously thatof the third is so too. ][Footnote 127:     I loved her most, and thought to set my rest     On her kind nursery. ][Footnote 128: It is to Lear's altered plan that Kent applies thesewords. ][Footnote 129: There is talk of a war between Goneril and Regan within afortnight of the division of the kingdom (II. i. 11 f. ). ][Footnote 130: I mean that no sufficiently clear reason is supplied forEdmund's delay in attempting to save Cordelia and Lear. The matterstands thus. Edmund, after the defeat of the opposing army, sends Learand Cordelia to prison. Then, in accordance with a plan agreed onbetween himself and Goneril, he despatches a captain with secret ordersto put them both to death _instantly_ (V. iii. 26-37, 244, 252). He thenhas to fight with the disguised Edgar. He is mortally wounded, and, ashe lies dying, he says to Edgar (at line 162, _more than a hundredlines_ after he gave that commission to the captain):     What you have charged me with, that have I done;     And more, much more; the time will bring it out;     'Tis past, and so am I. In 'more, much more' he seems to be thinking of the order for the deathsof Lear and Cordelia (what else remained undisclosed? ); yet he saysnothing about it. A few lines later he recognises the justice of hisfate, yet still says nothing. Then he hears the story of his father'sdeath, says it has moved him and 'shall perchance do good' (What goodexcept saving his victims? ); yet he still says nothing. Even when hehears that Goneril is dead and Regan poisoned, he _still_ says nothing. It is only when directly questioned about Lear and Cordelia that hetries to save the victims who were to be killed 'instantly' (242). Howcan we explain his delay? Perhaps, thinking the deaths of Lear andCordelia would be of use to Goneril and Regan, he will not speak till heis sure that both the sisters are dead. Or perhaps, though he canrecognise the justice of his fate and can be touched by the account ofhis father's death, he is still too self-absorbed to rise to the activeeffort to 'do some good, despite of his own nature. ' But, while eitherof these conjectures is possible, it is surely far from satisfactorythat we should be left to mere conjecture as to the cause of the delaywhich permits the catastrophe to take place. The _real_ cause liesoutside the dramatic _nexus_. It is Shakespeare's wish to deliver asudden and crushing blow to the hopes which he has excited. ][Footnote 131: Everything in these paragraphs must, of course, be takenin connection with later remarks. ][Footnote 132: I say 'the reader's,' because on the stage, whenever Ihave seen _King Lear_, the 'cuts' necessitated by modern scenery wouldhave made this part of the play absolutely unintelligible to me if I hadnot been familiar with it. It is significant that Lamb in his _Tale ofKing Lear_ almost omits the sub-plot. ][Footnote 133: Even if Cordelia had won the battle, Shakespeare wouldprobably have hesitated to concentrate interest on it, for her victorywould have been a British defeat. On Spedding's view, that he did meanto make the battle more interesting, and that his purpose has beendefeated by our wrong division of Acts IV. and V. , see Note X. ][Footnote 134: It is vain to suggest that Edmund has only just comehome, and that the letter is supposed to have been sent to him when hewas 'out' See I. ii. 38-40, 65 f. ][Footnote 135: The idea in scene i. , perhaps, is that Cordelia'smarriage, like the division of the kingdom, has really beenpre-arranged, and that the ceremony of choosing between France andBurgundy (I. i. 46 f. ) is a mere fiction. Burgundy is to be her husband,and that is why, when Lear has cast her off, he offers her to Burgundyfirst (l. 192 ff. ). It might seem from 211 ff. that Lear's reason fordoing so is that he prefers France, or thinks him the greater man, andtherefore will not offer him first what is worthless: but the languageof France (240 ff. ) seems to show that he recognises a prior right inBurgundy. ][Footnote 136: See Note T. and p. 315. ][Footnote 137: See Note U. ][Footnote 138: The word 'heath' in the stage-directions of thestorm-scenes is, I may remark, Rowe's, not Shakespeare's, who never usedthe word till he wrote _Macbeth_. ][Footnote 139: It is pointed out in Note V. that what modern editorscall Scenes ii. , iii. , iv. of Act II. are really one scene, for Kent ison the stage through them all. ][Footnote 140: [On the locality of Act I. , Sc. ii. , see _Modern LanguageReview_ for Oct. , 1908, and Jan. , 1909. ]][Footnote 141: This effect of the double action seems to have beenpointed out first by Schlegel. ][Footnote 142: How prevalent these are is not recognised by readersfamiliar only with English poetry. See Simpson's _Introduction to thePhilosophy of Shakespeare's Sonnets_ (1868) and Mr. Wyndham's edition ofShakespeare's Poems. Perhaps both writers overstate, and Simpson'sinterpretations are often forced or arbitrary, but his book is valuableand ought not to remain out of print. ][Footnote 143: The monstrosity here is a being with a woman's body and afiend's soul. For the interpretation of the lines see Note Y. ][Footnote 144: Since this paragraph was written I have found that theabundance of these references has been pointed out and commented on byJ. Kirkman, _New Shaks. Soc. Trans. _, 1877. ][Footnote 145: _E. g. _ in _As You Like It_, III. ii. 187, 'I was never soberhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I canhardly remember'; _Twelfth Night_, IV. ii. 55, '_Clown. _ What is theopinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl? _Mal. _ That the soul of ourgrandam might haply inhabit a bird. _Clown. _ What thinkest thou of hisopinion? _Mal. _ I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve hisopinion,' etc. But earlier comes a passage which reminds us of _KingLear_, _Merchant of Venice_, IV. i. 128:     O be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog!     And for thy life let justice be accused.     Thou almost makest me waver in my faith     To hold opinion with Pythagoras,     That souls of animals infuse themselves     Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit     Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter,     Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,     And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,     Infused itself in thee; for thy desires     Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous. ][Footnote 146: I fear it is not possible, however, to refute, on thewhole, one charge,--that the dog is a snob, in the sense that herespects power and prosperity, and objects to the poor and despised. Itis curious that Shakespeare refers to this trait three times in _KingLear_, as if he were feeling a peculiar disgust at it. See III. vi. 65,'The little dogs and all,' etc. : IV. vi. 159, 'Thou hast seen a farmer'sdog bark at a beggar . . . and the creature run from the cur? There thoumightst behold the great image of authority': V. iii. 186, 'taught me toshift Into a madman's rags; to assume a semblance That very dogsdisdain'd. ' Cf. _Oxford Lectures_, p. 341. ][Footnote 147: With this compare the following lines in the great speechon 'degree' in _Troilus and Cressida_, I. iii. :     Take but degree away, untune that string,     And, hark, what discord follows! Each thing meets     In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters     Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores     And make a sop of all this solid globe:     Strength should be lord of imbecility,     And the rude son should strike his father dead:     Force should be right; or, rather, right and wrong,     Between whose endless jar justice resides,     Should lose their names, and so should justice too.     Then everything includes itself in power,     Power into will, will into appetite;     And appetite, an universal wolf,     So doubly seconded with will and power,     Must make perforce an universal prey,     And last eat up himself. ][Footnote 148: Nor is it believable that Shakespeare, whose means ofimitating a storm were so greatly inferior even to ours, had thestage-performance only or chiefly in view in composing these scenes. Hemay not have thought of readers (or he may), but he must in any casehave written to satisfy his own imagination. I have taken no notice ofthe part played in these scenes by anyone except Lear. The matter is toohuge, and too strictly poetic, for analysis. I may observe that in ourpresent theatres, owing to the use of elaborate scenery, the threeStorm-scenes are usually combined, with disastrous effect. Shakespeare,as we saw (p. 49), interposed between them short scenes of much lowertone. ][Footnote 149: 'justice,' Qq. ][Footnote 150: =approve. ][Footnote 151: The direction 'Storm and tempest' at the end of thisspeech is not modern, it is in the Folio. ][Footnote 152: The gods are mentioned many times in _King Lear_, but'God' only here (V. ii. 16). ][Footnote 153: The whole question how far Shakespeare's works representhis personal feelings and attitude, and the changes in them, would carryus so far beyond the bounds of the four tragedies, is so needless forthe understanding of them, and is so little capable of decision, that Ihave excluded it from these lectures; and I will add here a note on itonly as it concerns the 'tragic period. 'There are here two distinct sets of facts, equally important, (1) On theone side there is the fact that, so far as we can make out, after_Twelfth Night_ Shakespeare wrote, for seven or eight years, no playwhich, like many of his earlier works, can be called happy, much lessmerry or sunny. He wrote tragedies; and if the chronological order_Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_, _Timon_, _Macbeth_, is correct, thesetragedies show for some time a deepening darkness, and _King Lear_ and_Timon_ lie at the nadir. He wrote also in these years (probably in theearlier of them) certain 'comedies,' _Measure for Measure_ and _Troilusand Cressida_, and perhaps _All's Well_. But about these comedies thereis a peculiar air of coldness; there is humour, of course, but littlemirth; in _Measure for Measure_ perhaps, certainly in _Troilus andCressida_, a spirit of bitterness and contempt seems to pervade anintellectual atmosphere of an intense but hard clearness. With _Macbeth_perhaps, and more decidedly in the two Roman tragedies which followed,the gloom seems to lift; and the final romances show a mellow serenitywhich sometimes warms into radiant sympathy, and even into a mirthalmost as light-hearted as that of younger days. When we consider thesefacts, not as barely stated thus but as they affect us in reading theplays, it is, to my mind, very hard to believe that their origin wassimply and solely a change in dramatic methods or choice of subjects, oreven merely such inward changes as may be expected to accompany thearrival and progress of middle age. (2) On the other side, and over against these facts, we have to set themultitudinousness of Shakespeare's genius, and his almost unlimitedpower of conceiving and expressing human experience of all kinds. And wehave to set more. Apparently during this period of years he never ceasedto write busily, or to exhibit in his writings the greatest mentalactivity. He wrote also either nothing or very little (_Troilus andCressida_ and his part of _Timon_ are the possible exceptions) in whichthere is any appearance of personal feeling overcoming or seriouslyendangering the self-control or 'objectivity' of the artist. And finallyit is not possible to make out any continuously deepening _personal_note: for although _Othello_ is darker than _Hamlet_ it surely strikesone as about as impersonal as a play can be; and, on grounds of styleand versification, it appears (to me, at least) impossible to bring_Troilus and Cressida_ chronologically close to _King Lear_ and _Timon_;even if parts of it are later than others, the late parts must bedecidedly earlier than those plays. The conclusion we may very tentatively draw from these sets of factswould seem to be as follows. Shakespeare during these years was probablynot a happy man, and it is quite likely that he felt at times even anintense melancholy, bitterness, contempt, anger, possibly even loathingand despair. It is quite likely too that he used these experiences ofhis in writing such plays as _Hamlet_, _Troilus and Cressida_, _KingLear_, _Timon_. But it is evident that he cannot have been for anyconsiderable time, if, ever, overwhelmed by such feelings, and there isno appearance of their having issued in any settled 'pessimistic'conviction which coloured his whole imagination and expressed itself inhis works. The choice of the subject of ingratitude, for instance, in_King Lear_ and _Timon_, and the method of handling it, may have beendue in part to personal feeling; but it does not follow that thisfeeling was particularly acute at this particular time, and, even if itwas, it certainly was not so absorbing as to hinder Shakespeare fromrepresenting in the most sympathetic manner aspects of life the veryreverse of pessimistic. Whether the total impression of _King Lear_ canbe called pessimistic is a further question, which is considered in thetext. ][Footnote 154: _A Study of Shakespeare_, pp. 171, 172. ][Footnote 155: A flaw, I mean, in a work of art considered not as amoral or theological document but as a work of art,--an aesthetic flaw. I add the word 'considerable' because we do not regard the effect inquestion as a flaw in a work like a lyric or a short piece of music,which may naturally be taken as expressions merely of a mood or asubordinate aspect of things. ][Footnote 156: Caution is very necessary in making comparisons betweenShakespeare and the Greek dramatists. A tragedy like the _Antigone_stands, in spite of differences, on the same ground as a Shakespeareantragedy; it is a self-contained whole with a catastrophe. A drama likethe _Philoctetes_ is a self-contained whole, but, ending with asolution, it corresponds not with a Shakespearean tragedy but with aplay like _Cymbeline_. A drama like the _Agamemnon_ or the _PrometheusVinctus_ answers to no Shakespearean form of play. It is not aself-contained whole, but a part of a trilogy. If the trilogy isconsidered as a unit, it answers not to _Hamlet_ but to _Cymbeline_. Ifthe part is considered as a whole, it answers to _Hamlet_, but may thenbe open to serious criticism. Shakespeare never made a tragedy end withthe complete triumph of the worse side: the _Agamemnon_ and_Prometheus_, if wrongly taken as wholes, would do this, and would sofar, I must think, be bad tragedies. [It can scarcely be necessary toremind the reader that, in point of 'self-containedness,' there is adifference of degree between the pure tragedies of Shakespeare and someof the historical. ]][Footnote 157: I leave it to better authorities to say how far theseremarks apply also to Greek Tragedy, however much the language of'justice' may be used there. ]LECTURE VIIIKING LEARWe have now to look at the characters in _King Lear_; and I propose toconsider them to some extent from the point of view indicated at theclose of the last lecture, partly because we have so far been regardingthe tragedy mainly from an opposite point of view, and partly becausethese characters are so numerous that it would not be possible withinour limits to examine them fully. 1The position of the hero in this tragedy is in one important respectpeculiar. The reader of _Hamlet_, _Othello_, or _Macbeth_, is in nodanger of forgetting, when the catastrophe is reached, the part playedby the hero in bringing it on. His fatal weakness, error, wrong-doing,continues almost to the end. It is otherwise with _King Lear_. When theconclusion arrives, the old King has for a long while been passive. Wehave long regarded him not only as 'a man more sinned against thansinning,' but almost wholly as a sufferer, hardly at all as an agent. His sufferings too have been so cruel, and our indignation against thosewho inflicted them has been so intense, that recollection of the wronghe did to Cordelia, to Kent, and to his realm, has been well-nigheffaced. Lastly, for nearly four Acts he has inspired in us, togetherwith this pity, much admiration and affection. The force of his passionhas made us feel that his nature was great; and his frankness andgenerosity, his heroic efforts to be patient, the depth of his shame andrepentance, and the ecstasy of his re-union with Cordelia, have meltedour very hearts. Naturally, therefore, at the close we are in somedanger of forgetting that the storm which has overwhelmed him wasliberated by his own deed. Yet it is essential that Lear's contribution to the action of the dramashould be remembered; not at all in order that we may feel that he'deserved' what he suffered, but because otherwise his fate would appearto us at best pathetic, at worst shocking, but certainly not tragic. Andwhen we were reading the earlier scenes of the play we recognised thiscontribution clearly enough. At the very beginning, it is true, we areinclined to feel merely pity and misgivings. The first lines tell usthat Lear's mind is beginning to fail with age. [158] Formerly he hadperceived how different were the characters of Albany and Cornwall, butnow he seems either to have lost this perception or to be unwiselyignoring it. The rashness of his division of the kingdom troubles us,and we cannot but see with concern that its motive is mainly selfish. The absurdity of the pretence of making the division depend onprotestations of love from his daughters, his complete blindness to thehypocrisy which is patent to us at a glance, his piteous delight inthese protestations, the openness of his expressions of preference forhis youngest daughter--all make us smile, but all pain us. But pitybegins to give way to another feeling when we witness the precipitance,the despotism, the uncontrolled anger of his injustice to Cordelia andKent, and the 'hideous rashness' of his persistence in dividing thekingdom after the rejection of his one dutiful child. We feel now thepresence of force, as well as weakness, but we feel also the presence ofthe tragic [Greek: hubris]. Lear, we see, is generous and unsuspicious,of an open and free nature, like Hamlet and Othello and indeed most ofShakespeare's heroes, who in this, according to Ben Jonson, resemble thepoet who made them. Lear, we see, is also choleric by temperament--thefirst of Shakespeare's heroes who is so. And a long life of absolutepower, in which he has been flattered to the top of his bent, hasproduced in him that blindness to human limitations, and thatpresumptuous self-will, which in Greek tragedy we have so often seenstumbling against the altar of Nemesis. Our consciousness that the decayof old age contributes to this condition deepens our pity and our senseof human infirmity, but certainly does not lead us to regard the oldKing as irresponsible, and so to sever the tragic _nexus_ which bindstogether his error and his calamities. The magnitude of this first error is generally fully recognised by thereader owing to his sympathy with Cordelia, though, as we have seen, heoften loses the memory of it as the play advances. But this is not so, Ithink, with the repetition of this error, in the quarrel with Goneril. Here the daughter excites so much detestation, and the father so muchsympathy, that we often fail to receive the due impression of hisviolence. There is not here, of course, the _injustice_ of his rejectionof Cordelia, but there is precisely the same [Greek: hubris]. This hadbeen shown most strikingly in the first scene when, _immediately_ uponthe apparently cold words of Cordelia, 'So young, my lord, and true,'there comes this dreadful answer:     Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower.     For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,     The mysteries of Hecate and the night;     By all the operation of the orbs     From whom we do exist and cease to be;     Here I disclaim all my paternal care,     Propinquity and property of blood,     And as a stranger to my heart and me     Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian,     Or he that makes his generation messes     To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom     Be as well neighbour'd, pitied and relieved,     As thou my sometime daughter. Now the dramatic effect of this passage is exactly, and doubtlessintentionally, repeated in the curse pronounced against Goneril. Thisdoes not come after the daughters have openly and wholly turned againsttheir father. Up to the moment of its utterance Goneril has done no morethan to require him 'a little to disquantity' and reform his train ofknights. Certainly her manner and spirit in making this demand arehateful, and probably her accusations against the knights are false; andwe should expect from any father in Lear's position passionate distressand indignation. But surely the famous words which form Lear's immediatereply were meant to be nothing short of frightful:     Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear!     Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend     To make this creature fruitful!     Into her womb convey sterility!     Dry up in her the organs of increase;     And from her derogate body never spring     A babe to honour her! If she must teem,     Create her child of spleen; that it may live,     And be a thwart disnatured torment to her!     Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;     With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;     Turn all her mother's pains and benefits     To laughter and contempt; that she may feel     How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is     To have a thankless child! The question is not whether Goneril deserves these appallingimprecations, but what they tell us about Lear. They show that, althoughhe has already recognised his injustice towards Cordelia, is secretlyblaming himself, and is endeavouring to do better, the disposition fromwhich his first error sprang is still unchanged. And it is precisely thedisposition to give rise, in evil surroundings, to calamities dreadfulbut at the same time tragic, because due in some measure to the personwho endures them. The perception of this connection, if it is not lost as the playadvances, does not at all diminish our pity for Lear, but it makes itimpossible for us permanently to regard the world displayed in thistragedy as subject to a mere arbitrary or malicious power. It makes usfeel that this world is so far at least a rational and a moral order,that there holds in it the law, not of proportionate requital, but ofstrict connection between act and consequence. It is, so far, the worldof all Shakespeare's tragedies. But there is another aspect of Lear's story, the influence of whichmodifies, in a way quite different and more peculiar to this tragedy,the impressions called pessimistic and even this impression of law. There is nothing more noble and beautiful in literature thanShakespeare's exposition of the effect of suffering in reviving thegreatness and eliciting the sweetness of Lear's nature. The occasionalrecurrence, during his madness, of autocratic impatience or of desirefor revenge serves only to heighten this effect, and the moments whenhis insanity becomes merely infinitely piteous do not weaken it. The oldKing who in pleading with his daughters feels so intensely his ownhumiliation and their horrible ingratitude, and who yet, at fourscoreand upward, constrains himself to practise a self-control and patienceso many years disused; who out of old affection for his Fool, and inrepentance for his injustice to the Fool's beloved mistress, toleratesincessant and cutting reminders of his own folly and wrong; in whom therage of the storm awakes a power and a poetic grandeur surpassing eventhat of Othello's anguish; who comes in his affliction to think ofothers first, and to seek, in tender solicitude for his poor boy, theshelter he scorns for his own bare head; who learns to feel and to prayfor the miserable and houseless poor, to discern the falseness offlattery and the brutality of authority, and to pierce below thedifferences of rank and raiment to the common humanity beneath; whosesight is so purged by scalding tears that it sees at last how power andplace and all things in the world are vanity except love; who tastes inhis last hours the extremes both of love's rapture and of its agony, butcould never, if he lived on or lived again, care a jot for aughtbeside--there is no figure, surely, in the world of poetry at once sogrand, so pathetic, and so beautiful as his. Well, but Lear owes thewhole of this to those sufferings which made us doubt whether life werenot simply evil, and men like the flies which wanton boys torture fortheir sport. Should we not be at least as near the truth if we calledthis poem _The Redemption of King Lear_, and declared that the businessof 'the gods' with him was neither to torment him, nor to teach him a'noble anger,' but to lead him to attain through apparently hopelessfailure the very end and aim of life? One can believe that Shakespearehad been tempted at times to feel misanthropy and despair, but it isquite impossible that he can have been mastered by such feelings at thetime when he produced this conception. To dwell on the stages of this process of purification (the word isProfessor Dowden's) is impossible here; and there are scenes, such asthat of the meeting of Lear and Cordelia, which it seems almost aprofanity to touch. [159] But I will refer to two scenes which may remindus more in detail of some of the points just mentioned. The third andfourth scenes of Act III. present one of those contrasts which speak aseloquently even as Shakespeare's words, and which were made possible inhis theatre by the absence of scenery and the consequent absence ofintervals between the scenes. First, in a scene of twenty-three lines,mostly in prose, Gloster is shown, telling his son Edmund how Goneriland Regan have forbidden him on pain of death to succour the houselessKing; how a secret letter has reached him, announcing the arrival of aFrench force; and how, whatever the consequences may be, he isdetermined to relieve his old master. Edmund, left alone, soliloquisesin words which seem to freeze one's blood:     This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke     Instantly know; and of that letter too:     This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me     That which my father loses; no less than all:     The younger rises when the old doth fall. He goes out; and the next moment, as the fourth scene opens, we findourselves in the icy storm with Lear, Kent and the Fool, and yet in theinmost shrine of love. I am not speaking of the devotion of the othersto Lear, but of Lear himself. He had consented, merely for the Fool'ssake, to seek shelter in the hovel:                               Come, your hovel.     Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart     That's sorry yet for thee.

But on the way he has broken down and has been weeping (III. iv. 17),and now he resists Kent's efforts to persuade him to enter. He does notfeel the storm:                               when the mind's free     The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind     Doth from my senses take all feeling else     Save what beats there:and the thoughts that will drive him mad are burning in his brain:                               Filial ingratitude!     Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand     For lifting food to't? But I will punish home.     No, I will weep no more. In such a night     To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.     In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!     Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,--     O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;     No more of that. And then suddenly, as he controls himself, the blessed spirit ofkindness breathes on him 'like a meadow gale of spring,' and he turnsgently to Kent:     Prithee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease:     This tempest will not give me leave to ponder     On things would hurt me more. But I'll go in.     In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty--     Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep. But his prayer is not for himself.     Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,it begins, and I need not quote more. This is one of those passageswhich make one worship Shakespeare. [160]Much has been written on the representation of insanity in _King Lear_,and I will confine myself to one or two points which may have escapednotice. The most obvious symptom of Lear's insanity, especially in itsfirst stages, is of course the domination of a fixed idea. Whateverpresents itself to his senses, is seized on by this idea and compelledto express it; as for example in those words, already quoted, whichfirst show that his mind has actually given way:                            Hast thou given all     To thy two daughters? And art thou come to this? [161]But it is remarkable that what we have here is only, in an exaggeratedand perverted form, the very same action of imagination that, justbefore the breakdown of reason, produced those sublime appeals:                         O heavens,     If you do love old men, if your sweet sway     Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,     Make it your cause;and:     Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!     Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:     I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;     I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,     You owe me no subscription: then let fall     Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,     A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:     But yet I call you servile ministers,     That have with two pernicious daughters join'd     Your high engender'd battles 'gainst a head     So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul! Shakespeare, long before this, in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, hadnoticed the resemblance between the lunatic, the lover, and the poet;and the partial truth that genius is allied to insanity was quitefamiliar to him. But he presents here the supplementary half-truth thatinsanity is allied to genius. He does not, however, put into the mouth of the insane Lear any suchsublime passages as those just quoted. Lear's insanity, which destroysthe coherence, also reduces the poetry of his imagination. What itstimulates is that power of moral perception and reflection which hadalready been quickened by his sufferings. This, however partial andhowever disconnectedly used, first appears, quite soon after theinsanity has declared itself, in the idea that the naked beggarrepresents truth and reality, in contrast with those conventions,flatteries, and corruptions of the great world, by which Lear has solong been deceived and will never be deceived again:     Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the     worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no     perfume. Ha! here's three on's are sophisticated: thou art the     thing itself. Lear regards the beggar therefore with reverence and delight, as aperson who is in the secret of things, and he longs to question himabout their causes. It is this same strain of thought which much later(IV. vi. ), gaining far greater force, though the insanity has otherwiseadvanced, issues in those famous Timon-like speeches which make usrealise the original strength of the old King's mind. And when thisstrain, on his recovery, unites with the streams of repentance and love,it produces that serene renunciation of the world, with its power andglory and resentments and revenges, which is expressed in the speech (V. iii. ):     No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:     We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:     When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,     And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,     And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh     At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues     Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,     Who loses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;     And take upon's the mystery of things,     As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,     In a wall'd prison, packs and sets of great ones,     That ebb and flow by the moon. This is that renunciation which is at the same time a sacrifice offeredto the gods, and on which the gods themselves throw incense; and, it maybe, it would never have been offered but for the knowledge that came toLear in his madness. I spoke of Lear's 'recovery,' but the word is too strong. The Lear ofthe Fifth Act is not indeed insane, but his mind is greatly enfeebled. The speech just quoted is followed by a sudden flash of the oldpassionate nature, reminding us most pathetically of Lear's efforts,just before his madness, to restrain his tears:                           Wipe thine eyes:     The good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell,     Ere they shall make us weep: we'll see 'em starve first. And this weakness is still more pathetically shown in the blindness ofthe old King to his position now that he and Cordelia are madeprisoners. It is evident that Cordelia knows well what mercy her fatheris likely to receive from her sisters; that is the reason of herweeping. But he does not understand her tears; it never crosses his mindthat they have anything more than imprisonment to fear. And what is thatto them? They have made that sacrifice, and all is well:                          Have I caught thee?     He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,     And fire us hence like foxes. This blindness is most affecting to us, who know in what manner theywill be parted; but it is also comforting. And we find the same minglingof effects in the overwhelming conclusion of the story. If to thereader, as to the bystanders, that scene brings one unbroken pain, it isnot so with Lear himself. His shattered mind passes from the firsttransports of hope and despair, as he bends over Cordelia's body andholds the feather to her lips, into an absolute forgetfulness of thecause of these transports. This continues so long as he can conversewith Kent; becomes an almost complete vacancy; and is disturbed only toyield, as his eyes suddenly fall again on his child's corpse, to anagony which at once breaks his heart. And, finally, though he is killedby an agony of pain, the agony in which he actually dies is one not ofpain but of ecstasy. Suddenly, with a cry represented in the oldest textby a four-times repeated 'O,' he exclaims:     Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,     Look there, look there! These are the last words of Lear. He is sure, at last, that she _lives_:and what had he said when he was still in doubt?                     She lives! if it be so,     It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows     That ever I have felt! To us, perhaps, the knowledge that he is deceived may bring aculmination of pain: but, if it brings _only_ that, I believe we arefalse to Shakespeare, and it seems almost beyond question that any actoris false to the text who does not attempt to express, in Lear's lastaccents and gestures and look, an unbearable _joy_. [162]To dwell on the pathos of Lear's last speech would be an impertinence,but I may add a remark on the speech from the literary point of view. Inthe simplicity of its language, which consists almost wholly ofmonosyllables of native origin, composed in very brief sentences of theplainest structure, it presents an extraordinary contrast to the dyingspeech of Hamlet and the last words of Othello to the by-standers. Thefact that Lear speaks in passion is one cause of the difference, but notthe sole cause. The language is more than simple, it is familiar. Andthis familiarity is characteristic of Lear (except at certain moments,already referred to) from the time of his madness onwards, and is thesource of the peculiarly poignant effect of some of his sentences (suchas 'The little dogs and all. . . . '). We feel in them the loss of power tosustain his royal dignity; we feel also that everything external hasbecome nothingness to him, and that what remains is 'the thing itself,'the soul in its bare greatness. Hence also it is that two lines in thislast speech show, better perhaps than any other passage of poetry, oneof the qualities we have in mind when we distinguish poetry as'romantic. ' Nothing like Hamlet's mysterious sigh 'The rest is silence,'nothing like Othello's memories of his life of marvel and achievement,was possible to Lear. Those last thoughts are romantic in theirstrangeness: Lear's five-times repeated 'Never,' in which the simplestand most unanswerable cry of anguish rises note by note till the heartbreaks, is romantic in its naturalism; and to make a verse out of thisone word required the boldness as well as the inspiration which cameinfallibly to Shakespeare at the greatest moments. But the familiarity,boldness and inspiration are surpassed (if that can be) by the nextline, which shows the bodily oppression asking for bodily relief. Theimagination that produced Lear's curse or his defiance of the storm maybe paralleled in its kind, but where else are we to seek the imaginationthat could venture to follow that cry of 'Never' with such a phrase as'undo this button,' and yet could leave us on the topmost peaks ofpoetry? [163]2Gloster and Albany are the two neutral characters of the tragedy. Theparallel between Lear and Gloster, already noticed, is, up to a certainpoint, so marked that it cannot possibly be accidental. Both are oldwhite-haired men (III. vii. 37); both, it would seem, widowers, withchildren comparatively young. Like Lear, Gloster is tormented, and hislife is sought, by the child whom he favours; he is tended and healed bythe child whom he has wronged. His sufferings, like Lear's, are partlytraceable to his own extreme folly and injustice, and, it may be added,to a selfish pursuit of his own pleasure. [164] His sufferings, again,like Lear's, purify and enlighten him: he dies a better and wiser manthan he showed himself at first. They even learn the same lesson, andGloster's repetition (noticed and blamed by Johnson) of the thought in afamous speech of Lear's is surely intentional. [165] And, finally,Gloster dies almost as Lear dies. Edgar reveals himself to him and askshis blessing (as Cordelia asks Lear's):                       but his flaw'd heart--     Alack, too weak the conflict to support--     'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,     Burst smilingly. So far, the resemblance of the two stories, and also of the ways inwhich their painful effect is modified, is curiously close. And incharacter too Gloster is, like his master, affectionate,[166] credulousand hasty. But otherwise he is sharply contrasted with the tragic Lear,who is a towering figure, every inch a king,[167] while Gloster is builton a much smaller scale, and has infinitely less force and fire. He is,indeed, a decidedly weak though good-hearted man; and, failing wholly tosupport Kent in resisting Lear's original folly and injustice,[168] heonly gradually takes the better part. Nor is his character either veryinteresting or very distinct. He often gives one the impression of beingwanted mainly to fill a place in the scheme of the play; and, though itwould be easy to give a long list of his characteristics, they scarcely,it seems to me, compose an individual, a person whom we are sure weshould recognise at once. If this is so, the fact is curious,considering how much we see and hear of him. I will add a single note. Gloster is the superstitious character of thedrama,--the only one. He thinks much of 'these late eclipses in the sunand moon. ' His two sons, from opposite points of view, make nothing ofthem. His easy acceptance of the calumny against Edgar is partly due tothis weakness, and Edmund builds upon it, for an evil purpose, when hedescribes Edgar thus:     Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out,     Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon,     To prove's auspicious mistress. Edgar in turn builds upon it, for a good purpose, when he persuades hisblind father that he was led to jump down Dover cliff by the temptationof a fiend in the form of a beggar, and was saved by a miracle:     As I stood here below, methought his eyes     Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,     Horns whelk'd and waved like the enridged sea:     It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy father,     Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours     Of men's impossibilities, have preserved thee. This passage is odd in its collocation of the thousand noses and theclearest gods, of grotesque absurdity and extreme seriousness. Edgarknew that the 'fiend' was really Gloster's 'worser spirit,' and that'the gods' were himself. Doubtless, however--for he is the mostreligious person in the play--he thought that it _was_ the gods who,through him, had preserved his father; but he knew that the truth couldonly enter this superstitious mind in a superstitious form. The combination of parallelism and contrast that we observe in Lear andGloster, and again in the attitude of the two brothers to their father'ssuperstition, is one of many indications that in _King Lear_ Shakespearewas working more than usual on a basis of conscious and reflectiveideas. Perhaps it is not by accident, then, that he makes Edgar and Learpreach to Gloster in precisely the same strain. Lear says to him:     If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes.     I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloster:     Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:     Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air,     We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark. Edgar's last words to him are:     What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure     Their going hence, even as their coming hither:     Ripeness is all. Albany is merely sketched, and he is so generally neglected that a fewwords about him may be in place. He too ends a better and wiser man thanhe began. When the play opens he is, of course, only just married toGoneril; and the idea is, I think, that he has been bewitched by herfiery beauty not less than by her dowry. He is an inoffensivepeace-loving man, and is overborne at first by his 'great love' for hiswife and by her imperious will. He is not free from responsibility forthe treatment which the King receives in his house; the Knight says toLear, 'there's a great abatement of kindness appears as well in thegeneral dependants as in _the duke himself also_ and your daughter. ' Buthe takes no part in the quarrel, and doubtless speaks truly when heprotests that he is as guiltless as ignorant of the cause of Lear'sviolent passion. When the King departs, he begins to remonstrate withGoneril, but shrinks in a cowardly manner, which is a trifle comical,from contest with her. She leaves him behind when she goes to joinRegan, and he is not further responsible for what follows. When he hearsof it, he is struck with horror: the scales drop from his eyes, Gonerilbecomes hateful to him, he determines to revenge Gloster's eyes. Hisposition is however very difficult, as he is willing to fight againstCordelia in so far as her army is French, and unwilling in so far as sherepresents her father. This difficulty, and his natural inferiority toEdmund in force and ability, pushes him into the background; the battleis not won by him but by Edmund; and but for Edgar he would certainlyhave fallen a victim to the murderous plot against him. When it isdiscovered, however, he is fearless and resolute enough, beside beingfull of kind feeling towards Kent and Edgar, and of sympathetic distressat Gloster's death. And one would be sure that he is meant to retainthis strength till the end, but for his last words. He has announced hisintention of resigning, during Lear's life, the 'absolute power' whichhas come to him; and that may be right. But after Lear's death he saysto Kent and Edgar:                         Friends of my soul, you twain     Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain. If this means that he wishes to hand over his absolute power to them,Shakespeare's intention is certainly to mark the feebleness of awell-meaning but weak man. But possibly he means by 'this realm' onlythat half of Britain which had belonged to Cornwall and Regan. 3I turn now to those two strongly contrasted groups of good and evilbeings; and to the evil first. The members of this group are by no meanson a level. Far the most contemptible of them is Oswald, and Kent hasfortunately expressed our feelings towards him. Yet twice we are able tofeel sympathy with him. Regan cannot tempt him to let her open Goneril'sletter to Edmund; and his last thought as he dies is given to thefulfilment of his trust. It is to a monster that he is faithful, and heis faithful to her in a monstrous design. Still faithfulness isfaithfulness, and he is not wholly worthless. Dr. Johnson says: 'I knownot well why Shakespeare gives to Oswald, who is a mere factor ofwickedness, so much fidelity'; but in any other tragedy this touch, sotrue to human nature, is only what we should expect. If it surprises usin _King Lear_, the reason is that Shakespeare, in dealing with theother members of the group, seems to have been less concerned than usualwith such mingling of light with darkness, and intent rather on makingthe shadows as utterly black as a regard for truth would permit. Cornwall seems to have been a fit mate for Regan; and what worse can besaid of him? It is a great satisfaction to think that he endured what tohim must have seemed the dreadful disgrace of being killed by a servant. He shows, I believe, no redeeming trait, and he is a coward, as may beseen from the sudden rise in his courage when Goneril arrives at thecastle and supports him and Regan against Lear (II. iv. 202). But as hiscruelties are not aimed at a blood-relation, he is not, in this sense, a'monster,' like the remaining three. Which of these three is the least and which the most detestable therecan surely be no question. For Edmund, not to mention otheralleviations, is at any rate not a woman. And the differences betweenthe sisters, which are distinctly marked and need not be exhibited oncemore in full, are all in favour of 'the elder and more terrible. ' ThatRegan did not commit adultery, did not murder her sister or plot tomurder her husband, did not join her name with Edmund's on the order forthe deaths of Cordelia and Lear, and in other respects failed to takequite so active a part as Goneril in atrocious wickedness, is quite truebut not in the least to her credit. It only means that she had much lessforce, courage and initiative than her sister, and for that reason isless formidable and more loathsome. Edmund judged right when, caring forneither sister but aiming at the crown, he preferred Goneril, for hecould trust her to remove the living impediments to her desires. Thescornful and fearless exclamation, 'An interlude! ' with which she greetsthe exposure of her design, was quite beyond Regan. Her unhesitatingsuicide was perhaps no less so. She would not have condescended to thelie which Regan so needlessly tells to Oswald:     It was great ignorance, Gloster's eyes being out,     To let him live: where he arrives he moves     All hearts against us: Edmund, I think, is gone,     _In pity of his misery_, to dispatch     His nighted life. Her father's curse is nothing to her. She scorns even to mention thegods. [169] Horrible as she is, she is almost awful. But, to set againstRegan's inferiority in power, there is nothing: she is superior only ina venomous meanness which is almost as hateful as her cruelty. She isthe most hideous human being (if she is one) that Shakespeare ever drew. I have already noticed the resemblance between Edmund and Iago in onepoint; and Edmund recalls his greater forerunner also in courage,strength of will, address, egoism, an abnormal want of feeling, and thepossession of a sense of humour. But here the likeness ends. Indeed adecided difference is observable even in the humour. Edmund isapparently a good deal younger than Iago. He has a lighter and moresuperficial nature, and there is a certain genuine gaiety in him whichmakes one smile not unsympathetically as one listens to his firstsoliloquy, with its cheery conclusion, so unlike Iago's references tothe powers of darkness,     Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Even after we have witnessed his dreadful deeds, a touch of thissympathy is felt again when we hear his nonchalant reflections beforethe battle:     To both these sisters have I sworn my love:     Each jealous of the other, as the stung     Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take?     Both? one? or neither? Besides, there is nothing in Edmund of Iago's motive-hunting, and verylittle of any of the secret forces which impelled Iago. He iscomparatively a straightforward character, as straightforward as theIago of some critics. He moves wonder and horror merely because the factthat a man so young can have a nature so bad is a dark mystery. Edmund is an adventurer pure and simple. He acts in pursuance of apurpose, and, if he has any affections or dislikes, ignores them. He isdetermined to make his way, first to his brother's lands, then--as theprospect widens--to the crown; and he regards men and women, with theirvirtues and vices, together with the bonds of kinship, friendship, orallegiance, merely as hindrances or helps to his end. They are for himdivested of all quality except their relation to this end; asindifferent as mathematical quantities or mere physical agents.     A credulous father and a brother noble,      . . . I see the business,he says, as if he were talking of _x_ and _y_.     This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me     That which my father loses; no less than all:     The younger rises when the old doth fall:he meditates, as if he were considering a problem in mechanics. Hepreserves this attitude with perfect consistency until the possibilityof attaining his end is snatched from him by death. Like the deformity of Richard, Edmund's illegitimacy furnishes, ofcourse, no excuse for his villainy, but it somewhat influences ourfeelings. It is no fault of his, and yet it separates him from othermen. He is the product of Nature--of a natural appetite asserting itselfagainst the social order; and he has no recognised place within thisorder. So he devotes himself to Nature, whose law is that of thestronger, and who does not recognise those moral obligations which existonly by convention,--by 'custom' or 'the curiosity of nations. '[170]Practically, his attitude is that of a professional criminal. 'You tellme I do not belong to you,' he seems to say to society: 'very well: Iwill make my way into your treasure-house if I can. And if I have totake life in doing so, that is your affair. ' How far he is serious inthis attitude, and really indignant at the brand of bastardy, how farhis indignation is a half-conscious self-excuse for his meditatedvillainy, it is hard to say; but the end shows that he is not entirelyin earnest. As he is an adventurer, with no more ill-will to anyone than good-will,it is natural that, when he has lost the game, he should accept hisfailure without showing personal animosity. But he does more. He admitsthe truth of Edgar's words about the justice of the gods, and appliesthem to his own case (though the fact that he himself refers tofortune's wheel rather than to the gods may be significant). He showstoo that he is not destitute of feeling; for he is touched by the storyof his father's death, and at last 'pants for life' in the effort to do'some good' by saving Lear and Cordelia. There is something pathetichere which tempts one to dream that, if Edmund had been whole brother toEdgar, and had been at home during those 'nine years' when he was 'out,'he might have been a very different man. But perhaps his words,                   Some good I mean to do,     _Despite of mine own nature_,suggest rather that Shakespeare is emphasising the mysterious fact,commented on by Kent in the case of the three daughters of Lear, of animmense original difference between children of one father. Strangerthan this emergence of better feelings, and curiously pathetic, is thepleasure of the dying man in the thought that he was loved by both thewomen whose corpses are almost the last sight he is to see. Perhaps, aswe conjectured, the cause of his delay in saving Lear and Cordelia evenafter he hears of the deaths of the sisters is that he is sunk in dreamyreflections on his past. When he murmurs, 'Yet Edmund was beloved,' oneis almost in danger of forgetting that he had done much more than rejectthe love of his father and half-brother. The passage is one of severalin Shakespeare's plays where it strikes us that he is recording somefact about human nature with which he had actually met, and which hadseemed to him peculiarly strange. What are we to say of the world which contains these five beings,Goneril, Regan, Edmund, Cornwall, Oswald? I have tried to answer thisquestion in our first lecture; for in its representation of evil _KingLear_ differs from the other tragedies only in degree and manner. It isthe tragedy in which evil is shown in the greatest abundance; and theevil characters are peculiarly repellent from their hard savagery, andbecause so little good is mingled with their evil. The effect istherefore more startling than elsewhere; it is even appalling. But insubstance it is the same as elsewhere; and accordingly, although it maybe useful to recall here our previous discussion, I will do so only bythe briefest statement. On the one hand we see a world which generates terrible evil inprofusion. Further, the beings in whom this evil appears at itsstrongest are able, to a certain extent, to thrive. They are notunhappy, and they have power to spread misery and destruction aroundthem. All this is undeniable fact. On the other hand this evil is _merely_ destructive: it founds nothing,and seems capable of existing only on foundations laid by its opposite. It is also self-destructive: it sets these beings at enmity; they canscarcely unite against a common and pressing danger; if it were avertedthey would be at each other's throats in a moment; the sisters do noteven wait till it is past. Finally, these beings, all five of them, aredead a few weeks after we see them first; three at least die young; theoutburst of their evil is fatal to them. These also are undeniablefacts; and, in face of them, it seems odd to describe _King Lear_ as 'aplay in which the wicked prosper' (Johnson). Thus the world in which evil appears seems to be at heart unfriendly toit. And this impression is confirmed by the fact that the convulsion ofthis world is due to evil, mainly in the worst forms here considered,partly in the milder forms which we call the errors or defects of thebetter characters. Good, in the widest sense, seems thus to be theprinciple of life and health in the world; evil, at least in these worstforms, to be a poison. The world reacts against it violently, and, inthe struggle to expel it, is driven to devastate itself. If we ask why the world should generate that which convulses and wastesit, the tragedy gives no answer, and we are trying to go beyond tragedyin seeking one. But the world, in this tragic picture, is convulsed byevil, and rejects it. 4And if here there is 'very Night herself,' she comes 'with stars in herraiment. ' Cordelia, Kent, Edgar, the Fool--these form a group not lessremarkable than that which we have just left. There is in the world of_King Lear_ the same abundance of extreme good as of extreme evil. Itgenerates in profusion self-less devotion and unconquerable love. Andthe strange thing is that neither Shakespeare nor we are surprised. Weapprove these characters, admire them, love them; but we feel nomystery. We do not ask in bewilderment, Is there any cause in naturethat makes these kind hearts? Such hardened optimists are we, andShakespeare,--and those who find the darkness of revelation in a tragedywhich reveals Cordelia. Yet surely, if we condemn the universe forCordelia's death, we ought also to remember that it gave her birth. Thefact that Socrates was executed does not remove the fact that he lived,and the inference thence to be drawn about the world that produced him. Of these four characters Edgar excites the least enthusiasm, but he isthe one whose development is the most marked. His behaviour in the earlypart of the play, granted that it is not too improbable, is so foolishas to provoke one. But he learns by experience, and becomes the mostcapable person in the story, without losing any of his purity andnobility of mind. There remain in him, however, touches which a littlechill one's feeling for him.     The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices     Make instruments to plague us:     The dark and vicious place where thee he got     Cost him his eyes:--one wishes he had not said to his dying brother those words abouttheir dead father. 'The gods are just' would have been enough. [171] Itmay be suggested that Shakespeare merely wished to introduce this moralsomehow, and did not mean the speech to be characteristic of thespeaker. But I doubt this: he might well have delivered it throughAlbany, if he was determined to deliver it. This trait in Edgar _is_characteristic. It seems to be connected with his pronounced andconscious religiousness. He interprets everything religiously, and isspeaking here from an intense conviction which overrides personalfeelings. With this religiousness, on the other side, is connected hischeerful and confident endurance, and his practical helpfulness andresource. He never thinks of despairing; in the worst circumstances heis sure there is something to be done to make things better. And he issure of this, not only from temperament, but from faith in 'the clearestgods. ' He is the man on whom we are to rely at the end for the recoveryand welfare of the state: and we do rely on him. I spoke of his temperament. There is in Edgar, with much else that isfine, something of that buoyancy of spirit which charms us in Imogen. Nothing can subdue in him the feeling that life is sweet and must becherished. At his worst, misconstrued, contemned, exiled, under sentenceof death, 'the lowest and most dejected thing of fortune,' he keeps hishead erect. The inextinguishable spirit of youth and delight is in him;he _embraces_ the unsubstantial air which has blown him to the worst;for him 'the worst returns to laughter. '[172] 'Bear free and patientthoughts,' he says to his father. His own thoughts are more thanpatient, they are 'free,' even joyous, in spite of the tender sympathieswhich strive in vain to overwhelm him. This ability to feel and offergreat sympathy with distress, without losing through the sympathy anyelasticity or strength, is a noble quality, sometimes found in soulslike Edgar's, naturally buoyant and also religious. It may even becharacteristic of him that, when Lear is sinking down in death, he triesto rouse him and bring him back to life. 'Look up, my lord! ' he cries. It is Kent who feels that                       he hates him,     That would upon the rack of this tough world     Stretch him out longer. Kent is one of the best-loved characters in Shakespeare. He is belovedfor his own sake, and also for the sake of Cordelia and of Lear. We aregrateful to him because he stands up for Cordelia, and because, when sheis out of sight, he constantly keeps her in our minds. And how wellthese two love each other we see when they meet. Yet it is not Cordeliawho is dearest to Kent. His love for Lear is the passion of his life: it_is_ his life. At the beginning he braves Lear's wrath even more forLear's sake than Cordelia's. [173] At the end he seems to realiseCordelia's death only as it is reflected in Lear's agony. Nor does hemerely love his master passionately, as Cordelia loves her father. Thatword 'master,' and Kent's appeal to the 'authority' he saw in the oldKing's face, are significant. He belongs to Lear, body and soul, as adog does to his master and god. The King is not to him old, wayward,unreasonable, piteous: he is still terrible, grand, the king of men. Through his eyes we see the Lear of Lear's prime, whom Cordelia neversaw. Kent never forgets this Lear. In the Storm-scenes, even after theKing becomes insane, Kent never addresses him without the old terms ofrespect, 'your grace,' 'my lord,' 'sir. ' How characteristic it is thatin the scene of Lear's recovery Kent speaks to him but once: it is whenthe King asks 'Am I in France? ' and he answers 'In your own kingdom,sir. 'In acting the part of a blunt and eccentric serving-man Kent retainsmuch of his natural character. The eccentricity seems to be put on, butthe plainness which gets him set in the stocks is but an exaggeration ofhis plainness in the opening scene, and Shakespeare certainly meant himfor one of those characters whom we love none the less for theirdefects. He is hot and rash; noble but far from skilful in hisresistance to the King; he might well have chosen wiser words to gainhis point. But, as he himself says, he has more man than wit about him. He shows this again when he rejoins Lear as a servant, for he at oncebrings the quarrel with Goneril to a head; and, later, by falling uponOswald, whom he so detests that he cannot keep his hands off him, heprovides Regan and Cornwall with a pretext for their inhospitality. Onehas not the heart to wish him different, but he illustrates the truththat to run one's head unselfishly against a wall is not the best way tohelp one's friends. One fact about Kent is often overlooked. He is an old man. He tells Learthat he is eight and forty, but it is clear that he is much older; notso old as his master, who was 'four-score and upward' and whom he 'lovedas his father,' but, one may suppose, three-score and upward. From thefirst scene we get this impression, and in the scene with Oswald it isrepeatedly confirmed. His beard is grey. 'Ancient ruffian,' 'oldfellow,' 'you stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart'--these aresome of the expressions applied to him. 'Sir,' he says to Cornwall, 'Iam too old to learn. ' If his age is not remembered, we fail to realisethe full beauty of his thoughtlessness of himself, his incessant care ofthe King, his light-hearted indifference to fortune or fate. [174] Welose also some of the naturalness and pathos of his feeling that histask is nearly done. Even at the end of the Fourth Act we find himsaying,     My point and period will be throughly wrought     Or well or ill, as this day's battle's fought. His heart is ready to break when he falls with his strong arms aboutEdgar's neck; bellows out as he'd burst heaven (how like him! );                     threw him on my father,     Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him     That ever ear received; which in recounting     His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life     Began to crack. Twice then the trumpet sounded,     And there I left him tranced;and a little after, when he enters, we hear the sound of death in hisvoice:                         I am come     To bid my king and master aye goodnight. This desire possesses him wholly. When the bodies of Goneril and Reganare brought in he asks merely, 'Alack, why thus? ' How can he care? He iswaiting for one thing alone. He cannot but yearn for recognition, cannotbut beg for it even when Lear is bending over the body of Cordelia; andeven in that scene of unmatched pathos we feel a sharp pang at hisfailure to receive it. It is of himself he is speaking, perhaps, when hemurmurs, as his master dies, 'Break, heart, I prithee, break! ' He putsaside Albany's invitation to take part in the government; his task isover:     I have a journey, sir, shortly to go:     My master calls me; I must not say no. Kent in his devotion, his self-effacement, his cheerful stoicism, hisdesire to follow his dead lord, has been well likened to Horatio. ButHoratio is not old; nor is he hot-headed; and though he is stoical he isalso religious. Kent, as compared with him and with Edgar, is not so. Hehas not Edgar's ever-present faith in the 'clearest gods. ' He refers tothem, in fact, less often than to fortune or the stars. He lives mainlyby the love in his own heart. [175]       *       *       *       *       *The theatrical fool or clown (we need not distinguish them here) was asore trial to the cultured poet and spectator in Shakespeare's day. Hecame down from the Morality plays, and was beloved of the groundlings. His antics, his songs, his dances, his jests, too often unclean,delighted them, and did something to make the drama, what the vulgar,poor or rich, like it to be, a variety entertainment. Even if heconfined himself to what was set down for him, he often disturbed thedramatic unity of the piece; and the temptation to 'gag' was too strongfor him to resist. Shakespeare makes Hamlet object to it in emphaticterms. The more learned critics and poets went further and would haveabolished the fool altogether. His part declines as the drama advances,diminishing markedly at the end of the sixteenth century. Jonson andMassinger exclude him. Shakespeare used him--we know to what effect--ashe used all the other popular elements of the drama; but he abstainedfrom introducing him into the Roman plays,[176] and there is no fool inthe last of the pure tragedies, _Macbeth_. But the Fool is one of Shakespeare's triumphs in _King Lear_. Imaginethe tragedy without him, and you hardly know it. To remove him wouldspoil its harmony, as the harmony of a picture would be spoiled if oneof the colours were extracted. One can almost imagine that Shakespeare,going home from an evening at the Mermaid, where he had listened toJonson fulminating against fools in general and perhaps criticising theClown in _Twelfth Night_ in particular, had said to himself: 'Come, myfriends, I will show you once for all that the mischief is in you, andnot in the fool or the audience. I will have a fool in the most tragicof my tragedies. He shall not play a little part. He shall keep fromfirst to last the company in which you most object to see him, thecompany of a king. Instead of amusing the king's idle hours, he shallstand by him in the very tempest and whirlwind of passion. Before I havedone you shall confess, between laughter and tears, that he is of thevery essence of life, that you have known him all your days though younever recognised him till now, and that you would as soon go withoutHamlet as miss him. 'The Fool in _King Lear_ has been so favourite a subject with goodcritics that I will confine myself to one or two points on which adifference of opinion is possible. To suppose that the Fool is, likemany a domestic fool at that time, a perfectly sane man pretending to behalf-witted, is surely a most prosaic blunder. There is no difficulty inimagining that, being slightly touched in the brain, and holding theoffice of fool, he performs the duties of his office intentionally aswell as involuntarily: it is evident that he does so. But unless wesuppose that he _is_ touched in the brain we lose half the effect ofhis appearance in the Storm-scenes. The effect of those scenes (to statethe matter as plainly as possible) depends largely on the presence ofthree characters, and on the affinities and contrasts between them; onour perception that the differences of station in King, Fool, andbeggar-noble, are levelled by one blast of calamity; but also on ourperception of the differences between these three in one respect,--viz. in regard to the peculiar affliction of insanity. The insanity of theKing differs widely in its nature from that of the Fool, and that of theFool from that of the beggar. But the insanity of the King differs fromthat of the beggar not only in its nature, but also in the fact that oneis real and the other simply a pretence. Are we to suppose then that theinsanity of the third character, the Fool, is, in this respect, a mererepetition of that of the second, the beggar,--that it too is _mere_pretence? To suppose this is not only to impoverish miserably theimpression made by the trio as a whole, it is also to diminish theheroic and pathetic effect of the character of the Fool. For his heroismconsists largely in this, that his efforts to outjest his master'sinjuries are the efforts of a being to whom a responsible and consistentcourse of action, nay even a responsible use of language, is at the bestof times difficult, and from whom it is never at the best of timesexpected. It is a heroism something like that of Lear himself in hisendeavour to learn patience at the age of eighty. But arguments againstthe idea that the Fool is wholly sane are either needless or futile; forin the end they are appeals to the perception that this idea almostdestroys the poetry of the character. This is not the case with another question, the question whether theFool is a man or a boy. Here the evidence and the grounds for discussionare more tangible. He is frequently addressed as 'boy. ' This is notdecisive; but Lear's first words to him, 'How now, my pretty knave, howdost thou? ' are difficult to reconcile with the idea of his being a man,and the use of this phrase on his first entrance may show Shakespeare'sdesire to prevent any mistake on the point. As a boy, too, he would bemore strongly contrasted in the Storm-scenes with Edgar as well as withLear; his faithfulness and courage would be even more heroic andtouching; his devotion to Cordelia, and the consequent bitterness ofsome of his speeches to Lear, would be even more natural. Nor does heseem to show a knowledge of the world impossible to a quick-wittedthough not whole-witted lad who had lived at Court. The only seriousobstacle to this view, I think, is the fact that he is not known to havebeen represented as a boy or youth till Macready produced _KingLear_. [177]But even if this obstacle were serious and the Fool were imagined as agrown man, we may still insist that he must also be imagined as a timid,delicate and frail being, who on that account and from the expression ofhis face has a boyish look. [178] He pines away when Cordelia goes toFrance. Though he takes great liberties with his master he is frightenedby Goneril, and becomes quite silent when the quarrel rises high. In theterrible scene between Lear and his two daughters and Cornwall(II. iv. 129-289), he says not a word; we have almost forgottenhis presence when, at the topmost pitch of passion, Lear suddenly turnsto him from the hateful faces that encompass him:                        You think I'll weep;     No, I'll not weep:     I have full cause of weeping; but this heart     Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws     Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad. From the beginning of the Storm-scenes, though he thinks of his masteralone, we perceive from his words that the cold and rain are almost morethan he can bear. His childishness comes home to us when he runs out ofthe hovel, terrified by the madman and crying out to the King 'Help me,help me,' and the good Kent takes him by the hand and draws him to hisside. A little later he exclaims, 'This cold night will turn us all tofools and madmen'; and almost from that point he leaves the King toEdgar, speaking only once again in the remaining hundred lines of thescene. In the shelter of the 'farm-house' (III. vi. ) he revives, andresumes his office of love; but I think that critic is right whoconsiders his last words significant. 'We'll go to supper i' themorning,' says Lear; and the Fool answers 'And I'll go to bed at noon,'as though he felt he had taken his death. When, a little later, the Kingis being carried away on a litter, the Fool sits idle. He is so benumbedand worn out that he scarcely notices what is going on. Kent has torouse him with the words,              Come, help to bear thy master,     Thou must not stay behind. We know no more. For the famous exclamation 'And my poor fool is hanged'unquestionably refers to Cordelia; and even if it is intended to show aconfused association in Lear's mind between his child and the Fool whoso loved her (as a very old man may confuse two of his children), stillit tells us nothing of the Fool's fate. It seems strange indeed thatShakespeare should have left us thus in ignorance. But we have seen thatthere are many marks of haste and carelessness in _King Lear_; and itmay also be observed that, if the poet imagined the Fool dying on theway to Dover of the effects of that night upon the heath, he couldperhaps convey this idea to the audience by instructing the actor whotook the part to show, as he left the stage for the last time, therecognised tokens of approaching death. [179]Something has now been said of the four characters, Lear, Edgar, Kentand the Fool, who are together in the storm upon the heath. I have madeno attempt to analyse the whole effect of these scenes, but one remarkmay be added. These scenes, as we observed, suggest the idea of aconvulsion in which Nature herself joins with the forces of evil in manto overpower the weak; and they are thus one of the main sources of themore terrible impressions produced by _King Lear_. But they have at thesame time an effect of a totally different kind, because in them areexhibited also the strength and the beauty of Lear's nature, and, inKent and the Fool and Edgar, the ideal of faithful devoted love. Hencefrom the beginning to the end of these scenes we have, mingled with painand awe and a sense of man's infirmity, an equally strong feeling of hisgreatness; and this becomes at times even an exulting sense of thepowerlessness of outward calamity or the malice of others against hissoul. And this is one reason why imagination and emotion are never herepressed painfully inward, as in the scenes between Lear and hisdaughters, but are liberated and dilated. 5The character of Cordelia is not a masterpiece of invention or subtletylike that of Cleopatra; yet in its own way it is a creation aswonderful. Cordelia appears in only four of the twenty-six scenes of_King Lear_; she speaks--it is hard to believe it--scarcely more than ahundred lines; and yet no character in Shakespeare is more absolutelyindividual or more ineffaceably stamped on the memory of his readers. There is a harmony, strange but perhaps the result of intention, betweenthe character itself and this reserved or parsimonious method ofdepicting it. An expressiveness almost inexhaustible gained throughpaucity of expression; the suggestion of infinite wealth and beautyconveyed by the very refusal to reveal this beauty in expansivespeech--this is at once the nature of Cordelia herself and the chiefcharacteristic of Shakespeare's art in representing it. Perhaps it isnot fanciful to find a parallel in his drawing of a person verydifferent, Hamlet. It was natural to Hamlet to examine himself minutely,to discuss himself at large, and yet to remain a mystery to himself; andShakespeare's method of drawing the character answers to it; it isextremely detailed and searching, and yet its effect is to enhance thesense of mystery. The results in the two cases differ correspondingly. No one hesitates to enlarge upon Hamlet, who speaks of himself so much;but to use many words about Cordelia seems to be a kind of impiety. I am obliged to speak of her chiefly because the devotion she inspiresalmost inevitably obscures her part in the tragedy. This devotion iscomposed, so to speak, of two contrary elements, reverence and pity. Thefirst, because Cordelia's is a higher nature than that of most even ofShakespeare's heroines. With the tenderness of Viola or Desdemona sheunites something of the resolution, power, and dignity of Hermione, andreminds us sometimes of Helena, sometimes of Isabella, though she hasnone of the traits which prevent Isabella from winning our hearts. Herassertion of truth and right, her allegiance to them, even the touch ofseverity that accompanies it, instead of compelling mere respect oradmiration, become adorable in a nature so loving as Cordelia's. She isa thing enskyed and sainted, and yet we feel no incongruity in the loveof the King of France for her, as we do in the love of the Duke forIsabella. But with this reverence or worship is combined in the reader's mind apassion of championship, of pity, even of protecting pity. She is sodeeply wronged, and she appears, for all her strength, so defenceless. We think of her as unable to speak for herself. We think of her as quiteyoung, and as slight and small. [180] 'Her voice was ever soft, gentle,and low'; ever so, whether the tone was that of resolution, or rebuke,or love. [181] Of all Shakespeare's heroines she knew least of joy. Shegrew up with Goneril and Regan for sisters. Even her love for her fathermust have been mingled with pain and anxiety. She must early havelearned to school and repress emotion. She never knew the bliss of younglove: there is no trace of such love for the King of France. She hadknowingly to wound most deeply the being dearest to her. He cast heroff; and, after suffering an agony for him, and before she could see himsafe in death, she was brutally murdered. We have to thank the poet forpassing lightly over the circumstances of her death. We do not think ofthem. Her image comes before us calm and bright and still. The memory of Cordelia thus becomes detached in a manner from the actionof the drama. The reader refuses to admit into it any idea ofimperfection, and is outraged when any share in her father's sufferingsis attributed to the part she plays in the opening scene. Because shewas deeply wronged he is ready to insist that she was wholly right. Herefuses, that is, to take the tragic point of view, and, when it istaken, he imagines that Cordelia is being attacked, or is being declaredto have 'deserved' all that befell her. But Shakespeare's was the tragicpoint of view. He exhibits in the opening scene a situation tragic forCordelia as well as for Lear. At a moment where terrible issues join,Fate makes on her the one demand which she is unable to meet. As I havealready remarked in speaking of Desdemona, it was a demand which otherheroines of Shakespeare could have met. Without loss of self-respect,and refusing even to appear to compete for a reward, they could havemade the unreasonable old King feel that he was fondly loved. Cordeliacannot, because she is Cordelia. And so she is not merely rejected andbanished, but her father is left to the mercies of her sisters. And thecause of her failure--a failure a thousand-fold redeemed--is a compoundin which imperfection appears so intimately mingled with the noblestqualities that--if we are true to Shakespeare--we do not think either ofjustifying her or of blaming her: we feel simply the tragic emotions offear and pity. In this failure a large part is played by that obvious characteristic towhich I have already referred. Cordelia is not, indeed, alwaystongue-tied, as several passages in the drama, and even in this scene,clearly show. But tender emotion, and especially a tender love for theperson to whom she has to speak, makes her dumb. Her love, as she says,is more ponderous than her tongue:[182]                   Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave     My heart into my mouth. This expressive word 'heave' is repeated in the passage which describesher reception of Kent's letter:     Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of 'Father'     Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart:two or three broken ejaculations escape her lips, and she 'starts' away'to deal with grief alone. ' The same trait reappears with an ineffablebeauty in the stifled repetitions with which she attempts to answer herfather in the moment of his restoration:     _Lear. _                 Do not laugh at me;              For, as I am a man, I think this lady              To be my child Cordelia.     _Cor. _                             And so I am, I am.     _Lear. _  Be your tears wet? yes, faith. I pray, weep not;              If you have poison for me, I will drink it.              I know you do not love me; for your sisters              Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:              You have some cause, they have not.     _Cor. _                             No cause, no cause. We see this trait for the last time, marked by Shakespeare with adecision clearly intentional, in her inability to answer one syllable tothe last words we hear her father speak to her:     No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:     We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:     When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,     And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,     And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh     At gilded butterflies. . . . She stands and weeps, and goes out with him silent. And we see her aliveno more. But (I am forced to dwell on the point, because I am sure to slur itover is to be false to Shakespeare) this dumbness of love was not thesole source of misunderstanding. If this had been all, even Lear couldhave seen the love in Cordelia's eyes when, to his question 'What canyou say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters? ' she answered'Nothing. ' But it did not shine there. She is not merely silent, nordoes she merely answer 'Nothing. ' She tells him that she loves him'according to her bond, nor more nor less'; and his answer,     How now, Cordelia! mend your speech a little,     Lest it may mar your fortunes,so intensifies her horror at the hypocrisy of her sisters that shereplies,                             Good my Lord,     You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I     Return those duties back as are right fit,     Obey you, love you, and most honour you.     Why have my sisters husbands, if they say     They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,     That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry     Half my love with him, half my care and duty:     Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,     To love my father all. What words for the ear of an old father, unreasonable, despotic, butfondly loving, indecent in his own expressions of preference, and blindto the indecency of his appeal for protestations of fondness! Blankastonishment, anger, wounded love, contend within him; but for themoment he restrains himself and asks,     But goes thy heart with this? Imagine Imogen's reply! But Cordelia answers,                       Ay, good my lord.     _Lear. _  So young, and so untender?     _Cor. _   So young, my lord, and true. Yes, 'heavenly true. ' But truth is not the only good in the world, noris the obligation to tell truth the only obligation. The matter here wasto keep it inviolate, but also to preserve a father. And even if truth_were_ the one and only obligation, to tell much less than truth is notto tell it. And Cordelia's speech not only tells much less than truthabout her love, it actually perverts the truth when it implies that togive love to a husband is to take it from a father. There surely neverwas a more unhappy speech. When Isabella goes to plead with Angelo for her brother's life, herhorror of her brother's sin is so intense, and her perception of thejustice of Angelo's reasons for refusing her is so clear and keen, thatshe is ready to abandon her appeal before it is well begun; she wouldactually do so but that the warm-hearted profligate Lucio reproaches herfor her coldness and urges her on. Cordelia's hatred of hypocrisy and ofthe faintest appearance of mercenary professions reminds us ofIsabella's hatred of impurity; but Cordelia's position is infinitelymore difficult, and on the other hand there is mingled with her hatred atouch of personal antagonism and of pride.

Lear's words,     Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her! [183]are monstrously unjust, but they contain one grain of truth; and indeedit was scarcely possible that a nature so strong as Cordelia's, and withso keen a sense of dignity, should feel here nothing whatever of prideand resentment. This side of her character is emphatically shown in herlanguage to her sisters in the first scene--language perfectly just, butlittle adapted to soften their hearts towards their father--and again inthe very last words we hear her speak. She and her father are broughtin, prisoners, to the enemy's camp; but she sees only Edmund, not those'greater' ones on whose pleasure hangs her father's fate and her own. For her own she is little concerned; she knows how to meet adversity:     For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;     Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown. Yes, that is how she would meet fortune, frowning it down, even asGoneril would have met it; nor, if her father had been already dead,would there have been any great improbability in the false story thatwas to be told of her death, that, like Goneril, she 'fordid herself. 'Then, after those austere words about fortune, she suddenly asks,     Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters? Strange last words for us to hear from a being so worshipped andbeloved; but how characteristic! Their tone is unmistakable. I doubt ifshe could have brought herself to plead with her sisters for herfather's life; and if she had attempted the task, she would haveperformed it but ill. Nor is our feeling towards her altered one whit bythat. But what is true of Kent and the Fool[184] is, in its measure,true of her. Any one of them would gladly have died a hundred deaths tohelp King Lear; and they do help his soul; but they harm his cause. Theyare all involved in tragedy.       *       *       *       *       *Why does Cordelia die? I suppose no reader ever failed to ask thatquestion, and to ask it with something more than pain,--to ask it, ifonly for a moment, in bewilderment or dismay, and even perhaps in tonesof protest. These feelings are probably evoked more strongly here thanat the death of any other notable character in Shakespeare; and it maysound a wilful paradox to assert that the slightest element ofreconciliation is mingled with them or succeeds them. Yet it seems to meindubitable that such an element is present, though difficult to makeout with certainty what it is or whence it proceeds. And I will try tomake this out, and to state it methodically. (_a_) It is not due in any perceptible degree to the fact, which we havejust been examining, that Cordelia through her tragic imperfectioncontributes something to the conflict and catastrophe; and I drewattention to that imperfection without any view to our present problem. The critics who emphasise it at this point in the drama are surelyuntrue to Shakespeare's mind; and still more completely astray are thosewho lay stress on the idea that Cordelia, in bringing a foreign army tohelp her father, was guilty of treason to her country. When she dies weregard her, practically speaking, simply as we regard Ophelia orDesdemona, as an innocent victim swept away in the convulsion caused bythe error or guilt of others. (_b_) Now this destruction of the good through the evil of others is oneof the tragic facts of life, and no one can object to the use of it,within certain limits, in tragic art. And, further, those who because ofit declaim against the nature of things, declaim without thinking. It isobviously the other side of the fact that the effects of good spread farand wide beyond the doer of good; and we should ask ourselves whether wereally could wish (supposing it conceivable) to see this double-sidedfact abolished. Nevertheless the touch of reconciliation that we feel incontemplating the death of Cordelia is not due, or is due only in someslight degree, to a perception that the event is true to life,admissible in tragedy, and a case of a law which we cannot seriouslydesire to see abrogated. (_c_) What then is this feeling, and whence does it come? I believe weshall find that it is a feeling not confined to _King Lear_, but presentat the close of other tragedies; and that the reason why it has anexceptional tone or force at the close of _King Lear_, lies in that verypeculiarity of the close which also--at least for the moment--excitesbewilderment, dismay, or protest. The feeling I mean is the impressionthat the heroic being, though in one sense and outwardly he has failed,is yet in another sense superior to the world in which he appears; is,in some way which we do not seek to define, untouched by the doom thatovertakes him; and is rather set free from life than deprived of it. Some such feeling as this--some feeling which, from this description ofit, may be recognised as their own even by those who would dissent fromthe description--we surely have in various degrees at the deaths ofHamlet and Othello and Lear, and of Antony and Cleopatra andCoriolanus. [185] It accompanies the more prominent tragic impressions,and, regarded alone, could hardly be called tragic. For it seems toimply (though we are probably quite unconscious of the implication) anidea which, if developed, would transform the tragic view of things. Itimplies that the tragic world, if taken as it is presented, with all itserror, guilt, failure, woe and waste, is no final reality, but only apart of reality taken for the whole, and, when so taken, illusive; andthat if we could see the whole, and the tragic facts in their true placein it, we should find them, not abolished, of course, but so transmutedthat they had ceased to be strictly tragic,--find, perhaps, thesuffering and death counting for little or nothing, the greatness of thesoul for much or all, and the heroic spirit, in spite of failure, nearerto the heart of things than the smaller, more circumspect, and perhapseven 'better' beings who survived the catastrophe. The feeling which Ihave tried to describe, as accompanying the more obvious tragic emotionsat the deaths of heroes, corresponds with some such idea as this. [186]Now this feeling is evoked with a quite exceptional strength by thedeath of Cordelia. [187] It is not due to the perception that she, likeLear, has attained through suffering; we know that she had suffered andattained in his days of prosperity. It is simply the feeling that whathappens to such a being does not matter; all that matters is what sheis. How this can be when, for anything the tragedy tells us, she hasceased to exist, we do not ask; but the tragedy itself makes us feelthat somehow it is so. And the force with which this impression isconveyed depends largely on the very fact which excites our bewildermentand protest, that her death, following on the deaths of all the evilcharacters, and brought about by an unexplained delay in Edmund's effortto save her, comes on us, not as an inevitable conclusion to thesequence of events, but as the sudden stroke of mere fate or chance. Theforce of the impression, that is to say, depends on the very violence ofthe contrast between the outward and the inward, Cordelia's death andCordelia's soul. The more unmotived, unmerited, senseless, monstrous,her fate, the more do we feel that it does not concern her. Theextremity of the disproportion between prosperity and goodness firstshocks us, and then flashes on us the conviction that our whole attitudein asking or expecting that goodness should be prosperous is wrong;that, if only we could see things as they are, we should see that theoutward is nothing and the inward is all. And some such thought as this (which, to bring it clearly out, I havestated, and still state, in a form both exaggerated and much tooexplicit) is really present through the whole play. Whether Shakespeareknew it or not, it is present. I might almost say that the 'moral' of_King Lear_ is presented in the irony of this collocation:           _Albany. _ The gods defend her!     _Enter Lear with Cordelia dead in his arms. _The 'gods,' it seems, do _not_ show their approval by 'defending' theirown from adversity or death, or by giving them power and prosperity. These, on the contrary, are worthless, or worse; it is not on them, buton the renunciation of them, that the gods throw incense. They breedlust, pride, hardness of heart, the insolence of office, cruelty, scorn,hypocrisy, contention, war, murder, self-destruction. The whole storybeats this indictment of prosperity into the brain. Lear's greatspeeches in his madness proclaim it like the curses of Timon on life andman. But here, as in _Timon_, the poor and humble are, almost withoutexception, sound and sweet at heart, faithful and pitiful. [188] And hereadversity, to the blessed in spirit, is blessed. It wins fragrance fromthe crushed flower. It melts in aged hearts sympathies which prosperityhad frozen. It purges the soul's sight by blinding that of theeyes. [189] Throughout that stupendous Third Act the good are seengrowing better through suffering, and the bad worse through success. Thewarm castle is a room in hell, the storm-swept heath a sanctuary. Thejudgment of this world is a lie; its goods, which we covet, corrupt us;its ills, which break our bodies, set our souls free;     Our means secure us,[190] and our mere defects     Prove our commodities. Let us renounce the world, hate it, and lose it gladly. The only realthing in it is the soul, with its courage, patience, devotion. Andnothing outward can touch that. This, if we like to use the word, is Shakespeare's 'pessimism' in _KingLear_. As we have seen, it is not by any means the whole spirit of thetragedy, which presents the world as a place where heavenly good growsside by side with evil, where extreme evil cannot long endure, and whereall that survives the storm is good, if not great. But still this strainof thought, to which the world appears as the kingdom of evil andtherefore worthless, is in the tragedy, and may well be the record ofmany hours of exasperated feeling and troubled brooding. Pursued furtherand allowed to dominate, it would destroy the tragedy; for it isnecessary to tragedy that we should feel that suffering and death domatter greatly, and that happiness and life are not to be renounced asworthless. Pursued further, again, it leads to the idea that the world,in that obvious appearance of it which tragedy cannot dissolve withoutdissolving itself, is illusive. And its tendency towards this idea istraceable in _King Lear_, in the shape of the notion that this 'greatworld' is transitory, or 'will wear out to nought' like the little worldcalled 'man' (IV. vi. 137), or that humanity will destroy itself. [191]In later days, in the drama that was probably Shakespeare's lastcomplete work, the _Tempest_, this notion of the transitoriness ofthings appears, side by side with the simpler feeling that man's life isan illusion or dream, in some of the most famous lines he ever wrote:     Our revels now are ended. These our actors,     As I foretold you, were all spirits and     Are melted into air, into thin air:     And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,     The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,     The solemn temples, the great globe itself,     Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve     And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,     Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff     As dreams are made on, and our little life     Is rounded with a sleep. These lines, detached from their context, are familiar to everyone; but,in the _Tempest_, they are dramatic as well as poetical. The suddenemergence of the thought expressed in them has a specific and mostsignificant cause; and as I have not seen it remarked I will point itout. Prospero, by means of his spirits, has been exhibiting to Ferdinand andMiranda a masque in which goddesses appear, and which is so majestic andharmonious that to the young man, standing beside such a father and sucha wife, the place seems Paradise,--as perhaps the world once seemed toShakespeare. Then, at the bidding of Iris, there begins a dance ofNymphs with Reapers, sunburnt, weary of their August labour, but now intheir holiday garb. But, as this is nearing its end, Prospero 'startssuddenly, and speaks'; and the visions vanish. And what he 'speaks' isshown in these lines, which introduce the famous passage just quoted:     _Pros. _ [_Aside_] I had forgot that foul conspiracy     Of the beast Caliban and his confederates     Against my life: the minute of their plot     Is almost come. [_To the Spirits. _] Well done! avoid; no more.     _Fer. _ This is strange; your father's in some passion     That works him strongly.     _Mir. _                    Never till this day     Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd.     _Pros. _ You do look, my son, in a moved sort,     As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.     Our revels. . . . And then, after the famous lines, follow these:                                Sir, I am vex'd:     Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled;     Be not disturb'd with my infirmity;     If you be pleased, retire into my cell     And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk,     To still my beating mind. We seem to see here the whole mind of Shakespeare in his last years. That which provokes in Prospero first a 'passion' of anger, and, amoment later, that melancholy and mystical thought that the great worldmust perish utterly and that man is but a dream, is the suddenrecollection of gross and apparently incurable evil in the 'monster'whom he had tried in vain to raise and soften, and in the monster'shuman confederates. It is this, which is but the repetition of hisearlier experience of treachery and ingratitude, that troubles his oldbrain, makes his mind 'beat,'[192] and forces on him the sense ofunreality and evanescence in the world and the life that are haunted bysuch evil. Nor, though Prospero can spare and forgive, is there any signto the end that he believes the evil curable either in the monster, the'born devil,' or in the more monstrous villains, the 'worse thandevils,' whom he so sternly dismisses. But he has learned patience, hascome to regard his anger and loathing as a weakness or infirmity, andwould not have it disturb the young and innocent. And so, in the days of_King Lear_, it was chiefly the power of 'monstrous' and apparentlycureless evil in the 'great world' that filled Shakespeare's soul withhorror, and perhaps forced him sometimes to yield to the infirmity ofmisanthropy and despair, to cry 'No, no, no life,' and to take refuge inthe thought that this fitful fever is a dream that must soon fade into adreamless sleep; until, to free himself from the perilous stuff thatweighed upon his heart, he summoned to his aid his 'so potent art,' andwrought this stuff into the stormy music of his greatest poem, whichseems to cry,     You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need,and, like the _Tempest_, seems to preach to us from end to end, 'Thoumust be patient,' 'Bear free and patient thoughts. '[193]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 158: Of course I do not mean that he is beginning to beinsane, and still less that he _is_ insane (as some medical criticssuggest). ][Footnote 159: I must however point out that the modern stage-directionsare most unfortunate in concealing the fact that here Cordelia sees herfather again _for the first time_. See Note W. ][Footnote 160: What immediately follows is as striking an illustrationof quite another quality, and of the effects which make us think of Learas pursued by a relentless fate. If he could go in and sleep after hisprayer, as he intends, his mind, one feels, might be saved: so far therehas been only the menace of madness. But from within the hovelEdgar--the last man who would willingly have injured Lear--cries,'Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom! '; the Fool runs outterrified; Edgar, summoned by Kent, follows him; and, at sight of Edgar,in a moment something gives way in Lear's brain, and he exclaims:                          Hast thou given all     To thy two daughters? And art thou come to this? Henceforth he is mad. And they remain out in the storm. I have not seen it noticed that this stroke of fate is repeated--surelyintentionally--in the sixth scene. Gloster has succeeded in persuadingLear to come into the 'house'; he then leaves, and Kent after muchdifficulty induces Lear to lie down and rest upon the cushions. Sleepbegins to come to him again, and he murmurs,     'Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains; so, so, so.     We'll go to supper i' the morning. So, so, so. 'At that moment Gloster enters with the news that he has discovered aplot to kill the King; the rest that 'might yet have balm'd his brokensenses' is again interrupted; and he is hurried away on a litter towardsDover. (His recovery, it will be remembered, is due to a long sleepartificially induced. )][Footnote 161: III. iv. 49. This is printed as prose in the Globeedition, but is surely verse. Lear has not yet spoken prose in thisscene, and his next three speeches are in verse. The next is in prose,and, ending, in his tearing off his clothes, shows the advance ofinsanity. ][Footnote 162: [Lear's death is thus, I am reminded, like _père_Goriot's. ] This interpretation may be condemned as fantastic, but thetext, it appears to me, will bear no other. This is the whole speech (inthe Globe text):     And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!     Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,     And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,     Never, never, never, never, never!     Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.     Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,     Look there, look there! The transition at 'Do you see this? ' from despair to something more thanhope is exactly the same as in the preceding passage at the word 'Ha! ':     A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!     I might have saved her; now she's gone for ever!     Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little.     Ha!     What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft,     Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. As to my other remarks, I will ask the reader to notice that the passagefrom Lear's entrance with the body of Cordelia to the stage-direction_He dies_ (which probably comes a few lines too soon) is 54 lines inlength, and that 30 of them represent the interval during which he hasabsolutely forgotten Cordelia. (It begins when he looks up at theCaptain's words, line 275. ) To make Lear during this interval turncontinually in anguish to the corpse, is to act the passage in a mannerirreconcilable with the text, and insufferable in its effect. I speakfrom experience. I have seen the passage acted thus, and my sympathieswere so exhausted long before Lear's death that his last speech, themost pathetic speech ever written, left me disappointed and weary. ][Footnote 163: The Quartos give the 'Never' only thrice (surelywrongly), and all the actors I have heard have preferred this easiertask. I ought perhaps to add that the Quartos give the words 'Break,heart; I prithee, break! ' to Lear, not Kent. They and the Folio are atodds throughout the last sixty lines of King Lear, and all good moderntexts are eclectic. ][Footnote 164: The connection of these sufferings with the sin ofearlier days (not, it should be noticed, of youth) is almost thrust uponour notice by the levity of Gloster's own reference to the subject inthe first scene, and by Edgar's often quoted words 'The gods are just,'etc. The following collocation, also, may be intentional (III. iv. 116):     _Fool_. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old     lecher's heart; a small spark, all the rest on's body cold.     Look, here comes a walking fire. [_Enter_ GLOSTER with a     torch. ]Pope destroyed the collocation by transferring the stage-direction to apoint some dozen lines later. ][Footnote 165: The passages are here printed together (III. iv. 28 ff. and IV. i. 67 ff. ):     _Lear. _ Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,     That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,     How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,     Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you     From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en     Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;     Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,     That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,     And show the heavens just.     _Glo. _ Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues     Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched     Makes thee the happier: heavens, deal so still!     Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,     That slaves your ordinance, that will not see     Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly;     So distribution should undo excess,     And each man have enough. ][Footnote 166: Schmidt's idea--based partly on the omission from theFolios at I. ii. 103 (see Furness' Variorum) of the words 'To his fatherthat so tenderly and entirely loves him'--that Gloster loved neither ofhis sons, is surely an entire mistake. See, not to speak of generalimpressions, III. iv. 171 ff. ][Footnote 167: Imagination demands for Lear, even more than for Othello,majesty of stature and mien. Tourgénief felt this and made his 'Lear ofthe Steppes' a _gigantic_ peasant. If Shakespeare's texts give noexpress authority for ideas like these, the reason probably is that hewrote primarily for the theatre, where the principal actor might not bea large man. ][Footnote 168: He is not present, of course, till France and Burgundyenter; but while he is present he says not a word beyond 'Here's Franceand Burgundy, my noble lord. ' For some remarks on the possibility thatShakespeare imagined him as having encouraged Lear in his idea ofdividing the kingdom see Note T. It must be remembered that Cornwall wasGloster's 'arch and patron. '][Footnote 169: In this she stands alone among the more notablecharacters of the play. Doubtless Regan's exclamation 'O the blest gods'means nothing, but the fact that it is given to her means something. Forsome further remarks on Goneril see Note T. I may add that touches ofGoneril reappear in the heroine of the next tragedy, _Macbeth_; and thatwe are sometimes reminded of her again by the character of the Queen in_Cymbeline_, who bewitched the feeble King by her beauty, and marriedhim for greatness while she abhorred his person (_Cymbeline_, V. v. 62f. , 31 f. ); who tried to poison her step-daughter and intended to poisonher husband; who died despairing because she could not execute all theevil she purposed; and who inspirited her husband to defy the Romans bywords that still stir the blood (_Cymbeline_, III. i. 14 f. Cf. _KingLear_, IV. ii. 50 f. ). ][Footnote 170: I. ii. 1 f. Shakespeare seems to have in mind the ideaexpressed in the speech of Ulysses about the dependence of the world ondegree, order, system, custom, and about the chaos which would resultfrom the free action of appetite, the 'universal wolf' (_Troilus andCr. _ I. iii. 83 f. ). Cf. the contrast between 'particular will' and 'themoral laws of nature and of nations,' II. ii. 53, 185 ('nature' here ofcourse is the opposite of the 'nature' of Edmund's speech). ][Footnote 171: The line last quoted is continued by Edmund in the Foliosthus: 'Th' hast spoken right; 'tis true,' but in the Quartos thus: 'Thouhast spoken truth,' which leaves the line imperfect. This, and theimperfect line 'Make instruments to plague us,' suggest that Shakespearewrote at first simply,                  Make instruments to plague us.     _Edm. _                           Th' hast spoken truth. The Quartos show other variations which seem to point to the fact thatthe MS. was here difficult to make out. ][Footnote 172: IV. i. 1-9. I am indebted here to Koppel,_Verbesserungsvorschläge zu den Erläuterungen und der Textlesung desLear_ (1899). ][Footnote 173: See I. i. 142 ff. Kent speaks, not of the _injustice_ ofLear's action, but of its 'folly,' its 'hideous rashness. ' When the Kingexclaims 'Kent, on thy life, no more,' he answers:     My life I never held but as a pawn     To wage against thy enemies; nor fear to lose it,     _Thy safety being the motive_. (The first Folio omits 'a,' and in the next line reads 'nere' for 'nor. 'Perhaps the first line should read 'My life I ne'er held but as pawn towage. ')][Footnote 174: See II. ii. 162 to end. The light-heartedness disappears,of course, as Lear's misfortunes thicken. ][Footnote 175: This difference, however, must not be pressed too far;nor must we take Kent's retort,                Now by Apollo, king,     Thou swear'st thy gods in vain,for a sign of disbelief. He twice speaks of the gods in another manner(I. i. 185, III. vi. 5), and he was accustomed to think of Lear in his'prayers' (I. i. 144). ][Footnote 176: The 'clown' in _Antony and Cleopatra_ is merely an oldpeasant. There is a fool in _Timon of Athens_, however, and he appearsin a scene (II. ii. ) generally attributed to Shakespeare. His talksometimes reminds one of Lear's fool; and Kent's remark, 'This is notaltogether fool, my lord,' is repeated in _Timon_, II. ii. 122, 'Thouart not altogether a fool. '][Footnote 177: [This is no obstacle. There could hardly be a stagetradition hostile to his youth, since he does not appear in Tate'sversion, which alone was acted during the century and a half beforeMacready's production. I had forgotten this; and my memory must alsohave been at fault regarding an engraving to which I referred in thefirst edition. Both mistakes were pointed out by Mr. Archer. ]][Footnote 178: In parts of what follows I am indebted to remarks byCowden Clarke, quoted by Furness on I. iv. 91. ][Footnote 179: See also Note T. ][Footnote 180: 'Our last and least' (according to the Folio reading). Lear speaks again of 'this little seeming substance. ' He can carry herdead body in his arms. ][Footnote 181: Perhaps then the 'low sound' is not merely metaphoricalin Kent's speech in I. i. 153 f. :                        answer my life my judgment,     Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least;     Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound     Reverbs no hollowness. ][Footnote 182: I. i. 80. 'More ponderous' is the reading of the Folios,'more richer' that of the Quartos. The latter is usually preferred, andMr. Aldis Wright says 'more ponderous' has the appearance of being aplayer's correction to avoid a piece of imaginary bad grammar. Does itnot sound more like the author's improvement of a phrase that he thoughta little flat? And, apart from that, is it not significant that itexpresses the same idea of weight that appears in the phrase 'I cannotheave my heart into my mouth'? ][Footnote 183: Cf. Cornwall's satirical remarks on Kent's 'plainness' inII. ii. 101 ff. ,--a plainness which did no service to Kent's master. (Asa matter of fact, Cordelia had said nothing about 'plainness. ')][Footnote 184: Who, like Kent, hastens on the quarrel with Goneril. ][Footnote 185: I do not wish to complicate the discussion by examiningthe differences, in degree or otherwise, in the various cases, or byintroducing numerous qualifications; and therefore I do not add thenames of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. ][Footnote 186: It follows from the above that, if this idea were madeexplicit and accompanied our reading of a tragedy throughout, it wouldconfuse or even destroy the tragic impression. So would the constantpresence of Christian beliefs. The reader most attached to these beliefsholds them in temporary suspension while he is immersed in aShakespearean tragedy. Such tragedy assumes that the world, as it ispresented, is the truth, though it also provokes feelings which implythat this world is not the whole truth, and therefore not the truth. ][Footnote 187: Though Cordelia, of course, does not occupy the positionof the hero. ][Footnote 188: _E. g. _ in _King Lear_ the servants, and the old man whosuccours Gloster and brings to the naked beggar 'the best 'parel that hehas, come on't what will,' _i. e. _ whatever vengeance Regan can inflict. Cf. the Steward and the Servants in _Timon_. Cf. there also (V. i. 23),'Promising is the very air o' the time . . . performance is ever theduller for his act; and, _but in the plainer and simpler kind ofpeople_, the deed of saying [performance of promises] is quite out ofuse. ' Shakespeare's feeling on this subject, though apparently speciallykeen at this time of his life, is much the same throughout (cf. Adam in_As You Like It_). He has no respect for the plainer and simpler kind ofpeople as politicians, but a great respect and regard for their hearts. ][Footnote 189: 'I stumbled when I saw,' says Gloster. ][Footnote 190: Our advantages give us a blind confidence in oursecurity. Cf. _Timon_, IV. iii. 76,     _Alc. _ I have heard in some sort of thy miseries.     _Tim. _ Thou saw'st them when I had prosperity. ][Footnote 191: Biblical ideas seem to have been floating inShakespeare's mind. Cf. the words of Kent, when Lear enters withCordelia's body, 'Is this the promised end? ' and Edgar's answer, 'Orimage of that horror? ' The 'promised end' is certainly the end of theworld (cf. with 'image' 'the great doom's image,' _Macbeth_, II. iii. 83); and the next words, Albany's 'Fall and cease,' _may_ be addressedto the heavens or stars, not to Lear. It seems probable that in writingGloster's speech about the predicted horrors to follow 'these lateeclipses' Shakespeare had a vague recollection of the passage in_Matthew_ xxiv. , or of that in _Mark_ xiii. , about the tribulationswhich were to be the sign of 'the end of the world. ' (I do not mean, ofcourse, that the 'prediction' of I. ii. 119 is the prediction to befound in one of these passages. )][Footnote 192: Cf. _Hamlet_, III. i. 181:     This something-settled matter in his heart,     Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus     From fashion of himself. ][Footnote 193: I believe the criticism of _King Lear_ which hasinfluenced me most is that in Prof. Dowden's _Shakspere, his Mind andArt_ (though, when I wrote my lectures, I had not read that criticismfor many years); and I am glad that this acknowledgment gives me theopportunity of repeating in print an opinion which I have oftenexpressed to students, that anyone entering on the study of Shakespeare,and unable or unwilling to read much criticism, would do best to takeProf. Dowden for his guide. ]LECTURE IXMACBETH_Macbeth_, it is probable, was the last-written of the four greattragedies, and immediately preceded _Antony and Cleopatra_. [194] In thatplay Shakespeare's final style appears for the first time completelyformed, and the transition to this style is much more decidedly visiblein _Macbeth_ than in _King Lear_. Yet in certain respects _Macbeth_recalls _Hamlet_ rather than _Othello_ or _King Lear_. In the heroes ofboth plays the passage from thought to a critical resolution and actionis difficult, and excites the keenest interest. In neither play, as in_Othello_ and _King Lear_, is painful pathos one of the main effects. Evil, again, though it shows in _Macbeth_ a prodigious energy, is notthe icy or stony inhumanity of Iago or Goneril; and, as in _Hamlet_, itis pursued by remorse. Finally, Shakespeare no longer restricts theaction to purely human agencies, as in the two preceding tragedies;portents once more fill the heavens, ghosts rise from their graves, anunearthly light flickers about the head of the doomed man. The specialpopularity of _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ is due in part to some of thesecommon characteristics, notably to the fascination of the supernatural,the absence of the spectacle of extreme undeserved suffering, theabsence of characters which horrify and repel and yet are destitute ofgrandeur. The reader who looks unwillingly at Iago gazes at Lady Macbethin awe, because though she is dreadful she is also sublime. The wholetragedy is sublime. In this, however, and in other respects, _Macbeth_ makes an impressionquite different from that of _Hamlet_. The dimensions of the principalcharacters, the rate of movement in the action, the supernatural effect,the style, the versification, are all changed; and they are all changedin much the same manner. In many parts of _Macbeth_ there is in thelanguage a peculiar compression, pregnancy, energy, even violence; theharmonious grace and even flow, often conspicuous in _Hamlet_, havealmost disappeared. The cruel characters, built on a scale at least aslarge as that of _Othello_, seem to attain at times an almost superhumanstature. The diction has in places a huge and rugged grandeur, whichdegenerates here and there into tumidity. The solemn majesty of theroyal Ghost in _Hamlet_, appearing in armour and standing silent in themoonlight, is exchanged for shapes of horror, dimly seen in the murkyair or revealed by the glare of the caldron fire in a dark cavern, orfor the ghastly face of Banquo badged with blood and staring with blankeyes. The other three tragedies all open with conversations which leadinto the action: here the action bursts into wild life amidst the soundsof a thunder-storm and the echoes of a distant battle. It hurriesthrough seven very brief scenes of mounting suspense to a terriblecrisis, which is reached, in the murder of Duncan, at the beginning ofthe Second Act. Pausing a moment and changing its shape, it hastes againwith scarcely diminished speed to fresh horrors. And even when the speedof the outward action is slackened, the same effect is continued inanother form: we are shown a soul tortured by an agony which admits nota moment's repose, and rushing in frenzy towards its doom. _Macbeth_ isvery much shorter than the other three tragedies, but our experience intraversing it is so crowded and intense that it leaves an impression notof brevity but of speed. It is the most vehement, the most concentrated,perhaps we may say the most tremendous, of the tragedies. 1A Shakespearean tragedy, as a rule, has a special tone or atmosphere ofits own, quite perceptible, however difficult to describe. The effect ofthis atmosphere is marked with unusual strength in _Macbeth_. It is dueto a variety of influences which combine with those just noticed, sothat, acting and reacting, they form a whole; and the desolation of theblasted heath, the design of the Witches, the guilt in the hero's soul,the darkness of the night, seem to emanate from one and the same source. This effect is strengthened by a multitude of small touches, which atthe moment may be little noticed but still leave their mark on theimagination. We may approach the consideration of the characters and theaction by distinguishing some of the ingredients of this general effect. Darkness, we may even say blackness, broods over this tragedy. It isremarkable that almost all the scenes which at once recur to memory takeplace either at night or in some dark spot. The vision of the dagger,the murder of Duncan, the murder of Banquo, the sleep-walking of LadyMacbeth, all come in night-scenes. The Witches dance in the thick air ofa storm, or, 'black and midnight hags,' receive Macbeth in a cavern. Theblackness of night is to the hero a thing of fear, even of horror; andthat which he feels becomes the spirit of the play. The faintglimmerings of the western sky at twilight are here menacing: it is thehour when the traveller hastens to reach safety in his inn, and whenBanquo rides homeward to meet his assassins; the hour when 'lightthickens,' when 'night's black agents to their prey do rouse,' when thewolf begins to howl, and the owl to scream, and withered murder stealsforth to his work. Macbeth bids the stars hide their fires that his'black' desires may be concealed; Lady Macbeth calls on thick night tocome, palled in the dunnest smoke of hell. The moon is down and no starsshine when Banquo, dreading the dreams of the coming night, goesunwillingly to bed, and leaves Macbeth to wait for the summons of thelittle bell. When the next day should dawn, its light is 'strangled,'and 'darkness does the face of earth entomb. ' In the whole drama the sunseems to shine only twice: first, in the beautiful but ironical passagewhere Duncan sees the swallows flitting round the castle of death; and,afterwards, when at the close the avenging army gathers to rid the earthof its shame. Of the many slighter touches which deepen this effect Inotice only one. The failure of nature in Lady Macbeth is marked by herfear of darkness; 'she has light by her continually. ' And in the onephrase of fear that escapes her lips even in sleep, it is of thedarkness of the place of torment that she speaks. [195]The atmosphere of _Macbeth_, however, is not that of unrelievedblackness. On the contrary, as compared with _King Lear_ and its colddim gloom, _Macbeth_ leaves a decided impression of colour; it is reallythe impression of a black night broken by flashes of light and colour,sometimes vivid and even glaring. They are the lights and colours of thethunder-storm in the first scene; of the dagger hanging before Macbeth'seyes and glittering alone in the midnight air; of the torch borne by theservant when he and his lord come upon Banquo crossing the castle-courtto his room; of the torch, again, which Fleance carried to light hisfather to death, and which was dashed out by one of the murderers; ofthe torches that flared in the hall on the face of the Ghost and theblanched cheeks of Macbeth; of the flames beneath the boiling caldronfrom which the apparitions in the cavern rose; of the taper which showedto the Doctor and Gentlewoman the wasted face and blank eyes of LadyMacbeth. And, above all, the colour is the colour of blood. It cannot bean accident that the image of blood is forced upon us continually, notmerely by the events themselves, but by full descriptions, and even byreiteration of the word in unlikely parts of the dialogue. The Witches,after their first wild appearance, have hardly quitted the stage whenthere staggers onto it a 'bloody man,' gashed with wounds. His tale isof a hero whose 'brandished steel smoked with bloody execution,' 'carvedout a passage' to his enemy, and 'unseam'd him from the nave to thechaps. ' And then he tells of a second battle so bloody that thecombatants seemed as if they 'meant to bathe in reeking wounds. ' Whatmetaphors! What a dreadful image is that with which Lady Macbeth greetsus almost as she enters, when she prays the spirits of cruelty so tothicken her blood that pity cannot flow along her veins! What picturesare those of the murderer appearing at the door of the banquet-room withBanquo's 'blood upon his face'; of Banquo himself 'with twenty trenchedgashes on his head,' or 'blood-bolter'd' and smiling in derision at hismurderer; of Macbeth, gazing at his hand, and watching it dye the wholegreen ocean red; of Lady Macbeth, gazing at hers, and stretching it awayfrom her face to escape the smell of blood that all the perfumes ofArabia will not subdue! The most horrible lines in the whole tragedy arethose of her shuddering cry, 'Yet who would have thought the old man tohave had so much blood in him? ' And it is not only at such moments thatthese images occur. Even in the quiet conversation of Malcolm andMacduff, Macbeth is imagined as holding a bloody sceptre, and Scotlandas a country bleeding and receiving every day a new gash added to herwounds. It is as if the poet saw the whole story through an ensanguinedmist, and as if it stained the very blackness of the night. WhenMacbeth, before Banquo's murder, invokes night to scarf up the tendereye of pitiful day, and to tear in pieces the great bond that keeps himpale, even the invisible hand that is to tear the bond is imagined ascovered with blood. Let us observe another point. The vividness, magnitude, and violence ofthe imagery in some of these passages are characteristic of _Macbeth_almost throughout; and their influence contributes to form itsatmosphere. Images like those of the babe torn smiling from the breastand dashed to death; of pouring the sweet milk of concord into hell; ofthe earth shaking in fever; of the frame of things disjointed; ofsorrows striking heaven on the face, so that it resounds and yells outlike syllables of dolour; of the mind lying in restless ecstasy on arack; of the mind full of scorpions; of the tale told by an idiot, fullof sound and fury;--all keep the imagination moving on a 'wild andviolent sea,' while it is scarcely for a moment permitted to dwell onthoughts of peace and beauty. In its language, as in its action, thedrama is full of tumult and storm. Whenever the Witches are present wesee and hear a thunder-storm: when they are absent we hear ofship-wrecking storms and direful thunders; of tempests that blow downtrees and churches, castles, palaces and pyramids; of the frightfulhurricane of the night when Duncan was murdered; of the blast on whichpity rides like a new-born babe, or on which Heaven's cherubim arehorsed. There is thus something magnificently appropriate in the cry'Blow, wind! Come, wrack! ' with which Macbeth, turning from the sight ofthe moving wood of Birnam, bursts from his castle. He was borne to histhrone on a whirlwind, and the fate he goes to meet comes on the wingsof storm. Now all these agencies--darkness, the lights and colours that illuminateit, the storm that rushes through it, the violent and giganticimages--conspire with the appearances of the Witches and the Ghost toawaken horror, and in some degree also a supernatural dread. And to thiseffect other influences contribute. The pictures called up by the merewords of the Witches stir the same feelings,--those, for example, of thespell-bound sailor driven tempest-tost for nine times nine weary weeks,and never visited by sleep night or day; of the drop of poisonous foamthat forms on the moon, and, falling to earth, is collected forpernicious ends; of the sweltering venom of the toad, the finger of thebabe killed at its birth by its own mother, the tricklings from themurderer's gibbet. In Nature, again, something is felt to be at work,sympathetic with human guilt and supernatural malice. She labours withportents.     Lamentings heard in the air, strange screams of death,     And prophesying with accents terrible,burst from her. The owl clamours all through the night; Duncan's horsesdevour each other in frenzy; the dawn comes, but no light with it. Common sights and sounds, the crying of crickets, the croak of theraven, the light thickening after sunset, the home-coming of the rooks,are all ominous. Then, as if to deepen these impressions, Shakespearehas concentrated attention on the obscurer regions of man's being, onphenomena which make it seem that he is in the power of secret forceslurking below, and independent of his consciousness and will: such asthe relapse of Macbeth from conversation into a reverie, during which hegazes fascinated at the image of murder drawing closer and closer; thewriting on his face of strange things he never meant to show; thepressure of imagination heightening into illusion, like the vision of adagger in the air, at first bright, then suddenly splashed with blood,or the sound of a voice that cried 'Sleep no more' and would not besilenced. [196] To these are added other, and constant, allusions tosleep, man's strange half-conscious life; to the misery of itswithholding; to the terrible dreams of remorse; to the cursed thoughtsfrom which Banquo is free by day, but which tempt him in his sleep: andagain to abnormal disturbances of sleep; in the two men, of whom oneduring the murder of Duncan laughed in his sleep, and the other raised acry of murder; and in Lady Macbeth, who rises to re-enact insomnambulism those scenes the memory of which is pushing her on tomadness or suicide. All this has one effect, to excite supernaturalalarm and, even more, a dread of the presence of evil not only in itsrecognised seat but all through and around our mysterious nature. Perhaps there is no other work equal to _Macbeth_ in the production ofthis effect. [197]It is enhanced--to take a last point--by the use of a literaryexpedient. Not even in _Richard III. _, which in this, as in otherrespects, has resemblances to _Macbeth_, is there so much of Irony. I donot refer to irony in the ordinary sense; to speeches, for example,where the speaker is intentionally ironical, like that of Lennox in III. vi. I refer to irony on the part of the author himself, to ironicaljuxtapositions of persons and events, and especially to the 'Sophocleanirony' by which a speaker is made to use words bearing to the audience,in addition to his own meaning, a further and ominous sense, hidden fromhimself and, usually, from the other persons on the stage. The veryfirst words uttered by Macbeth,     So foul and fair a day I have not seen,are an example to which attention has often been drawn; for they startlethe reader by recalling the words of the Witches in the first scene,     Fair is foul, and foul is fair. When Macbeth, emerging from his murderous reverie, turns to the noblessaying, 'Let us toward the King,' his words are innocent, but to thereader have a double meaning. Duncan's comment on the treachery ofCawdor,                       There's no art     To find the mind's construction in the face:     He was a gentleman on whom I built     An absolute trust,is interrupted[198] by the entrance of the traitor Macbeth, who isgreeted with effusive gratitude and a like 'absolute trust. ' I havealready referred to the ironical effect of the beautiful lines in whichDuncan and Banquo describe the castle they are about to enter. To thereader Lady Macbeth's light words,     A little water clears us of this deed:     How easy is it then,summon up the picture of the sleep-walking scene. The idea of thePorter's speech, in which he imagines himself the keeper of hell-gate,shows the same irony. So does the contrast between the obvious and thehidden meanings of the apparitions of the armed head, the bloody child,and the child with the tree in his hand. It would be easy to add furtherexamples. Perhaps the most striking is the answer which Banquo, as herides away, never to return alive, gives to Macbeth's reminder, 'Failnot our feast. ' 'My lord, I will not,' he replies, and he keeps hispromise. It cannot be by accident that Shakespeare so frequently in thisplay uses a device which contributes to excite the vague fear of hiddenforces operating on minds unconscious of their influence. [199]2But of course he had for this purpose an agency more potent than any yetconsidered. It would be almost an impertinence to attempt to describeanew the influence of the Witch-scenes on the imagination of thereader. [200] Nor do I believe that among different readers thisinfluence differs greatly except in degree. But when critics begin toanalyse the imaginative effect, and still more when, going behind it,they try to determine the truth which lay for Shakespeare or lies for usin these creations, they too often offer us results which, eitherthrough perversion or through inadequacy, fail to correspond with thateffect. This happens in opposite ways. On the one hand the Witches,whose contribution to the 'atmosphere' of Macbeth can hardly beexaggerated, are credited with far too great an influence upon theaction; sometimes they are described as goddesses, or even as fates,whom Macbeth is powerless to resist. And this is perversion. On theother hand, we are told that, great as is their influence on the action,it is so because they are merely symbolic representations of theunconscious or half-conscious guilt in Macbeth himself. And this isinadequate. The few remarks I have to make may take the form of acriticism on these views. (1) As to the former, Shakespeare took, as material for his purposes,the ideas about witch-craft that he found existing in people around himand in books like Reginald Scot's _Discovery_ (1584). And he used theseideas without changing their substance at all. He selected and improved,avoiding the merely ridiculous, dismissing (unlike Middleton) thesexually loathsome or stimulating, rehandling and heightening whatevercould touch the imagination with fear, horror, and mysteriousattraction. The Witches, that is to say, are not goddesses, or fates,or, in any way whatever, supernatural beings. They are old women, poorand ragged, skinny and hideous, full of vulgar spite, occupied inkilling their neighbours' swine or revenging themselves on sailors'wives who have refused them chestnuts. If Banquo considers their beardsa proof that they are not women, that only shows his ignorance: Sir HughEvans would have known better. [201] There is not a syllable in _Macbeth_to imply that they are anything but women. But, again in accordance withthe popular ideas, they have received from evil spirits certainsupernatural powers. They can 'raise haile, tempests, and hurtfullweather; as lightening, thunder etc. ' They can 'passe from place toplace in the aire invisible. ' They can 'keepe divels and spirits in thelikenesse of todes and cats,' Paddock or Graymalkin. They can'transferre corne in the blade from one place to another. ' They can'manifest unto others things hidden and lost, and foreshew things tocome, and see them as though they were present. ' The reader will applythese phrases and sentences at once to passages in _Macbeth_. They areall taken from Scot's first chapter, where he is retailing the currentsuperstitions of his time; and, in regard to the Witches, Shakespearementions scarcely anything, if anything, that was not to be found, ofcourse in a more prosaic shape, either in Scot or in some other easilyaccessible authority. [202] He read, to be sure, in Holinshed, his mainsource for the story of Macbeth, that, according to the common opinion,the 'women' who met Macbeth 'were eyther the weird sisters, that is (asye would say) ye Goddesses of destinee, or els some Nimphes or Feiries. 'But what does that matter? What he read in his authority was absolutelynothing to his audience, and remains nothing to us, unless he _used_what he read. And he did not use this idea. He used nothing but thephrase 'weird sisters,'[203] which certainly no more suggested to aLondon audience the Parcae of one mythology or the Norns of another thanit does to-day. His Witches owe all their power to the spirits; they are'_instruments_ of darkness'; the spirits are their 'masters' (IV. i. 63). Fancy the fates having masters! Even if the passages where Hecateappears are Shakespeare's,[204] that will not help the Witches; for theyare subject to Hecate, who is herself a goddess or superior devil, not afate. [205]Next, while the influence of the Witches' prophecies on Macbeth is verygreat, it is quite clearly shown to be an influence and nothing more. There is no sign whatever in the play that Shakespeare meant the actionsof Macbeth to be forced on him by an external power, whether that of theWitches, or of their 'masters,' or of Hecate. It is needless thereforeto insist that such a conception would be in contradiction with hiswhole tragic practice. The prophecies of the Witches are presentedsimply as dangerous circumstances with which Macbeth has to deal: theyare dramatically on the same level as the story of the Ghost in_Hamlet_, or the falsehoods told by Iago to Othello. Macbeth is, in theordinary sense, perfectly free in regard to them: and if we speak ofdegrees of freedom, he is even more free than Hamlet, who was crippledby melancholy when the Ghost appeared to him. That the influence of thefirst prophecies upon him came as much from himself as from them, ismade abundantly clear by the obviously intentional contrast between himand Banquo. Banquo, ambitious but perfectly honest, is scarcely evenstartled by them, and he remains throughout the scene indifferent tothem. But when Macbeth heard them he was not an innocent man. Preciselyhow far his mind was guilty may be a question; but no innocent man wouldhave started, as he did, with a start of _fear_ at the mere prophecy ofa crown, or have conceived thereupon _immediately_ the thought ofmurder. Either this thought was not new to him,[206] or he had cherishedat least some vaguer dishonourable dream, the instantaneous recurrenceof which, at the moment of his hearing the prophecy, revealed to him aninward and terrifying guilt.

In either case not only was he free toaccept or resist the temptation, but the temptation was already withinhim. We are admitting too much, therefore, when we compare him withOthello, for Othello's mind was perfectly free from suspicion when histemptation came to him. And we are admitting, again, too much when weuse the word 'temptation' in reference to the first prophecies of theWitches. Speaking strictly we must affirm that he was tempted only byhimself. _He_ speaks indeed of their 'supernatural soliciting'; but infact they did not solicit. They merely announced events: they hailed himas Thane of Glamis, Thane of Cawdor, and King hereafter. No connectionof these announcements with any action of his was even hinted by them. For all that appears, the natural death of an old man might havefulfilled the prophecy any day. [207] In any case, the idea of fulfillingit by murder was entirely his own. [208]When Macbeth sees the Witches again, after the murders of Duncan andBanquo, we observe, however, a striking change. They no longer need togo and meet him; he seeks them out. He has committed himself to hiscourse of evil. Now accordingly they do 'solicit. ' They prophesy, butthey also give advice: they bid him be bloody, bold, and secure. We haveno hope that he will reject their advice; but so far are they fromhaving, even now, any power to compel him to accept it, that they makecareful preparations to deceive him into doing so. And, almost as thoughto intimate how entirely the responsibility for his deeds still lieswith Macbeth, Shakespeare makes his first act after this interview onefor which his tempters gave him not a hint--the slaughter of Macduff'swife and children. To all this we must add that Macbeth himself nowhere betrays a suspicionthat his action is, or has been, thrust on him by an external power. Hecurses the Witches for deceiving him, but he never attempts to shift tothem the burden of his guilt. Neither has Shakespeare placed in themouth of any other character in this play such fatalistic expressions asmay be found in _King Lear_ and occasionally elsewhere. He appearsactually to have taken pains to make the natural psychological genesisof Macbeth's crimes perfectly clear, and it was a most unfortunatenotion of Schlegel's that the Witches were required because naturalagencies would have seemed too weak to drive such a man as Macbeth tohis first murder. 'Still,' it may be said, 'the Witches did foreknow Macbeth's future; andwhat is foreknown is fixed; and how can a man be responsible when hisfuture is fixed? ' With this question, as a speculative one, we have noconcern here; but, in so far as it relates to the play, I answer, first,that not one of the things foreknown is an action. This is just as trueof the later prophecies as of the first. That Macbeth will be harmed bynone of woman born, and will never be vanquished till Birnam Wood shallcome against him, involves (so far as we are informed) no action of his. It may be doubted, indeed, whether Shakespeare would have introducedprophecies of Macbeth's deeds, even if it had been convenient to do so;he would probably have felt that to do so would interfere with theinterest of the inward struggle and suffering. And, in the second place,_Macbeth_ was not written for students of metaphysics or theology, butfor people at large; and, however it may be with prophecies of actions,prophecies of mere events do not suggest to people at large any sort ofdifficulty about responsibility. Many people, perhaps most, habituallythink of their 'future' as something fixed, and of themselves as 'free. 'The Witches nowadays take a room in Bond Street and charge a guinea; andwhen the victim enters they hail him the possessor of £1000 a year, orprophesy to him of journeys, wives, and children. But though he isstruck dumb by their prescience, it does not even cross his mind that heis going to lose his glorious 'freedom'--not though journeys andmarriages imply much more agency on his part than anything foretold toMacbeth. This whole difficulty is undramatic; and I may add thatShakespeare nowhere shows, like Chaucer, any interest in speculativeproblems concerning foreknowledge, predestination and freedom. (2) We may deal more briefly with the opposite interpretation. Accordingto it the Witches and their prophecies are to be taken merely assymbolical representations of thoughts and desires which have slumberedin Macbeth's breast and now rise into consciousness and confront him. With this idea, which springs from the wish to get rid of a mereexternal supernaturalism, and to find a psychological and spiritualmeaning in that which the groundlings probably received as hard facts,one may feel sympathy. But it is evident that it is rather a'philosophy' of the Witches than an immediate dramatic apprehension ofthem; and even so it will be found both incomplete and, in otherrespects, inadequate. It is incomplete because it cannot possibly be applied to all the facts. Let us grant that it will apply to the most important prophecy, that ofthe crown; and that the later warning which Macbeth receives, to bewareof Macduff, also answers to something in his own breast and 'harps hisfear aright' But there we have to stop. Macbeth had evidently nosuspicion of that treachery in Cawdor through which he himself becameThane; and who will suggest that he had any idea, however subconscious,about Birnam Wood or the man not born of woman? It may be held--andrightly, I think--that the prophecies which answer to nothing inward,the prophecies which are merely supernatural, produce, now at any rate,much less imaginative effect than the others,--even that they are in_Macbeth_ an element which was of an age and not for all time; but stillthey are there, and they are essential to the plot. [209] And as thetheory under consideration will not apply to them at all, it is notlikely that it gives an adequate account even of those prophecies towhich it can in some measure be applied. It is inadequate here chiefly because it is much too narrow. The Witchesand their prophecies, if they are to be rationalised or takensymbolically, must represent not only the evil slumbering in the hero'ssoul, but all those obscurer influences of the evil around him in theworld which aid his own ambition and the incitements of his wife. Suchinfluences, even if we put aside all belief in evil 'spirits,' are ascertain, momentous, and terrifying facts as the presence of inchoateevil in the soul itself; and if we exclude all reference to these factsfrom our idea of the Witches, it will be greatly impoverished and willcertainly fail to correspond with the imaginative effect. The union ofthe outward and inward here may be compared with something of the samekind in Greek poetry. [210] In the first Book of the _Iliad_ we are toldthat, when Agamemnon threatened to take Briseis from Achilles, 'griefcame upon Peleus' son, and his heart within his shaggy breast wasdivided in counsel, whether to draw his keen blade from his thigh andset the company aside and so slay Atreides, or to assuage his anger andcurb his soul. While yet he doubted thereof in heart and soul, and wasdrawing his great sword from his sheath, Athene came to him from heaven,sent forth of the white-armed goddess Hera, whose heart loved both alikeand had care for them. She stood behind Peleus' son and caught him byhis golden hair, to him only visible, and of the rest no man beheldher. ' And at her bidding he mastered his wrath, 'and stayed his heavyhand on the silver hilt, and thrust the great sword back into thesheath, and was not disobedient to the saying of Athene. '[211] Thesuccour of the goddess here only strengthens an inward movement in themind of Achilles, but we should lose something besides a poetic effectif for that reason we struck her out of the account. We should lose theidea that the inward powers of the soul answer in their essence tovaster powers without, which support them and assure the effect of theirexertion. So it is in _Macbeth_. [212] The words of the Witches are fatalto the hero only because there is in him something which leaps intolight at the sound of them; but they are at the same time the witness offorces which never cease to work in the world around him, and, on theinstant of his surrender to them, entangle him inextricably in the webof Fate. If the inward connection is once realised (and Shakespeare hasleft us no excuse for missing it), we need not fear, and indeed shallscarcely be able, to exaggerate the effect of the Witch-scenes inheightening and deepening the sense of fear, horror, and mystery whichpervades the atmosphere of the tragedy. 3From this murky background stand out the two great terrible figures, whodwarf all the remaining characters of the drama. Both are sublime, andboth inspire, far more than the other tragic heroes, the feeling of awe. They are never detached in imagination from the atmosphere whichsurrounds them and adds to their grandeur and terror. It is, as it were,continued into their souls. For within them is all that we feltwithout--the darkness of night, lit with the flame of tempest and thehues of blood, and haunted by wild and direful shapes, 'murderingministers,' spirits of remorse, and maddening visions of peace lost andjudgment to come. The way to be untrue to Shakespeare here, as always,is to relax the tension of imagination, to conventionalise, to conceiveMacbeth, for example, as a half-hearted cowardly criminal, and LadyMacbeth as a whole-hearted fiend. These two characters are fired by one and the same passion of ambition;and to a considerable extent they are alike. The disposition of each ishigh, proud, and commanding. They are born to rule, if not to reign. They are peremptory or contemptuous to their inferiors. They are notchildren of light, like Brutus and Hamlet; they are of the world. Weobserve in them no love of country, and no interest in the welfare ofanyone outside their family. Their habitual thoughts and aims are, and,we imagine, long have been, all of station and power. And though in boththere is something, and in one much, of what is higher--honour,conscience, humanity--they do not live consciously in the light of thesethings or speak their language. Not that they are egoists, like Iago;or, if they are egoists, theirs is an _egoïsme à deux_. They have noseparate ambitions. [213] They support and love one another. They suffertogether. And if, as time goes on, they drift a little apart, they arenot vulgar souls, to be alienated and recriminate when they experiencethe fruitlessness of their ambition. They remain to the end tragic, evengrand. So far there is much likeness between them. Otherwise they arecontrasted, and the action is built upon this contrast. Their attitudestowards the projected murder of Duncan are quite different; and itproduces in them equally different effects. In consequence, they appearin the earlier part of the play as of equal importance, if indeed LadyMacbeth does not overshadow her husband; but afterwards she retires moreand more into the background, and he becomes unmistakably the leadingfigure. His is indeed far the more complex character: and I will speakof it first. Macbeth, the cousin of a King mild, just, and beloved, but now too oldto lead his army, is introduced to us as a general of extraordinaryprowess, who has covered himself with glory in putting down a rebellionand repelling the invasion of a foreign army. In these conflicts heshowed great personal courage, a quality which he continues to displaythroughout the drama in regard to all plain dangers. It is difficult tobe sure of his customary demeanour, for in the play we see him either inwhat appears to be an exceptional relation to his wife, or else in thethroes of remorse and desperation; but from his behaviour during hisjourney home after the war, from his _later_ conversations with LadyMacbeth, and from his language to the murderers of Banquo and to others,we imagine him as a great warrior, somewhat masterful, rough, andabrupt, a man to inspire some fear and much admiration. He was thought'honest,' or honourable; he was trusted, apparently, by everyone;Macduff, a man of the highest integrity, 'loved him well. ' And therewas, in fact, much good in him. We have no warrant, I think, fordescribing him, with many writers, as of a 'noble' nature, like Hamletor Othello;[214] but he had a keen sense both of honour and of the worthof a good name. The phrase, again, 'too much of the milk of humankindness,' is applied to him in impatience by his wife, who did notfully understand him; but certainly he was far from devoid of humanityand pity. At the same time he was exceedingly ambitious. He must have been so bytemper. The tendency must have been greatly strengthened by hismarriage. When we see him, it has been further stimulated by hisremarkable success and by the consciousness of exceptional powers andmerit. It becomes a passion. The course of action suggested by it isextremely perilous: it sets his good name, his position, and even hislife on the hazard. It is also abhorrent to his better feelings. Theirdefeat in the struggle with ambition leaves him utterly wretched, andwould have kept him so, however complete had been his outward successand security. On the other hand, his passion for power and his instinctof self-assertion are so vehement that no inward misery could persuadehim to relinquish the fruits of crime, or to advance from remorse torepentance. In the character as so far sketched there is nothing very peculiar,though the strength of the forces contending in it is unusual. But thereis in Macbeth one marked peculiarity, the true apprehension of which isthe key to Shakespeare's conception. [215] This bold ambitious man ofaction has, within certain limits, the imagination of a poet,--animagination on the one hand extremely sensitive to impressions of acertain kind, and, on the other, productive of violent disturbance bothof mind and body. Through it he is kept in contact with supernaturalimpressions and is liable to supernatural fears. And through it,especially, come to him the intimations of conscience and honour. Macbeth's better nature--to put the matter for clearness' sake toobroadly--instead of speaking to him in the overt language of moralideas, commands, and prohibitions, incorporates itself in images whichalarm and horrify. His imagination is thus the best of him, somethingusually deeper and higher than his conscious thoughts; and if he hadobeyed it he would have been safe. But his wife quite misunderstands it,and he himself understands it only in part. The terrifying images whichdeter him from crime and follow its commission, and which are really theprotest of his deepest self, seem to his wife the creations of merenervous fear, and are sometimes referred by himself to the dread ofvengeance or the restlessness of insecurity. [216] His conscious orreflective mind, that is, moves chiefly among considerations of outwardsuccess and failure, while his inner being is convulsed by conscience. And his inability to understand himself is repeated and exaggerated inthe interpretations of actors and critics, who represent him as acoward, cold-blooded, calculating, and pitiless, who shrinks from crimesimply because it is dangerous, and suffers afterwards simply because heis not safe. In reality his courage is frightful. He strides from crimeto crime, though his soul never ceases to bar his advance with shapes ofterror, or to clamour in his ears that he is murdering his peace andcasting away his 'eternal jewel. 'It is of the first importance to realise the strength, and also (whathas not been so clearly recognised) the limits, of Macbeth'simagination. It is not the universal meditative imagination of Hamlet. He came to see in man, as Hamlet sometimes did, the 'quintessence ofdust'; but he must always have been incapable of Hamlet's reflections onman's noble reason and infinite faculty, or of seeing with Hamlet's eyes'this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted withgolden fire. ' Nor could he feel, like Othello, the romance of war or theinfinity of love. He shows no sign of any unusual sensitiveness to theglory or beauty in the world or the soul; and it is partly for thisreason that we have no inclination to love him, and that we regard himwith more of awe than of pity. His imagination is excitable and intense,but narrow. That which stimulates it is, almost solely, that whichthrills with sudden, startling, and often supernatural fear. [217] Thereis a famous passage late in the play (V. v. 10) which is here verysignificant, because it refers to a time before his conscience wasburdened, and so shows his native disposition:     The time has been, my senses would have cool'd     To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair     Would at a dismal treatise rise and stir     As life were in't. This 'time' must have been in his youth, or at least before we see him. And, in the drama, everything which terrifies him is of this character,only it has now a deeper and a moral significance. Palpable dangersleave him unmoved or fill him with fire. He does himself mere justicewhen he asserts he 'dare do all that may become a man,' or when heexclaims to Banquo's ghost,                        What man dare, I dare:     Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,     The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;     Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves     Shall never tremble. What appals him is always the image of his own guilty heart or bloodydeed, or some image which derives from them its terror or gloom. These,when they arise, hold him spell-bound and possess him wholly, like ahypnotic trance which is at the same time the ecstasy of a poet. As thefirst 'horrid image' of Duncan's murder--of himself murderingDuncan--rises from unconsciousness and confronts him, his hair stands onend and the outward scene vanishes from his eyes. Why? For fear of'consequences'? The idea is ridiculous. Or because the deed is bloody? The man who with his 'smoking' steel 'carved out his passage' to therebel leader, and 'unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,' wouldhardly be frightened by blood. How could fear of consequences make thedagger he is to use hang suddenly glittering before him in the air, andthen as suddenly dash it with gouts of blood? Even when he _talks_ ofconsequences, and declares that if he were safe against them he would'jump the life to come,' his imagination bears witness against him, andshows us that what really holds him back is the hideous vileness of thedeed:                            He's here in double trust;     First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,     Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,     Who should against his murderer shut the door,     Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan     Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been     So clear in his great office, that his virtues     Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against     The deep damnation of his taking-off;     And pity, like a naked new-born babe,     Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed     Upon the sightless couriers of the air,     Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,     That tears shall drown the wind. It may be said that he is here thinking of the horror that others willfeel at the deed--thinking therefore of consequences. Yes, but could herealise thus how horrible the deed would look to others if it were notequally horrible to himself? It is the same when the murder is done. He is well-nigh mad with horror,but it is not the horror of detection. It is not he who thinks ofwashing his hands or getting his nightgown on. He has brought away thedaggers he should have left on the pillows of the grooms, but what doeshe care for that? What _he_ thinks of is that, when he heard one of themen awaked from sleep say 'God bless us,' he could not say 'Amen'; forhis imagination presents to him the parching of his throat as animmediate judgment from heaven. His wife heard the owl scream and thecrickets cry; but what _he_ heard was the voice that first cried'Macbeth doth murder sleep,' and then, a minute later, with a change oftense, denounced on him, as if his three names gave him threepersonalities to suffer in, the doom of sleeplessness:     Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor     Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more. There comes a sound of knocking. It should be perfectly familiar to him;but he knows not whence, or from what world, it comes. He looks down athis hands, and starts violently: 'What hands are here? ' For they seemalive, they move, they mean to pluck out his eyes. He looks at one ofthem again; it does not move; but the blood upon it is enough to dye thewhole ocean red. What has all this to do with fear of 'consequences'? Itis his soul speaking in the only shape in which it can speak freely,that of imagination. So long as Macbeth's imagination is active, we watch him fascinated; wefeel suspense, horror, awe; in which are latent, also, admiration andsympathy. But so soon as it is quiescent these feelings vanish. He is nolonger 'infirm of purpose': he becomes domineering, even brutal, or hebecomes a cool pitiless hypocrite. He is generally said to be a very badactor, but this is not wholly true. Whenever his imagination stirs, heacts badly. It so possesses him, and is so much stronger than hisreason, that his face betrays him, and his voice utters the mostimprobable untruths[218] or the most artificial rhetoric[219] But whenit is asleep he is firm, self-controlled and practical, as in theconversation where he skilfully elicits from Banquo that informationabout his movements which is required for the successful arrangement ofhis murder. [220] Here he is hateful; and so he is in the conversationwith the murderers, who are not professional cut-throats but oldsoldiers, and whom, without a vestige of remorse, he beguiles withcalumnies against Banquo and with such appeals as his wife had used tohim. [221] On the other hand, we feel much pity as well as anxiety in thescene (I. vii. ) where she overcomes his opposition to the murder; and wefeel it (though his imagination is not specially active) because thisscene shows us how little he understands himself. This is his greatmisfortune here. Not that he fails to realise in reflection the basenessof the deed (the soliloquy with which the scene opens shows that he doesnot). But he has never, to put it pedantically, accepted as theprinciple of his conduct the morality which takes shape in hisimaginative fears. Had he done so, and said plainly to his wife, 'Thething is vile, and, however much I have sworn to do it, I will not,' shewould have been helpless; for all her arguments proceed on theassumption that there is for them no such point of view. Macbeth doesapproach this position once, when, resenting the accusation ofcowardice, he answers,     I dare do all that may become a man;     Who dares do more is none. She feels in an instant that everything is at stake, and, ignoring thepoint, overwhelms him with indignant and contemptuous personal reproach. But he yields to it because he is himself half-ashamed of that answer ofhis, and because, for want of habit, the simple idea which it expresseshas no hold on him comparable to the force it acquires when it becomesincarnate in visionary fears and warnings. Yet these were so insistent, and they offered to his ambition aresistance so strong, that it is impossible to regard him as fallingthrough the blindness or delusion of passion. On the contrary, hehimself feels with such intensity the enormity of his purpose that, itseems clear, neither his ambition nor yet the prophecy of the Witcheswould ever without the aid of Lady Macbeth have overcome this feeling. As it is, the deed is done in horror and without the faintest desire orsense of glory,--done, one may almost say, as if it were an appallingduty; and, the instant it is finished, its futility is revealed toMacbeth as clearly as its vileness had been revealed beforehand. As hestaggers from the scene he mutters in despair,     Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou could'st. When, half an hour later, he returns with Lennox from the room of themurder, he breaks out:     Had I but died an hour before this chance,     I had lived a blessed time; for from this instant     There's nothing serious in mortality:     All is but toys: renown and grace is dead;     The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees     Is left this vault to brag of. This is no mere acting. The language here has none of the falserhetoric of his merely hypocritical speeches. It is meant to deceive,but it utters at the same time his profoundest feeling. And this he canhenceforth never hide from himself for long. However he may try to drownit in further enormities, he hears it murmuring,                        Duncan is in his grave:     After life's fitful fever he sleeps well:or,     better be with the dead:or,     I have lived long enough:and it speaks its last words on the last day of his life:                     Out, out, brief candle!     Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player     That struts and frets his hour upon the stage     And then is heard no more: it is a tale     Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,     Signifying nothing. How strange that this judgment on life, the despair of a man who hadknowingly made mortal war on his own soul, should be frequently quotedas Shakespeare's own judgment, and should even be adduced, in seriouscriticism, as a proof of his pessimism! It remains to look a little more fully at the history of Macbeth afterthe murder of Duncan. Unlike his first struggle this history exciteslittle suspense or anxiety on his account: we have now no hope for him. But it is an engrossing spectacle, and psychologically it is perhaps themost remarkable exhibition of the _development_ of a character to befound in Shakespeare's tragedies. That heart-sickness which comes from Macbeth's perception of thefutility of his crime, and which never leaves him for long, is not,however, his habitual state. It could not be so, for two reasons. In thefirst place the consciousness of guilt is stronger in him than theconsciousness of failure; and it keeps him in a perpetual agony ofrestlessness, and forbids him simply to droop and pine. His mind is'full of scorpions. ' He cannot sleep. He 'keeps alone,' moody andsavage. 'All that is within him does condemn itself for being there. 'There is a fever in his blood which urges him to ceaseless action in thesearch for oblivion. And, in the second place, ambition, the love ofpower, the instinct of self-assertion, are much too potent in Macbeth topermit him to resign, even in spirit, the prize for which he has putrancours in the vessel of his peace. The 'will to live' is mighty inhim. The forces which impelled him to aim at the crown re-assertthemselves. He faces the world, and his own conscience, desperate, butnever dreaming of acknowledging defeat. He will see 'the frame of thingsdisjoint' first. He challenges fate into the lists. The result is frightful. He speaks no more, as before Duncan's murder,of honour or pity. That sleepless torture, he tells himself, is nothingbut the sense of insecurity and the fear of retaliation. If only he weresafe, it would vanish. And he looks about for the cause of his fear; andhis eye falls on Banquo. Banquo, who cannot fail to suspect him, has notfled or turned against him: Banquo has become his chief counsellor. Why? Because, he answers, the kingdom was promised to Banquo's children. Banquo, then, is waiting to attack him, to make a way for them. The'bloody instructions' he himself taught when he murdered Duncan, areabout to return, as he said they would, to plague the inventor. _This_then, he tells himself, is the fear that will not let him sleep; and itwill die with Banquo. There is no hesitation now, and no remorse: he hasnearly learned his lesson. He hastens feverishly, not to murder Banquo,but to procure his murder: some strange idea is in his mind that thethought of the dead man will not haunt him, like the memory of Duncan,if the deed is done by other hands. [222] The deed is done: but, insteadof peace descending on him, from the depths of his nature hishalf-murdered conscience rises; his deed confronts him in the apparitionof Banquo's Ghost, and the horror of the night of his first murderreturns. But, alas, _it_ has less power, and _he_ has more will. Agonised and trembling, he still faces this rebel image, and it yields:                       Why, so: being gone,     I am a man again. Yes, but his secret is in the hands of the assembled lords. And, worse,this deed is as futile as the first. For, though Banquo is dead and evenhis Ghost is conquered, that inner torture is unassuaged. But he willnot bear it. His guests have hardly left him when he turns roughly tohis wife:     How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person     At our great bidding? Macduff it is that spoils his sleep. He shall perish,--he and aught elsethat bars the road to peace.                              For mine own good     All causes shall give way: I am in blood     Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,     Returning were as tedious as go o'er:     Strange things I have in head that will to hand,     Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. She answers, sick at heart,     You lack the season of all natures, sleep. No doubt: but he has found the way to it now:     Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self abuse     Is the initiate fear that wants hard use;     We are yet but young in deed. What a change from the man who thought of Duncan's virtues, and of pitylike a naked new-born babe! What a frightful clearness ofself-consciousness in this descent to hell, and yet what a furious forcein the instinct of life and self-assertion that drives him on! He goes to seek the Witches. He will know, by the worst means, theworst. He has no longer any awe of them.     How now, you secret, black and midnight hags! --so he greets them, and at once he demands and threatens. They tell himhe is right to fear Macduff. They tell him to fear nothing, for none ofwoman born can harm him. He feels that the two statements are atvariance; infatuated, suspects no double meaning; but, that he may'sleep in spite of thunder,' determines not to spare Macduff. But hisheart throbs to know one thing, and he forces from the Witches thevision of Banquo's children crowned. The old intolerable thoughtreturns, 'for Banquo's issue have I filed my mind'; and with it, for allthe absolute security apparently promised him, there returns that inwardfever. Will nothing quiet it? Nothing but destruction. Macduff, onecomes to tell him, has escaped him; but that does not matter: he canstill destroy:[223]                                And even now,     To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:     The castle of Macduff I will surprise;     Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword     His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls     That trace him in's line. No boasting like a fool;     This deed I'll do before this purpose cool.     But no more sights! No, he need fear no more 'sights. ' The Witches have done their work,and after this purposeless butchery his own imagination will trouble himno more. [224] He has dealt his last blow at the conscience and pitywhich spoke through it. The whole flood of evil in his nature is now let loose. He becomes anopen tyrant, dreaded by everyone about him, and a terror to his country. She 'sinks beneath the yoke. '                             Each new morn     New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows     Strike heaven on the face. She weeps, she bleeds, 'and each new day a gash is added to her wounds. 'She is not the mother of her children, but their grave;                               where nothing,     But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile:     Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air     Are made, not mark'd. For this wild rage and furious cruelty we are prepared; but vices ofanother kind start up as he plunges on his downward way.                            I grant him bloody,     Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,     Sudden, malicious,says Malcolm; and two of these epithets surprise us. Who would haveexpected avarice or lechery[225] in Macbeth? His ruin seems complete. Yet it is never complete. To the end he never totally loses oursympathy; we never feel towards him as we do to those who appear theborn children of darkness. There remains something sublime in thedefiance with which, even when cheated of his last hope, he faces earthand hell and heaven. Nor would any soul to whom evil was congenial becapable of that heart-sickness which overcomes him when he thinks of the'honour, love, obedience, troops of friends' which 'he must not look tohave' (and which Iago would never have cared to have), and contrastswith them     Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,     Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not,(and which Iago would have accepted with indifference). Neither can Iagree with those who find in his reception of the news of his wife'sdeath proof of alienation or utter carelessness. There is no proof ofthese in the words,                     She should have died hereafter;     There would have been a time for such a word,spoken as they are by a man already in some measure prepared for suchnews, and now transported by the frenzy of his last fight for life. Hehas no time now to feel. [226] Only, as he thinks of the morrow when timeto feel will come--if anything comes, the vanity of all hopes andforward-lookings sinks deep into his soul with an infinite weariness,and he murmurs,     To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,     Creeps in this petty pace from day to day     To the last syllable of recorded time,     And all our yesterdays have lighted fools     The way to dusty death. In the very depths a gleam of his native love of goodness, and with it atouch of tragic grandeur, rests upon him. The evil he has desperatelyembraced continues to madden or to wither his inmost heart. Noexperience in the world could bring him to glory in it or make his peacewith it, or to forget what he once was and Iago and Goneril never were. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 194: See note BB. ][Footnote 195: 'Hell is murky' (V. i. 35). This, surely, is not meantfor a scornful repetition of something said long ago by Macbeth. Hewould hardly in those days have used an argument or expressed a fearthat could provoke nothing but contempt. ][Footnote 196: Whether Banquo's ghost is a mere illusion, like thedagger, is discussed in Note FF. ][Footnote 197: In parts of this paragraph I am indebted to Hunter's_Illustrations of Shakespeare_. ][Footnote 198: The line is a foot short. ][Footnote 199: It should be observed that in some cases the irony wouldescape an audience ignorant of the story and watching the play for thefirst time,--another indication that Shakespeare did not write solelyfor immediate stage purposes. ][Footnote 200: Their influence on spectators is, I believe, veryinferior. These scenes, like the Storm-scenes in _King Lear_, belongproperly to the world of imagination. ][Footnote 201: 'By yea and no, I think the 'oman is a witch indeed: Ilike not when a 'oman has a great peard' (_Merry Wives_, IV. ii. 202). ][Footnote 202: Even the metaphor in the lines (II. iii. 127),     What should be spoken here, where our fate,     Hid in an auger-hole, may rush and seize us? was probably suggested by the words in Scot's first chapter, 'They cango in and out at awger-holes. '][Footnote 203: Once, 'weird women. ' Whether Shakespeare knew that'weird' signified 'fate' we cannot tell, but it is probable that he did. The word occurs six times in _Macbeth_ (it does not occur elsewhere inShakespeare). The first three times it is spelt in the Folio _weyward_,the last three _weyard_. This may suggest a miswriting or misprinting of_wayward_; but, as that word is always spelt in the Folio either rightlyor _waiward_, it is more likely that the _weyward_ and _weyard_ of_Macbeth_ are the copyist's or printer's misreading of Shakespeare's_weird_ or _weyrd_. ][Footnote 204: The doubt as to these passages (see Note Z) does notarise from the mere appearance of this figure. The idea of Hecate'sconnection with witches appears also at II. i. 52, and she is mentionedagain at III. ii. 41 (cf. _Mid. Night's Dream_, V. i. 391, for herconnection with fairies). It is part of the common traditional notion ofthe heathen gods being now devils. Scot refers to it several times. Seethe notes in the Clarendon Press edition on III. v. 1, or those inFurness's Variorum. Of course in the popular notion the witch's spirits are devils orservants of Satan. If Shakespeare openly introduces this idea only insuch phrases as 'the instruments of darkness' and 'what! can the devilspeak true? ' the reason is probably his unwillingness to give too muchprominence to distinctively religious ideas. ][Footnote 205: If this paragraph is true, some of the statements even ofLamb and of Coleridge about the Witches are, taken literally, incorrect. What these critics, and notably the former, describe so well is thepoetic aspect abstracted from the remainder; and in describing this theyattribute to the Witches themselves what belongs really to the complexof Witches, Spirits, and Hecate. For the purposes of imagination, nodoubt, this inaccuracy is of small consequence; and it is these purposesthat matter. [I have not attempted to fulfil them. ]][Footnote 206: See Note CC. ][Footnote 207: The proclamation of Malcolm as Duncan's successor (I. iv. ) changes the position, but the design of murder is prior to this. ][Footnote 208: Schlegel's assertion that the first thought of the murdercomes from the Witches is thus in flat contradiction with the text. (Thesentence in which he asserts this is, I may observe, badly mistranslatedin the English version, which, wherever I have consulted the original,shows itself untrustworthy. It ought to be revised, for Schlegel is wellworth reading. )][Footnote 209: It is noticeable that Dr. Forman, who saw the play in1610 and wrote a sketch of it in his journal, says nothing about thelater prophecies. Perhaps he despised them as mere stuff for thegroundlings. The reader will find, I think, that the great poetic effectof Act IV. Sc. i. depends much more on the 'charm' which precedesMacbeth's entrance, and on Macbeth himself, than on the predictions. ][Footnote 210: This comparison was suggested by a passage in Hegel's_Aesthetik_, i. 291 ff. ][Footnote 211: _Il. _ i. 188 ff. (Leaf's translation). ][Footnote 212: The supernaturalism of the modern poet, indeed, is more'external' than that of the ancient. We have already had evidence ofthis, and shall find more when we come to the character of Banquo. ][Footnote 213: The assertion that Lady Macbeth sought a crown forherself, or sought anything for herself, apart from her husband, isabsolutely unjustified by anything in the play. It is based on asentence of Holinshed's which Shakespeare did _not_ use. ][Footnote 214: The word is used of him (I. ii. 67), but not in a waythat decides this question or even bears on it. ][Footnote 215: This view, thus generally stated, is not original, but Icannot say who first stated it. ][Footnote 216: The latter, and more important, point was put quiteclearly by Coleridge. ][Footnote 217: It is the consequent insistence on the idea of fear, andthe frequent repetition of the word, that have principally led tomisinterpretation. ][Footnote 218: _E. g. _ I. iii. 149, where he excuses his abstraction bysaying that his 'dull brain was wrought with things forgotten,' whennothing could be more natural than that he should be thinking of his newhonour. ][Footnote 219: _E. g. _ in I. iv. This is so also in II. iii. 114 ff. ,though here there is some real imaginative excitement mingled with therhetorical antitheses and balanced clauses and forced bombast. ][Footnote 220: III. i. Lady Macbeth herself could not more naturallyhave introduced at intervals the questions 'Ride you this afternoon? '(l. 19), 'Is't far you ride? ' (l. 24), 'Goes Fleance with you? ' (l. 36). ][Footnote 221: We feel here, however, an underlying subdued frenzy whichawakes some sympathy. There is an almost unendurable impatienceexpressed even in the rhythm of many of the lines; _e. g. _:                                        Well then, now     Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know     That it was he in the times past which held you     So under fortune, which you thought had been     Our innocent self: this I made good to you     In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you,     How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments,     Who wrought with them, and all things else that might     To half a soul and to a notion crazed     Say, 'Thus did Banquo. 'This effect is heard to the end of the play in Macbeth's less poeticspeeches, and leaves the same impression of burning energy, though notof imaginative exaltation, as his great speeches. In these we findeither violent, huge, sublime imagery, or a torrent of figurativeexpressions (as in the famous lines about 'the innocent sleep'). Ourimpressions as to the diction of the play are largely derived from thesespeeches of the hero, but not wholly so. The writing almost throughoutleaves an impression of intense, almost feverish, activity. ][Footnote 222: See his first words to the Ghost: 'Thou canst not say Idid it. '][Footnote 223:     For only in destroying I find ease     To my relentless thoughts. --_Paradise Lost_, ix. 129. Milton's portrait of Satan's misery here, and at the beginning of BookIV. , might well have been suggested by _Macbeth_. Coleridge, afterquoting Duncan's speech, I. iv. 35 ff. , says: 'It is a fancy; but I cannever read this, and the following speeches of Macbeth, withoutinvoluntarily thinking of the Miltonic Messiah and Satan. ' I doubt if itwas a mere fancy. (It will be remembered that Milton thought at one timeof writing a tragedy on Macbeth. )][Footnote 224: The immediate reference in 'But no more sights' isdoubtless to the visions called up by the Witches; but one of these, the'blood-bolter'd Banquo,' recalls to him the vision of the precedingnight, of which he had said,                        You make me strange     Even to the disposition that I owe,     When now I think you can behold such _sights_,     And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks,     When mine is blanch'd with fear. ][Footnote 225: 'Luxurious' and 'luxury' are used by Shakespeare only inthis older sense. It must be remembered that these lines are spoken byMalcolm, but it seems likely that they are meant to be taken as truethroughout. ][Footnote 226: I do not at all suggest that his love for his wiferemains what it was when he greeted her with the words 'My dearest love,Duncan comes here to-night. ' He has greatly changed; she has ceased tohelp him, sunk in her own despair; and there is no intensity of anxietyin the questions he puts to the doctor about her. But his love for herwas probably never unselfish, never the love of Brutus, who, in somewhatsimilar circumstances, uses, on the death of Cassius, words which remindus of Macbeth's:     I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. For the opposite strain of feeling cf. Sonnet 90:     Then hate me if thou wilt; if ever, now,     Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross. ]LECTURE XMACBETH1To regard _Macbeth_ as a play, like the love-tragedies _Romeo andJuliet_ and _Antony and Cleopatra_, in which there are two centralcharacters of equal importance, is certainly a mistake. But Shakespearehimself is in a measure responsible for it, because the first half of_Macbeth_ is greater than the second, and in the first half Lady Macbethnot only appears more than in the second but exerts the ultimatedeciding influence on the action. And, in the opening Act at least, LadyMacbeth is the most commanding and perhaps the most awe-inspiring figurethat Shakespeare drew. Sharing, as we have seen, certain traits with herhusband, she is at once clearly distinguished from him by aninflexibility of will, which appears to hold imagination, feeling, andconscience completely in check. To her the prophecy of things that willbe becomes instantaneously the determination that they shall be:     Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be     That thou art promised. She knows her husband's weakness, how he scruples 'to catch the nearestway' to the object he desires; and she sets herself without a trace ofdoubt or conflict to counteract this weakness. To her there is noseparation between will and deed; and, as the deed falls in part to her,she is sure it will be done:                   The raven himself is hoarse     That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan     Under my battlements. On the moment of Macbeth's rejoining her, after braving infinite dangersand winning infinite praise, without a syllable on these subjects or aword of affection, she goes straight to her purpose and permits him tospeak of nothing else. She takes the superior position and assumes thedirection of affairs,--appears to assume it even more than she reallycan, that she may spur him on. She animates him by picturing the deed asheroic, 'this night's _great_ business,' or 'our _great_ quell,' whileshe ignores its cruelty and faithlessness. She bears down his faintresistance by presenting him with a prepared scheme which may removefrom him the terror and danger of deliberation. She rouses him with ataunt no man can bear, and least of all a soldier,--the word 'coward. 'She appeals even to his love for her:                 from this time     Such I account thy love;--such, that is, as the protestations of a drunkard. Her reasonings aremere sophisms; they could persuade no man. It is not by them, it is bypersonal appeals, through the admiration she extorts from him, andthrough sheer force of will, that she impels him to the deed. Her eyesare fixed upon the crown and the means to it; she does not attend to theconsequences. Her plan of laying the guilt upon the chamberlains isinvented on the spur of the moment, and simply to satisfy her husband. Her true mind is heard in the ringing cry with which she answers hisquestion, 'Will it not be received . . . that they have done it? '     Who _dares_ receive it other? And this is repeated in the sleep-walking scene: 'What need we fear whoknows it, when none can call our power to account? ' Her passionatecourage sweeps him off his feet. His decision is taken in a moment ofenthusiasm:               Bring forth men-children only;     For thy undaunted mettle should compose     Nothing but males. And even when passion has quite died away her will remains supreme. Inpresence of overwhelming horror and danger, in the murder scene and thebanquet scene, her self-control is perfect. When the truth of what shehas done dawns on her, no word of complaint, scarcely a word of her ownsuffering, not a single word of her own as apart from his, escapes herwhen others are by. She helps him, but never asks his help. She leans onnothing but herself. And from the beginning to the end--though she makesonce or twice a slip in acting her part--her will never fails her. Itsgrasp upon her nature may destroy her, but it is never relaxed. We aresure that she never betrayed her husband or herself by a word or even alook, save in sleep. However appalling she may be, she is sublime. In the earlier scenes of the play this aspect of Lady Macbeth'scharacter is far the most prominent. And if she seems invincible sheseems also inhuman. We find no trace of pity for the kind old king; noconsciousness of the treachery and baseness of the murder; no sense ofthe value of the lives of the wretched men on whom the guilt is to belaid; no shrinking even from the condemnation or hatred of the world. Yet if the Lady Macbeth of these scenes were really utterly inhuman, ora 'fiend-like queen,' as Malcolm calls her, the Lady Macbeth of thesleep-walking scene would be an impossibility. The one woman could neverbecome the other. And in fact, if we look below the surface, there isevidence enough in the earlier scenes of preparation for the later. I donot mean that Lady Macbeth was naturally humane. There is nothing in theplay to show this, and several passages subsequent to the murder-scenesupply proof to the contrary. One is that where she exclaims, on beinginformed of Duncan's murder,                  Woe, alas!     What, in our house? This mistake in acting shows that she does not even know what thenatural feeling in such circumstances would be; and Banquo's curtanswer, 'Too cruel anywhere,' is almost a reproof of her insensibility. But, admitting this, we have in the first place to remember, inimagining the opening scenes, that she is deliberately bent oncounteracting the 'human kindness' of her husband, and also that she isevidently not merely inflexibly determined but in a condition ofabnormal excitability. That exaltation in the project which is soentirely lacking in Macbeth is strongly marked in her. When she tries tohelp him by representing their enterprise as heroic, she is deceivingherself as much as him. Their attainment of the crown presents itself toher, perhaps has long presented itself, as something so glorious, andshe has fixed her will upon it so completely, that for the time she seesthe enterprise in no other light than that of its greatness. When shesoliloquises,                               Yet do I fear thy nature:     It is too full o' the milk of human kindness     To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great;     Art not without ambition, but without     The illness should attend it; what thou wouldst highly,     That wouldst thou holily,one sees that 'ambition' and 'great' and 'highly' and even 'illness' areto her simply terms of praise, and 'holily' and 'human kindness' simplyterms of blame. Moral distinctions do not in this exaltation exist forher; or rather they are inverted: 'good' means to her the crown andwhatever is required to obtain it, 'evil' whatever stands in the way ofits attainment. This attitude of mind is evident even when she is alone,though it becomes still more pronounced when she has to work upon herhusband. And it persists until her end is attained. But, without beingexactly forced, it betrays a strain which could not long endure. Besides this, in these earlier scenes the traces of feminine weaknessand human feeling, which account for her later failure, are not absent. Her will, it is clear, was exerted to overpower not only her husband'sresistance but some resistance in herself. Imagine Goneril uttering thefamous words,                 Had he not resembled     My father as he slept, I had done 't. They are spoken, I think, without any sentiment--impatiently, as thoughshe regretted her weakness: but it was there. And in reality, quiteapart from this recollection of her father, she could never have donethe murder if her husband had failed. She had to nerve herself with wineto give her 'boldness' enough to go through her minor part. Thatappalling invocation to the spirits of evil, to unsex her and fill herfrom the crown to the toe topfull of direst cruelty, tells the same taleof determination to crush the inward protest. Goneril had no need ofsuch a prayer. In the utterance of the frightful lines,                I have given suck, and know     How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:     I would, while it was smiling in my face,     Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,     And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you     Have done to this,her voice should doubtless rise until it reaches, in 'dash'd the brainsout,' an almost hysterical scream. [227] These lines show unmistakablythat strained exaltation which, as soon as the end is reached, vanishes,never to return. The greatness of Lady Macbeth lies almost wholly in courage and force ofwill. It is an error to regard her as remarkable on the intellectualside. In acting a part she shows immense self-control, but not muchskill. Whatever may be thought of the plan of attributing the murder ofDuncan to the chamberlains, to lay their bloody daggers on theirpillows, as if they were determined to advertise their guilt, was amistake which can be accounted for only by the excitement of the moment. But the limitations of her mind appear most in the point where she ismost strongly contrasted with Macbeth,--in her comparative dulness ofimagination. I say 'comparative,' for she sometimes uses highly poeticlanguage, as indeed does everyone in Shakespeare who has any greatnessof soul. Nor is she perhaps less imaginative than the majority of hisheroines. But as compared with her husband she has little imagination. It is not _simply_ that she suppresses what she has. To her, thingsremain at the most terrible moment precisely what they were at thecalmest, plain facts which stand in a given relation to a certain deed,not visions which tremble and flicker in the light of other worlds. Theprobability that the old king will sleep soundly after his long journeyto Inverness is to her simply a fortunate circumstance; but one canfancy the shoot of horror across Macbeth's face as she mentions it. Sheuses familiar and prosaic illustrations, like     Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'     Like the poor cat i' the adage,(the cat who wanted fish but did not like to wet her feet); or,                                      We fail?     But screw your courage to the sticking-place,     And we'll not fail;[228]or,                           Was the hope drunk     Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since?     And wakes it now, to look so green and pale     At what it did so freely? The Witches are practically nothing to her. She feels no sympathy inNature with her guilty purpose, and would never bid the earth not hearher steps, which way they walk.

The noises before the murder, and duringit, are heard by her as simple facts, and are referred to their truesources. The knocking has no mystery for her: it comes from 'the southentry. ' She calculates on the drunkenness of the grooms, compares thedifferent effects of wine on herself and on them, and listens to theirsnoring. To her the blood upon her husband's hands suggests only thetaunt,     My hands are of your colour, but I shame     To wear a heart so white;and the blood to her is merely 'this filthy witness,'--words impossibleto her husband, to whom it suggested something quite other than sensuousdisgust or practical danger. The literalism of her mind appears fully intwo contemptuous speeches where she dismisses his imaginings; in themurder scene:                           Infirm of purpose!     Give me the daggers! The sleeping and the dead     Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood     That fears a painted devil;and in the banquet scene:                         O these flaws and starts,     Impostors to true fear, would well become     A woman's story at a winter's fire,     Authorised by her grandam. Shame itself!     Why do you make such faces? When all's done,     You look but on a stool. Even in the awful scene where her imagination breaks loose in sleep sheuses no such images as Macbeth's. It is the direct appeal of the factsto sense that has fastened on her memory. The ghastly realism of 'Yetwho would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? ' or'Here's the smell of the blood still,' is wholly unlike him. Her mostpoetical words, 'All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this littlehand,' are equally unlike his words about great Neptune's ocean. Hers,like some of her other speeches, are the more moving, from their greatersimplicity and because they seem to tell of that self-restraint insuffering which is so totally lacking in him; but there is in themcomparatively little of imagination. If we consider most of the passagesto which I have referred, we shall find that the quality which moves ouradmiration is courage or force of will. This want of imagination, though it helps to make Lady Macbeth strongfor immediate action, is fatal to her. If she does not feel beforehandthe cruelty of Duncan's murder, this is mainly because she hardlyimagines the act, or at most imagines its outward show, 'the motion of amuscle this way or that. ' Nor does she in the least foresee those inwardconsequences which reveal themselves immediately in her husband, andless quickly in herself. It is often said that she understands him well. Had she done so, she never would have urged him on. She knows that he isgiven to strange fancies; but, not realising what they spring from, shehas no idea either that they may gain such power as to ruin the scheme,or that, while they mean present weakness, they mean also perception ofthe future. At one point in the murder scene the force of hisimagination impresses her, and for a moment she is startled; a lightthreatens to break on her:                  These deeds must not be thought     After these ways: so, it will make us mad,she says, with a sudden and great seriousness. And when he goes pantingon, 'Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more,"' . . . she breaks in,'What do you mean? ' half-doubting whether this was not a real voice thathe heard. Then, almost directly, she recovers herself, convinced of thevanity of his fancy. Nor does she understand herself any better thanhim. She never suspects that these deeds _must_ be thought after theseways; that her facile realism,     A little water clears us of this deed,will one day be answered by herself, 'Will these hands ne'er be clean? 'or that the fatal commonplace, 'What's done is done,' will make way forher last despairing sentence, 'What's done cannot be undone. 'Hence the development of her character--perhaps it would be morestrictly accurate to say, the change in her state of mind--is bothinevitable, and the opposite of the development we traced in Macbeth. When the murder has been done, the discovery of its hideousness, firstreflected in the faces of her guests, comes to Lady Macbeth with theshock of a sudden disclosure, and at once her nature begins to sink. Thefirst intimation of the change is given when, in the scene of thediscovery, she faints. [229] When next we see her, Queen of Scotland, theglory of her dream has faded. She enters, disillusioned, and weary withwant of sleep: she has thrown away everything and gained nothing:               Nought's had, all's spent,     Where our desire is got without content:     'Tis safer to be that which we destroy     Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. Henceforth she has no initiative: the stem of her being seems to be cutthrough. Her husband, physically the stronger, maddened by pangs he hadforeseen, but still flaming with life, comes into the foreground, andshe retires. Her will remains, and she does her best to help him; but herarely needs her help. Her chief anxiety appears to be that he shouldnot betray his misery. He plans the murder of Banquo without herknowledge (not in order to spare her, I think, for he never shows loveof this quality, but merely because he does not need her now); and evenwhen she is told vaguely of his intention she appears but littleinterested. In the sudden emergency of the banquet scene she makes aprodigious and magnificent effort; her strength, and with it herascendancy, returns, and she saves her husband at least from an opendisclosure. But after this she takes no part whatever in the action. Weonly know from her shuddering words in the sleep-walking scene, 'TheThane of Fife had a wife: where is she now? ' that she has even learnedof her husband's worst crime; and in all the horrors of his tyranny overScotland she has, so far as we hear, no part. Disillusionment anddespair prey upon her more and more. That she should seek any relief inspeech, or should ask for sympathy, would seem to her mere weakness, andwould be to Macbeth's defiant fury an irritation. Thinking of the changein him, we imagine the bond between them slackened, and Lady Macbethleft much alone. She sinks slowly downward. She cannot bear darkness,and has light by her continually: 'tis her command. At last her nature,not her will, gives way. The secrets of the past find vent in a disorderof sleep, the beginning perhaps of madness. What the doctor fears isclear. He reports to her husband no great physical mischief, but bidsher attendant to remove from her all means by which she could harmherself, and to keep eyes on her constantly. It is in vain. Her death isannounced by a cry from her women so sudden and direful that it wouldthrill her husband with horror if he were any longer capable of fear. Inthe last words of the play Malcolm tells us it is believed in thehostile army that she died by her own hand. And (not to speak of theindications just referred to) it is in accordance with her characterthat even in her weakest hour she should cut short by one determinedstroke the agony of her life. The sinking of Lady Macbeth's nature, and the marked change in herdemeanour to her husband, are most strikingly shown in the conclusion ofthe banquet scene; and from this point pathos is mingled with awe. Theguests are gone. She is completely exhausted, and answers Macbeth inlistless, submissive words which seem to come with difficulty. Howstrange sounds the reply 'Did you send to him, sir? ' to his imperiousquestion about Macduff! And when he goes on, 'waxing desperate inimagination,' to speak of new deeds of blood, she seems to sicken at thethought, and there is a deep pathos in that answer which tells at onceof her care for him and of the misery she herself has silently endured,     You lack the season of all natures, sleep. We begin to think of her now less as the awful instigator of murder thanas a woman with much that is grand in her, and much that is piteous. Strange and almost ludicrous as the statement may sound,[230] she is, upto her light, a perfect wife. She gives her husband the best she has;and the fact that she never uses to him the terms of affection which, upto this point in the play, he employs to her, is certainly no indicationof want of love. She urges, appeals, reproaches, for a practical end,but she never recriminates. The harshness of her taunts is free frommere personal feeling, and also from any deep or more than momentarycontempt. She despises what she thinks the weakness which stands in theway of her husband's ambition; but she does not despise _him_. Sheevidently admires him and thinks him a great man, for whom the throne isthe proper place. Her commanding attitude in the moments of hishesitation or fear is probably confined to them. If we consider thepeculiar circumstances of the earlier scenes and the banquet scene, andif we examine the language of the wife and husband at other times, weshall come, I think, to the conclusion that their habitual relations arebetter represented by the later scenes than by the earlier, thoughnaturally they are not truly represented by either. Her ambition for herhusband and herself (there was no distinction to her mind) proved fatalto him, far more so than the prophecies of the Witches; but even whenshe pushed him into murder she believed she was helping him to do whathe merely lacked the nerve to attempt; and her part in the crime was somuch less open-eyed than his, that, if the impossible and undramatictask of estimating degrees of culpability were forced on us, we shouldsurely have to assign the larger share to Macbeth. 'Lady Macbeth,' says Dr. Johnson, 'is merely detested'; and for a longtime critics generally spoke of her as though she were Malcolm's'fiend-like queen. ' In natural reaction we tend to insist, as I havebeen doing, on the other and less obvious side; and in the criticism ofthe last century there is even a tendency to sentimentalise thecharacter. But it can hardly be doubted that Shakespeare meant thepredominant impression to be one of awe, grandeur, and horror, and thathe never meant this impression to be lost, however it might be modified,as Lady Macbeth's activity diminishes and her misery increases. I cannotbelieve that, when she said of Banquo and Fleance,     But in them nature's copy's not eterne,she meant only that they would some day die; or that she felt anysurprise when Macbeth replied,     There's comfort yet: they are assailable;though I am sure no light came into her eyes when he added thosedreadful words, 'Then be thou jocund. ' She was listless. She herselfwould not have moved a finger against Banquo. But she thought his death,and his son's death, might ease her husband's mind, and she suggestedthe murders indifferently and without remorse. The sleep-walking scene,again, inspires pity, but its main effect is one of awe. There is greathorror in the references to blood, but it cannot be said that there ismore than horror; and Campbell was surely right when, in alluding toMrs. Jameson's analysis, he insisted that in Lady Macbeth's misery thereis no trace of contrition. [231] Doubtless she would have given the worldto undo what she had done; and the thought of it killed her; but,regarding her from the tragic point of view, we may truly say she wastoo great to repent. [232]2The main interest of the character of Banquo arises from the changesthat take place in him, and from the influence of the Witches upon him. And it is curious that Shakespeare's intention here is so frequentlymissed. Banquo being at first strongly contrasted with Macbeth, as aninnocent man with a guilty, it seems to be supposed that this contrastmust be continued to his death; while, in reality, though it is neverremoved, it is gradually diminished. Banquo in fact may be describedmuch more truly than Macbeth as the victim of the Witches. If we followhis story this will be evident. He bore a part only less distinguished than Macbeth's in the battlesagainst Sweno and Macdonwald. He and Macbeth are called 'our captains,'and when they meet the Witches they are traversing the 'blastedheath'[233] alone together. Banquo accosts the strange shapes withoutthe slightest fear. They lay their fingers on their lips, as if tosignify that they will not, or must not, speak to _him_. To Macbeth'sbrief appeal, 'Speak, if you can: what are you? ' they at once reply, notby saying what they are, but by hailing him Thane of Glamis, Thane ofCawdor, and King hereafter. Banquo is greatly surprised that his partnershould start as if in fear, and observes that he is at once 'rapt'; andhe bids the Witches, if they know the future, to prophesy to _him_, whoneither begs their favour nor fears their hate. Macbeth, looking back ata later time, remembers Banquo's daring, and how                       he chid the sisters,     When first they put the name of king upon me,     And bade them speak to him. 'Chid' is an exaggeration; but Banquo is evidently a bold man, probablyan ambitious one, and certainly has no lurking guilt in his ambition. Onhearing the predictions concerning himself and his descendants he makesno answer, and when the Witches are about to vanish he shows none ofMacbeth's feverish anxiety to know more. On their vanishing he is simplyamazed, wonders if they were anything but hallucinations, makes noreference to the predictions till Macbeth mentions them, and thenanswers lightly. When Ross and Angus, entering, announce to Macbeth that he has been madeThane of Cawdor, Banquo exclaims, aside, to himself or Macbeth, 'What! can the devil speak true? ' He now believes that the Witches were realbeings and the 'instruments of darkness. ' When Macbeth, turning to him,whispers,     Do you not hope your children shall be kings,     When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me     Promised no less to them? he draws with the boldness of innocence the inference which is reallyoccupying Macbeth, and answers,                             That, trusted home,     Might yet enkindle you unto the crown     Besides the thane of Cawdor. Here he still speaks, I think, in a free, off-hand, even jesting,[234]manner ('enkindle' meaning merely 'excite you to _hope_ for'). But then,possibly from noticing something in Macbeth's face, he becomes graver,and goes on, with a significant 'but,'                          But 'tis strange:     And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,     The instruments of darkness tell us truths,     Win us with honest trifles, to betray's     In deepest consequence. He afterwards observes for the second time that his partner is 'rapt';but he explains his abstraction naturally and sincerely by referring tothe surprise of his new honours; and at the close of the scene, whenMacbeth proposes that they shall discuss the predictions together atsome later time, he answers in the cheerful, rather bluff manner, whichhe has used almost throughout, 'Very gladly. ' Nor was there any reasonwhy Macbeth's rejoinder, 'Till then, enough,' should excite misgivingsin him, though it implied a request for silence, and though the wholebehaviour of his partner during the scene must have looked verysuspicious to him when the prediction of the crown was made good throughthe murder of Duncan. In the next scene Macbeth and Banquo join the King, who welcomes themboth with the kindest expressions of gratitude and with promises offavours to come. Macbeth has indeed already received a noble reward. Banquo, who is said by the King to have 'no less deserved,' receives asyet mere thanks. His brief and frank acknowledgment is contrasted withMacbeth's laboured rhetoric; and, as Macbeth goes out, Banquo turns withhearty praises of him to the King. And when next we see him, approaching Macbeth's castle in company withDuncan, there is still no sign of change. Indeed he gains on us. It ishe who speaks the beautiful lines,                        This guest of summer,     The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,     By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath     Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,     Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird     Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle:     Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed,     The air is delicate;--lines which tell of that freedom of heart, and that sympathetic senseof peace and beauty, which the Macbeth of the tragedy could never feel. But now Banquo's sky begins to darken. At the opening of the Second Actwe see him with Fleance crossing the court of the castle on his way tobed. The blackness of the moonless, starless night seems to oppress him. And he is oppressed by something else.     A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,     And yet I would not sleep: merciful powers,     Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature     Gives way to in repose! On Macbeth's entrance we know what Banquo means: he says toMacbeth--and it is the first time he refers to the subject unprovoked,     I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters. His will is still untouched: he would repel the 'cursed thoughts'; andthey are mere thoughts, not intentions. But still they are 'thoughts,'something more, probably, than mere recollections; and they bring withthem an undefined sense of guilt. The poison has begun to work. The passage that follows Banquo's words to Macbeth is difficult tointerpret:     I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters:     To you they have show'd some truth.     _Macb. _                          I think not of them:     Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,     We would spend it in some words upon that business,     If you would grant the time.     _Ban. _                       At your kind'st leisure.     _Macb. _ If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis,     It shall make honour for you.     _Ban. _                         So I lose none     In seeking to augment it, but still keep     My bosom franchised and allegiance clear,     I shall be counsell'd.     _Macb. _                Good repose the while!     _Ban. _ Thanks, sir: the like to you! Macbeth's first idea is, apparently, simply to free himself from anysuspicion which the discovery of the murder might suggest, by showinghimself, just before it, quite indifferent to the predictions, andmerely looking forward to a conversation about them at some future time. But why does he go on, 'If you shall cleave,' etc. ? Perhaps he foreseesthat, on the discovery, Banquo cannot fail to suspect him, and thinks itsafest to prepare the way at once for an understanding with him (in theoriginal story he makes Banquo his accomplice _before_ the murder). Banquo's answer shows three things,--that he fears a treasonableproposal, that he has no idea of accepting it, and that he has no fearof Macbeth to restrain him from showing what is in his mind. Duncan is murdered. In the scene of discovery Banquo of course appears,and his behaviour is significant. When he enters, and Macduff cries outto him,                O Banquo, Banquo,     Our royal master's murdered,and Lady Macbeth, who has entered a moment before, exclaims,                  Woe, alas!     What, in our house? his answer,     Too cruel anywhere,shows, as I have pointed out, repulsion, and we may be pretty sure thathe suspects the truth at once. After a few words to Macduff he remainsabsolutely silent while the scene is continued for nearly forty lines. He is watching Macbeth and listening as he tells how he put thechamberlains to death in a frenzy of loyal rage. At last Banquo appearsto have made up his mind. On Lady Macbeth's fainting he proposes thatthey shall all retire, and that they shall afterwards meet,     And question this most bloody piece of work     To know it further. Fears and scruples[235] shake us:     In the great hand of God I stand, and thence     Against the undivulged pretence[236] I fight     Of treasonous malice. His solemn language here reminds us of his grave words about 'theinstruments of darkness,' and of his later prayer to the 'mercifulpowers. ' He is profoundly shocked, full of indignation, and determinedto play the part of a brave and honest man. But he plays no such part. When next we see him, on the last day of hislife, we find that he has yielded to evil. The Witches and his ownambition have conquered him. He alone of the lords knew of theprophecies, but he has said nothing of them. He has acquiesced inMacbeth's accession, and in the official theory that Duncan's sons hadsuborned the chamberlains to murder him. Doubtless, unlike Macduff, hewas present at Scone to see the new king invested. He has, not formallybut in effect, 'cloven to' Macbeth's 'consent'; he is knit to him by 'amost indissoluble tie'; his advice in council has been 'most grave andprosperous'; he is to be the 'chief guest' at that night's supper. Andhis soliloquy tells us why:     Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all,     As the weird women promised, and, I fear,     Thou play'dst most foully for't: yet it was said     It should not stand in thy posterity,     But that myself should be the root and father     Of many kings. If there come truth from them--     As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine--     Why, by the verities on thee made good,     May they not be my oracles as well,     And set me up in hope? But hush! no more. This 'hush! no more' is not the dismissal of 'cursed thoughts': it onlymeans that he hears the trumpets announcing the entrance of the King andQueen. His punishment comes swiftly, much more swiftly than Macbeth's, andsaves him from any further fall. He is a very fearless man, and still sofar honourable that he has no thought of acting to bring about thefulfilment of the prophecy which has beguiled him. And therefore he hasno fear of Macbeth. But he little understands him. To Macbeth'stormented mind Banquo's conduct appears highly suspicious. _Why_ hasthis bold and circumspect[237] man kept his secret and become his chiefadviser? In order to make good _his_ part of the predictions afterMacbeth's own precedent. Banquo, he is sure, will suddenly and secretlyattack him. It is not the far-off accession of Banquo's descendants thathe fears; it is (so he tells himself) swift murder; not that the 'barrensceptre' will some day droop from his dying hand, but that it will be'wrenched' away now (III. i. 62). [238] So he kills Banquo. But theBanquo he kills is not the innocent soldier who met the Witches anddaffed their prophecies aside, nor the man who prayed to be deliveredfrom the temptation of his dreams. _Macbeth_ leaves on most readers a profound impression of the misery ofa guilty conscience and the retribution of crime. And the strength ofthis impression is one of the reasons why the tragedy is admired byreaders who shrink from _Othello_ and are made unhappy by _Lear_. Butwhat Shakespeare perhaps felt even more deeply, when he wrote this play,was the _incalculability_ of evil,--that in meddling with it humanbeings do they know not what. The soul, he seems to feel, is a thing ofsuch inconceivable depth, complexity, and delicacy, that when youintroduce into it, or suffer to develop in it, any change, andparticularly the change called evil, you can form only the vaguest ideaof the reaction you will provoke. All you can be sure of is that it willnot be what you expected, and that you cannot possibly escape it. Banquo's story, if truly apprehended, produces this impression quite asstrongly as the more terrific stories of the chief characters, andperhaps even more clearly, inasmuch as he is nearer to average humannature, has obviously at first a quiet conscience, and uses with evidentsincerity the language of religion. 3Apart from his story Banquo's character is not very interesting, nor isit, I think, perfectly individual. And this holds good of the rest ofthe minor characters. They are sketched lightly, and are seldomdeveloped further than the strict purposes of the action required. Fromthis point of view they are inferior to several of the less importantfigures in each of the other three tragedies. The scene in which LadyMacduff and her child appear, and the passage where their slaughter isreported to Macduff, have much dramatic value, but in neither case isthe effect due to any great extent to the special characters of thepersons concerned. Neither they, nor Duncan, nor Malcolm, nor evenBanquo himself, have been imagined intensely, and therefore they do notproduce that sense of unique personality which Shakespeare could conveyin a much smaller number of lines than he gives to most of them. [239]And this is of course even more the case with persons like Ross, Angus,and Lennox, though each of these has distinguishable features. I doubtif any other great play of Shakespeare's contains so many speeches whicha student of the play, if they were quoted to him, would be puzzled toassign to the speakers. Let the reader turn, for instance, to the secondscene of the Fifth Act, and ask himself why the names of the personsshould not be interchanged in all the ways mathematically possible. Canhe find, again, any signs of character by which to distinguish thespeeches of Ross and Angus in Act I. scenes ii. and iii. , or todetermine that Malcolm must have spoken I. iv. 2-11? Most of thiswriting, we may almost say, is simply Shakespeare's writing, not that ofShakespeare become another person. And can anything like the sameproportion of such writing be found in _Hamlet_, _Othello_, or _KingLear_? Is it possible to guess the reason of this characteristic of _Macbeth_? I cannot believe it is due to the presence of a second hand. Thewriting, mangled by the printer and perhaps by 'the players,' seems tobe sometimes obviously Shakespeare's, sometimes sufficientlyShakespearean to repel any attack not based on external evidence. It maybe, as the shortness of the play has suggested to some, that Shakespearewas hurried, and, throwing all his weight on the principal characters,did not exert himself in dealing with the rest. But there is anotherpossibility which may be worth considering. _Macbeth_ is distinguishedby its simplicity,--by grandeur in simplicity, no doubt, but still bysimplicity. The two great figures indeed can hardly be called simple,except in comparison with such characters as Hamlet and Iago; but inalmost every other respect the tragedy has this quality. Its plot isquite plain. It has very little intermixture of humour. It has littlepathos except of the sternest kind. The style, for Shakespeare, has notmuch variety, being generally kept at a higher pitch than in the otherthree tragedies; and there is much less than usual of the interchange ofverse and prose. [240] All this makes for simplicity of effect. And, thisbeing so, is it not possible that Shakespeare instinctively felt, orconsciously feared, that to give much individuality or attraction to thesubordinate figures would diminish this effect, and so, like a goodartist, sacrificed a part to the whole? And was he wrong? He hascertainly avoided the overloading which distresses us in _King Lear_,and has produced a tragedy utterly unlike it, not much less great as adramatic poem, and as a drama superior. I would add, though without much confidence, another suggestion. Thesimplicity of _Macbeth_ is one of the reasons why many readers feelthat, in spite of its being intensely 'romantic,' it is less unlike aclassical tragedy than _Hamlet_ or _Othello_ or _King Lear_. And it ispossible that this effect is, in a sense, the result of design. I do notmean that Shakespeare intended to imitate a classical tragedy; I meanonly that he may have seen in the bloody story of Macbeth a subjectsuitable for treatment in a manner somewhat nearer to that of Seneca, orof the English Senecan plays familiar to him in his youth, than was themanner of his own mature tragedies. The Witches doubtless are'romantic,' but so is the witch-craft in Seneca's _Medea_ and _HerculesOetaeus_; indeed it is difficult to read the account of Medea'spreparations (670-739) without being reminded of the incantations in_Macbeth_. Banquo's Ghost again is 'romantic,' but so are Seneca'sghosts. For the swelling of the style in some of the greatpassages--however immeasurably superior these may be to anything inSeneca--and certainly for the turgid bombast which occasionally appearsin _Macbeth_, and which seems to have horrified Jonson, Shakespearemight easily have found a model in Seneca. Did he not think that thiswas the high Roman manner? Does not the Sergeant's speech, as Coleridgeobserved, recall the style of the 'passionate speech' of the Player in_Hamlet_,--a speech, be it observed, on a Roman subject? [241] And is itentirely an accident that parallels between Seneca and Shakespeare seemto be more frequent in _Macbeth_ than in any other of his undoubtedlygenuine works except perhaps _Richard III. _, a tragedy unquestionablyinfluenced either by Seneca or by English Senecan plays? [242] If thereis anything in these suggestions, and if we suppose that Shakespearemeant to give to his play a certain classical tinge, he might naturallycarry out this idea in respect to the characters, as well as in otherrespects, by concentrating almost the whole interest on the importantfigures and leaving the others comparatively shadowy. 4_Macbeth_ being more simple than the other tragedies, and broader andmore massive in effect, three passages in it are of great importance assecuring variety in tone, and also as affording relief from the feelingsexcited by the Witch-scenes and the principal characters. They are thepassage where the Porter appears, the conversation between Lady Macduffand her little boy, and the passage where Macduff receives the news ofthe slaughter of his wife and babes. Yet the first of these, we are toldeven by Coleridge, is unworthy of Shakespeare and is not his; and thesecond, with the rest of the scene which contains it, appears to beusually omitted in stage representations of _Macbeth_. I question if either this scene or the exhibition of Macduff's grief isrequired to heighten our abhorrence of Macbeth's cruelty. They have atechnical value in helping to give the last stage of the action the formof a conflict between Macbeth and Macduff. But their chief function isof another kind. It is to touch the heart with a sense of beauty andpathos, to open the springs of love and of tears. Shakespeare is lovedfor the sweetness of his humanity, and because he makes this kind ofappeal with such irresistible persuasion; and the reason why _Macbeth_,though admired as much as any work of his, is scarcely loved, is thatthe characters who predominate cannot make this kind of appeal, and atno point are able to inspire unmingled sympathy. The two passages inquestion supply this want in such measure as Shakespeare thoughtadvisable in _Macbeth_, and the play would suffer greatly from theirexcision. The second, on the stage, is extremely moving, and Macbeth'sreception of the news of his wife's death may be intended to recall itby way of contrast. The first brings a relief even greater, because herethe element of beauty is more marked, and because humour is mingled withpathos. In both we escape from the oppression of huge sins andsufferings into the presence of the wholesome affections of unambitioushearts; and, though both scenes are painful and one dreadful, oursympathies can flow unchecked. [243]Lady Macduff is a simple wife and mother, who has no thought foranything beyond her home. Her love for her children shows her at oncethat her husband's flight exposes them to terrible danger. She is in anagony of fear for them, and full of indignation against him. It does noteven occur to her that he has acted from public spirit, or that there issuch a thing.     What had he done to make him fly the land? He must have been mad to do it. He fled for fear. He does not love hiswife and children. He is a traitor. The poor soul is almost besideherself--and with too good reason. But when the murderer bursts in withthe question 'Where is your husband? ' she becomes in a moment the wife,and the great noble's wife:     I hope, in no place so unsanctified     Where such as thou may'st find him. What did Shakespeare mean us to think of Macduff's flight, for whichMacduff has been much blamed by others beside his wife? Certainly notthat fear for himself, or want of love for his family, had anything todo with it. His love for his country, so strongly marked in the scenewith Malcolm, is evidently his one motive.     He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows     The fits o' the season,says Ross. That his flight was 'noble' is beyond doubt. That it was notwise or judicious in the interest of his family is no less clear. Butthat does not show that it was wrong; and, even if it were, to representits consequences as a judgment on him for his want of due considerationis equally monstrous and ludicrous. [244] The further question whether hedid fail in due consideration, or whether for his country's sake hedeliberately risked a danger which he fully realised, would inShakespeare's theatre have been answered at once by Macduff's expressionand demeanour on hearing Malcolm's words,     Why in that rawness left you wife and child,     Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,     Without leave-taking? It cannot be decided with certainty from the mere text; but, withoutgoing into the considerations on each side, I may express the opinionthat Macduff knew well what he was doing, and that he fled withoutleave-taking for fear his purpose should give way. Perhaps he said tohimself, with Coriolanus,     Not of a woman's tenderness to be,     Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. Little Macduff suggests a few words on Shakespeare's boys (there arescarcely any little girls). It is somewhat curious that nearly all ofthem appear in tragic or semi-tragic dramas. I remember but twoexceptions: little William Page, who said his _Hic, haec, hoc_ to SirHugh Evans; and the page before whom Falstaff walked like a sow thathath overwhelmed all her litter but one; and it is to be feared thateven this page, if he is the Boy of _Henry V. _, came to an ill end,being killed with the luggage.     So wise so young, they say, do ne'er live long,as Richard observed of the little Prince of Wales. Of too many of thesechildren (some of the 'boys,' _e. g. _ those in _Cymbeline_, are lads, notchildren) the saying comes true. They are pathetic figures, the more sobecause they so often appear in company with their unhappy mothers, andcan never be thought of apart from them. Perhaps Arthur is even thefirst creation in which Shakespeare's power of pathos showed itselfmature;[245] and the last of his children, Mamillius, assuredly provesthat it never decayed. They are almost all of them noble figures,too,--affectionate, frank, brave, high-spirited, 'of an open and freenature' like Shakespeare's best men. And almost all of them, again, areamusing and charming as well as pathetic; comical in their mingledacuteness and _naïveté_, charming in their confidence in themselves andthe world, and in the seriousness with which they receive the jocosityof their elders, who commonly address them as strong men, greatwarriors, or profound politicians. Little Macduff exemplifies most of these remarks. There is nothing inthe scene of a transcendent kind, like the passage about Mamillius'never-finished 'Winter's Tale' of the man who dwelt by a churchyard, orthe passage about his death, or that about little Marcius and thebutterfly, or the audacity which introduces him, at the supreme momentof the tragedy, outdoing the appeals of Volumnia and Virgilia by thestatement,                           'A shall not tread on me:     I'll run away till I'm bigger, but then I'll fight. Still one does not easily forget little Macduff's delightful andwell-justified confidence in his ability to defeat his mother inargument; or the deep impression she made on him when she spoke of hisfather as a 'traitor'; or his immediate response when he heard themurderer call his father by the same name,--     Thou liest, thou shag-haired villain. Nor am I sure that, if the son of Coriolanus had been murdered, his lastwords to his mother would have been, 'Run away, I pray you. 'I may add two remarks. The presence of this child is one of the thingsin which _Macbeth_ reminds us of _Richard III. _ And he is perhaps theonly person in the tragedy who provokes a smile. I say 'perhaps,' forthough the anxiety of the Doctor to escape from the company of hispatient's husband makes one smile, I am not sure that it was meant to. 5The Porter does not make me smile: the moment is too terrific. He isgrotesque; no doubt the contrast he affords is humorous as well asghastly; I dare say the groundlings roared with laughter at his coarsestremarks. But they are not comic enough to allow one to forget for amoment what has preceded and what must follow. And I am far fromcomplaining of this. I believe that it is what Shakespeare intended, andthat he despised the groundlings if they laughed. Of course he couldhave written without the least difficulty speeches five times ashumorous; but he knew better. The Grave-diggers make us laugh: the oldCountryman who brings the asps to Cleopatra makes us smile at least. Butthe Grave-digger scene does not come at a moment of extreme tension; andit is long. Our distress for Ophelia is not so absorbing that we refuseto be interested in the man who digs her grave, or even continuethroughout the long conversation to remember always with pain that thegrave is hers. It is fitting, therefore, that he should be madedecidedly humorous. The passage in _Antony and Cleopatra_ is much nearerto the passage in _Macbeth_, and seems to have been forgotten by thosewho say that there is nothing in Shakespeare resembling thatpassage. [246] The old Countryman comes at a moment of tragic exaltation,and the dialogue is appropriately brief. But the moment, though tragic,is emphatically one of exaltation. We have not been feeling horror, norare we feeling a dreadful suspense. We are going to see Cleopatra die,but she is to die gloriously and to triumph over Octavius. And thereforeour amusement at the old Countryman and the contrast he affords to thesehigh passions, is untroubled, and it was right to make him really comic. But the Porter's case is quite different. We cannot forget how theknocking that makes him grumble sounded to Macbeth, or that within a fewminutes of his opening the gate Duncan will be discovered in his blood;nor can we help feeling that in pretending to be porter of hell-gate heis terribly near the truth. To give him language so humorous that itwould ask us almost to lose the sense of these things would have been afatal mistake,--the kind of mistake that means want of dramaticimagination. And that was not the sort of error into which Shakespearefell. To doubt the genuineness of the passage, then, on the ground that it isnot humorous enough for Shakespeare, seems to me to show this want. Itis to judge the passage as though it were a separate composition,instead of conceiving it in the fulness of its relations to itssurroundings in a stage-play. Taken by itself, I admit, it would bear noindubitable mark of Shakespeare's authorship, not even in the phrase'the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire,' which Coleridge thoughtShakespeare might have added to an interpolation of 'the players. ' Andif there were reason (as in my judgment there is not) to suppose thatShakespeare thus permitted an interpolation, or that he collaboratedwith another author, I could believe that he left 'the players' or hiscollaborator to write the words of the passage. But that anyone exceptthe author of the scene of Duncan's murder _conceived_ the passage, isincredible. [247]       *       *       *       *       *The speeches of the Porter, a low comic character, are in prose. So isthe letter of Macbeth to his wife. In both these cases Shakespearefollows his general rule or custom. The only other prose-speeches occurin the sleep-walking scene, and here the use of prose may seem strange. For in great tragic scenes we expect the more poetic medium ofexpression, and this is one of the most famous of such scenes. Besides,unless I mistake, Lady Macbeth is the only one of Shakespeare's greattragic characters who on a last appearance is denied the dignity ofverse. Yet in this scene also he adheres to his custom. Somnambulism is anabnormal condition, and it is his general rule to assign prose topersons whose state of mind is abnormal. Thus, to illustrate from thesefour plays, Hamlet when playing the madman speaks prose, but insoliloquy, in talking with Horatio, and in pleading with his mother, hespeaks verse. [248] Ophelia in her madness either sings snatches of songsor speaks prose. Almost all Lear's speeches, after he has becomedefinitely insane, are in prose: where he wakes from sleep recovered,the verse returns. The prose enters with that speech which closes withhis trying to tear off his clothes; but he speaks in verse--some of itvery irregular--in the Timon-like speeches where his intellect suddenlyin his madness seems to regain the force of his best days (IV. vi. ). Othello, in IV. i. , speaks in verse till the moment when Iago tells himthat Cassio has confessed. There follow ten lines of prose--exclamationsand mutterings of bewildered horror--and he falls to the groundunconscious. The idea underlying this custom of Shakespeare's evidently is that theregular rhythm of verse would be inappropriate where the mind issupposed to have lost its balance and to be at the mercy of chanceimpressions coming from without (as sometimes with Lear), or of ideasemerging from its unconscious depths and pursuing one another across itspassive surface. The somnambulism of Lady Macbeth is such a condition. There is no rational connection in the sequence of images and ideas. Thesight of blood on her hand, the sound of the clock striking the hour forDuncan's murder, the hesitation of her husband before that hour came,the vision of the old man in his blood, the idea of the murdered wife ofMacduff, the sight of the hand again, Macbeth's 'flaws and starts' atthe sight of Banquo's ghost, the smell on her hand, the washing of handsafter Duncan's murder again, her husband's fear of the buried Banquo,the sound of the knocking at the gate--these possess her, one afteranother, in this chance order. It is not much less accidental than theorder of Ophelia's ideas; the great difference is that with Opheliatotal insanity has effaced or greatly weakened the emotional force ofthe ideas, whereas to Lady Macbeth each new image or perception comesladen with anguish. There is, again, scarcely a sign of the exaltationof disordered imagination; we are conscious rather of an intensesuffering which forces its way into light against resistance, and speaksa language for the most part strikingly bare in its diction and simplein its construction. This language stands in strong contrast with thatof Macbeth in the surrounding scenes, full of a feverish and almostfurious excitement, and seems to express a far more desolating misery. The effect is extraordinarily impressive. The soaring pride and power ofLady Macbeth's first speeches return on our memory, and the change isfelt with a breathless awe. Any attempt, even by Shakespeare, to drawout the moral enfolded in this awe, would but weaken it. For the moment,too, all the language of poetry--even of Macbeth's poetry--seems to betouched with unreality, and these brief toneless sentences seem the onlyvoice of truth. [249]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 227: So Mrs. Siddons is said to have given the passage. ][Footnote 228: Surely the usual interpretation of 'We fail? ' as aquestion of contemptuous astonishment, is right. 'We fail! ' givespractically the same sense, but alters the punctuation of the first twoFolios. In either case, 'But,' I think, means 'Only. ' On the other handthe proposal to read 'We fail. ' with a full stop, as expressive ofsublime acceptance of the possibility, seems to me, however attractiveat first sight, quite out of harmony with Lady Macbeth's mood throughoutthese scenes. ][Footnote 229: See Note DD. ][Footnote 230: It is not new. ][Footnote 231: The words about Lady Macduff are of course significant ofnatural human feeling, and may have been introduced expressly to markit, but they do not, I think, show any fundamental change in LadyMacbeth, for at no time would she have suggested or approved a_purposeless_ atrocity. It is perhaps characteristic that this humanfeeling should show itself most clearly in reference to an act for whichshe was not directly responsible, and in regard to which therefore shedoes not feel the instinct of self-assertion. ][Footnote 232: The tendency to sentimentalise Lady Macbeth is partly dueto Mrs. Siddons's fancy that she was a small, fair, blue-eyed woman,'perhaps even fragile. ' Dr. Bucknill, who was unaquainted with thisfancy, independently determined that she was 'beautiful and delicate,''unoppressed by weight of flesh,' 'probably small,' but 'a tawny orbrown blonde,' with grey eyes: and Brandes affirms that she was lean,slight, and hard. They know much more than Shakespeare, who tells usabsolutely nothing on these subjects. That Lady Macbeth, after takingpart in a murder, was so exhausted as to faint, will hardly demonstrateher fragility. That she must have been blue-eyed, fair, or red-haired,because she was a Celt, is a bold inference, and it is an idle dreamthat Shakespeare had any idea of making her or her husbandcharacteristically Celtic. The only evidence ever offered to prove thatshe was small is the sentence, 'All the perfumes of Arabia will notsweeten this little hand'; and Goliath might have called his hand'little' in contrast with all the perfumes of Arabia. One might as wellpropose to prove that Othello was a small man by quoting,                            I have seen the day,     That, with this little arm and this good sword,     I have made my way through more impediments     Than twenty times your stop. The reader is at liberty to imagine Lady Macbeth's person in the waythat pleases him best, or to leave it, as Shakespeare very likely did,unimagined. Perhaps it may be well to add that there is not the faintest trace inthe play of the idea occasionally met with, and to some extent embodiedin Madame Bernhardt's impersonation of Lady Macbeth, that her hold uponher husband lay in seductive attractions deliberately exercised. Shakespeare was not unskilled or squeamish in indicating such ideas. ][Footnote 233: That it is Macbeth who feels the harmony between thedesolation of the heath and the figures who appear on it is acharacteristic touch. ][Footnote 234: So, in Holinshed, 'Banquho jested with him and sayde, nowMakbeth thou haste obtayned those things which the twoo former sistersprophesied, there remayneth onely for thee to purchase that which thethird sayd should come to passe. '][Footnote 235: =doubts. ][Footnote 236: =design. ][Footnote 237:                           'tis much he dares,     And, to that dauntless temper of his mind,     He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour     To act in safety. ][Footnote 238: So when he hears that Fleance has escaped he is not muchtroubled (III. iv. 29):                         the worm that's fled     Hath nature that in time will venom breed,     No teeth for the present. I have repeated above what I have said before, because the meaning ofMacbeth's soliloquy is frequently misconceived. ][Footnote 239: Virgilia in _Coriolanus_ is a famous example. She speaksabout thirty-five lines. ][Footnote 240: The percentage of prose is, roughly, in _Hamlet_ 30-2/3,in _Othello_ 16-1/3, in _King Lear_ 27-1/2, in _Macbeth_ 8-1/2. ][Footnote 241: Cf. Note F. There are also in _Macbeth_ several shorterpassages which recall the Player's speech. Cf. 'Fortune . . . showed likea rebel's whore' (I. ii. 14) with 'Out! out! thou strumpet Fortune! ' Theform 'eterne' occurs in Shakespeare only in _Macbeth_, III. ii. 38, andin the 'proof eterne' of the Player's speech. Cf. 'So, as a paintedtyrant, Pyrrhus stood,' with _Macbeth_, V. viii. 26; 'the ruggedPyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,' with 'the rugged Russian bear . . . orthe Hyrcan tiger' (_Macbeth_, III. iv. 100); 'like a neutral to his willand matter' with _Macbeth_, I. v. 47. The words 'Till he unseam'd himfrom the nave to the chaps,' in the Serjeant's speech, recall the words'Then from the navel to the throat at once He ript old Priam,' in _DidoQueen of Carthage_, where these words follow those others, about Priamfalling with the mere wind of Pyrrhus' sword, which seem to havesuggested 'the whiff and wind of his fell sword' in the Player'sspeech. ][Footnote 242: See Cunliffe, _The Influence of Seneca on ElizabethanTragedy_. The most famous of these parallels is that between 'Will allgreat Neptune's Ocean,' etc. , and the following passages:     Quis eluet me Tanais? aut quae barbaris     Maeotis undis Pontico incumbens mari?     Non ipse toto magnus Oceano pater     Tantum expiarit sceleris. (_Hipp. _ 715. )     Quis Tanais, aut quis Nilus, aut quis Persica     Violentus unda Tigris, aut Rhenus ferox,     Tagusve Ibera turbidus gaza fluens,     Abluere dextram poterit? Arctoum licet     Maeotis in me gelida transfundat mare,     Et tota Tethys per meas currat manus,     Haerebit altum facinus. (_Herc. Furens_, 1323. )(The reader will remember Othello's 'Pontic sea' with its 'violentpace. ') Medea's incantation in Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, vii. 197 ff. ,which certainly suggested Prospero's speech, _Tempest_, V. i. 33 ff. ,should be compared with Seneca, _Herc. Oet. _, 452 ff. , 'Artibusmagicis,' etc. It is of course highly probable that Shakespeare readsome Seneca at school. I may add that in the _Hippolytus_, beside thepassage quoted above, there are others which might have furnished himwith suggestions. Cf. for instance _Hipp. _, 30 ff. , with the lines aboutthe Spartan hounds in _Mids. Night's Dream_, IV. i. 117 ff. , andHippolytus' speech, beginning 483, with the Duke's speech in _As YouLike It_, II. i. ][Footnote 243: Cf. Coleridge's note on the Lady Macduff scene. ][Footnote 244: It is nothing to the purpose that Macduff himself says,                                  Sinful Macduff,     They were all struck for thee! naught that I am,     Not for their own demerits, but for mine,     Fell slaughter on their souls. There is no reason to suppose that the sin and demerit he speaks of isthat of leaving his home. And even if it were, it is Macduff thatspeaks, not Shakespeare, any more than Shakespeare speaks in thepreceding sentence,                                 Did heaven look on,     And would not take their part? And yet Brandes (ii. 104) hears in these words 'the voice of revolt . . . that sounds later through the despairing philosophy of _King Lear_. ' Itsounds a good deal earlier too; _e. g. _ in _Tit. And. _, IV. i. 81, and _2Henry VI. _, II. i. 154. The idea is a commonplace of Elizabethantragedy. ][Footnote 245: And the idea that it was the death of his son Hamnet,aged eleven, that brought this power to maturity is one of the moreplausible attempts to find in his dramas a reflection of his privatehistory. It implies however as late a date as 1596 for _King John_. ][Footnote 246: Even if this were true, the retort is obvious thatneither is there anything resembling the murder-scene in _Macbeth_. ][Footnote 247: I have confined myself to the single aspect of thisquestion on which I had what seemed something new to say. ProfessorHales's defence of the passage on fuller grounds, in the admirable paperreprinted in his _Notes and Essays on Shakespeare_, seems to me quiteconclusive. I may add two notes. (1) The references in the Porter'sspeeches to 'equivocation,' which have naturally, and probably rightly,been taken as allusions to the Jesuit Garnet's appeal to the doctrine ofequivocation in defence of his perjury when, on trial for participationin the Gunpowder Plot, do not stand alone in _Macbeth_. The laterprophecies of the Witches Macbeth calls 'the equivocation of the fiendThat lies like truth' (V. v.

43); and the Porter's remarks about theequivocator who 'could swear in both the scales against either scale,who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate toheaven,' may be compared with the following dialogue (IV. ii. 45):     _Son. _           What is a traitor?     _Lady Macduff. _  Why, one that swears and lies.     _Son. _           And be all traitors that do so?     _Lady Macduff. _  Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must                        be hanged. Garnet, as a matter of fact, _was_ hanged in May, 1606; and it is to befeared that the audience applauded this passage. (2) The Porter's soliloquy on the different applicants for admittancehas, in idea and manner, a marked resemblance to Pompey's soliloquy onthe inhabitants of the prison, in _Measure for Measure_, IV. iii. 1 ff. ;and the dialogue between him and Abhorson on the 'mystery' of hanging(IV. ii. 22 ff. ) is of just the same kind as the Porter's dialogue withMacduff about drink. ][Footnote 248: In the last Act, however, he speaks in verse even in thequarrel with Laertes at Ophelia's grave. It would be plausible toexplain this either from his imitating what he thinks the rant ofLaertes, or by supposing that his 'towering passion' made him forget toact the madman. But in the final scene also he speaks in verse in thepresence of all. This again might be accounted for by saying that he issupposed to be in a lucid interval, as indeed his own language at 239ff. implies. But the probability is that Shakespeare's real reason forbreaking his rule here was simply that he did not choose to depriveHamlet of verse on his last appearance. I wonder the disuse of prose inthese two scenes has not been observed, and used as an argument, bythose who think that Hamlet, with the commission in his pocket, is nowresolute. ][Footnote 249: The verse-speech of the Doctor, which closes this scene,lowers the tension towards that of the next scene. His introductoryconversation with the Gentlewoman is written in prose (sometimes verynear verse), partly, perhaps, from its familiar character, but chieflybecause Lady Macbeth is to speak in prose. ]NOTE A. EVENTS BEFORE THE OPENING OF THE ACTION IN _HAMLET_. In Hamlet's first soliloquy he speaks of his father as being 'but twomonths dead,--nay, not so much, not two. ' He goes on to refer to thelove between his father and mother, and then says (I. ii. 145):                          and yet, within a month--     Let me not think on't--Frailty, thy name is woman! --     A little month, or ere those shoes were old     With which she follow'd my poor father's body,     Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she--     O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,     Would have mourn'd longer--married with my uncle. It seems hence to be usually assumed that at this time--the time whenthe action begins--Hamlet's mother has been married a little less than amonth. On this assumption difficulties, however, arise, though I have not foundthem referred to. Why has the Ghost waited nearly a month since themarriage before showing itself? Why has the King waited nearly a monthbefore appearing in public for the first time, as he evidently does inthis scene? And why has Laertes waited nearly a month since thecoronation before asking leave to return to France (I. ii. 53)? To this it might be replied that the marriage and the coronation wereseparated by some weeks; that, while the former occurred nearly a monthbefore the time of this scene, the latter has only just taken place; andthat what the Ghost cannot bear is, not the mere marriage, but theaccession of an incestuous murderer to the throne. But anyone who willread the King's speech at the opening of the scene will certainlyconclude that the marriage has only just been celebrated, and also thatit is conceived as involving the accession of Claudius to the throne. Gertrude is described as the 'imperial jointress' of the State, and theKing says that the lords consented to the marriage, but makes noseparate mention of his election. The solution of the difficulty is to be found in the lines quoted above. The marriage followed, within a month, not the _death_ of Hamlet'sfather, but the _funeral_. And this makes all clear. The death happenednearly two months ago. The funeral did not succeed it immediately, but(say) in a fortnight or three weeks. And the marriage and coronation,coming rather less than a month after the funeral, have just takenplace. So that the Ghost has not waited at all; nor has the King, norLaertes. On this hypothesis it follows that Hamlet's agonised soliloquy is notuttered nearly a month after the marriage which has so horrified him,but quite soon after it (though presumably he would know rather earlierwhat was coming). And from this hypothesis we get also a partialexplanation of two other difficulties, (_a_) When Horatio, at the end ofthe soliloquy, enters and greets Hamlet, it is evident that he andHamlet have not recently met at Elsinore. Yet Horatio came to Elsinorefor the funeral (I. ii. 176). Now even if the funeral took place somethree weeks ago, it seems rather strange that Hamlet, however absorbedin grief and however withdrawn from the Court, has not met Horatio; butif the funeral took place some seven weeks ago, the difficulty isconsiderably greater. (_b_) We are twice told that Hamlet has '_oflate_' been seeking the society of Ophelia and protesting his love forher (I. iii. 91, 99). It always seemed to me, on the usual view of thechronology, rather difficult (though not, of course, impossible) tounderstand this, considering the state of feeling produced in him by hismother's marriage, and in particular the shock it appears to have givento his faith in woman. But if the marriage has only just been celebratedthe words 'of late' would naturally refer to a time before it. This timepresumably would be subsequent to the death of Hamlet's father, but itis not so hard to fancy that Hamlet may have sought relief from mere_grief_ in his love for Ophelia. But here another question arises; May not the words 'of late' include,or even wholly refer to,[250] a time prior to the death of Hamlet'sfather? And this question would be answered universally, I suppose, inthe negative, on the ground that Hamlet was not at Court but atWittenberg when his father died. I will deal with this idea in aseparate note, and will only add here that, though it is quite possiblethat Shakespeare never imagined any of these matters clearly, and soproduced these unimportant difficulties, we ought not to assume thiswithout examination. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 250: This is intrinsically not probable, and is the moreimprobable because in Q1 Hamlet's letter to Ophelia (which must havebeen written before the action of the play begins) is signed 'Thine everthe most unhappy Prince _Hamlet_. ' 'Unhappy' _might_ be meant todescribe an unsuccessful lover, but it probably shows that the letterwas written after his father's death. ]NOTE B. WHERE WAS HAMLET AT THE TIME OF HIS FATHER'S DEATH? The answer will at once be given: 'At the University of Wittenberg. Forthe king says to him (I. ii. 112):                         For your intent     In going back to school in Wittenberg,     It is most retrograde to our desire. The Queen also prays him not to go to Wittenberg: and he consents toremain. 'Now I quite agree that the obvious interpretation of this passage isthat universally accepted, that Hamlet, like Horatio, was at Wittenbergwhen his father died; and I do not say that it is wrong. But it involvesdifficulties, and ought not to be regarded as certain. (1) One of these difficulties has long been recognised. Hamlet,according to the evidence of Act V. , Scene i. , is thirty years of age;and that is a very late age for a university student. One solution isfound (by those who admit that Hamlet _was_ thirty) in a passage inNash's _Pierce Penniless_: 'For fashion sake some [Danes] will put theirchildren to schoole, but they set them not to it till they are fourteeneyears old, so that you shall see a great boy with a beard learne hisA. B. C. and sit weeping under the rod when he is thirty years old. 'Another solution, as we saw (p. 105), is found in Hamlet's character. Heis a philosopher who lingers on at the University from love of hisstudies there. (2) But there is a more formidable difficulty, which seems to haveescaped notice. Horatio certainly came from Wittenberg to the funeral. And observe how he and Hamlet meet (I. ii. 160).     _Hor. _  Hail to your lordship!     _Ham. _                    I am glad to see you well:             Horatio,--or I do forget myself.     _Hor. _  The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.     _Ham. _  Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you:             And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?             Marcellus?     _Mar. _             My good lord--     _Ham. _  I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir. [251]             But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?     _Hor. _  A truant disposition, good my lord.     _Ham. _  I would not hear your enemy say so,             Nor shall you do my ear that violence,             To make it truster of your own report             Against yourself: I know you are no truant.             But what is your affair in Elsinore?             We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.     _Hor. _  My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.     _Ham. _  I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;             I think it was to see my mother's wedding. Is not this passing strange? Hamlet and Horatio are supposed to befellow-students at Wittenberg, and to have left it for Elsinore lessthan two months ago. Yet Hamlet hardly recognises Horatio at first, andspeaks as if he himself lived at Elsinore (I refer to his bitter jest,'We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart'). Who would dream thatHamlet had himself just come from Wittenberg, if it were not for theprevious words about his going back there? How can this be explained on the usual view? Only, I presume, bysupposing that Hamlet is so sunk in melancholy that he really doesalmost 'forget himself'[252] and forget everything else, so that heactually is in doubt who Horatio is. And this, though not impossible, ishard to believe. 'Oh no,' it may be answered, 'for he is doubtful about Marcellus too;and yet, if he were living at Elsinore, he must have seen Marcellusoften. ' But he is _not_ doubtful about Marcellus. That note ofinterrogation after 'Marcellus' is Capell's conjecture: it is not in anyQuarto or any Folio. The fact is that he knows perfectly well the manwho lives at Elsinore, but is confused by the appearance of the friendwho comes from Wittenberg. (3) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are sent for, to wean Hamlet from hismelancholy and to worm his secret out of him, because he has known themfrom his youth and is fond of them (II. ii. 1 ff. ). They come _to_Denmark (II. ii. 247 f. ): they come therefore _from_ some other country. Where do they come from? They are, we hear, Hamlet's 'school-fellows'(III. iv. 202). And in the first Quarto we are directly told that theywere with him at Wittenberg:     _Ham. _  What, Gilderstone, and Rossencraft,             Welcome, kind school-fellows, to Elsanore.     _Gil. _  We thank your grace, and would be very glad             You were as when we were at Wittenberg. Now let the reader look at Hamlet's first greeting of them in thereceived text, and let him ask himself whether it is the greeting of aman to fellow-students whom he left two months ago: whether it is notrather, like his greeting of Horatio, the welcome of an oldfellow-student who has not seen his visitors for a considerable time(II. ii. 226 f. ). (4) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern tell Hamlet of the players who arecoming. He asks what players they are, and is told, 'Even those you werewont to take such delight in, the tragedians of the city. ' He asks, 'Dothey hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? 'Evidently he has not been in the city for some time. And this is stillmore evident when the players come in, and he talks of one having growna beard, and another having perhaps cracked his voice, since they lastmet. What then is this city, where he has not been for some time, butwhere (it would appear) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern live? It is not inDenmark ('Comest thou to beard me in Denmark? '). It would seem to beWittenberg. [253]All these passages, it should be observed, are consistent with oneanother. And the conclusion they point to is that Hamlet has left theUniversity for some years and has been living at Court. This again isconsistent with his being thirty years of age, and with his beingmentioned as a soldier and a courtier as well as a scholar (III. i. 159). And it is inconsistent, I believe, with nothing in the play,unless with the mention of his 'going back to school in Wittenberg. ' Butit is not really inconsistent with that. The idea may quite well be thatHamlet, feeling it impossible to continue at Court after his mother'smarriage and Claudius' accession, thinks of the University where, yearsago, he was so happy, and contemplates a return to it. If this wereShakespeare's meaning he might easily fail to notice that the expression'going back to school in Wittenberg' would naturally suggest that Hamlethad only just left 'school. 'I do not see how to account for these passages except on thishypothesis. But it in its turn involves a certain difficulty. Horatio,Rosencrantz and Guildenstern seem to be of about the same age as Hamlet. How then do _they_ come to be at Wittenberg? I had thought that thisquestion might be answered in the following way. If 'the city' isWittenberg, Shakespeare would regard it as a place like London, and wemight suppose that Horatio, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were livingthere, though they had ceased to be students. But this can hardly betrue of Horatio, who, when he (to spare Hamlet's feelings) talks ofbeing 'a truant,' must mean a truant from his University. The onlysolution I can suggest is that, in the story or play which Shakespeareused, Hamlet and the others were all at the time of the murder youngstudents at Wittenberg, and that when he determined to make them oldermen (or to make Hamlet, at any rate, older), he did not take troubleenough to carry this idea through all the necessary detail, and so leftsome inconsistencies. But in any case the difficulty in the view which Isuggest seems to me not nearly so great as those which the usual viewhas to meet. [254]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 251: These three words are evidently addressed to Bernardo. ][Footnote 252: Cf. Antonio in his melancholy (_Merchant of Venice_, I. i. 6),     And such a want-wit sadness makes of me     That I have much ado to know myself. ][Footnote 253: In _Der Bestrafte Brudermord_ it _is_ Wittenberg. Hamletsays to the actors: 'Were you not, a few years ago, at the University ofWittenberg? I think I saw you act there': Furness's _Variorum_, ii. 129. But it is very doubtful whether this play is anything but an adaptationand enlargement of _Hamlet_ as it existed in the stage represented byQ1. ][Footnote 254: It is perhaps worth while to note that in _Der BestrafteBrudermord_ Hamlet is said to have been 'in Germany' at the time of hisfather's murder. ]NOTE C. HAMLET'S AGE. The chief arguments on this question may be found in Furness's _VariorumHamlet_, vol. i. , pp. 391 ff. I will merely explain my position briefly. Even if the general impression I received from the play were that Hamletwas a youth of eighteen or twenty, I should feel quite unable to set itagainst the evidence of the statements in V. i. which show him to beexactly thirty, unless these statements seemed to be casual. But theyhave to my mind, on the contrary, the appearance of being expresslyinserted in order to fix Hamlet's age; and the fact that they differdecidedly from the statements in Q1 confirms that idea. So does the factthat the Player King speaks of having been married thirty years (III. ii. 165), where again the number differs from that in Q1. If V. i. did not contain those decisive statements, I believe myimpression as to Hamlet's age would be uncertain. His being severaltimes called 'young' would not influence me much (nor at all when he iscalled 'young' simply to distinguish him from his father, _as he is inthe very passage which shows him to be thirty_). But I think wenaturally take him to be about as old as Laertes, Rosencrantz andGuildenstern, and take them to be less than thirty. Further, thelanguage used by Laertes and Polonius to Ophelia in I. iii. wouldcertainly, by itself, lead one to imagine Hamlet as a good deal lessthan thirty; and the impression it makes is not, to me, altogethereffaced by the fact that Henry V. at his accession is said to be in 'thevery May-morn of his youth,'--an expression which corresponds closelywith those used by Laertes to Ophelia. In some passages, again, there isan air of boyish petulance. On the other side, however, we should haveto set (1) the maturity of Hamlet's thought; (2) his manner, on thewhole, to other men and to his mother, which, I think, is far fromsuggesting the idea of a mere youth; (3) such a passage as his words toHoratio at III. ii. 59 ff. , which imply that both he and Horatio haveseen a good deal of life (this passage has in Q1 nothing correspondingto the most significant lines). I have shown in Note B that it is veryunsafe to argue to Hamlet's youth from the words about his going back toWittenberg. On the whole I agree with Prof. Dowden that, apart from the statementsin V. i. , one would naturally take Hamlet to be a man of about five andtwenty. It has been suggested that in the old play Hamlet was a mere lad; thatShakespeare, when he began to work on it,[255] had not determined tomake Hamlet older; that, as he went on, he did so determine; and thatthis is the reason why the earlier part of the play makes (if it doesso) a different impression from the later. I see nothing very improbablein this idea, but I must point out that it is a mistake to appeal insupport of it to the passage in V. i. as found in Q1; for that passagedoes not in the least show that the author (if correctly reported)imagined Hamlet as a lad. I set out the statements in Q2 and Q1. Q2 says:     (1) The grave-digger came to his business on the day when old     Hamlet defeated Fortinbras:     (2) On that day young Hamlet was born:     (3) The grave-digger has, at the time of speaking, been sexton     for thirty years:     (4) Yorick's skull has been in the earth twenty-three years:     (5) Yorick used to carry young Hamlet on his back. This is all explicit and connected, and yields the result that Hamlet isnow thirty. Q1 says:     (1) Yorick's skull has been in the ground a dozen years:     (2) It has been in the ground ever since old Hamlet overcame     Fortinbras:     (3) Yorick used to carry young Hamlet on his back. From this nothing whatever follows as to Hamlet's age, except that he ismore than twelve! [256] Evidently the writer (if correctly reported) hasno intention of telling us how old Hamlet is. That he did not imaginehim as very young appears from his making him say that he has noted'this seven year' (in Q2 'three years') that the toe of the peasantcomes near the heel of the courtier. The fact that the Player-King in Q1speaks of having been married forty years shows that here too the writerhas not any reference to Hamlet's age in his mind. [257]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 255: Of course we do not know that he did work on it. ][Footnote 256: I find that I have been anticipated in this remark by H. Türck (_Jahrbuch_ for 1900, p. 267 ff. )][Footnote 257: I do not know if it has been observed that in the openingof the Player-King's speech, as given in Q2 and the Folio (it is quitedifferent in Q1), there seems to be a reminiscence of Greene's_Alphonsus King of Arragon_, Act IV. , lines 33 ff. (Dyce's _Greene andPeele_, p. 239):     Thrice ten times Phoebus with his golden beams     Hath compassed the circle of the sky,     Thrice ten times Ceres hath her workmen hir'd,     And fill'd her barns with fruitful crops of corn,     Since first in priesthood I did lead my life. ]NOTE D. 'MY TABLES--MEET IT IS I SET IT DOWN. 'This passage has occasioned much difficulty, and to many readers seemseven absurd. And it has been suggested that it, with much thatimmediately follows it, was adopted by Shakespeare, with very littlechange, from the old play. It is surely in the highest degree improbable that, at such a criticalpoint, when he had to show the first effect on Hamlet of the disclosuresmade by the Ghost, Shakespeare would write slackly or be content withanything that did not satisfy his own imagination. But it is notsurprising that we should find some difficulty in following hisimagination at such a point. Let us look at the whole speech. The Ghost leaves Hamlet with the words,'Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me'; and he breaks out:     O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else?     And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, hold, my heart;     And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,     But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee!     Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat     In this distracted globe. Remember thee!     Yea, from the table of my memory     I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,     All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,     That youth and observation copied there;     And thy commandment all alone shall live     Within the book and volume of my brain,     Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven!     O most pernicious woman!     O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!     My tables--meet it is I set it down,     That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;     At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark:      [_Writing_     So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;     It is 'Adieu, adieu! remember me. '     I have sworn 't. The man who speaks thus was, we must remember, already well-nighoverwhelmed with sorrow and disgust when the Ghost appeared to him. Hehas now suffered a tremendous shock. He has learned that his mother wasnot merely what he supposed but an adulteress, and that his father wasmurdered by her paramour. This knowledge too has come to him in such away as, quite apart from the _matter_ of the communication, might makeany human reason totter. And, finally, a terrible charge has been laidupon him. Is it strange, then, that he should say what is strange? Why,there would be nothing to wonder at if his mind collapsed on the spot. Now it is just this that he himself fears. In the midst of the firsttremendous outburst, he checks himself suddenly with the exclamation 'O,fie! ' (cf. the precisely similar use of this interjection, II. ii. 617). He must not let himself feel: he has to live. He must not let his heartbreak in pieces ('hold' means 'hold together'), his muscles turn intothose of a trembling old man, his brain dissolve--as they threaten in aninstant to do. For, if they do, how can he--_remember_? He goes onreiterating this 'remember' (the 'word' of the Ghost). He is, literally,afraid that he will _forget_--that his mind will lose the messageentrusted to it. Instinctively, then, he feels that, if he _is_ toremember, he must wipe from his memory everything it already contains;and the image of his past life rises before him, of all his joy inthought and observation and the stores they have accumulated in hismemory. All that is done with for ever: nothing is to remain for him onthe 'table' but the command, 'remember me. ' He swears it; 'yes, byheaven! ' That done, suddenly the repressed passion breaks out, and, mostcharacteristically, he thinks _first_ of his mother; then of his uncle,the smooth-spoken scoundrel who has just been smiling on him and callinghim 'son. ' And in bitter desperate irony he snatches his tables from hisbreast (they are suggested to him by the phrases he has just used,'table of my memory,' 'book and volume'). After all, he _will_ use themonce again; and, perhaps with a wild laugh, he writes with tremblingfingers his last observation: 'One may smile, and smile, and be avillain. 'But that, I believe, is not merely a desperate jest. It springs fromthat _fear of forgetting_. A time will come, he feels, when all thisappalling experience of the last half-hour will be incredible to him,will seem a mere nightmare, will even, conceivably, quite vanish fromhis mind. Let him have something in black and white that will bring itback and _force_ him to remember and believe. What is there so unnaturalin this, if you substitute a note-book or diary for the 'tables'? [258]But why should he write that particular note, and not rather his 'word,''Adieu, adieu! remember me'? I should answer, first, that a grotesquejest at such a moment is thoroughly characteristic of Hamlet (see p. 151), and that the jocose 'So, uncle, there you are! ' shows his state ofmind; and, secondly, that loathing of his uncle is vehement in histhought at this moment. Possibly, too, he might remember that 'tables'are stealable, and that if the appearance of the Ghost should bereported, a mere observation on the smiling of villains could not betrayanything of his communication with the Ghost. What follows shows thatthe instinct of secrecy is strong in him. It seems likely, I may add, that Shakespeare here was influenced,consciously or unconsciously, by recollection of a place in _TitusAndronicus_ (IV. i. ). In that horrible play Chiron and Demetrius, afteroutraging Lavinia, cut out her tongue and cut off her hands, in orderthat she may be unable to reveal the outrage. She reveals it, however,by taking a staff in her mouth, guiding it with her arms, and writing inthe sand, 'Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius. ' Titus soon afterwards says:                    I will go get a leaf of brass,     And with a gad of steel will write these words,     And lay it by. The angry northern wind     Will blow these sands, like Sibyl's leaves, abroad,     And where's your lesson then? Perhaps in the old _Hamlet_, which may have been a play something like_Titus Andronicus_, Hamlet at this point did write something of theGhost's message in his tables. In any case Shakespeare, whether he wrote_Titus Andronicus_ or only revised an older play on the subject, mightwell recall this incident, as he frequently reproduces other things inthat drama. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 258: The reader will observe that this suggestion of a_further_ reason for his making the note may be rejected without therest of the interpretation being affected. ]NOTE E. THE GHOST IN THE CELLARAGE.     It has been thought that the whole of the last part of I. v. ,     from the entrance of Horatio and Marcellus, follows the old     play closely, and that Shakespeare is condescending to the     groundlings.     Here again, whether or no he took a suggestion from the old     play, I see no reason to think that he wrote down to his     public. So far as Hamlet's state of mind is concerned, there     is not a trace of this. Anyone who has a difficulty in     understanding it should read Coleridge's note. What appears     grotesque is the part taken by the Ghost, and Hamlet's     consequent removal from one part of the stage to another. But,     as to the former, should we feel anything grotesque in the     four injunctions 'Swear! ' if it were not that they come from     under the stage--a fact which to an Elizabethan audience,     perfectly indifferent to what is absurdly called stage     illusion, was probably not in the least grotesque? And as to     the latter, if we knew the Ghost-lore of the time better than     we do, perhaps we should see nothing odd in Hamlet's insisting     on moving away and proposing the oath afresh when the Ghost     intervenes.     But, further, it is to be observed that he does not merely     propose the oath afresh. He first makes Horatio and Marcellus     swear never to make known what they have _seen_. Then, on     shifting his ground, he makes them swear never to speak of     what they have _heard_. Then, moving again, he makes them     swear that, if he should think fit to play the antic, they     will give no sign of knowing aught of him. The oath is now     complete; and, when the Ghost commands them to swear the last     time, Hamlet suddenly becomes perfectly serious and bids it     rest. [In Fletcher's _Woman's Prize_, V. iii. , a passage     pointed out to me by Mr. C. J. Wilkinson, a man taking an oath     shifts his ground. ]     NOTE F.     THE PLAYER'S SPEECH IN _HAMLET_.     There are two extreme views about this speech. According to     one, Shakespeare quoted it from some play, or composed it for     the occasion, simply and solely in order to ridicule, through     it, the bombastic style of dramatists contemporary with     himself or slightly older; just as he ridicules in _2 Henry     IV. _ Tamburlaine's rant about the kings who draw his chariot,     or puts fragments of similar bombast into the mouth of Pistol.     According to Coleridge, on the other hand, this idea is 'below     criticism. ' No sort of ridicule was intended. 'The lines, as     epic narrative, are superb. ' It is true that the language is     'too poetical--the language of lyric vehemence and epic pomp,     and not of the drama'; but this is due to the fact that     Shakespeare had to distinguish the style of the speech from     that of his own dramatic dialogue.     In essentials I think that what Coleridge says[259] is true.     He goes too far, it seems to me, when he describes the     language of the speech as merely 'too poetical'; for with much     that is fine there is intermingled a good deal that, in epic     as in drama, must be called bombast. But I do not believe     Shakespeare meant it for bombast.     I will briefly put the arguments which point to this     conclusion. Warburton long ago stated some of them fully and     cogently, but he misinterpreted here and there, and some     arguments have to be added to his.     1. If the speech was meant to be ridiculous, it follows either     that Hamlet in praising it spoke ironically, or that     Shakespeare, in making Hamlet praise it sincerely, himself     wrote ironically. And both these consequences are almost     incredible.     Let us see what Hamlet says. He asks the player to recite 'a     passionate speech'; and, being requested to choose one, he     refers to a speech he once heard the player declaim. This     speech, he says, was never 'acted' or was acted only once; for     the play pleased not the million. But he, and others whose     opinion was of more importance than his, thought it an     excellent play, well constructed, and composed with equal     skill and temperance. One of these other judges commended it     because it contained neither piquant indecencies nor     affectations of phrase, but showed 'an honest method, as     wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than     fine. '[260] In this play Hamlet 'chiefly loved' one speech;     and he asks for a part of it.     Let the reader now refer to the passage I have just     summarised; let him consider its tone and manner; and let him     ask himself if Hamlet can possibly be speaking ironically. I     am sure he will answer No. And then let him observe what     follows. The speech is declaimed. Polonius interrupting it     with an objection to its length, Hamlet snubs him, bids the     player proceed, and adds, 'He's for a jig or a tale of bawdry:     or he sleeps. ' 'He,' that is, 'shares the taste of the million     for sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, and is     wearied by an honest method. '[261] Polonius later interrupts     again, for he thinks the emotion of the player too absurd; but     Hamlet respects it; and afterwards, when he is alone (and     therefore can hardly be ironical), in contrasting this emotion     with his own insensibility, he betrays no consciousness that     there was anything unfitting in the speech that caused it.     So far I have chiefly followed Warburton, but there is an     important point which seems not to have been observed. All     Hamlet's praise of the speech is in the closest agreement with     his conduct and words elsewhere. His later advice to the     player (III. ii. ) is on precisely the same lines. He is to     play to the judicious, not to the crowd, whose opinion is     worthless. He is to observe, like the author of Aeneas'     speech, the 'modesty' of nature. He must not tear a 'passion'     to tatters, to split the ears of the incompetent, but in the     very tempest of passion is to keep a temperance and     smoothness. The million, we gather from the first passage,     cares nothing for construction; and so, we learn in the second     passage, the barren spectators want to laugh at the clown     instead of attending to some necessary question of the play.     Hamlet's hatred of exaggeration is marked in both passages.     And so (as already pointed out, p. 133) in the play-scene,     when his own lines are going to be delivered, he impatiently     calls out to the actor to leave his damnable faces and begin;     and at the grave of Ophelia he is furious with what he thinks     the exaggeration of Laertes, burlesques his language, and     breaks off with the words,                  Nay, an thou'lt mouth,     I'll rant as well as thou. Now if Hamlet's praise of the Aeneas and Dido play and speech isironical, his later advice to the player must surely be ironical too:and who will maintain that? And if in the one passage Hamlet is seriousbut Shakespeare ironical, then in the other passage all those famousremarks about drama and acting, which have been cherished asShakespeare's by all the world, express the opposite of Shakespeare'sopinion: and who will maintain that? And if Hamlet and Shakespeare areboth serious--and nothing else is credible--then, to Hamlet andShakespeare, the speeches of Laertes and Hamlet at Ophelia's grave arerant, but the speech of Aeneas to Dido is not rant. Is it not evidentthat he meant it for an exalted narrative speech of 'passion,' in astyle which, though he may not have adopted it, he still approved anddespised the million for not approving,--a speech to be delivered withtemperance or modesty, but not too tamely neither? Is he not aiming hereto do precisely what Marlowe aimed to do when he proposed to lead theaudience     From jigging veins of rhyming mother-wits,     And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay,to 'stately' themes which beget 'high astounding terms'? And is itstrange that, like Marlowe in _Tamburlaine_, he adopted a style marredin places by that which _we_ think bombast, but which the author meantto be more 'handsome than fine'? 2. If this is so, we can easily understand how it comes about that thespeech of Aeneas contains lines which are unquestionably grand and freefrom any suspicion of bombast, and others which, though not free fromthat suspicion, are nevertheless highly poetic. To the first classcertainly belongs the passage beginning, 'But as we often see. ' To thesecond belongs the description of Pyrrhus, covered with blood that was     Baked and impasted with the parching streets,     That lend a tyrannous and damned light     To their lord's murder;and again the picture of Pyrrhus standing like a tyrant in a picture,with his uplifted arm arrested in act to strike by the crash of thefalling towers of Ilium. It is surely impossible to say that these linesare _merely_ absurd and not in the least grand; and with them I shouldjoin the passage about Fortune's wheel, and the concluding lines. But how can the insertion of these passages possibly be explained on thehypothesis that Shakespeare meant the speech to be ridiculous? 3. 'Still,' it may be answered, 'Shakespeare _must_ have been consciousof the bombast in some of these passages. How could he help seeing it? And, if he saw it, he cannot have meant seriously to praise the speech. 'But why must he have seen it? Did Marlowe know when he wrotebombastically? Or Marston? Or Heywood? Does not Shakespeare elsewherewrite bombast? The truth is that the two defects of style in the speechare the very defects we do find in his writings. When he wished to makehis style exceptionally high and passionate he always ran some risk ofbombast. And he was even more prone to the fault which in this speechseems to me the more marked, a use of metaphors which sound to our ears'conceited' or grotesque. To me at any rate the metaphors in 'now is hetotal gules' and 'mincing with his sword her husband's limbs' are moredisturbing than any of the bombast. But, as regards this second defect,there are many places in Shakespeare worse than the speech of Aeneas;and, as regards the first, though in his undoubtedly genuine works thereis no passage so faulty, there is also no passage of quite the samespecies (for his narrative poems do not aim at epic grandeur), and thereare many passages where bombast of the same kind, though not of the samedegree, occurs. Let the reader ask himself, for instance, how the following lines wouldstrike him if he came on them for the first time out of their context:                     Whip me, ye devils,     From the possession of this heavenly sight!     Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur!     Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! Are Pyrrhus's 'total gules' any worse than Duncan's 'silver skin lacedwith his golden blood,' or so bad as the chamberlains' daggers'unmannerly breech'd with gore'? [262] If 'to bathe in reeking wounds,'and 'spongy officers,' and even 'alarum'd by his sentinel the wolf,Whose howl's his watch,' and other such phrases in _Macbeth_, hadoccurred in the speech of Aeneas, we should certainly have been toldthat they were meant for burlesque. I open _Troilus and Cressida_(because, like the speech of Aeneas, it has to do with the story ofTroy), and I read, in a perfectly serious context (IV. v. 6 f. ):                Thou, trumpet, there's thy purse.     Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe:     Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek     Outswell the colic of puff'd Aquilon:     Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood;     Thou blow'st for Hector. 'Splendid! ' one cries. Yes, but if you are told it is also bombastic,can you deny it? I read again (V. v. 7):                    bastard Margarelon     Hath Doreus prisoner,     And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,     Upon the pashed corses of the kings. Or, to turn to earlier but still undoubted works, Shakespeare wrote in_Romeo and Juliet_,                  here will I remain     With worms that are thy chamber-maids;and in _King John_,     And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath     Out of the bloody finger-ends of John;and in _Lucrece_,     And, bubbling from her breast, it doth divide     In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood     Circles her body in on every side,     Who, like a late-sack'd island, vastly stood     Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.       Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd,       And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd. Is it so very unlikely that the poet who wrote thus might, aiming at apeculiarly heightened and passionate style, write the speech of Aeneas? 4. But, pursuing this line of argument, we must go further. There isreally scarcely one idea, and there is but little phraseology, in thespeech that cannot be paralleled from Shakespeare's own works. He merelyexaggerates a little here what he has done elsewhere. I will concludethis Note by showing that this is so as regards almost all the passagesmost objected to, as well as some others. (1) 'The Hyrcanian beast' isMacbeth's 'Hyrcan tiger' (III. iv. 101), who also occurs in _3 Hen. VI. _I. iv. 155. (2) With 'total gules' Steevens compared _Timon_ IV. iii. 59(an undoubtedly Shakespearean passage),     With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules. (3) With 'baked and impasted' cf. _John_ III. iii. 42, 'If that surlyspirit melancholy Had baked thy blood. ' In the questionable _Tit. And. _V. ii. 201 we have, 'in that paste let their vile heads be baked' (apaste made of blood and bones, _ib. _ 188), and in the undoubted _RichardII. _ III. ii. 154 (quoted by Caldecott) Richard refers to the ground     Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. (4) 'O'er-sized with coagulate gore' finds an exact parallel in the'blood-siz'd field' of the _Two Noble Kinsmen_, I. i. 99, a scene which,whether written by Shakespeare (as I fully believe) or by another poet,was certainly written in all seriousness. (5) 'With eyes likecarbuncles' has been much ridiculed, but Milton (_P. L. _ ix. 500) gives'carbuncle eyes' to Satan turned into a serpent (Steevens), and why arethey more outrageous than ruby lips and cheeks (_J. C. _ III. i. 260,_Macb. _ III. iv. 115, _Cym. _ II. ii. 17)? (6) Priam falling with themere wind of Pyrrhus's sword is paralleled, not only in _Dido Queen ofCarthage_, but in _Tr. and Cr.

_ V. iii. 40 (Warburton). (7) With Pyrrhusstanding like a painted tyrant cf. _Macb. _ V. viii. 25 (Delius). (8) Theforging of Mars's armour occurs again in _Tr. and Cr. _ IV. v. 255, whereHector swears by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, just as Hamlethimself alludes to Vulcan's stithy (III. ii. 89). (9) The idea of'strumpet Fortune' is common: _e. g. _ _Macb. _ I. ii. 15, 'Fortune . . . show'd like a rebel's whore. ' (10) With the 'rant' about her wheelWarburton compares _Ant. and Cl. _ IV. xv. 43, where Cleopatra would                                  rail so high     That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel. (11. ) Pyrrhus minces with his sword Priam's limbs, and Timon (IV. iii. 122) bids Alcibiades 'mince' the babe without remorse. '[263]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 259: It is impossible to tell whether Coleridge formed hisview independently, or adopted it from Schlegel. For there is no recordof his having expressed his opinion prior to the time of his readingSchlegel's _Lectures_; and, whatever he said to the contrary, hisborrowings from Schlegel are demonstrable. ][Footnote 260: Clark and Wright well compare Polonius' antithesis of'rich, not gaudy': though I doubt if 'handsome' implies richness. ][Footnote 261: Is it not possible that 'mobled queen,' to which Hamletseems to object, and which Polonius praises, is meant for an example ofthe second fault of affected phraseology, from which the play was saidto be free, and an instance of which therefore surprises Hamlet? ][Footnote 262: The extravagance of these phrases is doubtlessintentional (for Macbeth in using them is trying to act a part), but the_absurdity_ of the second can hardly be so. ][Footnote 263: Steevens observes that Heywood uses the phrase 'guledwith slaughter,' and I find in his _Iron Age_ various passagesindicating that he knew the speech of Aeneas (cf. p. 140 for anothersign that he knew _Hamlet_). The two parts of the _Iron Age_ werepublished in 1632, but are said, in the preface to the Second, to have'been long since writ. ' I refer to the pages of vol. 3 of Pearson's_Heywood_ (1874). (1) p. 329, Troilus 'lyeth imbak'd In his cold blood. '(2) p. 341, of Achilles' armour:     _Vulcan_ that wrought it out of gadds of Steele     With his _Ciclopian_ hammers, never made     Such noise upon his Anvile forging it,     Than these my arm'd fists in _Ulisses_ wracke. (3) p. 357, 'till _Hecub's_ reverent lockes Be gul'd in slaughter. ' (4)p. 357, '_Scamander_ plaines Ore-spread with intrailes bak'd in bloodand dust. ' (5) p. 378, 'We'll rost them at the scorching flames of_Troy_. ' (6) p. 379, 'tragicke slaughter, clad in gules and sables'(cf. 'sable arms' in the speech in _Hamlet_). (7) p. 384, 'these lockes,now knotted all, As bak't in blood. ' Of these, all but (1) and (2) arein Part II. Part I. has many passages which recall _Troilus andCressida_. Mr. Fleay's speculation as to its date will be found in his_Chronicle History of the English Drama_, i. p. 285. For the same writer's ingenious theory (which is of course incapable ofproof) regarding the relation of the player's speech in _Hamlet_ toMarlowe and Nash's _Dido_, see Furness's Variorum _Hamlet_. ]NOTE G. HAMLET'S APOLOGY TO LAERTES. Johnson, in commenting on the passage (V. ii. 237-255), says: 'I wishHamlet had made some other defence; it is unsuitable to the character ofa good or a brave man to shelter himself in falsehood. ' And Seymour(according to Furness) thought the falsehood so ignoble that he rejectedlines 239-250 as an interpolation! I wish first to remark that we are mistaken when we suppose that Hamletis here apologising specially for his behaviour to Laertes at Ophelia'sgrave. We naturally suppose this because he has told Horatio that he issorry he 'forgot himself' on that occasion, and that he will courtLaertes' favours (V. ii. 75 ff. ). But what he says in that very passageshows that he is thinking chiefly of the greater wrong he has doneLaertes by depriving him of his father:     For, by the image of my cause, I see     The portraiture of his. And it is also evident in the last words of the apology itself that heis referring in it to the deaths of Polonius and Ophelia:     Sir, in this audience,     Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil     Free me so far in your most generous thoughts,     _That I have shot mine arrow o'er the house,     And hurt my brother. _But now, as to the falsehood. The charge is not to be set aside lightly;and, for my part, I confess that, while rejecting of course Johnson'snotion that Shakespeare wanted to paint 'a good man,' I have momentarilyshared Johnson's wish that Hamlet had made 'some other defence' thanthat of madness. But I think the wish proceeds from failure to imaginethe situation. In the first place, _what_ other defence can we wish Hamlet to havemade? I can think of none. He cannot tell the truth. He cannot say toLaertes, 'I meant to stab the King, not your father. ' He cannot explainwhy he was unkind to Ophelia. Even on the false supposition that he isreferring simply to his behaviour at the grave, he can hardly say, Isuppose, 'You ranted so abominably that you put me into a toweringpassion. ' _Whatever_ he said, it would have to be more or less untrue. Next, what moral difference is there between feigning insanity andasserting it? If we are to blame Hamlet for the second, why not equallyfor the first? And, finally, even if he were referring simply to his behaviour at thegrave, his excuse, besides falling in with his whole plan of feigninginsanity, would be as near the truth as any he could devise. For we arenot to take the account he gives to Horatio, that he was put in apassion by the bravery of Laertes' grief, as the whole truth. His ravingover the grave is not _mere_ acting. On the contrary, that passage isthe best card that the believers in Hamlet's madness have to play. He isreally almost beside himself with grief as well as anger, half-maddenedby the impossibility of explaining to Laertes how he has come to do whathe has done, full of wild rage and then of sick despair at this wretchedworld which drives him to such deeds and such misery. It is the samerage and despair that mingle with other feelings in his outbreak toOphelia in the Nunnery-scene. But of all this, even if he were clearlyconscious of it, he cannot speak to Horatio; for his love to Ophelia isa subject on which he has never opened his lips to his friend. If we realise the situation, then, we shall, I think, repress the wishthat Hamlet had 'made some other defence' than that of madness. We shallfeel only tragic sympathy.       *       *       *       *       *As I have referred to Hamlet's apology, I will add a remark on it from adifferent point of view. It forms another refutation of the theory thatHamlet has delayed his vengeance till he could publicly convict theKing, and that he has come back to Denmark because now, with theevidence of the commission in his pocket, he can safely accuse him. Ifthat were so, what better opportunity could he possibly find than thisoccasion, where he has to express his sorrow to Laertes for the grievouswrongs which he has unintentionally inflicted on him? NOTE H. THE EXCHANGE OF RAPIERS. I am not going to discuss the question how this exchange ought to bemanaged. I wish merely to point out that the stage-direction fails toshow the sequence of speeches and events. The passage is as follows(Globe text):     _Ham. _  Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally;             I pray you, pass with your best violence;             I am afeard you make a wanton of me.     _Laer. _ Say you so? come on.                 [_They play. _     _Osr. _  Nothing, neither way.     _Laer. _ Have at you now!                [_Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they                   change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes. _[264]     _King. _  Part them; they are incensed.     _Ham. _   Nay, come, again.             _The Queen falls. _[265]     _Osr. _                    Look to the Queen there, ho!     _Hor. _   They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?     _Osr. _   How is't, Laertes? The words 'and Hamlet wounds Laertes' in Rowe's stage-direction destroythe point of the words given to the King in the text. If Laertes isalready wounded, why should the King care whether the fencers are partedor not? What makes him cry out is that, while he sees his purposeeffected as regards Hamlet, he also sees Laertes in danger through theexchange of foils in the scuffle. Now it is not to be supposed thatLaertes is particularly dear to him; but he sees instantaneously that,if Laertes escapes the poisoned foil, he will certainly hold his tongueabout the plot against Hamlet, while, if he is wounded, he may confessthe truth; for it is no doubt quite evident to the King that Laertes hasfenced tamely because his conscience is greatly troubled by thetreachery he is about to practise. The King therefore, as soon as hesees the exchange of foils, cries out, 'Part them; they are incensed. 'But Hamlet's blood is up. 'Nay, come, again,' he calls to Laertes, whocannot refuse to play, and _now_ is wounded by Hamlet. At the very samemoment the Queen falls to the ground; and ruin rushes on the King fromthe right hand and the left. The passage, therefore, should be printed thus:     _Laer. _ Have at you now!                     [_Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling,                                            they change rapiers. _     _King. _ Part them; they are incensed.     _Ham. _  Nay, come, again.       [_They play, and Hamlet wounds Laertes. The Queen falls. _FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 264: So Rowe. The direction in Q1 is negligible, the textbeing different. Q2 etc. have nothing, Ff. simply 'In scuffling theychange rapiers. '][Footnote 265: Capell. The Quartos and Folios have no directions. ]NOTE I. THE DURATION OF THE ACTION IN _OTHELLO_. The quite unusual difficulties regarding this subject have led to muchdiscussion, a synopsis of which may be found in Furness's Variorumedition, pp. 358-72. Without detailing the facts I will briefly set outthe main difficulty, which is that, according to one set of indications(which I will call A), Desdemona was murdered within a day or two of herarrival in Cyprus, while, according to another set (which I will callB), some time elapsed between her arrival and the catastrophe. Let ustake A first, and run through the play. (A) Act I. opens on the night of Othello's marriage. On that night he isdespatched to Cyprus, leaving Desdemona to follow him. In Act II. Sc. i. , there arrive at Cyprus, first, in one ship, Cassio;then, in another, Desdemona, Iago, and Emilia; then, in another, Othello(Othello, Cassio, and Desdemona being in three different ships, it doesnot matter, for our purpose, how long the voyage lasted). On the nightfollowing these arrivals in Cyprus the marriage is consummated (II. iii. 9), Cassio is cashiered, and, on Iago's advice, he resolves to askDesdemona's intercession 'betimes in the morning' (II. iii. 335). In Act III. Sc. iii. (the Temptation scene), he does so: Desdemona doesintercede: Iago begins to poison Othello's mind: the handkerchief islost, found by Emilia, and given to Iago: he determines to leave it inCassio's room, and, renewing his attack on Othello, asserts that he hasseen the handkerchief in Cassio's hand: Othello bids him kill Cassiowithin three days, and resolves to kill Desdemona himself. All thisoccurs in one unbroken scene, and evidently on the day after the arrivalin Cyprus (see III. i. 33). In the scene (iv. ) following the Temptation scene Desdemona sends to bidCassio come, as she has interceded for him: Othello enters, tests herabout the handkerchief, and departs in anger: Cassio, arriving, is toldof the change in Othello, and, being left _solus_, is accosted byBianca, whom he requests to copy the work on the handkerchief which hehas just found in his room (ll. 188 f. ). All this is naturally taken tohappen in the later part of the day on which the events of III. i. -iii. took place, _i. e. _ the day after the arrival in Cyprus: but I shallreturn to this point. In IV. i. Iago tells Othello that Cassio has confessed, and, placingOthello where he can watch, he proceeds on Cassio's entrance to rallyhim about Bianca; and Othello, not being near enough to hear what issaid, believes that Cassio is laughing at his conquest of Desdemona. Cassio here says that Bianca haunts him and 'was here _even now_'; andBianca herself, coming in, reproaches him about the handkerchief 'yougave me _even now_. ' There is therefore no appreciable time between III. iv. and IV. i. In this same scene Bianca bids Cassio come to supper_to-night_; and Lodovico, arriving, is asked to sup with Othello_to-night_. In IV. ii. Iago persuades Roderigo to kill Cassio _thatnight_ as he comes from Bianca's. In IV. iii. Lodovico, after supper,takes his leave, and Othello bids Desdemona go to bed on the instant anddismiss her attendant. In Act V. , _that night_, the attempted assassination of Cassio, and themurder of Desdemona, take place. From all this, then, it seems clear that the time between the arrival inCyprus and the catastrophe is certainly not more than a few days, andmost probably only about a day and a half: or, to put it otherwise, thatmost probably Othello kills his wife about twenty-four hours after theconsummation of their marriage! The only _possible_ place, it will be seen, where time can elapse isbetween III. iii. and III. iv. And here Mr. Fleay would imagine a gap ofat least a week. The reader will find that this supposition involves thefollowing results, (_a_) Desdemona has allowed at least a week to elapsewithout telling Cassio that she has interceded for him. (_b_) Othello,after being convinced of her guilt, after resolving to kill her, andafter ordering Iago to kill Cassio within three days, has allowed atleast a week to elapse without even questioning her about thehandkerchief, and has so behaved during all this time that she istotally unconscious of any change in his feelings. (_c_) Desdemona, whoreserves the handkerchief evermore about her to kiss and talk to (III. iii. 295), has lost it for at least a week before she is conscious ofthe loss. (_d_) Iago has waited at least a week to leave thehandkerchief in Cassio's chamber; for Cassio has evidently only justfound it, and wants the work on it copied before the owner makesinquiries for it. These are all gross absurdities. It is certain thatonly a short time, most probable that not even a night, elapses betweenIII. iii. and III. iv. (B) Now this idea that Othello killed his wife, probably withintwenty-four hours, certainly within a few days, of the consummation ofhis marriage, contradicts the impression produced by the play on alluncritical readers and spectators. It is also in flat contradiction witha large number of time-indications in the play itself. It is needless tomention more than a few. (_a_) Bianca complains that Cassio has keptaway from her for a week (III. iv. 173). Cassio and the rest havetherefore been more than a week in Cyprus, and, we should naturallyinfer, considerably more. (_b_) The ground on which Iago buildsthroughout is the probability of Desdemona's having got tired of theMoor; she is accused of having repeatedly committed adultery with Cassio(_e. g. _ V. ii. 210); these facts and a great many others, such asOthello's language in III. iii. 338 ff. , are utterly absurd on thesupposition that he murders his wife within a day or two of the nightwhen he consummated his marriage. (_c_) Iago's account of Cassio's dreamimplies (and indeed states) that he had been sleeping with Cassio'lately,' _i. e. _ after arriving at Cyprus: yet, according to A, he hadonly spent one night in Cyprus, and we are expressly told that Cassionever went to bed on that night. Iago doubtless was a liar, but Othellowas not an absolute idiot.       *       *       *       *       *Thus (1) one set of time-indications clearly shows that Othello murderedhis wife within a few days, probably a day and a half, of his arrival inCyprus and the consummation of his marriage; (2) another set oftime-indications implies quite as clearly that some little time musthave elapsed, probably a few weeks; and this last is certainly theimpression of a reader who has not closely examined the play. It is impossible to escape this result. The suggestion that the imputedintrigue of Cassio and Desdemona took place at Venice before themarriage, not at Cyprus after it, is quite futile. There is no positiveevidence whatever for it; if the reader will merely refer to thedifficulties mentioned under B above, he will see that it leaves almostall of them absolutely untouched; and Iago's accusation is uniformly oneof adultery. How then is this extraordinary contradiction to be explained? It canhardly be one of the casual inconsistencies, due to forgetfulness, whichare found in Shakespeare's other tragedies; for the scheme of timeindicated under A seems deliberate and self-consistent, and the schemeindicated under B seems, if less deliberate, equally self-consistent. This does not look as if a single scheme had been so vaguely imaginedthat inconsistencies arose in working it out; it points to some othersource of contradiction. 'Christopher North,' who dealt very fully with the question, elaborateda doctrine of Double Time, Short and Long. To do justice to this theoryin a few words is impossible, but its essence is the notion thatShakespeare, consciously or unconsciously, wanted to produce on thespectator (for he did not aim at readers) two impressions. He wanted thespectator to feel a passionate and vehement haste in the action; but healso wanted him to feel that the action was fairly probable. Consciouslyor unconsciously he used Short Time (the scheme of A) for the firstpurpose, and Long Time (the scheme of B) for the second. The spectatoris affected in the required manner by both, though without distinctlynoticing the indications of the two schemes. The notion underlying this theory is probably true, but the theoryitself can hardly stand. Passing minor matters by, I would ask thereader to consider the following remarks. (_a_) If, as seems to bemaintained, the spectator does not notice the indications of 'ShortTime' at all, how can they possibly affect him? The passion, vehemenceand haste of Othello affect him, because he perceives them; but if hedoes not perceive the hints which show the duration of the action fromthe arrival in Cyprus to the murder, these hints have simply noexistence for him and are perfectly useless. The theory, therefore, doesnot explain the existence of 'Short Time. ' (_b_) It is not the case that'Short Time' is wanted only to produce an impression of vehemence andhaste, and 'Long Time' for probability. The 'Short Time' is equallywanted for probability: for it is grossly improbable that Iago'sintrigue should not break down if Othello spends a week or weeks betweenthe successful temptation and his execution of justice. (_c_) And thisbrings me to the most important point, which appears to have escapednotice. The place where 'Long Time' is wanted is not _within_ Iago'sintrigue. 'Long Time' is required simply and solely because the intrigueand its circumstances presuppose a marriage consummated, and an adulterypossible, for (let us say) some weeks. But, granted that lapse betweenthe marriage and the temptation, there is no reason whatever why morethan a few days or even one day should elapse between this temptationand the murder. The whole trouble arises because the temptation beginson the morning after the consummated marriage. Let some three weekselapse between the first night at Cyprus and the temptation; let thebrawl which ends in the disgrace of Cassio occur not on that night butthree weeks later; or again let it occur that night, but let three weekselapse before the intercession of Desdemona and the temptation of Iagobegin. All will then be clear. Cassio has time to make acquaintance withBianca, and to neglect her: the Senate has time to hear of the perditionof the Turkish fleet and to recall Othello: the accusations of Iagocease to be ridiculous; and the headlong speed of the action after thetemptation has begun is quite in place. Now, too, there is no reason whywe should not be affected by the hints of time ('to-day,' 'to-night,''even now'), which we _do_ perceive (though we do not calculate themout). And, lastly, this supposition corresponds with our naturalimpression, which is that the temptation and what follows it take placesome little while after the marriage, but occupy, themselves, a veryshort time. Now, of course, the supposition just described is no fact. As the playstands, it is quite certain that there is no space of three weeks, oranything like it, either between the arrival in Cyprus and the brawl, orbetween the brawl and the temptation. And I draw attention to thesupposition chiefly to show that quite a small change would remove thedifficulties, and to insist that there is nothing wrong at all in regardto the time from the temptation onward. How to account for the existingcontradictions I do not at all profess to know, and I will merelymention two possibilities. Possibly, as Mr. Daniel observes, the play has been tampered with. Wehave no text earlier than 1622, six years after Shakespeare's death. Itmay be suggested, then, that in the play, as Shakespeare wrote it, therewas a gap of some weeks between the arrival in Cyprus and Cassio'sbrawl, or (less probably) between the brawl and the temptation. Perhapsthere was a scene indicating the lapse of time. Perhaps it was dull, orthe play was a little too long, or devotees of the unity of time madesport of a second breach of that unity coming just after the breachcaused by the voyage. Perhaps accordingly the owners of the playaltered, or hired a dramatist to alter, the arrangement at this point,and this was unwittingly done in such a way as to produce thecontradictions we are engaged on. There is nothing intrinsicallyunlikely in this idea; and certainly, I think, the amount of suchcorruption of Shakespeare's texts by the players is usually ratherunderrated than otherwise. But I cannot say I see any signs of foreignalteration in the text, though it is somewhat odd that Roderigo, whomakes no complaint on the day of the arrival in Cyprus when he is beingpersuaded to draw Cassio into a quarrel that night, should, directlyafter the quarrel (II. iii. 370), complain that he is making no advancein his pursuit of Desdemona, and should speak as though he had been inCyprus long enough to have spent nearly all the money he brought fromVenice. Or, possibly, Shakespeare's original plan was to allow some time toelapse after the arrival at Cyprus, but when he reached the point hefound it troublesome to indicate this lapse in an interesting way, andconvenient to produce Cassio's fall by means of the rejoicings on thenight of the arrival, and then almost necessary to let the request forintercession, and the temptation, follow on the next day. And perhaps hesaid to himself, No one in the theatre will notice that all this makesan impossible position: and I can make all safe by using language thatimplies that Othello has after all been married for some time. If so,probably he was right. I do not think anyone does notice theimpossibilities either in the theatre or in a casual reading of theplay. Either of these suppositions is possible: neither is, to me, probable. The first seems the less unlikely. If the second is true, Shakespearedid in _Othello_ what he seems to do in no other play. I can believethat he may have done so; but I find it very hard to believe that heproduced this impossible situation without knowing it. It is one thingto read a drama or see it, quite another to construct and compose it,and he appears to have imagined the action in _Othello_ with even morethan his usual intensity. NOTE J. THE 'ADDITIONS' TO _OTHELLO_ IN THE FIRST FOLIO. THE PONTIC SEA. The first printed _Othello_ is the first Quarto (Q1), 1622; the secondis the first Folio (F1), 1623. These two texts are two distinct versionsof the play. Q1 contains many oaths and expletives where less'objectionable' expressions occur in F1. Partly for this reason it isbelieved to represent the _earlier_ text, perhaps the text as it stoodbefore the Act of 1605 against profanity on the stage. Its readings arefrequently superior to those of F1, but it wants many lines that appearin F1, which probably represents the acting version in 1623. I give alist of the longer passages absent from Q1:     (_a_) I. i. 122-138. 'If't' . . . 'yourself:'     (_b_) I. ii 72-77. 'Judge' . . . 'thee'     (_c_) I. iii. 24-30. 'For' . . . 'profitless. '     (_d_) III. iii. 383-390. '_Oth. _ By' . . . 'satisfied! _Iago. _'     (_e_) III. iii. 453-460. 'Iago. ' . . . 'heaven,'     (_f_) IV. i. 38-44. 'To confess' . . . 'devil! '     (_g_) IV. ii. 73-76, 'Committed! ' . . . 'committed! '     (_h_) IV. ii. 151-164. 'Here' . . . 'make me. '     (_i_) IV. iii. 31-53. 'I have' . . . 'not next'                and 55-57. '_Des. _ [_Singing_]' . . . 'men. '     (_j_) IV. iii. 60-63. 'I have' . . . 'question. '     (_k_) IV. iii. 87-104. 'But I' . . . 'us so. '     (_l_) V. ii. 151-154. 'O mistress' . . . 'Iago. '     (_m_) V. ii. 185-193. 'My mistress' . . . 'villany! '     (_n_) V. ii. 266-272. 'Be not' . . . 'wench! 'Were these passages after-thoughts, composed after the versionrepresented by Q1 was written? Or were they in the version representedby Q1, and only omitted in printing, whether accidentally or becausethey were also omitted in the theatre? Or were some of themafter-thoughts, and others in the original version? I will take them in order. (_a_) can hardly be an after-thought. Up tothat point Roderigo had hardly said anything, for Iago had alwaysinterposed; and it is very unlikely that Roderigo would now deliver butfour lines, and speak at once of 'she' instead of 'your daughter. 'Probably this 'omission' represents a 'cut' in stage performance. (_b_)This may also be the case here. In our texts the omission of the passagewould make nonsense, but in Q1 the 'cut' (if a cut) has been mended,awkwardly enough, by the substitution of 'Such' for 'For' in line 78. Inany case, the lines cannot be an addition. (_c_) cannot be anafter-thought, for the sentence is unfinished without it; and that itwas not meant to be interrupted is clear, because in Q1 line 31 begins'And,' not 'Nay'; the Duke might say 'Nay' if he were cutting theprevious speaker short, but not 'And. ' (_d_) is surely no addition. Ifthe lines are cut out, not only is the metre spoilt, but the obviousreason for Iago's words, 'I see, Sir, you are eaten up with passion,'disappears, and so does the reference of his word 'satisfied' in 393 toOthello's 'satisfied' in 390. (_e_) is the famous passage about thePontic Sea, and I reserve it for the present. (_f_) As Pope observes,'no hint of this trash in the first edition,' the 'trash' including thewords 'Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion withoutsome instruction. It is not words that shake me thus'! There is nothingto prove these lines to be original or an after-thought. The omission of(_g_) is clearly a printer's error, due to the fact that lines 72 and 76both end with the word 'committed. ' No conclusion can be formed as to(_h_), nor perhaps (_i_), which includes the whole of Desdemona's song;but if (_j_) is removed the reference in 'such a deed' in 64 isdestroyed. (_k_) is Emilia's long speech about husbands. It cannot wellbe an after-thought, for 105-6 evidently refer to 103-4 (even the word'uses' in 105 refers to 'use' in 103). (_l_) is no after-thought, for'if he says so' in 155 must point back to 'my husband say that she wasfalse! ' in 152. (_m_) might be an after-thought, but, if so, in thefirst version the ending 'to speak' occurred twice within three lines,and the reason for Iago's sudden alarm in 193 is much less obvious. If(_n_) is an addition the original collocation was:                          but O vain boast!     Who can control his fate? 'Tis not so now.     Pale as thy smock! which does not sound probable. Thus, as it seems to me, in the great majority of cases there is more orless reason to think that the passages wanting in Q1 were neverthelessparts of the original play, and I cannot in any one case see anypositive ground for supposing a subsequent addition. I think that mostof the gaps in Q1 were accidents of printing (like many other smallergaps in Q1), but that probably one or two were 'cuts'--_e. g. _ Emilia'slong speech (_k_). The omission of (_i_) might be due to the state ofthe MS. : the words of the song may have been left out of the dialogue,as appearing on a separate page with the musical notes, or may have beeninserted in such an illegible way as to baffle the printer. I come now to (_e_), the famous passage about the Pontic Sea. Popesupposed that it formed part of the original version, but approved ofits omission, as he considered it 'an unnatural excursion in thisplace. ' Mr. Swinburne thinks it an after-thought, but defends it. 'Inother lips indeed than Othello's, at the crowning minute of culminantagony, the rush of imaginative reminiscence which brings back upon hiseyes and ears the lightning foam and tideless thunder of the Pontic Seamight seem a thing less natural than sublime. But Othello has thepassion of a poet closed in as it were and shut up behind the passion ofa hero' (_Study of Shakespeare_, p. 184). I quote these words all themore gladly because they will remind the reader of my lectures of mydebt to Mr. Swinburne here; and I will only add that the reminiscencehere is of _precisely the same character_ as the reminiscences of theArabian trees and the base Indian in Othello's final speech. But I findit almost impossible to believe that Shakespeare _ever_ wrote thepassage without the words about the Pontic Sea. It seems to me almost animperative demand of imagination that Iago's set speech, if I may usethe phrase, should be preceded by a speech of somewhat the samedimensions, the contrast of which should heighten the horror of itshypocrisy; it seems to me that Shakespeare must have felt this; and itis difficult to me to think that he ever made the lines,     In the due reverence of a sacred vow     I here engage my words,follow directly on the one word 'Never' (however impressive that word inits isolation might be). And as I can find no _other_ 'omission' in Q1which appears to point to a subsequent addition, I conclude that this'omission' _was_ an omission, probably accidental, conceivably due to astupid 'cut. ' Indeed it is nothing but Mr. Swinburne's opinion thatprevents my feeling certainty on the point. Finally, I may draw attention to certain facts which may be mereaccidents, but may possibly be significant. Passages (_b_) and (_c_)consist respectively of six and seven lines; that is, they are almost ofthe same length, and in a MS. might well fill exactly the same amount ofspace. Passage (_d_) is eight lines long; so is passage (_e_). Now,taking at random two editions of Shakespeare, the Globe and that ofDelius, I find that (_b_) and (_c_) are 6-1/4 inches apart in the Globe,8 in Delius; and that (_d_) and (_e_) are separated by 7-3/8 inches inthe Globe, by 8-3/4 in Delius. In other words, there is about the samedistance in each case between two passages of about equal dimensions. The idea suggested by these facts is that the MS. from which Q1 wasprinted was mutilated in various places; that (_b_) and (_c_) occupiedthe bottom inches of two successive pages, and that these inches weretorn away; and that this was also the case with (_d_) and (_e_). This speculation has amused me and may amuse some reader. I do not knowenough of Elizabethan manuscripts to judge of its plausibility. NOTE K. OTHELLO'S COURTSHIP. It is curious that in the First Act two impressions are produced whichhave afterwards to be corrected. 1.

We must not suppose that Othello's account of his courtship in hisfamous speech before the Senate is intended to be exhaustive. He isaccused of having used drugs or charms in order to win Desdemona; andtherefore his purpose in his defence is merely to show that hiswitchcraft was the story of his life. It is no part of his business totrouble the Senators with the details of his courtship, and he socondenses his narrative of it that it almost appears as though there wasno courtship at all, and as though Desdemona never imagined that he wasin love with her until she had practically confessed her love for him. Hence she has been praised by some for her courage, and blamed by othersfor her forwardness. But at III. iii. 70 f. matters are presented in quite a new light. Therewe find the following words of hers:                             What! Michael Cassio,     That came a-wooing with you, and so many a time,     When I have spoke of you dispraisingly,     Hath ta'en your part. It seems, then, she understood why Othello came so often to her father'shouse, and was perfectly secure of his love before she gave him thatvery broad 'hint to speak. ' I may add that those who find fault with herforget that it was necessary for her to take the first open step. Shewas the daughter of a Venetian grandee, and Othello was a black soldierof fortune. 2. We learn from the lines just quoted that Cassio used to accompanyOthello in his visits to the house; and from III. iii. 93 f. we learnthat he knew of Othello's love from first to last and 'went between' thelovers 'very oft. ' Yet in Act I. it appears that, while Iago on thenight of the marriage knows about it and knows where to find Othello (I. i. 158 f. ), Cassio, even if he knows where to find Othello (which isdoubtful: see I. ii. 44), seems to know nothing about the marriage. SeeI. ii. 49:     _Cas. _   Ancient, what makes he here?     _Iago. _  'Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land carack:              If it prove lawful prize, he's made for ever.     _Cas. _   I do not understand.     _Iago. _                   He's married.     _Cas. _                               To who? It is possible that Cassio does know, and only pretends ignorancebecause he has not been informed by Othello that Iago also knows. Andthis idea is consistent with Iago's apparent ignorance of Cassio's partin the courtship (III. iii. 93). And of course, if this were so, a wordfrom Shakespeare to the actor who played Cassio would enable him to makeall clear to the audience. The alternative, and perhaps more probable,explanation would be that, in writing Act I. , Shakespeare had not yetthought of making Cassio Othello's confidant, and that, after writingAct III. , he neglected to alter the passage in Act I. In that case thefurther information which Act III. gives regarding Othello's courtshipwould probably also be an after-thought. NOTE L. OTHELLO IN THE TEMPTATION SCENE. One reason why some readers think Othello 'easily jealous' is that theycompletely misinterpret him in the early part of this scene. They fancythat he is alarmed and suspicious the moment he hears Iago mutter 'Ha! Ilike not that,' as he sees Cassio leaving Desdemona (III. iii. 35). But,in fact, it takes a long time for Iago to excite surprise, curiosity,and then grave concern--by no means yet jealousy--even about Cassio; andit is still longer before Othello understands that Iago is suggestingdoubts about Desdemona too. ('Wronged' in 143 certainly does not referto her, as 154 and 162 show. ) Nor, even at 171, is the exclamation 'Omisery' meant for an expression of Othello's own present feelings; ashis next speech clearly shows, it expresses an _imagined_ feeling, asalso the speech which elicits it professes to do (for Iago would nothave dared here to apply the term 'cuckold' to Othello). In fact it isnot until Iago hints that Othello, as a foreigner, might easily bedeceived, that he is seriously disturbed about Desdemona. Salvini played this passage, as might be expected, with entireunderstanding. Nor have I ever seen it seriously misinterpreted on thestage. I gather from the Furness Variorum that Fechter and Edwin Boothtook the same view as Salvini. Actors have to ask themselves what wasthe precise state of mind expressed by the words they have to repeat. But many readers never think of asking such a question. The lines which probably do most to lead hasty or unimaginative readersastray are those at 90, where, on Desdemona's departure, Othelloexclaims to himself:     Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul     But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,     Chaos is come again. He is supposed to mean by the last words that his love is _now_suspended by suspicion, whereas in fact, in his bliss, he has so totallyforgotten Iago's 'Ha! I like not that,' that the tempter has to beginall over again. The meaning is, 'If ever I love thee not, Chaos willhave come again. ' The feeling of insecurity is due to the excess of_joy_, as in the wonderful words after he rejoins Desdemona at Cyprus(II. i. 191):                     If it were now to die,     'Twere now to be most happy: for, I fear     My soul hath her content so absolute     That not another comfort like to this     Succeeds in unknown fate. If any reader boggles at the use of the present in 'Chaos _is_ comeagain,' let him observe 'succeeds' in the lines just quoted, or let himlook at the parallel passage in _Venus and Adonis_, 1019:     For, he being dead, with him is beauty slain;     And, beauty dead, black Chaos comes again. Venus does not know that Adonis is dead when she speaks thus. NOTE M. QUESTIONS AS TO _OTHELLO_, ACT IV. SCENE I. (1) The first part of the scene is hard to understand, and thecommentators give little help. I take the idea to be as follows. Iagosees that he must renew his attack on Othello; for, on the one hand,Othello, in spite of the resolution he had arrived at to put Desdemonato death, has taken the step, without consulting Iago, of testing her inthe matter of Iago's report about the handkerchief; and, on the otherhand, he now seems to have fallen into a dazed lethargic state, and mustbe stimulated to action. Iago's plan seems to be to remind Othello ofeverything that would madden him again, but to do so by professing tomake light of the whole affair, and by urging Othello to put the bestconstruction on the facts, or at any rate to acquiesce. So he says, ineffect: 'After all, if she did kiss Cassio, that might mean little. Nay,she might even go much further without meaning any harm. [266] Of coursethere is the handkerchief (10); but then why should she _not_ give itaway? ' Then, affecting to renounce this hopeless attempt to disguise histrue opinion, he goes on: 'However, _I_ cannot, as your friend, pretendthat I really regard her as innocent: the fact is, Cassio boasted to mein so many words of his conquest. [Here he is interrupted by Othello'sswoon. ] But, after all, why make such a fuss? You share the fate of mostmarried men, and you have the advantage of not being deceived in thematter. ' It must have been a great pleasure to Iago to express his realcynicism thus, with the certainty that he would not be taken seriouslyand would advance his plot by it. At 208-210 he recurs to the same planof maddening Othello by suggesting that, if he is so fond of Desdemona,he had better let the matter be, for it concerns no one but him. Thisspeech follows Othello's exclamation 'O Iago, the pity of it,' and thisis perhaps the moment when we most of all long to destroy Iago. (2) At 216 Othello tells Iago to get him some poison, that he may killDesdemona that night. Iago objects: 'Do it not with poison: strangle herin her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated? ' Why does he object topoison? Because through the sale of the poison he himself would beinvolved? Possibly. Perhaps his idea was that, Desdemona being killed byOthello, and Cassio killed by Roderigo, he would then admit that he hadinformed Othello of the adultery, and perhaps even that he hadundertaken Cassio's death; but he would declare that he never meant tofulfil his promise as to Cassio, and that he had nothing to do withDesdemona's death (he seems to be preparing for this at 285). His buyingpoison might wreck this plan. But it may be that his objection to poisonsprings merely from contempt for Othello's intellect. He can trust himto use violence, but thinks he may bungle anything that requiresadroitness. (3) When the conversation breaks off here (225) Iago has brought Othelloback to the position reached at the end of the Temptation scene (III. iii. ). Cassio and Desdemona are to be killed; and, in addition, the timeis hastened; it is to be 'to-night,' not 'within three days. 'The constructional idea clearly is that, after the Temptation scene,Othello tends to relapse and wait, which is terribly dangerous to Iago,who therefore in this scene quickens his purpose. Yet Othello relapsesagain. He has declared that he will not expostulate with her (IV. i. 217). But he cannot keep his word, and there follows the scene ofaccusation. Its _dramatic_ purposes are obvious, but Othello seems tohave no purpose in it. He asks no questions, or, rather, none that showsthe least glimpse of doubt or hope. He is merely torturing himself. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 266: The reader who is puzzled by this passage should refer tothe conversation at the end of the thirtieth tale in the _Heptameron_. ]NOTE N. TWO PASSAGES IN THE LAST SCENE OF _OTHELLO_. (1) V. ii. 71 f. Desdemona demands that Cassio be sent for to 'confess'the truth that she never gave him the handkerchief. Othello answers thatCassio _has_ confessed the truth--has confessed the adultery. Thedialogue goes on:     _Des. _  He will not say so.     _Oth. _                    No, his mouth is stopp'd:             Honest Iago hath ta'en order for 't.     _Des. _  O! my fear interprets: what, is he dead?     _Oth. _  Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge             Had stomach for them all.     _Des. _  Alas! he is _betray'd_ and _I_ undone. It is a ghastly idea, but I believe Shakespeare means that, at themention of Iago's name, Desdemona suddenly sees that _he_ is the villainwhose existence he had declared to be impossible when, an hour before,Emilia had suggested that someone had poisoned Othello's mind. But herwords rouse Othello to such furious indignation ('Out, strumpet! Weep'stthou for him to my face? ') that 'it is too late. '(2) V. ii. 286 f.     _Oth. _  I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable.             If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee.                                           [_Wounds Iago. _     _Lod. _  Wrench his sword from him.     _Iago. _                      I bleed, sir, but not killed. Are Iago's strange words meant to show his absorption of interest inhimself amidst so much anguish? I think rather he is meant to bealluding to Othello's words, and saying, with a cold contemptuous smile,'You see he is right; I _am_ a devil. 'NOTE O. OTHELLO ON DESDEMONA'S LAST WORDS. I have said that the last scene of _Othello_, though terribly painful,contains almost nothing to diminish the admiration and love whichheighten our pity for the hero (p. 198). I said 'almost' in view of thefollowing passage (V. ii. 123 ff. ):     _Emil. _ O, who hath done this deed?     _Des. _  Nobody; I myself. Farewell:             Commend  me to my kind lord: O, farewell!    [_Dies. _     _Oth. _  Why, how should she be murdered? [267]     _Emil. _                                Alas, who knows?     _Oth. _  You heard her say herself, it was not I.     _Emil. _ She said so: I must needs report the truth.     _Oth. _  She's, like a liar, gone to burning hell:             'Twas I that kill'd her.     _Emil. _                         O, the more angel she,             And you the blacker devil!     _Oth. _  She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore. This is a strange passage. What did Shakespeare mean us to feel? One isastonished that Othello should not be startled, nay thunder-struck, whenhe hears such dying words coming from the lips of an obdurateadulteress. One is shocked by the moral blindness or obliquity whichtakes them only as a further sign of her worthlessness. Here alone, Ithink, in the scene sympathy with Othello quite disappears. DidShakespeare mean us to feel thus, and to realise how completely confusedand perverted Othello's mind has become? I suppose so: and yet Othello'swords continue to strike me as very strange, and also as not _like_Othello,--especially as at this point he was not in anger, much lessenraged. It has sometimes occurred to me that there is a touch ofpersonal animus in the passage. One remembers the place in _Hamlet_(written but a little while before) where Hamlet thinks he is unwillingto kill the King at his prayers, for fear they may take him to heaven;and one remembers Shakespeare's irony, how he shows that those prayersdo _not_ go to heaven, and that the soul of this praying murderer is atthat moment as murderous as ever (see p. 171), just as here the soul ofthe lying Desdemona is angelic _in_ its lie. Is it conceivable that inboth passages he was intentionally striking at conventional 'religious'ideas; and, in particular, that the belief that a man's everlasting fateis decided by the occupation of his last moment excited in himindignation as well as contempt? I admit that this fancy seemsun-Shakespearean, and yet it comes back on me whenever I read thispassage. [The words 'I suppose so' (l. 3 above) gave my conclusion; butI wish to withdraw the whole Note]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 267: He alludes to her cry, 'O falsely, falsely murder'd! ']NOTE P. DID EMILIA SUSPECT IAGO? I have answered No (p. 216), and have no doubt about the matter; but atone time I was puzzled, as perhaps others have been, by a single phraseof Emilia's. It occurs in the conversation between her and Iago andDesdemona (IV. ii. 130 f. ):     I will be hang'd if some eternal villain,     Some busy and insinuating rogue,     Some cogging, cozening slave, _to get some office_,     Have not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else. Emilia, it may be said, knew that Cassio was the suspected man, so thatshe must be thinking of _his_ office, and must mean that Iago haspoisoned Othello's mind in order to prevent his reinstatement and to getthe lieutenancy for himself. And, it may be said, she speaksindefinitely so that Iago alone may understand her (for Desdemona doesnot know that Cassio is the suspected man). Hence too, it may be said,when, at V. ii. 190, she exclaims,                  Villany, villany, villany!     I think upon't, I think: I smell't: O villany!     _I thought so then:_--I'll kill myself for grief;she refers in the words italicised to the occasion of the passage in IV. ii. , and is reproaching herself for not having taken steps on hersuspicion of Iago. I have explained in the text why I think it impossible to suppose thatEmilia suspected her husband; and I do not think anyone who follows herspeeches in V. ii. , and who realises that, if she did suspect him, shemust have been simply _pretending_ surprise when Othello told her thatIago was his informant, will feel any doubt. Her idea in the lines atIV. ii. 130 is, I believe, merely that someone is trying to establish aground for asking a favour from Othello in return for information whichnearly concerns him. It does not follow that, because she knew Cassiowas suspected, she must have been referring to Cassio's office. She wasa stupid woman, and, even if she had not been, she would not put two andtwo together so easily as the reader of the play. In the line,     I thought so then: I'll kill myself for grief,I think she certainly refers to IV. ii. 130 f. and also IV. ii. 15(Steevens's idea that she is thinking of the time when she let Iago takethe handkerchief is absurd). If 'I'll kill myself for grief' is to betaken in close connection with the preceding words (which is notcertain), she may mean that she reproaches herself for not having actedon her general suspicion, or (less probably) that she reproaches herselffor not having suspected that Iago was the rogue. With regard to my view that she failed to think of the handkerchief whenshe saw how angry Othello was, those who believe that she did think ofit will of course also believe that she suspected Iago. But in additionto other difficulties, they will have to suppose that her astonishment,when Othello at last mentioned the handkerchief, was mere acting. Andanyone who can believe this seems to me beyond argument. [I regret thatI cannot now discuss some suggestions made to me in regard to thesubjects of Notes O and P. ]NOTE Q. IAGO'S SUSPICION REGARDING CASSIO AND EMILIA. The one expression of this suspicion appears in a very curious manner. Iago, soliloquising, says (II. i. 311):                          Which thing to do,     If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash     For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,     I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,     Abuse him to the Moor in the rank [F. right] garb--     For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too--     Make the Moor thank me, etc. Why '_For_ I fear Cassio,' etc. ? He can hardly be giving himself anadditional reason for involving Cassio; the parenthesis must beexplanatory of the preceding line or some part of it. I think itexplains 'rank garb' or 'right garb,' and the meaning is, 'For Cassio_is_ what I shall accuse him of being, a seducer of wives. ' He isreturning to the thought with which the soliloquy begins, 'That Cassioloves her, I do well believe it. ' In saying this he is unconsciouslytrying to believe that Cassio would at any rate _like_ to be anadulterer, so that it is not so very abominable to say that he _is_ one. And the idea 'I suspect him with Emilia' is a second and strongerattempt of the same kind. The idea probably was born and died in onemoment. It is a curious example of Iago's secret subjection to morality. NOTE R. REMINISCENCES OF _OTHELLO_ IN _KING LEAR_. The following is a list, made without any special search, and doubtlessincomplete, of words and phrases in _King Lear_ which recall words andphrases in _Othello_, and many of which occur only in these two plays:     'waterish,' I. i. 261, appears only here and in _O. _     III. iii. 15.     'fortune's alms,' I. i. 281, appears only here and in     _O. _ III. iv. 122.     'decline' seems to be used of the advance of age only in     I. ii. 78 and _O. _ III. iii. 265.     'slack' in 'if when they chanced to slack you,' II.     iv. 248, has no exact parallel in Shakespeare, but recalls     'they slack their duties,' _O. _ IV. iii. 88.     'allowance' (=authorisation), I. iv. 228, is used     thus only in _K. L. _, _O. _ I. i. 128, and two places     in _Hamlet_ and _Hen. VIII. _     'besort,' vb. , I. iv. 272, does not occur elsewhere,     but 'besort,' sb. , occurs in _O. _ I. iii. 239 and     nowhere else.     Edmund's 'Look, sir, I bleed,' II. i. 43, sounds like     an echo of Iago's 'I bleed, sir, but not killed,' _O. _     V. ii. 288.     'potential,' II. i. 78, appears only here, in _O. _     I. ii. 13, and in the _Lover's Complaint_ (which, I     think, is certainly not an early poem).     'poise' in 'occasions of some poise,' II. i. 122, is     exactly like 'poise' in 'full of poise and difficult weight,'     _O. _ III. iii. 82, and not exactly like 'poise' in     the three other places where it occurs.     'conjunct,' used only in II. ii. 125 (Q), V.     i. 12, recalls 'conjunctive,' used only in _H_. IV.     vii. 14, _O. _ I. iii. 374 (F).     'grime,' vb. , used only in II. iii. 9, recalls     'begrime,' used only in _O. _ III. iii. 387 and     _Lucrece_.     'unbonneted,' III. i. 14, appears only here and in     _O. _ I. ii. 23.     'delicate,' III. iv. 12, IV. iii. 15,     IV. vi. 188, is not a rare word with Shakespeare; he     uses it about thirty times in his plays. But it is worth     notice that it occurs six times in _O. _     'commit,' used intr. for 'commit adultery,' appears only in     III. iv. 83, but cf. the famous iteration in _O. _     IV. ii. 72 f.     'stand in hard cure,' III. vi. 107, seems to have no     parallel except _O. _ II. i. 51, 'stand in bold cure. '     'secure'=make careless, IV. i. 22, appears only here     and in _O. _ I. iii. 10 and (not quite the same sense)     _Tim. _ II. ii. 185.     Albany's 'perforce must wither,' IV. ii. 35, recalls     Othello's 'It must needs wither,' V. ii. 15.     'deficient,' IV. vi. 23, occurs only here and in _O. _     I. iii. 63.     'the safer sense,' IV. vi. 81, recalls 'my blood     begins my safer guides to rules,' _O. _ II. iii. 205.     'fitchew,' IV. vi. 124, is used only here, in _O. _     IV. i. 150, and in _T. C. _ V. i. 67 (where it     has not the same significance).     Lear's 'I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I     would have made them skip,' V. iii. 276, recalls     Othello's 'I have seen the day, That with this little arm and     this good sword,' etc. , V. ii. 261. The fact that more than half of the above occur in the first two Acts of_King Lear_ may possibly be significant: for the farther removedShakespeare was from the time of the composition of _Othello_, the lesslikely would be the recurrence of ideas or words used in that play. NOTE S. _KING LEAR_ AND _TIMON OF ATHENS_. That these two plays are near akin in character, and probably in date,is recognised by many critics now; and I will merely add here a fewreferences to the points of resemblance mentioned in the text (p. 246),and a few notes on other points. (1) The likeness between Timon's curses and some of the speeches of Learin his madness is, in one respect, curious. It is natural that Timon,speaking to Alcibiades and two courtezans, should inveigh in particularagainst sexual vices and corruption, as he does in the terrific passageIV. iii. 82-166; but why should Lear refer at length, and with the sameloathing, to this particular subject (IV. vi. 112-132)? It almost looksas if Shakespeare were expressing feelings which oppressed him at thisperiod of his life. The idea may be a mere fancy, but it has seemed to me that thispre-occupation, and sometimes this oppression, are traceable in otherplays of the period from about 1602 to 1605 (_Hamlet_, _Measure forMeasure_, _Troilus and Cressida_, _All's Well_, _Othello_); while inearlier plays the subject is handled less, and without disgust, and inlater plays (e. g. _Antony and Cleopatra_, _The Winter's Tale_,_Cymbeline_) it is also handled, however freely, without this air ofrepulsion (I omit _Pericles_ because the authorship of thebrothel-scenes is doubtful). (2) For references to the lower animals, similar to those in _KingLear_, see especially _Timon_, I. i. 259; II. ii. 180; III. vi. 103 f. ;IV. i. 2, 36; IV. iii. 49 f. , 177 ff. , 325 ff. (surely a passage writtenor, at the least, rewritten by Shakespeare), 392, 426 f. I ignore theconstant abuse of the dog in the conversations where Apemantus appears. (3) Further points of resemblance are noted in the text at pp. 246, 247,310, 326, 327, and many likenesses in word, phrase and idea might beadded, of the type of the parallel 'Thine Do comfort and not burn,'_Lear_, II. iv. 176, and 'Thou sun, that comfort'st, burn! ' _Timon_, V. i. 134. (4) The likeness in style and versification (so far as the purelyShakespearean parts of _Timon_ are concerned) is surely unmistakable,but some readers may like to see an example. Lear speaks here (IV. vi. 164 ff. ):     Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!     Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;     Thou hotly lust'st to use her in that kind     For which thou whipp'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.     Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear;     Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,     And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks;     Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.     None does offend, none, I say, none; I'll able 'em:     Take that of me, my friend, who have the power     To seal the accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes;     And, like a scurvy politician, seem     To see the things thou dost not. And Timon speaks here (IV. iii. 1 ff. ):     O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth     Rotten humidity; below thy sister's orb     Infect the air! Twinn'd brothers of one womb,     Whose procreation, residence, and birth,     Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes,     The greater scorns the lesser: not nature,     To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune,     But by contempt of nature.     Raise me this beggar, and deny't that lord:     The senator shall bear contempt hereditary,     The beggar native honour.     It is the pasture lards the rother's sides,     The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares.     In purity of manhood stand upright     And say 'This man's a flatterer'? if one be,     So are they all: for every grise of fortune     Is smooth'd by that below: the learned pate     Ducks to the golden fool: all is oblique;     There's nothing level in our cursed natures,     But direct villany. The reader may wish to know whether metrical tests throw any light onthe chronological position of _Timon_; and he will find such informationas I can give in Note BB. But he will bear in mind that results arrivedat by applying these tests to the whole play can have little value,since it is practically certain that Shakespeare did not write the wholeplay. It seems to consist (1) of parts that are purely Shakespearean(the text, however, being here, as elsewhere, very corrupt); (2) ofparts untouched or very slightly touched by him; (3) of parts where agood deal is Shakespeare's but not all (_e. g. _, in my opinion, III. v. ,which I cannot believe, with Mr. Fleay, to be wholly, or almost wholly,by another writer). The tests ought to be applied not only to the wholeplay but separately to (1), about which there is little difference ofopinion. This has not been done: but Dr. Ingram has applied one test,and I have applied another, to the parts assigned by Mr. Fleay toShakespeare (see Note BB. ). [268] The result is to place _Timon_ between_King Lear_ and _Macbeth_ (a result which happens to coincide with thatof the application of the main tests to the whole play): and this resultcorresponds, I believe, with the general impression which we derive fromthe three dramas in regard to versification. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 268: These are I. i. ; II. i.

; II. ii. , except 194-204; in III. vi. Timon's verse speech; IV. i. ; IV. ii. 1-28; IV. iii. , except292-362, 399-413, 454-543; V. i. , except 1-50; V. ii. ; V. iv. I am notto be taken as accepting this division throughout. ]NOTE T. DID SHAKESPEARE SHORTEN _KING LEAR_? I have remarked in the text (pp. 256 ff. ) on the unusual number ofimprobabilities, inconsistencies, etc. , in _King Lear_. The list ofexamples given might easily be lengthened. Thus (_a_) in IV. iii. Kentrefers to a letter which he confided to the Gentleman for Cordelia; butin III. i. he had given to the Gentleman not a letter but a message. (_b_) In III. i. again he says Cordelia will inform the Gentleman whothe sender of the message was; but from IV. iii. it is evident that shehas done no such thing, nor does the Gentleman show any curiosity on thesubject. (_c_) In the same scene (III. i. ) Kent and the Gentlemanarrange that whichever finds the King first shall halloo to the other;but when Kent finds the King he does not halloo. These are all examplesof mere carelessness as to matters which would escape attention in thetheatre,--matters introduced not because they are essential to the plot,but in order to give an air of verisimilitude to the conversation. Andhere is perhaps another instance. When Lear determines to leave Goneriland go to Regan he says, 'call my train together' (I. iv. 275). When hearrives at Gloster's house Kent asks why he comes with so small a train,and the Fool gives a reply which intimates that the rest have desertedhim (II. iv. 63 ff. ). He and his daughters, however, seem unaware of anydiminution; and, when Lear 'calls to horse' and leaves Gloster's house,the doors are shut against him partly on the excuse that he is 'attendedwith a desperate train' (308). Nevertheless in the storm he has noknights with him, and in III. vii. 15 ff. we hear that 'some five or sixand thirty of his knights'[269] are 'hot questrists after him,' asthough the real reason of his leaving Goneril with so small a train wasthat he had hurried away so quickly that many of his knights wereunaware of his departure. This prevalence of vagueness or inconsistency is probably due tocarelessness; but it may possibly be due to another cause. There are, ithas sometimes struck me, slight indications that the details of the plotwere originally more full and more clearly imagined than one wouldsuppose from the play as we have it; and some of the defects to which Ihave drawn attention might have arisen if Shakespeare, finding hismatter too bulky, had (_a_) omitted to write some things originallyintended, and (_b_), after finishing his play, had reduced it byexcision, and had not, in these omissions and excisions, takensufficient pains to remove the obscurities and inconsistenciesoccasioned by them. Thus, to take examples of (_b_), Lear's 'What, fifty of my followers ata clap! ' (I. iv. 315) is very easily explained if we suppose that in thepreceding conversation, as originally written, Goneril had mentioned thenumber. Again the curious absence of any indication why Burgundy shouldhave the first choice of Cordelia's hand might easily be due to the samecause. So might the ignorance in which we are left as to the fate of theFool, and several more of the defects noticed in the text. To illustrate the other point (_a_), that Shakespeare may have omittedto write some things which he had originally intended, the play wouldobviously gain something if it appeared that, at a time shortly beforethat of the action, Gloster had encouraged the King in his idea ofdividing the kingdom, while Kent had tried to dissuade him. And thereare one or two passages which suggest that this is what Shakespeareimagined. If it were so, there would be additional point in the Fool'sreference to the lord who counselled Lear to give away his land (I. iv. 154), and in Gloster's reflection (III. iv. 168),     His daughters seek his death: ah, that good Kent!     He said it would be thus:('said,' of course, not to the King but to Gloster and perhaps others ofthe council). Thus too the plots would be still more closely joined. Then also we should at once understand the opening of the play. ToKent's words, 'I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albanythan Cornwall,' Gloster answers, 'It did always seem so to us. ' Who arethe 'us' from whom Kent is excluded? I do not know, for there is no signthat Kent has been absent. But if Kent, in consequence of hisopposition, had fallen out of favour and absented himself from thecouncil, it would be clear. So, besides, would be the strange suddennesswith which, after Gloster's answer, Kent changes the subject; he wouldbe avoiding, in presence of Gloster's son, any further reference to asubject on which he and Gloster had differed. That Kent, I may add, hadalready the strongest opinion about Goneril and Regan is clear from hisextremely bold words (I. i. 165),     Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow     Upon thy foul disease. Did Lear remember this phrase when he called Goneril 'a disease that'sin my flesh' (II. iv. 225)? Again, the observant reader may have noticed that Goneril is not onlyrepresented as the fiercer and more determined of the two sisters butalso strikes one as the more sensual. And with this may be connected oneor two somewhat curious points: Kent's comparison of Goneril to thefigure of Vanity in the Morality plays (II. ii. 38); the Fool'sapparently quite irrelevant remark (though his remarks are scarcely everso), 'For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass'(III. ii. 35); Kent's reference to Oswald (long before there is any signof Goneril's intrigue with Edmund) as 'one that would be a bawd in wayof good service' (II. ii. 20); and Edgar's words to the corpse of Oswald(IV. vi. 257), also spoken before he knew anything of the intrigue withEdmund,     I know thee well: a serviceable villain;     As duteous to the vices of thy mistress     As badness would desire. Perhaps Shakespeare had conceived Goneril as a woman who before hermarriage had shown signs of sensual vice; but the distinct indicationsof this idea were crowded out of his exposition when he came to writeit, or, being inserted, were afterwards excised. I will not go on tohint that Edgar had Oswald in his mind when (III. iv. 87) he describedthe serving-man who 'served the lust of his mistress' heart, and did theact of darkness with her'; and still less that Lear can have had Gonerilin his mind in the declamation against lechery referred to in Note S. I do not mean to imply, by writing this note, that I believe in thehypotheses suggested in it. On the contrary I think it more probablethat the defects referred to arose from carelessness and other causes. But this is not, to me, certain; and the reader who rejects thehypotheses may be glad to have his attention called to the points whichsuggested them. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 269: It has been suggested that 'his' means 'Gloster's'; but'him' all through the speech evidently means Lear. ]NOTE U. MOVEMENTS OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONÆ IN ACT II. OF _KING LEAR_. I have referred in the text to the obscurity of the play on thissubject, and I will set out the movements here. When Lear is ill-treated by Goneril his first thought is to seek refugewith Regan (I. iv. 274 f. , 327 f. ). Goneril, accordingly, who hadforeseen this, and, even before the quarrel, had determined to write toRegan (I. iii. 25), now sends Oswald off to her, telling her not toreceive Lear and his hundred knights (I. iv. 354 f. ). In consequence ofthis letter Regan and Cornwall immediately leave their home and ride bynight to Gloster's house, sending word on that they are coming (II. i. 1ff. , 81, 120 ff. ). Lear, on his part, just before leaving Goneril'shouse, sends Kent with a letter to Regan, and tells him to be quick, orLear will be there before him. And we find that Kent reaches Regan anddelivers his letter before Oswald, Goneril's messenger. Both themessengers are taken on by Cornwall and Regan to Gloster's house. In II. iv. Lear arrives at Gloster's house, having, it would seem,failed to find Regan at her own home. And, later, Goneril arrives atGloster's house, in accordance with an intimation which she had sent inher letter to Regan (II. iv. 186 f. ). Thus all the principal persons except Cordelia and Albany are broughttogether; and the crises of the double action--the expulsion of Lear andthe blinding and expulsion of Gloster--are reached in Act III. And thisis what was required. But it needs the closest attention to follow these movements. And, apartfrom this, difficulties remain. 1. Goneril, in despatching Oswald with the letter to Regan, tells him tohasten his return (I. iv. 363). Lear again is surprised to find that_his_ messenger has not been sent back (II. iv. 1 f. , 36 f. ). Yetapparently both Goneril and Lear themselves start at once, so that theirmessengers _could_ not return in time. It may be said that they expectedto meet them coming back, but there is no indication of this in thetext. 2. Lear, in despatching Kent, says (I. v. 1):     Go you before to Gloster with these letters. Acquaint my     daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her     demand out of the letter. This would seem to imply that Lear knew that Regan and Cornwall were atGloster's house, and meant either to go there (so Koppel) or to summonher back to her own home to receive him. Yet this is clearly not so, forKent goes straight to Regan's house (II. i. 124, II. iv. 1, 27 ff. , 114ff. ). Hence it is generally supposed that by 'Gloster,' in the passage justquoted, Lear means not the Earl but the _place_; that Regan's home wasthere; and that Gloster's castle was somewhere not very far off. This isto some extent confirmed by the fact that Cornwall is the 'arch' orpatron of Gloster (II. i. 60 f. , 112 ff. ). But Gloster's home or housemust not be imagined quite close to Cornwall's, for it takes a night toride from the one to the other, and Gloster's house is in the middle ofa solitary heath with scarce a bush for many miles about (II. iv. 304). The plural 'these letters' in the passage quoted need give no trouble,for the plural is often used by Shakespeare for a single letter; and thenatural conjecture that Lear sent one letter to Regan and another toGloster is not confirmed by anything in the text. The only difficulty is that, as Koppel points out, 'Gloster' is nowhereelse used in the play for the place (except in the phrase 'Earl ofGloster' or 'my lord of Gloster'); and--what is more important--that itwould unquestionably be taken by the audience to stand in this passagefor the Earl, especially as there has been no previous indication thatCornwall lived at Gloster. One can only suppose that Shakespeare forgotthat he had given no such indication, and so wrote what was sure to bemisunderstood,--unless we suppose that 'Gloster' is a mere slip of thepen, or even a misprint, for 'Regan. ' But, apart from otherconsiderations, Lear would hardly have spoken to a servant of 'Regan,'and, if he had, the next words would have run 'Acquaint her,' not'Acquaint my daughter. 'NOTE V. SUSPECTED INTERPOLATIONS IN _KING LEAR_. There are three passages in _King Lear_ which have been held to beadditions made by 'the players. 'The first consists of the two lines of indecent doggerel spoken by theFool at the end of Act I. ; the second, of the Fool's prophecy in rhymeat the end of III. ii. ; the third, of Edgar's soliloquy at the end ofIII. vi. It is suspicious (1) that all three passages occur at the ends ofscenes, the place where an addition is most easily made; and (2) that ineach case the speaker remains behind alone to utter the words after theother persons have gone off. I postpone discussion of the several passages until I have calledattention to the fact that, if these passages are genuine, the number ofscenes which end with a soliloquy is larger in _King Lear_ than in anyother undoubted tragedy. Thus, taking the tragedies in their probablechronological order (and ignoring the very short scenes into which abattle is sometimes divided),[270] I find that there are in _Romeo andJuliet_ four such scenes, in _Julius Cæsar_ two, in _Hamlet_ six, in_Othello_ four,[271] in _King Lear_ seven,[272] in _Macbeth_ two,[273]in _Antony and Cleopatra_ three, in _Coriolanus_ one. The differencebetween _King Lear_ and the plays that come nearest to it is really muchgreater than it appears from this list, for in _Hamlet_ four of the sixsoliloquies, and in _Othello_ three of the four, are long speeches,while most of those in _King Lear_ are quite short. Of course I do not attach any great importance to the fact just noticed,but it should not be left entirely out of account in forming an opinionas to the genuineness of the three doubted passages. (_a_) The first of these, I. v. 54-5, I decidedly believe to bespurious. (1) The scene ends quite in Shakespeare's manner without it. (2) It does not seem likely that at the _end_ of the scene Shakespearewould have introduced anything _violently_ incongruous with theimmediately preceding words,     Oh let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!     Keep me in temper: I would not be mad! (3) Even if he had done so, it is very unlikely that the incongruouswords would have been grossly indecent. (4) Even if they had been,surely they would not have been _irrelevantly_ indecent and evidentlyaddressed to the audience, two faults which are not in Shakespeare'sway. (5) The lines are doggerel. Doggerel is not uncommon in theearliest plays; there are a few lines even in the _Merchant of Venice_,a line and a half, perhaps, in _As You Like It_; but I do not think itoccurs later, not even where, in an early play, it would certainly havebeen found, _e. g. _ in the mouth of the Clown in _All's Well_. The bestthat can be said for these lines is that they appear in the Quartos,_i. e. _ in reports, however vile, of the play as performed within two orthree years of its composition. (_b_) I believe, almost as decidedly, that the second passage, III. ii. 79 ff. , is spurious. (1) The scene ends characteristically without thelines. (2) They are addressed directly to the audience. (3) They destroythe pathetic and beautiful effect of the immediately preceding words ofthe Fool, and also of Lear's solicitude for him. (4) They involve theabsurdity that the shivering timid Fool would allow his master andprotector, Lear and Kent, to go away into the storm and darkness,leaving him alone. (5) It is also somewhat against them that they do notappear in the Quartos. At the same time I do not think one wouldhesitate to accept them if they occurred at any natural place _within_the dialogue. (_c_) On the other hand I see no sufficient reason for doubting thegenuineness of Edgar's soliloquy at the end of III. vi. (1) Those whodoubt it appear not to perceive that _some_ words of soliloquy arewanted; for it is evidently intended that, when Kent and Gloster bearthe King away, they should leave the Bedlam behind. Naturally they doso. He is only accidentally connected with the King; he was taken toshelter with him merely to gratify his whim, and as the King is nowasleep there is no occasion to retain the Bedlam; Kent, we know, shrankfrom him, 'shunn'd [his] abhorr'd society' (V. iii. 210). So he is leftto return to the hovel where he was first found. When the others depart,then, he must be left behind, and surely would not go off without aword. (2) If his speech is spurious, therefore, it has been substitutedfor some genuine speech; and surely that is a supposition not to beentertained except under compulsion. (3) There is no such compulsion inthe speech. It is not very good, no doubt; but the use of rhymed andsomewhat antithetic lines in a gnomic passage is quite in Shakespeare'smanner, _more_ in his manner than, for example, the rhymed passages inI. i. 183-190, 257-269, 281-4, which nobody doubts; quite like manyplaces in _All's Well_, or the concluding lines of _King Lear_ itself. (4) The lines are in spirit of one kind with Edgar's fine lines at thebeginning of Act IV. (5) Some of them, as Delius observes, emphasize theparallelism between the stories of Lear and Gloster. (6) The fact thatthe Folio omits the lines is, of course, nothing against them. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 270: I ignore them partly because they are not significant forthe present purpose, but mainly because it is impossible to accept thedivision of battle-scenes in our modern texts, while to depart from itis to introduce intolerable inconvenience in reference. The only properplan in Elizabethan drama is to consider a scene ended as soon as noperson is left on the stage, and to pay no regard to the question oflocality,--a question theatrically insignificant and undetermined inmost scenes of an Elizabethan play, in consequence of the absence ofmovable scenery. In dealing with battles the modern editors seem to havegone on the principle (which they could not possibly apply generally)that, so long as the place is not changed, you have only one scene. Hence in _Macbeth_, Act V. , they have included in their Scene vii. threedistinct scenes; yet in _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act III. , following theright division for a wrong reason, they have two scenes (viii. and ix. ),each less than four lines long. ][Footnote 271: One of these (V. i. ) is not marked as such, but it isevident that the last line and a half form a soliloquy of one remainingcharacter, just as much as some of the soliloquies marked as such inother plays. ][Footnote 272: According to modern editions, eight, Act II. , scene ii. ,being an instance. But it is quite ridiculous to reckon as three sceneswhat are marked as scenes ii. , iii. , iv. Kent is on the lower stage thewhole time, Edgar in the so-called scene iii. being on the upper stageor balcony. The editors were misled by their ignorance of the stagearrangements. ][Footnote 273: Perhaps three, for V. iii. is perhaps an instance, thoughnot so marked. ]NOTE W. THE STAGING OF THE SCENE OF LEAR'S REUNION WITH CORDELIA. As Koppel has shown, the usual modern stage-directions[274] for thisscene (IV. vii. ) are utterly wrong and do what they can to defeat thepoet's purpose. It is evident from the text that the scene shows the _first_ meeting ofCordelia and Kent, and _first_ meeting of Cordelia and Lear, since theyparted in I. i. Kent and Cordelia indeed are doubtless supposed to haveexchanged a few words before they come on the stage; but Cordelia hasnot seen her father at all until the moment before she begins (line 26),'O my dear father! ' Hence the tone of the first part of the scene, thatbetween Cordelia and Kent, is kept low, in order that the latter part,between Cordelia and Lear, may have its full effect. The modern stage-direction at the beginning of the scene, as found, forexample, in the Cambridge and Globe editions, is as follows:     'SCENE vii. --A tent in the French camp. LEAR     on a bed asleep, soft music playing; _Gentleman_, and others     attending.     Enter CORDELIA, KENT, and _Doctor_. 'At line 25, where the Doctor says 'Please you, draw near,' Cordelia issupposed to approach the bed, which is imagined by some editors visiblethroughout at the back of the stage, by others as behind a curtain atthe back, this curtain being drawn open at line 25. Now, to pass by the fact that these arrangements are in flatcontradiction with the stage-directions of the Quartos and the Folio,consider their effect upon the scene. In the first place, the reader atonce assumes that Cordelia has already seen her father; for otherwise itis inconceivable that she would quietly talk with Kent while he waswithin a few yards of her. The edge of the later passage where sheaddresses him is therefore blunted. In the second place, through Lear'spresence the reader's interest in Lear and his meeting with Cordelia isat once excited so strongly that he hardly attends at all to theconversation of Cordelia and Kent; and so this effect is blunted too. Thirdly, at line 57, where Cordelia says,                      O, look upon me, sir,     And hold your hands in benediction o'er me!     No, sir, you must not kneel,the poor old King must be supposed either to try to get out of bed, oractually to do so, or to kneel, or to try to kneel, on the bed. Fourthly, consider what happens at line 81.     _Doctor. _ Desire him to _go in_; trouble him no more               Till further settling.     _Cor. _                  Will't please your highness _walk? _     _Lear. _   You must bear with me;               Pray you now, forget and forgive; I am old and                 foolish.    [_Exeunt all but Kent and Gentleman_. If Lear is in a tent containing his bed, why in the world, when thedoctor thinks he can bear no more emotion, is he made to walk out of thetent? A pretty doctor! But turn now to the original texts. Of course they say nothing about theplace. The stage-direction at the beginning runs, in the Quartos, 'EnterCordelia, Kent, and Doctor;' in the Folio, 'Enter Cordelia, Kent, andGentleman. ' They differ about the Gentleman and the Doctor, and theFolio later wrongly gives to the Gentleman the Doctor's speeches as wellas his own. This is a minor matter. But they agree in _making no mentionof Lear_. He is not on the stage at all. Thus Cordelia, and the reader,can give their whole attention to Kent. Her conversation with Kent finished, she turns (line 12) to the Doctorand asks 'How does the King? '[275] The Doctor tells her that Lear isstill asleep, and asks leave to wake him. Cordelia assents and asks ifhe is 'arrayed,' which does not mean whether he has a night-gown on, butwhether they have taken away his crown of furrow-weeds, and tended himduly after his mad wanderings in the fields. The Gentleman says that inhis sleep 'fresh garments' (not a night-gown) have been put on him. TheDoctor then asks Cordelia to be present when her father is waked. Sheassents, and the Doctor says, 'Please you, draw near. Louder the musicthere. ' The next words are Cordelia's, 'O my dear father! 'What has happened? At the words 'is he arrayed? ' according to the Folio,'_Enter Lear in a chair carried by Servants. _' The moment of thisentrance, as so often in the original editions, is doubtless too soon. It should probably come at the words 'Please you, draw near,' which_may_, as Koppel suggests, be addressed to the bearers. But that thestage-direction is otherwise right there cannot be a doubt (and that theQuartos omit it is no argument against it, seeing that, according totheir directions, Lear never enters at all). This arrangement (1) allows Kent his proper place in the scene, (2)makes it clear that Cordelia has not seen her father before, (3) makesher first sight of him a theatrical crisis in the best sense, (4) makesit quite natural that he should kneel, (5) makes it obvious why heshould leave the stage again when he shows signs of exhaustion, and (6)is the only arrangement which has the slightest authority, for 'Lear ona bed asleep' was never heard of till Capell proposed it. The ruinouschange of the staging was probably suggested by the version of thatunhappy Tate. Of course the chair arrangement is primitive, but the Elizabethans didnot care about such things. What they cared for was dramatic effect. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 274: There are exceptions: _e. g. _, in the editions of Deliusand Mr. W. J. Craig. ][Footnote 275: And it is possible that, as Koppel suggests, the Doctorshould properly enter at this point; for if Kent, as he says, wishes toremain unknown, it seems strange that he and Cordelia should talk asthey do before a third person. This change however is not necessary, forthe Doctor might naturally stand out of hearing till he was addressed;and it is better not to go against the stage-direction withoutnecessity. ]NOTE X. THE BATTLE IN _KING LEAR_. I found my impression of the extraordinary ineffectiveness of thisbattle (p. 255) confirmed by a paper of James Spedding (_New ShakspereSociety Transactions_, 1877, or Furness's _King Lear_, p. 312 f. ); buthis opinion that this is the one technical defect in _King Lear_ seemscertainly incorrect, and his view that this defect is not due toShakespeare himself will not, I think, bear scrutiny. To make Spedding's view quite clear I may remind the reader that in thepreceding scene the two British armies, that of Edmund and Regan, andthat of Albany and Goneril, have entered with drum and colours, and havedeparted. Scene ii. is as follows (Globe):     SCENE II. --_A field between the two camps.     Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours_, LEAR, CORDELIA,     _and_ Soldiers, _over the stage; and exeunt. _ _Enter_ EDGAR     _and_ GLOSTER.     _Edg. _  Here, father, take the shadow of this tree             For your good host; pray that the right may thrive:             If ever I return to you again,             I'll bring you comfort.     _Glo. _                        Grace go with you, sir!                                                    [_Exit_ Edgar     _Alarum and retreat within. _ _Re-enter_ EDGAR.     _Edg. _  Away, old man; give me thy hand; away!             King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en:             Give me thy hand; come on.     _Glo. _  No farther, sir; a man may rot even here.     _Edg. _  What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure             Their going hence, even as their coming hither:             Ripeness is all: come on.     _Glo. _                        And that's true too. [_Exeunt_. The battle, it will be seen, is represented only by military musicwithin the tiring-house, which formed the back of the stage. 'Thescene,' says Spedding, 'does not change; but 'alarums' are heard, andafterwards a 'retreat,' and on the same field over which that great armyhas this moment passed, fresh and full of hope, re-appears, with tidingsthat all is lost, the same man who last left the stage to follow andfight in it. [276] That Shakespeare meant the scene to stand thus, no onewho has the true faith will believe. 'Spedding's suggestion is that things are here run together whichShakespeare meant to keep apart. Shakespeare, he thinks, continued ActIV. to the '_exit_ Edgar' after l. 4 of the above passage. Thus, justbefore the close of the Act, the two British armies and the French armyhad passed across the stage, and the interest of the audience in thebattle about to be fought was raised to a high pitch. Then, after ashort interval, Act V. opened with the noise of battle in the distance,followed by the entrance of Edgar to announce the defeat of Cordelia'sarmy. The battle, thus, though not fought on the stage, was shown andfelt to be an event of the greatest importance. Apart from the main objection of the entire want of evidence of so greata change having been made, there are other objections to this idea andto the reasoning on which it is based. (1) The pause at the end of thepresent Fourth Act is far from 'faulty,' as Spedding alleges it to be;that Act ends with the most melting scene Shakespeare ever wrote; and apause after it, and before the business of the battle, was perfectlyright. (2) The Fourth Act is already much longer than the Fifth (aboutfourteen columns of the Globe edition against about eight and a half),and Spedding's change would give the Fourth nearly sixteen columns, andthe Fifth less than seven. (3) Spedding's proposal requires a muchgreater alteration in the existing text than he supposed. It does notsimply shift the division of the two Acts, it requires the disappearanceand re-entrance of the blind Gloster. Gloster, as the text stands, isalone on the stage while the battle is being fought at a distance, andthe reference to the tree shows that he was on the main or lower stage. The main stage had no front curtain; and therefore, if Act IV. is to endwhere Spedding wished it to end, Gloster must go off unaided at itsclose, and come on again unaided for Act V. And this means that the_whole_ arrangement of the present Act V. Sc. ii. must be changed. IfSpedding had been aware of this it is not likely that he would havebroached his theory. [277]It is curious that he does not allude to the one circumstance whichthrows some little suspicion on the existing text. I mean thecontradiction between Edgar's statement that, if ever he returns to hisfather again, he will bring him comfort, and the fact that immediatelyafterwards he returns to bring him discomfort. It is possible to explainthis psychologically, of course, but the passage is not one in which weshould expect psychological subtlety. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 276: Where did Spedding find this? I find no trace of it, andsurely Edgar would not have risked his life in the battle, when he had,in case of defeat, to appear and fight Edmund. He does not appear'armed,' according to the Folio, till V. iii. 117. ][Footnote 277: Spedding supposed that there was a front curtain, andthis idea, coming down from Malone and Collier, is still found inEnglish works of authority. But it may be stated without hesitation thatthere is no positive evidence at all for the existence of such acurtain, and abundant evidence against it. ]NOTE Y. SOME DIFFICULT PASSAGES IN _KING LEAR_. The following are notes on some passages where I have not been able toaccept any of the current interpretations, or on which I wish to expressan opinion or represent a little-known view. 1. _Kent's soliloquy at the end of_ II. ii. (_a_) In this speech the application of the words 'Nothing, almost seesmiracles but misery' seems not to have been understood. The 'misery' issurely not that of Kent but that of Lear, who has come 'out of heaven'sbenediction to the warm sun,' _i. e. _ to misery. This, says Kent, is justthe situation where something like miraculous help may be looked for;and he finds the sign of it in the fact that a letter from Cordelia hasjust reached him; for his course since his banishment has been soobscured that it is only by the rarest good fortune (something like amiracle) that Cordelia has got intelligence of it. We may suppose thatthis intelligence came from one of Albany's or Cornwall's servants, someof whom are, he says (III. i. 23),             to France the spies and speculations     Intelligent of our state. (_b_) The words 'and shall find time,' etc. , have been much discussed. Some have thought that they are detached phrases from the letter whichKent is reading: but Kent has just implied by his address to the sunthat he has no light to read the letter by. [278] It has also beensuggested that the anacoluthon is meant to represent Kent's sleepiness,which prevents him from finishing the sentence, and induces him todismiss his thoughts and yield to his drowsiness. But I remember nothinglike this elsewhere in Shakespeare, and it seems much more probable thatthe passage is corrupt, perhaps from the loss of a line containing wordslike 'to rescue us' before 'From this enormous state' (with 'state' cf. 'our state' in the lines quoted above). When we reach III. i. we find that Kent has now read the letter; heknows that a force is coming from France and indeed has already 'secretfeet' in some of the harbours. So he sends the Gentleman to Dover. 2. _The Fool's Song in_ II. iv. At II. iv. 62 Kent asks why the King comes with so small a train. TheFool answers, in effect, that most of his followers have deserted himbecause they see that his fortunes are sinking. He proceeds to adviseKent ironically to follow their example, though he confesses he does notintend to follow it himself. 'Let go thy hold when a great wheel runsdown a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it: but the great onethat goes up the hill, let him draw thee after. When a wise man givesthee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knavesfollow it, since a fool gives it.     That sir which serves and seeks for gain,       And follows but for form,     Will pack when it begins to rain,       And leave thee in the storm.     But I will tarry; the fool will stay,       And let the wise man fly:     The knave turns fool that runs away;       The fool no knave, perdy. The last two lines have caused difficulty. Johnson wanted to read,     The fool turns knave that runs away,       The knave no fool, perdy;_i. e. _ if I ran away, I should prove myself to be a knave and a wiseman, but, being a fool, I stay, as no knave or wise man would. Those whorightly defend the existing reading misunderstand it, I think. Shakespeare is not pointing out, in 'The knave turns fool that runsaway,' that the wise knave who runs away is really a 'fool with acircumbendibus,' 'moral miscalculator as well as moral coward. ' The Foolis referring to his own words, 'I would have none but knaves follow [myadvice to desert the King], since a fool gives it'; and the last twolines of his song mean, 'The knave who runs away follows the advicegiven by a fool; but I, the fool, shall not follow my own advice byturning knave. 'For the ideas compare the striking passage in _Timon_, I. i. 64 ff. 3. '_Decline your head. _'At IV. ii. 18 Goneril, dismissing Edmund in the presence of Oswald,says:                                  This trusty servant     Shall pass between us: ere long you are like to hear,     If you dare venture in your own behalf,     A mistress's command. Wear this; spare speech;     Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst speak,     Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. I copy Furness's note on 'Decline': 'STEEVENS thinks that Goneril bidsEdmund decline his head that she might, while giving him a kiss, appearto Oswald merely to be whispering to him. But this, WRIGHT says, isgiving Goneril credit for too much delicacy, and Oswald was a"serviceable villain. " DELIUS suggests that perhaps she wishes to put achain around his neck. 'Surely 'Decline your head' is connected, not with 'Wear this' (whatever'this' may be), but with 'this kiss,' etc. Edmund is a good deal tallerthan Goneril, and must stoop to be kissed. 4. _Self-cover'd_. At IV. ii. 59 Albany, horrified at the passions of anger, hate, andcontempt expressed in his wife's face, breaks out:                               See thyself, devil!             Proper deformity seems not in the fiend             So horrid as in woman.     _Gon. _                          O vain fool!     _Alb. _  Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame,             Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness             To let these hands obey my blood,             They are apt enough to dislocate and tear             Thy flesh and bones: howe'er thou art a fiend,             A woman's shape doth shield thee. The passage has been much discussed, mainly because of the strangeexpression 'self-cover'd,' for which of course emendations have beenproposed. The general meaning is clear. Albany tells his wife that sheis a devil in a woman's shape, and warns her not to cast off that shapeby be-monstering her feature (appearance), since it is this shape alonethat protects her from his wrath. Almost all commentators go astraybecause they imagine that, in the words 'thou changed and self-cover'dthing,' Albany is speaking to Goneril as a _woman_ who has been changedinto a fiend. Really he is addressing her as a fiend which has changedits own shape and assumed that of a woman; and I suggest that'self-cover'd' means either 'which hast covered or concealed thyself,'or 'whose self is covered' [so Craig in Arden edition], not (what ofcourse it ought to mean) 'which hast been covered _by_ thyself. 'Possibly the last lines of this passage (which does not appear in theFolios) should be arranged thus:             To let these hands obey my blood, they're apt enough             To dislocate and tear thy flesh and bones:             Howe'er thou art a fiend, a woman's shape             Doth shield thee.     _Gon. _                 Marry, your manhood now--     _Alb. _                                          What news? 5. _The stage-directions at_ V. i. 37, 39. In V. i. there first enter Edmund, Regan, and their army or soldiers:then, at line 18, Albany, Goneril, and their army or soldiers. Edmundand Albany speak very stiffly to one another, and Goneril bids themdefer their private quarrels and attend to business. Then follows thispassage (according to the modern texts):     _Alb. _                    Let's then determine             With the ancient of war on our proceedings.     _Edm. _  I shall attend you presently at your tent.     _Reg. _  Sister, you'll go with us?     _Gon. _  No.     _Reg.

_  'Tis most convenient: pray you, go with us.     _Gon. _  [_Aside_] O, ho, I know the riddle. --I will go.               _As they are going out, enter_ EDGAR _disguised. _     _Edg. _  If e'er your grace had speech with man so poor,             Hear me one word.     _Alb. _                   I'll overtake you. Speak.                              [_Exeunt all but_ ALBANY _and_ EDGAR. It would appear from this that all the leading persons are to go to aCouncil of War with the ancient (plural) in Albany's tent; and they aregoing out, followed by their armies, when Edgar comes in. Why in theworld, then, should Goneril propose (as she apparently does) to absentherself from the Council; and why, still more, should Regan object toher doing so? This is a question which always perplexed me, and I couldnot believe in the only answers I ever found suggested, viz. , that Reganwanted to keep Edmund and Goneril together in order that she mightobserve them (Moberly, quoted in Furness), or that she could not bear tolose sight of Goneril, for fear Goneril should effect a meeting withEdmund after the Council (Delius, if I understand him). But I find in Koppel what seems to be the solution(Verbesserungsvorschläge, p. 127 f. ). He points out that the modernstage-directions are wrong. For the modern direction 'As they are goingout, enter Edgar disguised,' the Ff. read, 'Exeunt both the armies. Enter Edgar. ' For 'Exeunt all but Albany and Edgar' the Ff. havenothing, but Q1 has 'exeunt' after 'word. ' For the first directionKoppel would read, 'Exeunt Regan, Goneril, Gentlemen, and Soldiers': forthe second he would read, after 'overtake you,' 'Exit Edmund. 'This makes all clear. Albany proposes a Council of War. Edmund assents,and says he will come at once to Albany's tent for that purpose. TheCouncil will consist of Albany, Edmund, and the ancient of war. Regan,accordingly, is going away with her soldiers; but she observes thatGoneril shows no sign of moving with _her_ soldiers; and she at oncesuspects that Goneril means to attend the Council in order to be withEdmund. Full of jealousy, she invites Goneril to go with _her_. Gonerilrefuses, but then, seeing Regan's motive, contemptuously and ironicallyconsents (I doubt if 'O ho, I know the riddle' should be 'aside,' as inmodern editions, following Capell). Accordingly the two sisters go out,followed by their soldiers; and Edmund and Albany are just going out, ina different direction, to Albany's tent when Edgar enters. His wordscause Albany to stay; Albany says to Edmund, as Edmund leaves, 'I'llovertake you'; and then, turning to Edgar, bids him 'speak. '6. V. iii. 151 ff. When Edmund falls in combat with the disguised Edgar, Albany producesthe letter from Goneril to Edmund, which Edgar had found in Oswald'spocket and had handed over to Albany. This letter suggested to Edmundthe murder of Albany. The passage in the Globe edition is as follows:     _Gon. _                  This is practice, Gloucester:             By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer             An unknown opposite: thou art not vanquish'd,             But cozen'd and beguiled.     _Alb. _                           Shut your mouth, dame,             Or with this paper shall I stop it: Hold, sir;             Thou worse than any name, read thy own evil:             No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it.                                   [_Gives the letter to Edmund. _     _Gon. _  Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine:             Who can arraign me for't?     _Alb. _                            Most monstrous! oh!             Know'st thou this paper?     _Gon. _                       Ask me not what I know. [_Exit. _     _Alb. _  Go after her: she's desperate: govern her.     _Edm. _  What you have charged me with, that have I done;             And more, much more; the time will bring it out.             'Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou             That hast this fortune on me? The first of the stage-directions is not in the Qq. or Ff. : it wasinserted by Johnson. The second ('Exit') is both in the Qq. and in theFf. , but the latter place it after the words 'arraign me for't. ' Andthey give the words 'Ask me not what I know' to Edmund, not to Goneril,as in the Qq. (followed by the Globe). I will not go into the various views of these lines, but will simply saywhat seems to me most probable. It does not matter much where preciselyGoneril's 'exit' comes; but I believe the Folios are right in giving thewords 'Ask me not what I know' to Edmund. It has been pointed out byKnight that the question 'Know'st thou this paper? ' cannot very well beaddressed to Goneril, for Albany has already said to her, 'I perceiveyou know it. ' It is possible to get over this difficulty by saying thatAlbany wants her confession: but there is another fact which seems tohave passed unnoticed. When Albany is undoubtedly speaking to his wife,he uses the plural pronoun, 'Shut _your_ mouth, dame,' 'No tearing,lady; I perceive _you_ know it. ' When then he asks 'Know'st _thou_ thispaper? ' he is probably _not_ speaking to her. I should take the passage thus. At 'Hold, sir,' [omitted in Qq. ] Albanyholds the letter out towards Edmund for him to see, or possibly gives itto him. [279] The next line, with its 'thou,' is addressed to Edmund,whose 'reciprocal vows' are mentioned in the letter. Goneril snatches atit to tear it up: and Albany, who does not know whether Edmund ever sawthe letter or not, says to her 'I perceive _you_ know it,' the 'you'being emphatic (her very wish to tear it showed she knew what was init). She practically admits her knowledge, defies him, and goes out tokill herself. He exclaims in horror at her, and, turning again toEdmund, asks if _he_ knows it. Edmund, who of course does not know it,refuses to answer (like Iago), not (like Iago) out of defiance, but fromchivalry towards Goneril; and, having refused to answer _this_ charge,he goes on to admit the charges brought against himself previously byAlbany (82 f. ) and Edgar (130 f. ). I should explain the change from'you' to 'thou' in his speech by supposing that at first he is speakingto Albany and Edgar together. 7. V. iii. 278. Lear, looking at Kent, asks,                                        Who are you?             Mine eyes are not o' the best: I'll tell you straight.     _Kent. _ If fortune brag of two she loved _and_ hated (Qq. _or_),             One of them we behold. Kent is not answering Lear, nor is he speaking of himself. He isspeaking of Lear. The best interpretation is probably that of Malone,according to which Kent means, 'We see the man most hated by Fortune,whoever may be the man she has loved best'; and perhaps it is supportedby the variation of the text in the Qq. , though their texts are so badin this scene that their support is worth little. But it occurs to me aspossible that the meaning is rather: 'Did Fortune ever show the extremes_both_ of her love _and_ of her hatred to any other man as she has shownthem to this man? '8. _The last lines. _     _Alb. _  Bear them from hence. Our present business             Is general woe. [_To Kent and Edgar_] Friends of my               soul, you twain             Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain.     _Kent. _ I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;             My master calls me, I must not say no.     _Alb. _  The weight of this sad time we must obey;             Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.             The oldest hath borne most: we that are young             Shall never see so much, nor live so long. So the Globe. The stage-direction (right, of course) is Johnson's. Thelast four lines are given by the Ff. to Edgar, by the Qq. to Albany. TheQq. read '_have_ borne most. 'To whom ought the last four lines to be given, and what do they mean? Itis proper that the principal person should speak last, and this is infavour of Albany. But in this scene at any rate the Ff. , which give thespeech to Edgar, have the better text (though Ff. 2, 3, 4, make Kent dieafter his two lines! ); Kent has answered Albany, but Edgar has not; andthe lines seem to be rather more appropriate to Edgar. For the 'gentlereproof' of Kent's despondency (if this phrase of Halliwell's is right)is like Edgar; and, although we have no reason to suppose that Albanywas not young, there is nothing to prove his youth. As to the meaning of the last two lines (a poor conclusion to such aplay) I should suppose that 'the oldest' is not Lear, but 'the oldest ofus,' viz. , Kent, the one survivor of the old generation: and this is themore probable if there _is_ a reference to him in the preceding lines. The last words seem to mean, 'We that are young shall never see so much_and yet_ live so long'; _i. e. _ if we suffer so much, we shall not bearit as he has. If the Qq. 'have' is right, the reference is to Lear,Gloster and Kent. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 278: The 'beacon' which he bids approach is not the moon, asPope supposed. The moon was up and shining some time ago (II. ii. 35),and lines 1 and 141-2 imply that not much of the night is left. ][Footnote 279: 'Hold' can mean 'take'; but the word 'this' in line 160('Know'st thou this paper? ') favours the idea that the paper is still inAlbany's hand. ]NOTE Z. SUSPECTED INTERPOLATIONS IN _MACBETH_. I have assumed in the text that almost the whole of _Macbeth_ isgenuine; and, to avoid the repetition of arguments to be found in otherbooks,[280] I shall leave this opinion unsupported. But among thepassages that have been questioned or rejected there are two which seemto me open to serious doubt. They are those in which Hecate appears:viz. the whole of III. v. ; and IV. i. 39-43. These passages have been suspected (1) because they containstage-directions for two songs which have been found in Middleton's_Witch_; (2) because they can be excised without leaving the least traceof their excision; and (3) because they contain lines incongruous withthe spirit and atmosphere of the rest of the Witch-scenes: _e. g. _ III. v. 10 f. :                     all you have done     Hath been but for a wayward son,     Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,     Loves for his own ends, not for you;and IV. i. 41, 2:     And now about the cauldron sing,     Like elves and fairies in a ring. The idea of sexual relation in the first passage, and the trivialdaintiness of the second (with which cf. III. v. 34,     Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see,     Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me)suit Middleton's Witches quite well, but Shakespeare's not at all; andit is difficult to believe that, if Shakespeare had meant to introduce apersonage supreme over the Witches, he would have made her sounimpressive as this Hecate. (It may be added that the originalstage-direction at IV. i. 39, 'Enter Hecat and the other three Witches,'is suspicious. )I doubt if the second and third of these arguments, taken alone, wouldjustify a very serious suspicion of interpolation; but the fact,mentioned under (1), that the play has here been meddled with, treblestheir weight. And it gives some weight to the further fact that thesepassages resemble one another, and differ from the bulk of the otherWitch passages, in being iambic in rhythm. (It must, however, beremembered that, supposing Shakespeare _did_ mean to introduce Hecate,he might naturally use a special rhythm for the parts where sheappeared. )The same rhythm appears in a third passage which has been doubted: IV. i. 125-132. But this is not _quite_ on a level with the other two; for(1), though it is possible to suppose the Witches, as well as theApparitions, to vanish at 124, and Macbeth's speech to run straight onto 133, the cut is not so clean as in the other cases; (2) it is not atall clear that Hecate (the most suspicious element) is supposed to bepresent. The original stage-direction at 133 is merely 'The WitchesDance, and vanish'; and even if Hecate had been present before, shemight have vanished at 43, as Dyce makes her do. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 280: _E. g. _ Mr. Chambers's excellent little edition in theWarwick series. ]NOTE AA. HAS _MACBETH_ BEEN ABRIDGED? _Macbeth_ is a very short play, the shortest of all Shakespeare's exceptthe _Comedy of Errors_. It contains only 1993 lines, while _King Lear_contains 3298, _Othello_ 3324, and _Hamlet_ 3924. The next shortest ofthe tragedies is _Julius Caesar_, which has 2440 lines. (The figures areMr. Fleay's. I may remark that for our present purpose we want thenumber of the lines in the first Folio, not those in modern compositetexts. )Is there any reason to think that the play has been shortened? I willbriefly consider this question, so far as it can be considered apartfrom the wider one whether Shakespeare's play was re-handled byMiddleton or some one else. That the play, as we have it, is _slightly_ shorter than the playShakespeare wrote seems not improbable. (1) We have no Quarto of_Macbeth_; and generally, where we have a Quarto or Quartos of a play,we find them longer than the Folio text. (2) There are perhaps a fewsigns of omission in our text (over and above the plentiful signs ofcorruption). I will give one example (I. iv. 33-43). Macbeth and Banquo,returning from their victories, enter the presence of Duncan (14), whoreceives them with compliments and thanks, which they acknowledge. Hethen speaks as follows:                        My plenteous joys,     Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves     In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes,     And you whose places are the nearest, know,     We will establish our estate upon     Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter     The Prince of Cumberland; which honour must     Not unaccompanied invest him only,     But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine     On all deservers. From hence to Inverness,     And bind us further to you. Here the transition to the naming of Malcolm, for which there has beenno preparation, is extremely sudden; and the matter, considering itsimportance, is disposed of very briefly. But the abruptness and brevityof the sentence in which Duncan invites himself to Macbeth's castle arestill more striking. For not a word has yet been said on the subject;nor is it possible to suppose that Duncan had conveyed his intention bymessage, for in that case Macbeth would of course have informed his wifeof it in his letter (written in the interval between scenes iii. andiv. ). It is difficult not to suspect some omission or curtailment here. On the other hand Shakespeare may have determined to sacrificeeverything possible to the effect of rapidity in the First Act; and hemay also have wished, by the suddenness and brevity of Duncan'sself-invitation, to startle both Macbeth and the audience, and to makethe latter feel that Fate is hurrying the King and the murderer to theirdoom. And that any _extensive_ omissions have been made seems not likely. (1)There is no internal evidence of the omission of anything essential tothe plot. (2) Forman, who saw the play in 1610, mentions nothing whichwe do not find in our play; for his statement that Macbeth was made Dukeof Northumberland is obviously due to a confused recollection ofMalcolm's being made Duke of Cumberland. (3) Whereabouts could suchomissions occur? Only in the first part, for the rest is full enough. And surely anyone who wanted to cut the play down would have operated,say, on Macbeth's talk with Banquo's murderers, or on III. vi. , or onthe very long dialogue of Malcolm and Macduff, instead of reducing themost exciting part of the drama. We might indeed suppose thatShakespeare himself originally wrote the first part more at length, andmade the murder of Duncan come in the Third Act, and then _himself_reduced his matter so as to bring the murder back to its present place,perceiving in a flash of genius the extraordinary effect that might thusbe produced. But, even if this idea suited those who believe in arehandling of the play, what probability is there in it? Thus it seems most likely that the play always was an extremely shortone. Can we, then, at all account for its shortness? It is possible, inthe first place, that it was not composed originally for the publicstage, but for some private, perhaps royal, occasion, when time waslimited. And the presence of the passage about touching for the evil(IV. iii. 140 ff. ) supports this idea. We must remember, secondly, thatsome of the scenes would take longer to perform than ordinary scenes ofmere dialogue and action; _e. g. _ the Witch-scenes, and the Battle-scenesin the last Act, for a broad-sword combat was an occasion for anexhibition of skill. [281] And, lastly, Shakespeare may well have feltthat a play constructed and written like _Macbeth_, a play in which akind of fever-heat is felt almost from beginning to end, and whichoffers very little relief by means of humorous or pathetic scenes, oughtto be short, and would be unbearable if it lasted so long as _Hamlet_ oreven _King Lear_. And in fact I do not think that, in reading, we _feelMacbeth_ to be short: certainly we are astonished when we hear that itis about half as long as _Hamlet_. Perhaps in the Shakespearean theatretoo it appeared to occupy a longer time than the clock recorded. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 281: These two considerations should also be borne in mind inregard to the exceptional shortness of the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ andthe _Tempest_. Both contain scenes which, even on the Elizabethan stage,would take an unusual time to perform. And it has been supposed of eachthat it was composed to grace some wedding. ]NOTE BB. THE DATE OF _MACBETH_. METRICAL TESTS. Dr. Forman saw _Macbeth_ performed at the Globe in 1610. The question ishow much earlier its composition or first appearance is to be put. It is agreed that the date is not earlier than that of the accession ofJames I. in 1603. The style and versification would make an earlier datealmost impossible. And we have the allusions to 'two-fold balls andtreble sceptres' and to the descent of Scottish kings from Banquo; theundramatic description of touching for the King's Evil (James performedthis ceremony); and the dramatic use of witchcraft, a matter on whichJames considered himself an authority. Some of these references would have their fullest effect early inJames's reign. And on this ground, and on account both of resemblancesin the characters of Hamlet and Macbeth, and of the use of thesupernatural in the two plays, it has been held that _Macbeth_ was thetragedy that came next after _Hamlet_, or, at any rate, next after_Othello_. These arguments seem to me to have no force when set against those thatpoint to a later date (about 1606) and place _Macbeth_ after _KingLear_. [282] And, as I have already observed, the probability is that italso comes after Shakespeare's part of _Timon_, and immediately before_Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_. I will first refer briefly to some of the older arguments in favour ofthis later date, and then more at length to those based onversification. (1) In II. iii. 4-5, 'Here's a farmer that hang'd himself on theexpectation of plenty,' Malone found a reference to the exceptionallylow price of wheat in 1606. (2) In the reference in the same speech to the equivocator who couldswear in both scales and committed treason enough for God's sake, hefound an allusion to the trial of the Jesuit Garnet, in the spring of1606, for complicity in the Gunpowder Treason and Plot. Garnet protestedon his soul and salvation that he had not held a certain conversation,then was obliged to confess that he had, and thereupon 'fell into alarge discourse defending equivocation. ' This argument, which I havebarely sketched, seems to me much weightier than the first; and itsweight is increased by the further references to perjury and treasonpointed out on p. 397. (3) Halliwell observed what appears to be an allusion to _Macbeth_ inthe comedy of the _Puritan_, 4to, 1607: 'we'll ha' the ghost i' th'white sheet sit at upper end o' th' table'; and Malone had referred to aless striking parallel in _Caesar and Pompey_, also pub. 1607:     Why, think you, lords, that 'tis _ambition's spur_     That _pricketh_ Caesar to these high attempts? He also found a significance in the references in _Macbeth_ to thegenius of Mark Antony being rebuked by Caesar, and to the insane rootthat takes the reason prisoner, as showing that Shakespeare, whilewriting _Macbeth_, was reading Plutarch's _Lives_, with a view to hisnext play _Antony and Cleopatra_ (S. R. 1608). (4) To these last arguments, which by themselves would be of littleweight, I may add another, of which the same may be said. Marston'sreminiscences of Shakespeare are only too obvious. In his _DutchCourtezan_, 1605, I have noticed passages which recall _Othello_ and_King Lear_, but nothing that even faintly recalls _Macbeth_. But inreading _Sophonisba_, 1606, I was several times reminded of _Macbeth_(as well as, more decidedly, of _Othello_). I note the parallels forwhat they are worth. With _Sophonisba_, Act I. Sc. ii. :     Upon whose tops the Roman eagles stretch'd     Their large spread wings, which fann'd the evening aire     To us cold breath,cf. _Macbeth_ I. ii. 49:     Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky     And fan our people cold. Cf. _Sophonisba_, a page later: 'yet doubtful stood the fight,' with_Macbeth_, I. ii. 7, 'Doubtful it stood' ['Doubtful long it stood'? ] Inthe same scene of _Macbeth_ the hero in fight is compared to an eagle,and his foes to sparrows; and in _Soph. _ III. ii. Massinissa in fight iscompared to a falcon, and his foes to fowls and lesser birds. I shouldnot note this were it not that all these reminiscences (if they aresuch) recall one and the same scene. In _Sophonisba_ also there is atremendous description of the witch Erictho (IV. i. ), who says to theperson consulting her, 'I know thy thoughts,' as the Witch says toMacbeth, of the Armed Head, 'He knows thy thought. '(5) The resemblances between _Othello_ and _King Lear_ pointed out onpp. 244-5 and in Note R. form, when taken in conjunction with otherindications, an argument of some strength in favour of the idea that_King Lear_ followed directly on _Othello_. (6) There remains the evidence of style and especially of metre. I willnot add to what has been said in the text concerning the former; but Iwish to refer more fully to the latter, in so far as it can berepresented by the application of metrical tests. It is impossible toargue here the whole question of these tests. I will only say that,while I am aware, and quite admit the force, of what can be said againstthe independent, rash, or incompetent use of them, I am fully convincedof their value when they are properly used. Of these tests, that of rhyme and that of feminine endings, discreetlyemployed, are of use in broadly distinguishing Shakespeare's plays intotwo groups, earlier and later, and also in marking out the very latestdramas; and the feminine-ending test is of service in distinguishingShakespeare's part in _Henry VIII. _ and the _Two Noble Kinsmen_. Butneither of these tests has any power to separate plays composed within afew years of one another. There is significance in the fact that the_Winter's Tale_, the _Tempest_, _Henry VIII. _, contain hardly any rhymedfive-foot lines; but none, probably, in the fact that _Macbeth_ shows ahigher percentage of such lines than _King Lear_, _Othello_, or_Hamlet_. The percentages of feminine endings, again, in the fourtragedies, are almost conclusive against their being early plays, andwould tend to show that they were not among the latest; but thedifferences in their respective percentages, which would place them inthe chronological order _Hamlet_, _Macbeth_, _Othello_, _King Lear_(König), or _Macbeth_, _Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_ (Hertzberg), areof scarcely any account. [283] Nearly all scholars, I think, would acceptthese statements. The really useful tests, in regard to plays which admittedly are notwidely separated, are three which concern the endings of speeches andlines. It is practically certain that Shakespeare made his verseprogressively less formal, by making the speeches end more and moreoften within a line and not at the close of it; by making the senseoverflow more and more often from one line into another; and, at last,by sometimes placing at the end of a line a word on which scarcely anystress can be laid. The corresponding tests may be called theSpeech-ending test, the Overflow test, and the Light and Weak Endingtest. I. The Speech-ending test has been used by König,[284] and I will firstgive some of his results. But I regret to say that I am unable todiscover certainly the rule he has gone by. He omits speeches which arerhymed throughout, or which end with a rhymed couplet. And he countsonly speeches which are 'mehrzeilig. ' I suppose this means that hecounts any speech consisting of two lines or more, but omits not onlyone-line speeches, but speeches containing more than one line but lessthan two; but I am not sure. In the plays admitted by everyone to be early the percentage of speechesending with an incomplete line is quite small. In the _Comedy ofErrors_, for example, it is only 0. 6. It advances to 12. 1 in _KingJohn_, 18. 3 in _Henry V. _, and 21. 6 in _As You Like It_. It risesquickly soon after, and in no play written (according to general belief)after about 1600 or 1601 is it less than 30. In the admittedly latestplays it rises much higher, the figures being as follows:--_Antony_77. 5, _Cor. _ 79, _Temp. _ 84. 5, _Cym. _ 85, _Win. Tale_ 87. 6, _HenryVIII. _ (parts assigned to Shakespeare by Spedding) 89. Going back, now,to the four tragedies, we find the following figures: _Othello_ 41. 4,_Hamlet_ 51. 6, _Lear_ 60. 9, _Macbeth_ 77. 2. These figures place_Macbeth_ decidedly last, with a percentage practically equal to that of_Antony_, the first of the final group. I will now give my own figures for these tragedies, as they differsomewhat from König's, probably because my method differs. (1) I haveincluded speeches rhymed or ending with rhymes, mainly because I findthat Shakespeare will sometimes (in later plays) end a speech which ispartly rhymed with an incomplete line (_e. g. Ham. _ III. ii. 187, and thelast words of the play: or _Macb. _ V. i. 87, V. ii. 31). And if suchspeeches are reckoned, as they surely must be (for they may be, and are,highly significant), those speeches which end with complete rhymed linesmust also be reckoned. (2) I have counted any speech exceeding a line inlength, however little the excess may be; _e. g. _     I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hacked.     Give me my armour:considering that the incomplete line here may be just as significant asan incomplete line ending a longer speech. If a speech begins within aline and ends brokenly, of course I have not counted it when it isequivalent to a five-foot line; _e. g. _                       Wife, children, servants, all     That could be found:but I do count such a speech (they are very rare) as                        My lord, I do not know:     But truly I do fear it:for the same reason that I count                       You know not     Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. Of the speeches thus counted, those which end somewhere within the lineI find to be in _Othello_ about 54 per cent. ; in _Hamlet_ about 57; in_King Lear_ about 69; in _Macbeth_ about 75. [285] The order is the sameas König's, but the figures differ a good deal. I presume in the lastthree cases this comes from the difference in method; but I thinkKönig's figures for _Othello_ cannot be right, for I have tried severalmethods and find that the result is in no case far from the result of myown, and I am almost inclined to conjecture that König's 41. 4 is reallythe percentage of speeches ending with the close of a line, which wouldgive 58. 6 for the percentage of the broken-ended speeches. [286]We shall find that other tests also would put _Othello_ before _Hamlet_,though close to it. This may be due to 'accident'--_i. e. _ a cause orcauses unknown to us; but I have sometimes wondered whether the lastrevision of _Hamlet_ may not have succeeded the composition of_Othello_. In this connection the following fact may be worth notice. Itis well known that the differences of the Second Quarto of _Hamlet_ fromthe First are much greater in the last three Acts than in the firsttwo--so much so that the editors of the Cambridge Shakespeare suggestedthat Q1 represents an old play, of which Shakespeare's rehandling hadnot then proceeded much beyond the Second Act, while Q2 represents hislater completed rehandling. If that were so, the composition of the lastthree Acts would be a good deal later than that of the first two (thoughof course the first two would be revised at the time of the compositionof the last three). Now I find that the percentage of speeches endingwith a broken line is about 50 for the first two Acts, but about 62 forthe last three. It is lowest in the first Act, and in the first twoscenes of it is less than 32. The percentage for the last two Acts isabout 65. II. The Enjambement or Overflow test is also known as the End-stoppedand Run-on line test. A line may be called 'end-stopped' when the sense,as well as the metre, would naturally make one pause at its close;'run-on' when the mere sense would lead one to pass to the next linewithout any pause. [287] This distinction is in a great majority of casesquite easy to draw: in others it is difficult. The reader cannot judgeby rules of grammar, or by marks of punctuation (for there is a distinctpause at the end of many a line where most editors print no stop): hemust trust his ear. And readers will differ, one making a distinct pausewhere another does not. This, however, does not matter greatly, so longas the reader is consistent; for the important point is not the precisenumber of run-on lines in a play, but the difference in this matterbetween one play and another. Thus one may disagree with König in hisestimate of many instances, but one can see that he is consistent. In Shakespeare's early plays, 'overflows' are rare. In the _Comedy ofErrors_, for example, their percentage is 12. 9 according to König[288](who excludes rhymed lines and some others). In the generally admittedlast plays they are comparatively frequent. Thus, according to König,the percentage in the _Winter's Tale_ is 37. 5, in the _Tempest_ 41. 5, in_Antony_ 43. 3, in _Coriolanus_ 45. 9, in _Cymbeline_ 46, in the parts of_Henry VIII. _ assigned by Spedding to Shakespeare 53. 18. König's resultsfor the four tragedies are as follows: _Othello_, 19. 5; _Hamlet_, 23. 1;_King Lear_, 29. 3; _Macbeth_, 36. 6; (_Timon_, the whole play, 32. 5). _Macbeth_ here again, therefore, stands decidedly last: indeed it standsnear the first of the latest plays. And no one who has ever attended to the versification of _Macbeth_ willbe surprised at these figures. It is almost obvious, I should say, thatShakespeare is passing from one system to another. Some passages showlittle change, but in others the change is almost complete. If thereader will compare two somewhat similar soliloquies, 'To be or not tobe' and 'If it were done when 'tis done,' he will recognise this atonce. Or let him search the previous plays, even _King Lear_, for twelveconsecutive lines like these:     If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well     It were done quickly: if the assassination     Could trammel up the consequence, and catch     With his surcease success; that but this blow     Might be the be-all and the end-all here,     But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,     We 'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases     We still have judgement here; that we but teach     Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return     To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice     Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice     To our own lips. Or let him try to parallel the following (III. vi. 37 f. ):                                     and this report             Hath so exasperate the king that he             Prepares for some attempt of war.     _Len. _                      Sent he to Macduff?     _Lord. _ He did: and with an absolute 'Sir, not I,'             The cloudy messenger turns me his back             And hums, as who should say 'You'll rue the time             That clogs me with this answer. '     _Len. _                     And that well might             Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance             His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel             Fly to the court of England, and unfold             His message ere he come, that a swift blessing             May soon return to this our suffering country             Under a hand accurs'd! or this (IV. iii. 118 f. ):                        Macduff, this noble passion,     Child of integrity, hath from my soul     Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts     To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth     By many of these trains hath sought to win me     Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me     From over-credulous haste: but God above     Deal between thee and me! for even now     I put myself to thy direction, and     Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure     The taints and blames I laid upon myself,     For strangers to my nature. I pass to another point. In the last illustration the reader willobserve not only that 'overflows' abound, but that they follow oneanother in an unbroken series of nine lines. So long a series could not,probably, be found outside _Macbeth_ and the last plays. A series of twoor three is not uncommon; but a series of more than three is rare in theearly plays, and far from common in the plays of the second period(König). I thought it might be useful for our present purpose, to count theseries of four and upwards in the four tragedies, in the parts of_Timon_ attributed by Mr. Fleay to Shakespeare, and in _Coriolanus_, aplay of the last period. I have not excluded rhymed lines in the twoplaces where they occur, and perhaps I may say that my idea of an'overflow' is more exacting than König's. The reader will understand thefollowing table at once if I say that, according to it, _Othello_contains three passages where a series of four successive overflowinglines occurs, and two passages where a series of five such lines occurs:-----------------------------------------------------------------                 4    5    6    7    8    9   10   No. of Lines                                                    (Fleay). -----------------------------------------------------------------Othello,         3    2   --   --   --   --   --     2,758Hamlet,          7   --   --   --   --   --   --     2,571Lear,            6    2   --   --   --   --   --     2,312Timon,           7    2    1    1   --   --   --     1,031 (? )Macbeth,         7    5    1    1   --    1   --     1,706Coriolanus,     16   14    7    1    2   --    1     2,563-----------------------------------------------------------------(The figures for _Macbeth_ and _Timon_ in the last column must be bornein mind. I observed nothing in the non-Shakespeare part of _Timon_ thatwould come into the table, but I did not make a careful search. I feltsome doubt as to two of the four series in _Othello_ and again in_Hamlet_, and also whether the ten-series in _Coriolanus_ should not beput in column 7). III. _The light and weak ending test. _We have just seen that in some cases a doubt is felt whether there is an'overflow' or not. The fact is that the 'overflow' has many degrees ofintensity. If we take, for example, the passage last quoted, and if withKönig we consider the line     The taints and blames I laid upon myselfto be run-on (as I do not), we shall at least consider the overflow tobe much less distinct than those in the lines                               but God above     Deal between thee and me! for even now     I put myself to thy direction, and     Unspeak my own detraction, here abjureAnd of these four lines the third runs on into its successor at much thegreatest speed. 'Above,' 'now,' 'abjure,' are not light or weak endings: 'and' is a weakending. Prof. Ingram gave the name weak ending to certain words on whichit is scarcely possible to dwell at all, and which, therefore,precipitate the line which they close into the following. Light endingsare certain words which have the same effect in a slighter degree. Forexample, _and_, _from_, _in_, _of_, are weak endings; _am_, _are_, _I_,_he_, are light endings. The test founded on this distinction is, within its limits, the mostsatisfactory of all, partly because the work of its author can beabsolutely trusted. The result of its application is briefly as follows. Until quite a late date light and weak endings occur in Shakespeare'sworks in such small numbers as hardly to be worth consideration. [289]But in the well-defined group of last plays the numbers both of lightand of weak endings increase greatly, and, on the whole, the increaseapparently is progressive (I say apparently, because the order in whichthe last plays are generally placed depends to some extent on the testitself). I give Prof. Ingram's table of these plays, premising that in_Pericles_, _Two Noble Kinsmen_, and _Henry VIII. _ he uses only thoseparts of the plays which are attributed by certain authorities toShakespeare (_New Shakspere Soc. Trans. _, 1874). ------------------------------------------------------------------------               | Light  |      | Percentage  | Percentage  | Percentage               |endings. | Weak. | of light in | of weak in  |     of               |        |      | verse lines. | verse lines. |    both. ------------------------------------------------------------------------Antony &       |        |      |             |             |  Cleopatra,   |   71   |  28  |   2. 53      |   1.        |    3. 53Coriolanus,    |   60   |  44  |   2. 34      |   1. 71      |    4. 05Pericles,      |   20   |  10  |   2. 78      |   1. 39      |    4. 17Tempest,       |   42   |  25  |   2. 88      |   1. 71      |    4. 59Cymbeline,     |   78   |  52  |   2. 90      |   1. 93      |    4. 83Winter's Tale, |   57   |  43  |   3. 12      |   2. 36      |    5. 48Two Noble      |        |      |             |             |  Kinsmen,     |   50   |  34  |   3.

63      |   2. 47      |    6. 10Henry VIII. ,   |   45   |  37  |   3. 93      |   3. 23      |    7. 16------------------------------------------------------------------------Now, let us turn to our four tragedies (with _Timon_). Here again wehave one doubtful play, and I give the figures for the whole of _Timon_,and again for the parts of _Timon_ assigned to Shakespeare by Mr. Fleay,both as they appear in his amended text and as they appear in the Globe(perhaps the better text). -----------------------------------------                      |  Light. |  Weak. -----------------------------------------Hamlet,               |    8    |    0Othello,              |    2    |    0Lear,                 |    5    |    1Timon (whole),        |   16    |    5      (Sh. in Fleay), |   14    |    7      (Sh. in Globe), |   13    |    2Macbeth,              |   21    |    2-----------------------------------------Now here the figures for the first three plays tell us practicallynothing. The tendency to a freer use of these endings is not visible. Asto _Timon_, the number of weak endings, I think, tells us little, forprobably only two or three are Shakespeare's; but the rise in the numberof light endings is so marked as to be significant. And most significantis this rise in the case of _Macbeth_, which, like Shakespeare's part of_Timon_, is much shorter than the preceding plays. It strongly confirmsthe impression that in _Macbeth_ we have the transition to Shakespeare'slast style, and that the play is the latest of the five tragedies. [290]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 282: The fact that _King Lear_ was performed at Court onDecember 26, 1606, is of course very far from showing that it had neverbeen performed before. ][Footnote 283: I have not tried to discover the source of the differencebetween these two reckonings. ][Footnote 284: _Der Vers in Shakspere's Dramen_, 1888. ][Footnote 285: In the parts of _Timon_ (Globe text) assigned by Mr. Fleay to Shakespeare, I find the percentage to be about 74. 5. Königgives 62. 8 as the percentage in the whole of the play. ][Footnote 286: I have noted also what must be a mistake in the case ofPericles. König gives 17. 1 as the percentage of the speeches with brokenends. I was astounded to see the figure, considering the style in theundoubtedly Shakespearean parts; and I find that, on my method, in ActsIII. , IV. , V. the percentage is about 71, in the first two Acts (whichshow very slight, if any, traces of Shakespeare's hand) about 19. Icannot imagine the origin of the mistake here. ][Footnote 287: I put the matter thus, instead of saying that, with arun-on line, one does pass to the next line without any pause, because,in common with many others, I should not in any case whatever _wholly_ignore the fact that one line ends and another begins. ][Footnote 288: These overflows are what König calls 'schroffeEnjambements,' which he considers to correspond with Furnivall's 'run-onlines. '][Footnote 289: The number of light endings, however, in _Julius Caesar_(10) and _All's Well_ (12) is worth notice. ][Footnote 290: The Editors of the Cambridge Shakespeare might appeal insupport of their view, that parts of Act V. are not Shakespeare's, tothe fact that the last of the light endings occurs at IV. iii. 165. ]NOTE CC. WHEN WAS THE MURDER OF DUNCAN FIRST PLOTTED? A good many readers probably think that, when Macbeth first met theWitches, he was perfectly innocent; but a much larger number would saythat he had already harboured a vaguely guilty ambition, though he hadnot faced the idea of murder. And I think there can be no doubt thatthis is the obvious and natural interpretation of the scene. Only it isalmost necessary to go rather further, and to suppose that his guiltyambition, whatever its precise form, was known to his wife and shared byher. Otherwise, surely, she would not, on reading his letter, soinstantaneously assume that the King must be murdered in their castle;nor would Macbeth, as soon as he meets her, be aware (as he evidentlyis) that this thought is in her mind. But there is a famous passage in _Macbeth_ which, closely considered,seems to require us to go further still, and to suppose that, at sometime before the action of the play begins, the husband and wife hadexplicitly discussed the idea of murdering Duncan at some favourableopportunity, and had agreed to execute this idea. Attention seems tohave been first drawn to this passage by Koester in vol. I. of the_Jahrbücher d. deutschen Shakespeare-gesellschaft_, and on it is basedthe interpretation of the play in Werder's very able _Vorlesungen überMacbeth_. The passage occurs in I. vii. , where Lady Macbeth is urging her husbandto the deed:     _Macb. _                                  Prithee, peace:               I dare do all that may become a man;               Who dares do more is none.     _Lady M. _                         What beast was't, then,               That made you break this enterprise to me?               When you durst do it, then you were a man;               And, to be more than what you were, you would               Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place               Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:               They have made themselves, and that their fitness now               Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know               How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:               I would, while it was smiling in my face,               Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,               And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you               Have done to this. Here Lady Macbeth asserts (1) that Macbeth proposed the murder to her:(2) that he did so at a time when there was no opportunity to attackDuncan, no 'adherence' of 'time' and 'place': (3) that he declared hewou'd _make_ an opportunity, and swore to carry out the murder. Now it is possible that Macbeth's 'swearing' might have occurred in aninterview off the stage between scenes v. and vi. , or scenes vi. andvii. ; and, if in that interview Lady Macbeth had with difficulty workedher husband up to a resolution, her irritation at his relapse, in sc. vii. , would be very natural. But, as for Macbeth's first proposal ofmurder, it certainly does not occur in our play, nor could it possiblyoccur in any interview off the stage; for when Macbeth and his wifefirst meet, 'time' and 'place' _do_ adhere; 'they have made themselves. 'The conclusion would seem to be, either that the proposal of the murder,and probably the oath, occurred in a scene at the very beginning of theplay, which scene has been lost or cut out; or else that Macbethproposed, and swore to execute, the murder at some time prior to theaction of the play. [291] The first of these hypotheses is mostimprobable, and we seem driven to adopt the second, unless we consent toburden Shakespeare with a careless mistake in a very critical passage. And, apart from unwillingness to do this, we can find a good deal to sayin favour of the idea of a plan formed at a past time. It would explainMacbeth's start of fear at the prophecy of the kingdom. It would explainwhy Lady Macbeth, on receiving his letter, immediately resolves onaction; and why, on their meeting, each knows that murder is in the mindof the other. And it is in harmony with her remarks on his probableshrinking from the act, to which, _ex hypothesi_, she had alreadythought it necessary to make him pledge himself by an oath. Yet I find it very difficult to believe in this interpretation. It isnot merely that the interest of Macbeth's struggle with himself and withhis wife would be seriously diminished if we felt he had been throughall this before. I think this would be so; but there are two moreimportant objections. In the first place the violent agitation describedin the words,     If good, why do I yield to that suggestion     Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair     And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,would surely not be natural, even in Macbeth, if the idea of murder werealready quite familiar to him through conversation with his wife, and ifhe had already done more than 'yield' to it. It is not as if the Witcheshad told him that Duncan was coming to his house. In that case theperception that the moment had come to execute a merely general designmight well appal him. But all that he hears is that he will one day beKing--a statement which, supposing this general design, would not pointto any immediate action. [292] And, in the second place, it is hard tobelieve that, if Shakespeare really had imagined the murder planned andsworn to before the action of the play, he would have written the firstsix scenes in such a manner that practically all readers imagine quiteanother state of affairs, and _continue to imagine it_ even after theyhave read in scene vii. the passage which is troubling us. Is it likely,to put it otherwise, that his idea was one which nobody seems to havedivined till late in the nineteenth century? And for what possiblereason could he refrain from making this idea clear to his audience, ashe might so easily have done in the third scene? [293] It seems very muchmore likely that he himself imagined the matter as nearly all hisreaders do. But, in that case, what are we to say of this passage? I will answerfirst by explaining the way in which I understood it before I was awarethat it had caused so much difficulty. I supposed that an interview hadtaken place after scene v. , a scene which shows Macbeth shrinking, andin which his last words were 'we will speak further. ' In this interview,I supposed, his wife had so wrought upon him that he had at last yieldedand pledged himself by oath to do the murder. As for her statement thathe had 'broken the enterprise' to her, I took it to refer to his letterto her,--a letter written when time and place did not adhere, for he didnot yet know that Duncan was coming to visit him. In the letter he doesnot, of course, openly 'break the enterprise' to her, and it is notlikely that he would do such a thing in a letter; but if they had hadambitious conversations, in which each felt that some half-formed guiltyidea was floating in the mind of the other, she might naturally take thewords of the letter as indicating much more than they said; and then inher passionate contempt at his hesitation, and her passionate eagernessto overcome it, she might easily accuse him, doubtless withexaggeration, and probably with conscious exaggeration, of havingactually proposed the murder. And Macbeth, knowing that when he wrotethe letter he really had been thinking of murder, and indifferent toanything except the question whether murder should be done, would easilylet her statement pass unchallenged. This interpretation still seems to me not unnatural. The alternative(unless we adopt the idea of an agreement prior to the action of theplay) is to suppose that Lady Macbeth refers throughout the passage tosome interview subsequent to her husband's return, and that, in makingher do so, Shakespeare simply forgot her speeches on welcoming Macbethhome, and also forgot that at any such interview 'time' and 'place' did'adhere. ' It is easy to understand such forgetfulness in a spectator andeven in a reader; but it is less easy to imagine it in a poet whoseconception of the two characters throughout these scenes was evidentlyso burningly vivid. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 291: The 'swearing' _might_ of course, on this view, occur offthe stage within the play; but there is no occasion to suppose this ifwe are obliged to put the proposal outside the play. ][Footnote 292: To this it might be answered that the effect of theprediction was to make him feel, 'Then I shall succeed if I carry outthe plan of murder,' and so make him yield to the idea over again. Towhich I can only reply, anticipating the next argument, 'How is it thatShakespeare wrote the speech in such a way that practically everybodysupposes the idea of murder to be occurring to Macbeth for the firsttime? '][Footnote 293: It might be answered here again that the actor,instructed by Shakespeare, could act the start of fear so as to conveyquite clearly the idea of definite guilt. And this is true; but we oughtto do our best to interpret the text before we have recourse to thiskind of suggestion. ]NOTE DD. DID LADY MACBETH REALLY FAINT? In the scene of confusion where the murder of Duncan is discovered,Macbeth and Lennox return from the royal chamber; Lennox describes thegrooms who, as it seemed, had done the deed:             Their hands and faces were all badged with blood;             So were their daggers, which unwiped we found             Upon their pillows:             They stared, and were distracted; no man's life             Was to be trusted with them.     _Macb. _ O, yet I do repent me of my fury             That I did kill them.     _Macd. _                       Wherefore did you so?     _Macb. _ Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,             Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man:             The expedition of my violent love             Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan,             His silver skin laced with his golden blood;             And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature             For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers,             Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers             Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain,             That had a heart to love, and in that heart             Courage to make's love known? At this point Lady Macbeth exclaims, 'Help me hence, ho! ' Her husbandtakes no notice, but Macduff calls out 'Look to the lady. ' This, after afew words 'aside' between Malcolm and Donalbain, is repeated by Banquo,and, very shortly after, all except Duncan's sons _exeunt_. (Thestage-direction 'Lady Macbeth is carried out,' after Banquo'sexclamation 'Look to the lady,' is not in the Ff. and was introduced byRowe. If the Ff. are right, she can hardly have fainted _away_. But thepoint has no importance here. )Does Lady Macbeth really turn faint, or does she pretend? The latterseems to have been the general view, and Whately pointed out thatMacbeth's indifference betrays his consciousness that the faint was notreal. But to this it may be answered that, if he believed it to be real,he would equally show indifference, in order to display his horror atthe murder. And Miss Helen Faucit and others have held that there was nopretence. In favour of the pretence it may be said (1) that Lady Macbeth, whoherself took back the daggers, saw the old King in his blood, andsmeared the grooms, was not the woman to faint at a mere description;(2) that she saw her husband over-acting his part, and saw the faces ofthe lords, and wished to end the scene,--which she succeeded in doing. But to the last argument it may be replied that she would not willinglyhave run the risk of leaving her husband to act his part alone. And forother reasons (indicated above, p. 373 f. ) I decidedly believe that sheis meant really to faint. She was no Goneril. She knew that she couldnot kill the King herself; and she never expected to have to carry backthe daggers, see the bloody corpse, and smear the faces and hands of thegrooms. But Macbeth's agony greatly alarmed her, and she was driven tothe scene of horror to complete his task; and what an impression it madeon her we know from that sentence uttered in her sleep, 'Yet who wouldhave thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? ' She had now,further, gone through the ordeal of the discovery. Is it not quitenatural that the reaction should come, and that it should come just whenMacbeth's description recalls the scene which had cost her the greatesteffort? Is it not likely, besides, that the expression on the faces ofthe lords would force her to realise, what before the murder she hadrefused to consider, the horror and the suspicion it must excite? It isnoticeable, also, that she is far from carrying out her intention ofbearing a part in making their 'griefs and clamours roar upon his death'(I. vii. 78). She has left it all to her husband, and, after utteringbut two sentences, the second of which is answered very curtly byBanquo, for some time (an interval of 33 lines) she has said nothing. Ibelieve Shakespeare means this interval to be occupied in desperateefforts on her part to prevent herself from giving way, as she sees forthe first time something of the truth to which she was formerly soblind, and which will destroy her in the end. It should be observed that at the close of the Banquet scene, where shehas gone through much less, she is evidently exhausted. Shakespeare, of course, knew whether he meant the faint to be real: butI am not aware if an actor of the part could show the audience whetherit was real or pretended. If he could, he would doubtless receiveinstructions from the author. NOTE EE. DURATION OF THE ACTION IN _MACBETH_. MACBETH'S AGE. 'HE HAS NOCHILDREN. '1. The duration of the action cannot well be more than a few months. Onthe day following the murder of Duncan his sons fly and Macbeth goes toScone to be invested (II. iv. ). Between this scene and Act III. aninterval must be supposed, sufficient for news to arrive of Malcolmbeing in England and Donalbain in Ireland, and for Banquo to have shownhimself a good counsellor. But the interval is evidently not long:_e. g. _ Banquo's first words are 'Thou hast it now' (III. i. 1). Banquois murdered on the day when he speaks these words. Macbeth's visit tothe Witches takes place the next day (III. iv. 132). At the end of thisvisit (IV. i. ) he hears of Macduff's flight to England, and determinesto have Macduff's wife and children slaughtered without delay; and thisis the subject of the next scene (IV. ii. ). No great interval, then, canbe supposed between this scene and the next, where Macduff, arrived atthe English court, hears what has happened at his castle. At the end ofthat scene (IV. iii. 237) Malcolm says that 'Macbeth is ripe forshaking, and the powers above put on their instruments': and the eventsof Act V. evidently follow with little delay, and occupy but a shorttime. Holinshed's Macbeth appears to have reigned seventeen years:Shakespeare's may perhaps be allowed as many weeks. But, naturally, Shakespeare creates some difficulties through wishing toproduce different impressions in different parts of the play. The maineffect is that of fiery speed, and it would be impossible to imagine thetorment of Macbeth's mind lasting through a number of years, even ifShakespeare had been willing to allow him years of outward success. Hence the brevity of the action. On the other hand time is wanted forthe degeneration of his character hinted at in IV. iii. 57 f. , for thedevelopment of his tyranny, for his attempts to entrap Malcolm (_ib. _117 f. ), and perhaps for the deepening of his feeling that his life hadpassed into the sere and yellow leaf. Shakespeare, as we have seen,scarcely provides time for all this, but at certain points he producesan impression that a longer time has elapsed than he has provided for,and he puts most of the indications of this longer time into a scene(IV. iii. ) which by its quietness contrasts strongly with almost all therest of the play. 2. There is no unmistakable indication of the ages of the two principalcharacters; but the question, though of no great importance, has aninterest. I believe most readers imagine Macbeth as a man between fortyand fifty, and his wife as younger but not young. In many cases thisimpression is doubtless due to the custom of the theatre (which, if itcan be shown to go back far, should have much weight), but it is sharedby readers who have never seen the play performed, and is thenpresumably due to a number of slight influences probably incapable ofcomplete analysis. Such readers would say, 'The hero and heroine do notspeak like young people, nor like old ones'; but, though I think this isso, it can hardly be demonstrated. Perhaps however the following smallindications, mostly of a different kind, tend to the same result. (1) There is no positive sign of youth. (2) A young man would not belikely to lead the army. (3) Macbeth is 'cousin' to an old man. [294] (4)Macbeth calls Malcolm 'young,' and speaks of him scornfully as 'the boyMalcolm. ' He is probably therefore considerably his senior. But Malcolmis evidently not really a boy (see I. ii. 3 f. as well as the laterActs). (5) One gets the impression (possibly without reason) thatMacbeth and Banquo are of about the same age; and Banquo's son, the boyFleance, is evidently not a mere child. (On the other hand the childrenof Macduff, who is clearly a good deal older than Malcolm, are allyoung; and I do not think there is any sign that Macbeth is older thanMacduff. ) (6) When Lady Macbeth, in the banquet scene, says,     Sit, worthy friends: my lord is often thus,     And hath been from his youth,we naturally imagine him some way removed from his youth. (7) LadyMacbeth saw a resemblance to her father in the aged king. (8) Macbethsays,     I have lived long enough: my way[295] of life     Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf:     And that which should accompany old age,     As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,     I may not look to have. It is, surely, of the old age of the soul that he speaks in the secondline, but still the lines would hardly be spoken under any circumstancesby a man less than middle-aged. On the other hand I suppose no one ever imagined Macbeth, or onconsideration could imagine him, as _more_ than middle-aged when theaction begins. And in addition the reader may observe, if he finds itnecessary, that Macbeth looks forward to having children (I. vii. 72),and that his terms of endearment ('dearest love,' 'dearest chuck') andhis language in public ('sweet remembrancer') do not suggest that hiswife and he are old; they even suggest that she at least is scarcelymiddle-aged. But this discussion tends to grow ludicrous. For Shakespeare's audience these mysteries were revealed by a glance atthe actors, like the fact that Duncan was an old man, which the text, Ithink, does not disclose till V. i. 44. 3. Whether Macbeth had children or (as seems usually to be supposed) hadnone, is quite immaterial. But it is material that, if he had none, helooked forward to having one; for otherwise there would be no point inthe following words in his soliloquy about Banquo (III. i. 58 f. ):                        Then prophet-like     They hail'd him father to a line of kings:     Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,     And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,     Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,     No son of mine succeeding. If't be so,     For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind. And he is determined that it shall not 'be so':     Rather than so, come, fate, into the list     And champion me to the utterance! Obviously he contemplates a son of his succeeding, if only he can getrid of Banquo and Fleance. What he fears is that Banquo will kill him;in which case, supposing he has a son, that son will not be allowed tosucceed him, and, supposing he has none, he will be unable to beget one. I hope this is clear; and nothing else matters. Lady Macbeth's child (I. vii. 54) may be alive or may be dead. It may even be, or have been, herchild by a former husband; though, if Shakespeare had followed historyin making Macbeth marry a widow (as some writers gravely assume) hewould probably have told us so. It may be that Macbeth had many childrenor that he had none. We cannot say, and it does not concern the play. But the interpretation of a statement on which some critics build, 'Hehas no children,' has an interest of another kind, and I proceed toconsider it. These words occur at IV. iii. 216. Malcolm and Macduff are talking atthe English Court, and Ross, arriving from Scotland, brings news toMacduff of Macbeth's revenge on him. It is necessary to quote a goodmany lines:     _Ross. _ Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes             Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,             Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer,             To add the death of you.     _Mal. _                            Merciful heaven!             What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;             Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak             Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.     _Macd. _ My children too?     _Ross. _                   Wife, children, servants, all             That could be found.     _Macd. _                       And I must be from thence!             My wife kill'd too?     _Ross. _                     I have said.     _Mal. _                                   Be comforted:             Let's makes us medicines of our great revenge,             To cure this deadly grief.     _Macd. _ He has no children. All my pretty ones?             Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?             What, all my pretty chickens and their dam             At one fell swoop?     _Mal_.  Dispute it like a man.     _Macd. _                         I shall do so;             But I must also feel it as a man:             I cannot but remember such things were,             That were most precious to me. --Three interpretations have been offered of the words 'He has nochildren. '(_a_) They refer to Malcolm, who, if he had children of his own, wouldnot at such a moment suggest revenge, or talk of curing such a grief. Cf. _King John_, III. iv. 91, where Pandulph says to Constance,     You hold too heinous a respect of grief,and Constance answers,     He talks to me that never had a son. (_b_) They refer to Macbeth, who has no children, and on whom thereforeMacduff cannot take an adequate revenge. (_c_) They refer to Macbeth, who, if he himself had children, couldnever have ordered the slaughter of children. Cf. _3 Henry VI. _ V. v. 63, where Margaret says to the murderers of Prince Edward,     You have no children, butchers! if you had,     The thought of them would have stirred up remorse. I cannot think interpretation (_b_) the most natural. The whole idea ofthe passage is that Macduff must feel _grief_ first and before he canfeel anything else, _e. g. _ the desire for vengeance. As he says directlyafter, he cannot at once 'dispute' it like a man, but must 'feel' it asa man; and it is not till ten lines later that he is able to pass to thethought of revenge. Macduff is not the man to conceive at any time theidea of killing children in retaliation; and that he contemplates it_here_, even as a suggestion, I find it hard to believe. For the same main reason interpretation (_a_) seems to me far moreprobable than (_c_). What could be more consonant with the naturalcourse of the thought, as developed in the lines which follow, than thatMacduff, being told to think of revenge, not grief, should answer, 'Noone who was himself a father would ask that of me in the very firstmoment of loss'? But the thought supposed by interpretation (_c_) hasnot this natural connection. It has been objected to interpretation (_a_) that, according to it,Macduff would naturally say 'You have no children,' not 'He has nochildren. ' But what Macduff does is precisely what Constance does in theline quoted from _King John_. And it should be noted that, all throughthe passage down to this point, and indeed in the fifteen lines whichprecede our quotation, Macduff listens only to Ross. His questions 'Mychildren too? ' 'My wife killed too? ' show that he cannot fully realisewhat he is told. When Malcolm interrupts, therefore, he puts aside hissuggestion with four words spoken to himself, or (less probably) to Ross(his relative, who knew his wife and children), and continues hisagonised questions and exclamations. Surely it is not likely that atthat moment the idea of (_c_), an idea which there is nothing tosuggest, would occur to him. In favour of (_c_) as against (_a_) I see no argument except that thewords of Macduff almost repeat those of Margaret; and this fact does notseem to me to have much weight. It shows only that Shakespeare mighteasily use the words in the sense of (_c_) if that sense were suitableto the occasion. It is not unlikely, again, I think, that the words cameto him here because he had used them many years before;[296] but it doesnot follow that he knew he was repeating them; or that, if he did, heremembered the sense they had previously borne; or that, if he didremember it, he might not use them now in another sense. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 294: So in Holinshed, as well as in the play, where however'cousin' need not have its specific meaning. ][Footnote 295: 'May,' Johnson conjectured, without necessity. ][Footnote 296: As this point occurs here, I may observe thatShakespeare's later tragedies contain many such reminiscences of thetragic plays of his young days. For instance, cf. _Titus Andronicus_, I. i. 150 f. :     In peace and honour rest you here, my sons,            *       *       *       *       *     Secure from worldly chances and mishaps!     Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,     Here grow no damned drugs: here are no storms,     No noise, but silence and eternal sleep,with _Macbeth_, III. ii. 22 f. :                                Duncan is in his grave;     After life's fitful fever he sleeps well;     Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,     Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,     Can touch him further. In writing IV. i. Shakespeare can hardly have failed to remember theconjuring of the Spirit, and the ambiguous oracles, in _2 Henry VI. _ I. iv. The 'Hyrcan tiger' of _Macbeth_ III. iv. 101, which is also alludedto in _Hamlet_, appears first in _3 Henry VI. _ I. iv. 155. Cf. _RichardIII. _ II. i. 92, 'Nearer in bloody thoughts, but not in blood,' with_Macbeth_ II. iii. 146, 'the near in blood, the nearer bloody'; _RichardIII. _ IV. ii. 64, 'But I am in So far in blood that sin will pluck onsin,' with _Macbeth_ III. iv. 136, 'I am in blood stepp'd in so far,'etc. These are but a few instances. (It makes no difference whetherShakespeare was author or reviser of _Titus_ and _Henry VI. _). ]NOTE FF. THE GHOST OF BANQUO. I do not think the suggestions that the Ghost on its first appearance isBanquo's, and on its second Duncan's, or _vice versâ_, are worthdiscussion. But the question whether Shakespeare meant the Ghost to bereal or a mere hallucination, has some interest, and I have not seen itfully examined. The following reasons may be given for the hallucination view:(1) We remember that Macbeth has already seen one hallucination, that ofthe dagger; and if we failed to remember it Lady Macbeth would remind usof it here:     This is the very painting of your fear;     This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,     Led you to Duncan. (2) The Ghost seems to be created by Macbeth's imagination; for hiswords,                     now they rise again     With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,describe it, and they echo what the murderer had said to him a littlebefore,                   Safe in a ditch he bides     With twenty trenched gashes on his head. (3) It vanishes the second time on his making a violent effort andasserting its unreality:                     Hence, horrible shadow!     Unreal mockery, hence! This is not quite so the first time, but then too its disappearancefollows on his defying it:     Why what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too. So, apparently, the dagger vanishes when he exclaims, 'There's no suchthing! '(4) At the end of the scene Macbeth himself seems to regard it as anillusion:                        My strange and self-abuse     Is the initiate fear that wants hard use. (5) It does not speak, like the Ghost in _Hamlet_ even on its lastappearance, and like the Ghost in _Julius Caesar_. (6) It is visible only to Macbeth. I should attach no weight to (6) taken alone (see p. 140). Of (3) it maybe remarked that Brutus himself seems to attribute the vanishing ofCaesar's Ghost to his taking courage: 'now I have taken heart thouvanishest:' yet he certainly holds it to be real. It may also beremarked on (5) that Caesar's Ghost says nothing that Brutus' ownforebodings might not have conjured up. And further it may be asked why,if the Ghost of Banquo was meant for an illusion, it was represented onthe stage, as the stage-directions and Forman's account show it to havebeen. On the whole, and with some doubt, I think that Shakespeare (1) meantthe judicious to take the Ghost for an hallucination, but (2) knew thatthe bulk of the audience would take it for a reality. And I am more sureof (2) than of (1). INDEXThe titles of plays are in italics. So are the numbers of the pagescontaining the main discussion of a character. The titles of the Notesare not repeated in the Index. Aaron, 200, 211. Abnormal mental conditions, 13, 398. Accident, in tragedy, 7, 14-16, 26, 28;  in _Hamlet_, 143, 173;  in _Othello_, 181-2;  in _King Lear_, 253, 325. Act, difficulty in Fourth, 57-8;  the five Acts, 49. Action, tragic, 11, 12, 31;  and character, 12, 19;  a conflict, 16-19. Adversity and prosperity in _King Lear_, 326-7. Albany, _297-8_. Antonio, 110, 404. _Antony and Cleopatra_, 3, 7, 45, 80;  conflict, 17-8;  crisis, 53, 55, 66;  humour in catastrophe, 62, 395-6;  battle-scenes, 62-3;  extended catastrophe, 64;  faulty construction, 71, 260;  passion in, 82;  evil in, 83-4;  versification, 87, Note BB. Antony, 22, 29, 63, 83-4. _Arden of Feversham_, 9. Ariel, 264. Aristotle, 16, 22. Art, Shakespeare's, conscious, 68-9;  defects in, 71-78. Arthur, 294. _As You Like It_, 71, 267, 390. Atmosphere in tragedy, 333. Banquo, 343, _379-86_. Barbara, the maid, 175. Battle-scene, 62, 451, 469;  in _King Lear_, 255, Note X. Beast and man, in _King Lear_, 266-8;  in _Timon_, 453. Bernhardt, Mme. , 379. Biblical ideas, in _King Lear_, 328. Bombast, 73, 75-6, 389, Note F. Brandes, G. , 379, 393. Brutus, 7, 14, 22, 27, 32, 81-2, 101, 364. Caliban, 264. Cassio, 211-3, _238-9_, 433-4. Catastrophe, humour before, 61-2;  battle-scenes in, 62;  false hope before, 63;  extended, 62;  in _Antony_ and _Coriolanus_, 83-4.  See _Hamlet_, etc. Character, and plot, 12;  is destiny, 13;  tragic, 19-23. Chaucer, 8, 346. Children, in the plays, 293-5. Cleopatra, 7, 20, 84, 178, 208. Coleridge, 104-5, 107, 109, 127, 165, 200, 201, 209, 223, 226, 228, 249,  343, 353, 362, 389, 391, 392, 397, 412, 413. Comedy, 15, 41. Conflict, tragic, 16-9;  originates in evil, 34;  oscillating movement in, 50;  crisis in, 51-5;  descending movement of, 55-62. Conscience. See Hamlet. Cordelia, 29, 32, 203-6, 250, 290, 314, _315-26_, Note W. _Coriolanus_, 3, 9, 43, 394-5;  crisis, 53;  hero off stage, 57;  counter-stroke, 58;  humour, 61;  passion, 82;  catastrophe, 83-4;  versification, Note BB. Coriolanus, 20, 29, 83-4, 196. Cornwall, 298-9. Crisis. See Conflict. Curtain, no front, in Shakespeare's theatre, 185, 458. _Cymbeline_, 7, 21, 72, 80, Note BB;  Queen in, 300. Desdemona, 32, 165, 179, 193, 197, _201-6_, 323, 433, 437-9. Disillusionment, in tragedies, 175. Dog, the, Shakespeare and, 268. Don John, 110, 210. Double action in _King Lear_, 255-6, 262. Dowden, E. , 82, 105, 330, 408. Dragging, 57-8, 64. Drunkenness, invective against, 238. Edgar, _305-7_, 453, 465. Edmund, 210, 245, 253, _300-3_, Notes P, Q.  See Iago. Emilia, 214-6, 237, _239-42_, Note P. Emotional tension, variations of, 48-9. Evil, origin of conflict, 34;  negative, 35;  in earlier and later tragedies, 82-3;  poetic portrayal of, 207-8;  aspects of, specially impressive to Shakespeare, 232-3;  in _King Lear_, 298, 303-4, 327;  in _Tempest_, 328-30;  in _Macbeth_, 331, 386. Exposition, 41-7. Fate, Fatality, 10, 26-30, 45, 59, 177, 181, 287, 340-6. Fleay, F. G. , 419, 424, 445, 467, 479. Fool in _King Lear_, the, 258, _311-5_, 322, 447, Note V. Fools, Shakespeare's, 310. Forman, Dr. , 468, 493. Fortinbras, 90. Fortune, 9, 10. Freytag, G. , 40, 63. Furness, H. H. , 199, 200. Garnet and equivocation, 397, 470-1. Ghost, Banquo's, 332, 335, 338, 361, Note FF. Ghost, Caesar's, Note FF. Ghost in _Hamlet_, 97, 100, 118, 120, 125, 126, 134, 136, 138-40,  _173-4_. Ghosts, not hallucinations because appearing only to one in a company,  140. Gloster, 272, _293-6_, 447. Gnomic speeches, 74, 453. Goethe, 101, 127, 165, 208. Goneril, 245, _299-300_, 331, 370, 447-8. Greek tragedy, 7, 16, 30, 33, 182, 276-9, 282. Greene, 409. Hales, J. W. , 397. _Hamlet_, exposition, 43-7;  conflict, 17, 47, 50-1;  crisis and counter-stroke, 52, 58-60, 136-7;  dragging, 57;  humour, and false hope, before catastrophe, 61, 63;  obscurities, 73;  undramatic passages, 72, 74;  place among tragedies, 80-8;  position of hero, 89-92;  not simply tragedy of thought, 82, 113, 127;  in the Romantic Revival, 92, 127-8;  lapse of time in, 129, 141;  accident, 15, 143, 173;  religious ideas, 144-5, 147-8, 172-4;  player's speech, 389-90, Note F;  grave-digger, 395-6;  last scene, 256.  See Notes A to H, and BB. Hamlet, only tragic character in play, 90;  contrasted with Laertes and Fortinbras, 90, 106;  failure of early criticism of, 91;  supposed unintelligible, 93-4;  external view, 94-7;  'conscience' view, 97-101;  sentimental view, 101-4;  Schlegel-Coleridge view, 104-8, 116, 123, 126-7;  temperament, 109-10;  moral idealism, 110-3;  reflective genius, 113-5;    connection of this with inaction, 115-7;  origin of melancholy, 117-20;    its nature and effects, 120-7, 103, 158;    its diminution, 143-4;  his 'insanity,' 121-2, 421;  in Act II. 129-31, 155-6;  in III. i. 131-3, 157, 421;  in play-scene, 133-4;  spares King, 134-6, 100, 439;  with Queen, 136-8;  kills Polonius, 136-7, 104;  with Ghost, 138-40;  leaving Denmark, 140-1;  state after return, 143-5, 421;  in grave-yard, 145-6, 153, 158, 421-2;  in catastrophe, 102, 146-8, 151, 420-1;  and Ophelia, 103, 112, 119, 145-6, 152-9, 402, 420-1;  letter to Ophelia, 150, 403;  trick of repetition, 148-9;  word-play and humour, 149-52, 411;  aesthetic feeling, 133, 415;  and Iago, 208, 217, 222, 226;  other references, 9, 14, 20, 22, 28, 316, 353, Notes A to H. Hanmer, 91. Hazlitt, 209, 223, 228, 231, 243, 248. Hecate, 342, Note Z. Hegel, 16, 348. _2 Henry VI. _, 492.

_3 Henry VI. _, 222, 418, 490, 492. _Henry VIII. _, 80, 472, 479. Heredity, 30, 266, 303. Hero, tragic, 7;  of 'high degree,' 9-11;  contributes to catastrophe, 12;  nature of, 19-23, 37;  error of, 21, 34;  unlucky, 28;  place of, in construction, 53-55;  absence of, from stage, 57;  in earlier and later plays, 81-2, 176;  in _King Lear_, 280;  feeling at death of, 147-8, 174, 198, 324. Heywood, 140, 419. Historical tragedies, 3, 53, 71. Homer, 348. Horatio, 99, 112, 310, Notes A, B, C. Humour, constructional use of, 61;  Hamlet's, 149-52;  in _Othello_, 177;  in _Macbeth_, 395. Hunter, J. , 199, 338. Iachimo, 21, 210. Iago, and evil, 207, 232-3;  false views of, 208-11, 223-7;  danger of accepting his own evidence, 211-2, 222-5;  how he appeared to others, 213-5;    and to Emilia, 215-6, 439-40;  inferences hence, 217-8;  further analysis, 218-22;  source of his action, 222-31;  his tragedy, 218, 222, 232;  not merely evil, 233-5;  nor of supreme intellect, 236;  cause of failure, 236-7;  and Edmund, 245, 300-1, 464;  and Hamlet, 208, 217, 222, 226;  other references, 21, 28, 32, 192, 193, 196, 364, Notes L, M, P, Q. Improbability, not always a defect, 69;  in _King Lear_, 249, 256-7. Inconsistencies, 73;  real or supposed, in _Hamlet_, 408;  in _Othello_, Note I;  in _King Lear_, 256, Note T;  in _Macbeth_, Notes CC, EE. Ingram, Prof. , 478. Insanity in tragedy, 13;  Ophelia's, 164-5, 399;  Lear's, 288-90. Intrigue in tragedy, 12, 67, 179. Irony, 182, 338. Isabella, 316, 317, 321. Jameson, Mrs. , 165, 204, 379. Jealousy in Othello, 178, 194, Note L. Job, 11. Johnson, 31, 91, 294, 298, 304, 377, 420. Jonson, 69, 282, 389. Juliet, 7, 204, 210. _Julius Caesar_, 3, 7, 9, 33, 34, 479;  conflict, 17-8;  exposition, 43-5;  crisis, 52;  dragging, 57;  counter-stroke, 58;  quarrel-scene, 60-1;  battle-scenes, 62;  and _Hamlet_, 80-2;  style, 85-6. Justice in tragedy, idea of, 31-33, 279, 318. Kean, 99, 243-4. Kent, _307-10_, 314, 321, 447, Note W. King Claudius, 28, 102, 133, 137, 142, _168-72_, 402, 422. _King John_, 394, 490-1. _King Lear_, exposition, 44, 46-7;  conflict, 17, 53-4;  scenes of high and low tension, 49;  dragging, 57;  false hope before catastrophe, 63;  battle-scene, 62, 456-8;  soliloquy in, 72, 222;  place among tragedies, 82, 88, see Tate;  Tate's, 243-4;  two-fold character, 244-6;  not wholly dramatic, 247;  opening scene, 71, 249-51, 258, 319-21, 447;  blinding of Gloster, 185, 251;  catastrophe, 250-4, 271, 290-3, 309, 322-6;  structural defects, 254-6;  improbabilities, etc. , 256-8;  vagueness of locality, 259-60;  poetic value of defects, 261;  double action, 262;  characterisation, 263;  tendency to symbolism, 264-5;  idea of monstrosity, 265-6;  beast and man, 266-8;  storm-scenes, 269-70, 286-7, 315;  question of government of world, in, 271-3;  supposed pessimism, 273-9, 284-5, 303-4, 322-30;  accident and fatality, 15, 250-4, 287-8;  intrigue in, 179;  evil in, 298, 303-4;  preaching patience, 330;  and _Othello_, 176-7, 179, 181, 244-5, 441-3;  and _Timon_, 245-7, 310, 326-7, 443-5;  other references, 8, 10, 61, 181, Notes R to Y, and BB. König, G. , Note BB. Koppel, R. , 306, 450, 453, 462. Laertes, 90, 111, 142, 422. Lamb, 202, 243, 248, 253, 255, 269, 343. Language, Shakespeare's, defects of, 73, 75, 416. Lear, 13, 14, 20, 28, 29, 32, 249-51, _280-93_, 293-5, Note W. Leontes, 21, 194. _Macbeth_, exposition, 43, 45-6;  conflict, 17-9, 48, 52;  crisis, 59, 60;  pathos and humour, 61, 391, 395-7;  battle-scenes, 62;  extended catastrophe, 64;  defects in construction, 57, 71;  place among tragedies, 82, 87-8, Note BB;  religious ideas, 172-4;  atmosphere of, 333;  effects of darkness, 333-4,  colour, 334-6,  storm, 336-7,  supernatural, etc. , 337-8,  irony, 338-40;  Witches, 340-9, 362, 379-86;  imagery, 336, 357;  minor characters, 387;  simplicity, 388;  Senecan effect, 389-90;  bombast, 389, 417;  prose, 388, 397-400;  relief-scenes, 391;  sleep-walking scene, 378, 398, 400;  references to Gunpowder Plot, 397, 470-1;  all genuine? 388, 391, 395-7, Note Z;  and _Hamlet_, 331-2;  and _Richard III. _, 338, 390, 395, 492;  other references, 7, 8, 386, and Notes Z to FF. Macbeth, 13, 14, 20, 22, 28, 32, 63, 172, 343-5, _349-65_, 380, 383,  386, Notes CC, EE. Macbeth, Lady, 13, 28, 32, 349-50, 358, 364, _366-79_, 398-400, Notes  CC, DD. Macduff, 387, 391-2, 490-1. Macduff, Lady, 61, 387, 391-2. Macduff, little, 393-5. Mackenzie, 91. Marlowe, 211, 415-6. Marston's possible reminiscences of Shakespeare's plays, 471-2. _Measure for Measure_, 76, 78, 275, 397. Mediaeval idea of tragedy, 8, 9. Melancholy, Shakespeare's representations of, 110, 121.  See Hamlet. Mephistopheles, 208. _Merchant of Venice_, 21, 200. Metrical tests, Notes S, BB. Middleton, 466. _Midsummer Night's Dream_, 390, 469. Milton, 207, 362, 418. Monstrosity, idea of, in _King Lear_, 265-6. Moral order in tragedy, idea of, 26, 31-9. Moulton, R. G. , 40. Negro? Othello a, 198-202. Opening scene in tragedy, 43-4. Ophelia, 14, 61, 112, _160-5_, 204, 399.  See Hamlet. Oswald, 298, 448. _Othello_, exposition, 44-5;  conflict, 17, 18, 48;  peculiar construction, 54-5, 64-7, 177;  inconsistencies, 73;  place among tragedies, 82, 83, 88;  and _Hamlet_, 175-6;  and _King Lear_, 176-7, 179, 181, 244-5, 441-3;  distinctive effect, and its causes, 176-80;  accident in, 15, 181-2;  objections to, considered, 183-5;  point of inferiority to other three tragedies, 185-6;  elements of reconciliation in catastrophe, 198, 242;  other references, 9, 61, Notes I to R, and BB. Othello, 9, 20, 21, 22, 28, 29, 32, 176, 178, 179, _186-98_, 198-202,  211, 212, Notes K to O. Pathos, and tragedy, 14, 103, 160, 203, 281-2;  constructional use of, 60-1. Peele, 200. _Pericles_, 474. Period, Shakespeare's tragic, 79-89, 275-6. Pessimism, supposed, in _King Lear_, 275-9, 327;  in _Macbeth_, 359, 393. Plays, Shakespeare's, list of, in periods, 79. Plot, 12.  See Action, Intrigue. 'Poetic justice,' 31-2. Poor, goodness of the, in _King Lear_ and _Timon_, 326. Posthumus, 21. Problems, probably non-existent for original audience, 73, 157, 159,  315, 393, 483, 486, 488. Prose, in the tragedies, 388, 397-400. Queen Gertrude, 104, 118, 134, 136-8, 161, 164, _166-8_. Reconciliation, feeling of, in tragedy, 31, 36, 84, 147-8, 174, 198,  242, 322-6. Regan, _299-300_. Religion, in Edgar, 306,  Horatio, 310,  Banquo, 387. _Richard II. _, 3, 10, 17, 18, 42. Richard II. , 20, 22, 150, 152. _Richard III. _, 3, 18, 42, 62, 82;  and _Macbeth_, 338, 390, 395, 492. Richard III. , 14, 20, 22, 32, 63, 152, 207, 210, 217, 218, 233, 301. _Romeo and Juliet_, 3, 7, 9, 15;  conflict, 17, 18, 34;  exposition, 41-5;  crisis, 52;  counter-stroke, 58. Romeo, 22, 29, 150, 210. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, 137, 405-6. Rules of drama, Shakespeare's supposed ignorance of, 69. Salvini, 434. Satan, Milton's, 207, 362. Scenery, no, in Shakespeare's theatre, 49, 71, 451. Scenes, their number, length, tone, 49;  wrong divisions of, 451. Schlegel, 82, 104, 105, 116, 123, 127, 254, 262, 344, 345, 413. Scot on Witch-craft, 341. Seneca, 389-90. Shakespeare the man, 6, 81, 83, 185-6, 246, 275-6, 282, 285, 327-30,  359, 393, 414-5. Shylock, 21. Siddons, Mrs. , 371, 379. Soliloquy, 72;  of villains, 222;  scenes ending with, 451. Sonnets, Shakespeare's, 264, 364. Spedding, J. , 255, 476, Note X. Stage-directions, wrong modern, 260, 285, 422, 453-6, 462. Style in the tragedies, 85-9, 332, 336, 357. Suffering, tragic, 7, 8, 11. Supernatural, the, in tragedy, 14, 181, 295-6, 331-2.  See Ghost, Witch. Swinburne, A. C. , 80, 179, 191, 209, 218, 223, 228, 231, 276-8, 431. Symonds, J. A. , 10. Tate's version of _King Lear_, 243, 251-3, 313. Temperament, 110, 282, 306. _Tempest_, 42, 80, 185, 264, 328-30, 469; Note BB. Theological ideas in tragedy, 25, 144, 147, 279;  in _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, 171-4, 439;  not in _Othello_, 181, 439;  in _King Lear_, 271-3, 296. Time, short and long, theory of, 426-7. _Timon of Athens_, 4, 9, 81-3, 88, 245-7, 266, 270, 275, 310, 326-7,  443-5, 460; Note BB. Timon, 9, 82, 112. _Titus Andronicus_, 4, 200, 211, 411, 491. Tourgénief, 11, 295. Toussaint, 198. Tragedy, Shakespearean; parts, 41, 51;  earlier and later, 18, 176;  pure and historical, 3, 71.  See Accident, Action, Hero, Period, Reconciliation, etc. Transmigration of souls, 267. _Troilus and Cressida_, 7, 185-6, 268, 275-6, 302, 417, 419. _Twelfth Night_, 70, 267. _Two Noble Kinsmen_, 418, 472, 479. Ultimate power in tragedy, 24-39, 171-4, 271-9.  See Fate, Moral Order, Reconciliation, Theological. Undramatic speeches, 74, 106. Versification. See Style and Metrical tests. Virgilia, 387. Waste, tragic, 23, 37. Werder, K. , 94, 172, 480. _Winter's Tale_, 21, Note BB. Witches, the, and Macbeth, _340-9_, 362;  and Banquo, 379-87. Wittenberg, Hamlet at, 403-6. Wordsworth, 30, 198. _Yorkshire Tragedy_, 10. GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. _8vo. 12s. 6d. net. _Oxford Lectures on PoetryBYA. C. BRADLEY, LL. D. , Litt. D. _ATHENÆUM. _--"A remarkable achievement. . . . It is probable that thisvolume will attain a permanence for which critical literature generallycannot hope. Very many of the things that are said here are finallysaid; they exhaust their subject. Of one thing we are certain--thatthere is no work in English devoted to the interpretation of poeticexperience which can claim the delicacy and sureness of Mr. Bradley's. "_SPECTATOR. _--"In reviewing Professor Bradley's previous book on_Shakespearean Tragedy_ we declared our opinion that it was probably thebest Shakespearean criticism since Coleridge. The new volume shows thesame complete sanity of judgment, the same subtlety, the same persuasiveand eloquent exposition. "_TIMES. _--"Nothing higher need be said of the present volume than it isnot unworthy to be the sequel to _Shakespearean Tragedy_. "_DAILY TELEGRAPH. _--"This is not a book to be written about in a hastyreview of a thousand words. It is one to be perused and appreciated atleisure--to be returned to again and again, partly because of itssupreme interest, partly because it provokes, as all good books shoulddo, a certain antagonism, partly because it is itself the product of acareful, scholarly mind, basing conclusions on a scrupulous perusal ofdocuments and authorities. . . . The whole book is so full of good thingsthat it is impossible to make any adequate selection. In an age which isnot supposed to be very much interested in literary criticism, a booklike Mr. Bradley's is of no little significance and importance. "_SATURDAY REVIEW. _--"The writer of these admirable lectures may claimwhat is rare even in this age of criticism--a note of his own. In typehe belongs to those critics of the best order, whose view of literatureis part and parcel of their view of life. His lectures on poetry aretherefore what they profess to be: not scraps of textual comment, norstudies in the craft of verse-making, but broad considerations of poetryas a mode of spiritual revelation. An accomplished style and signs ofcareful reading we may justly demand from any professor who sets out tolecture in literature. Mr. Bradley has them in full measure. But he hasalso not a little of that priceless quality so seldom found in theprofessional or professorial critic--the capacity of naïve vision andadmiration. Here he is in a line with the really stimulating essayists,the artists in criticism. "MACMILLAN AND CO. LTD. , LONDON. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. _A Commentary on Tennyson's 'In Memoriam'BYA. C. BRADLEY, LL. D. , Litt. D. _THE SATURDAY REVIEW. _--"Here we find a model of what a commentary on agreat work should be, every page instinct with thoughtfulness; completesympathy and appreciation; the most reverent care shown in the attemptedinterpretation of passages whose meaning to a large degree evades, andwill always evade, readers of 'In Memoriam. ' It is clear to us that Mr. Bradley has devoted long time and thought to his work, and that he haspublished the result of his labours simply to help those who, likehimself, have been and are in difficulties as to the drift of variouspassages. He is not of course the first who has addressed himself to theinterpretation of 'In Memoriam'--in this spirit . . . but Mr. Bradley'scommentary is sure to take rank as the most searching and scholarly ofany. "_THE PILOT. _--"In re-studying 'In Memoriam' with Dr. Bradley's aid, wehave found his interpretation helpful in numerous passages. The notesare prefaced by a long introduction dealing with the origin,composition, and structure of the poem, the ideas used in it, the metreand the debt to other poems. All of these are good, but more interestingthan any of them is a section entitled, 'The Way of the Soul,' reviewingthe spiritual experience which 'In Memoriam' records. This is quiteadmirable throughout, and proves conclusively that Dr. Bradley's keendesire to fathom the exact meaning of every phrase has only quickenedhis appreciation of the poem as a whole. "MACMILLAN AND CO. LTD. , LONDON. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Shakespearean Tragedy, by A. C. 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The Project Gutenberg eBook of Shakespeare's Roman Plays and TheirBackground, by Mungo William MacCallumThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States andmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww. gutenberg. org. If you are not located in the United States, youwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located beforeusing this eBook. Title: Shakespeare's Roman Plays and Their BackgroundAuthor: Mungo William MacCallumRelease Date: February 3, 2023 [eBook #69937]Language: EnglishProduced by: Tim Lindell and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at             https://www. pgdp. net (This file was produced from images             generously made available by The Internet Archive)*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAKESPEARE'S ROMAN PLAYS ANDTHEIR BACKGROUND ***Transcriber’s Notes:  Underscores “_” before and after a word or phrase indicate _italics_    in the original text.  Equal signs “=” before and after a word or phrase indicate =bold=    in the original text.  Small capitals have been converted to SOLID capitals.  Old or antiquated spellings have been preserved.  Typographical and punctuation errors have been silently corrected.                       SHAKESPEARE’S ROMAN PLAYS                         AND THEIR BACKGROUND                            [Illustration]                      MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITED                      LONDON · BOMBAY · CALCUTTA                               MELBOURNE                         THE MACMILLAN COMPANY                      NEW YORK · BOSTON · CHICAGO                        ATLANTA · SAN FRANCISCO                   THE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD.                                TORONTO                             SHAKESPEARE’S                              ROMAN PLAYS                         AND THEIR BACKGROUND                                  BY                            M. W. MACCALLUM                       M. A. , HON. LL. D. , GLASGOW                    PROFESSOR OF MODERN LITERATURE                      IN THE UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY                      MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITED                      ST. MARTIN’S STREET, LONDON                                 1910               GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS                   BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.                                  TO                              D. M. M·C.                    “De Leev is Allens op de Welt,                         Un de is blot bi di. ”PREFACEShakespeare’s Roman plays may be regarded as forming a group bythemselves, less because they make use of practically the sameauthority and deal with similar subjects, than because they follow thesame method of treatment, and that method is to a great extent peculiarto themselves. They have points of contact with the English histories,they have points of contact with the free tragedies, but they are notquite on a line with either class. It seems, therefore, possible anddesirable to discuss them separately. In doing so I have tried to keep myself abreast of the literatureon the subject; which is no easy task when one lives at so great adistance from European libraries, and can go home only on hurried andinfrequent visits. I hope, however, that there is no serious gap in thelist of authorities I have consulted. The particular obligations of which I am conscious I have indicatedin detail. I should like, however, to acknowledge how much I owethroughout to the late F. A. T. Kreyssig, to my mind one of the sanestand most suggestive expositors that Shakespeare has ever had. I amthe more pleased to avow my indebtedness, that at present in GermanyKreyssig is hardly receiving the learned, and in England has neverreceived the popular, recognition that is his due. It is strange thatwhile Ulrici’s metaphysical lucubrations and Gervinus’s somewhatponderous commentaries found their translators and their public,Kreyssig’s purely humane and literary appreciations were passed over. I once began to translate them myself, but “habent sua fata libelli,”the time had gone by. It is almost exactly half a century ago since hislectures were first published; and now there is so much that he wouldwish to omit, alter, or amplify, that it would be unfair to presentthem after this lapse of years for the first time to the Englishpublic. All the same he has not lost his value, and precisely indealing with the English and the Roman histories he seems to me to beat his best. One is naturally led from a consideration of the plays to aconsideration of their background; their antecedents in the drama, andtheir sources, direct and indirect. The previous treatment of Roman subjects in Latin, French, and English,is of some interest, apart from the possible connection of this orthat tragedy with Shakespeare’s masterpieces, as showing by contrastthe originality as well as the splendour of his achievement. For thischapter of my Introduction I therefore offer no apology. On the other hand the sketches of the three “ancestors” ofShakespeare’s Roman histories, and especially of Plutarch, need perhapsto be defended against the charge of irrelevancy. In examining the plays, one must examine their relations with theirsources, and in examining their relations with their sources, onecannot stop short at North, who in the main contributes merely thefinal form, but must go back to the author who furnished the subjectmatter. Perhaps, too, some of the younger students of Shakespeare maybe glad to have a succinct account of the man but for whom the Romanplays would never have been written. Besides, Plutarch, so far asI know, has not before been treated exactly from the point of viewthat is here adopted. My aim has been to portray him mainly in thoseaspects that made him such a power in the period of the Renaissance,and gave him so great a fascination for men like Henry IV. , Montaigne,and, of course, above all, Shakespeare. For the same reason I have mademy quotations exclusively from Philemon Holland’s translation of the_Morals_ (1st edition, 1603) and North’s translation of the _Lives_(Mr. Wyndham’s reprint), as the Elizabethan versions show how he wastaken by that generation. The essay on Amyot needs less apology. In view of the fact that he wasthe immediate original of North, he has received in England far lessrecognition than he deserves. Indeed he has met with injustice. Englishwriters have sometimes challenged his claim to have translated from theGreek. To me it has had the zest of a pious duty to repeat and enforcethe arguments of French scholars which show the extreme improbabilityof this theory. Unfortunately I have been unable to consult the Latinversion of 1470, except in a few transcripts from the copy in theBritish Museum: but while admitting that a detailed comparison ofthat with the Greek and the French would be necessary for the formalcompletion of the proof, I think it has been made practically certainthat Amyot dealt with all his authors at first hand. At any rate heis a man, who, by rendering Plutarch into the vernacular and in manyinstances furnishing the first draught of Shakespeare’s phrases, meritsattention from the countrymen of Shakespeare. Of North, even after Mr. Wyndham’s delightful and admirable study,something remains to be said in supplement. And he too has hardlyhad his rights. The _Morall Philosophie_ and the _Lives_ have beenreprinted, but the _Diall of Princes_ is still to be seen only inthe great libraries of Europe. A hurried perusal of it two years agoconvinced me that, apart from its historical significance, it wasworthy of a place among the _Tudor Translations_ and would help toclear up many obscurities in Elizabethan literature. I at first hoped to discuss in a supplementary section the treatmentof the Roman Play in England by Shakespeare’s younger contemporariesand Caroline successors, and show that while in some specimensShakespeare’s reconciling method is still followed though lesssuccessfully, while in some antiquarian accuracy is the chief aim, andsome are only to be regarded as historical romances, it ultimatelytended towards the phase which it assumed in France under the influenceof the next great practitioner, Corneille, who assimilated theancient to the modern ideal of Roman life as Shakespeare never didand, perhaps fortunately, never tried to do. But certain questions,especially in regard to the sources, are complicated, and, whencontemporary translations, not as yet reprinted, may have been used,are particularly troublesome to one living so far from Europe. Thispart of my project, therefore, if not abandoned, has to be deferred;for it would mean a long delay, and I am admonished that what there isto do must be done quickly. I have complained of the lack of books in Australia, but beforeconcluding I should like to acknowledge my obligations to thebook-loving colonists of an earlier generation, to whose irrepressiblezeal for learning their successors owe access to many volumes thatone would hardly expect to see under the Southern Cross. Thus a 1599edition of Plutarch in the University Library, embodying the apparatusof Xylander and Cruserius, has helped me much in the question ofAmyot’s relations to the Greek. Thus, too, I was able to utilise,among other works not easily met with, the first complete translationof Seneca’s Tragedies (1581), in the collection of the late Mr. DavidScott Mitchell, a “clarum et venerabile nomen” in New South Wales. May I, as a tribute of gratitude, inform my English readers that thisgentleman, after spending his life in collecting books and manuscriptsof literary and historical interest, which he was ever ready to placeat the disposal of those competent to use them, bequeathed at his deathhis splendid library to the State, together with an ample endowment forits maintenance and extension? For much valuable help in the way of information and advice, my thanksare due to my sometime students and present colleagues, first andchiefly, Professor E. R. Holme, then Mr. C. J. Brennan, Mr. J. LeGay Brereton, Mr. G. G. Nicholson, Dr. F. A. Todd; also to Messrs. Bladen and Wright of the Sydney Public Library for looking out booksand references that I required; to Mr. M. L. MacCallum for makingtranscripts for me from books in the Bodleian Library; to ProfessorJones of Glasgow University for various critical suggestions; aboveall to Professor Butler of Sydney University, who has pointed out tome many facts which I might have overlooked and protected me frommany errors into which I should have fallen, and to Professor Ker ofUniversity College, London, who has most kindly undertaken the irksometask of reading through my proofs.                                                   M. W. MACCALLUM   UNIVERSITY OF SYDNEY,     _27th April, 1909_. CONTENTS                  _INTRODUCTION_    CHAPTER                                                       PAGE        I. ROMAN PLAYS IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURY                      1            1. “Appius and Virginia. ” The Translation of “Octavia”   2            2. The French Senecans                                  19            3. English Followers of the French School.                 “The Wounds of Civil War”                          44       II. SHAKESPEARE’S TREATMENT OF HISTORY                       73      III. ANCESTRY OF SHAKESPEARE’S ROMAN PLAYS            1. Plutarch                                             95            2. Amyot                                               119            3. North                                               141                  _JULIUS CAESAR_        I. POSITION OF THE PLAY BETWEEN THE HISTORIES AND THE              TRAGEDIES. ATTRACTION OF THE SUBJECT FOR SHAKESPEARE              AND HIS GENERATION. INDEBTEDNESS TO PLUTARCH         168       II. SHAKESPEARE’S TRANSMUTATION OF HIS MATERIAL             187      III. THE TITULAR HERO OF THE PLAY                            212       IV. THE EXCELLENCES AND ILLUSIONS OF BRUTUS                 233        V. THE DISILLUSIONMENT OF BRUTUS. PORTIA                   255       VI. THE REMAINING CHARACTERS                                275                _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_        I. POSITION OF THE PLAY AFTER THE GREAT TRAGEDIES.              SHAKESPEARE’S INTEREST IN THE SUBJECT                300       II. _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_, A HISTORY, TRAGEDY, AND LOVE              POEM; AS SHOWN BY ITS RELATIONS WITH PLUTARCH        318      III. THE ASSOCIATES OF ANTONY                                344       IV. THE POLITICAL LEADERS                                   368        V. MARK ANTONY                                             391       VI. CLEOPATRA                                               413      VII. ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA                                    439                     _CORIOLANUS_        I. POSITION OF THE PLAY BEFORE THE ROMANCES.              ITS POLITICAL AND ARTISTIC ASPECTS                   454       II. PARALLELS AND CONTRASTS WITH PLUTARCH                   484      III. THE GRAND CONTRAST. SHAKESPEARE’S CONCEPTION              OF THE SITUATION IN ROME                             518       IV. THE KINSFOLK AND FRIENDS OF CORIOLANUS                  549        V. THE GREATNESS OF CORIOLANUS. AUFIDIUS                   571       VI. THE DISASTERS OF CORIOLANUS AND THEIR CAUSES            598                      _APPENDICES_      A. NEAREST PARALLELS BETWEEN GARNIER’S _Cornélie_ IN THE         FRENCH AND ENGLISH VERSIONS AND _Julius Caesar_           628      B. THE VERBAL RELATIONS OF THE VARIOUS VERSIONS OF         PLUTARCH, ILLUSTRATED BY MEANS OF VOLUMNIA’S SPEECH       631      C. SHAKESPEARE’S ALLEGED INDEBTEDNESS TO APPIAN IN         _Julius Caesar_                                           644      D. SHAKESPEARE’S LOANS FROM APPIAN IN _Antony and Cleopatra_ 648      E. CLEOPATRA’S _One Word_                                    653      F. THE “INEXPLICABLE” PASSAGE IN _Coriolanus_                657      INDEX                                                        660_INTRODUCTION_CHAPTER IROMAN PLAYS IN THE SIXTEENTH CENTURYPlays that dealt with the History of Rome were frequent on theElizabethan stage, and all portions of it were laid under contribution. Subjects were taken from legends of the dawn like the story ofLucretia, and from rumours of the dusk like the story of Lucina; fromRoman pictures of barbarian allies like Massinissa in the South, orbarbarian antagonists like Caractacus in the North; as well as from theintimate records of home affairs and the careers of the great magnatesof the Republic or Empire. But these plays belong more distinctivelyto the Stuart than to the Tudor section of the period loosely namedafter Elizabeth, and few have survived that were composed before thebeginning of the seventeenth century. For long the Historical Dramatreated by preference the traditions and annals of the island realm,and only by degrees did “the matter of Britain” yield its pride ofplace to “the matter of Rome the Grand. ” Moreover, the earlier RomanHistories are of very inferior importance, and none of them reacheseven a moderate standard of merit till the production of Shakespeare’s_Julius Caesar_ in 1600 or 1601. In this department Shakespeare hadnot the light to guide him that he found for his English Histories inMarlowe’s _Edward II. _, or even in such plays as _The Famous Victoriesof Henry V. _ The extant pieces that precede his first experiment,seem only to be groping their way, and it is fair to suppose that theothers which have been lost did no better. Their interest, in so faras they have any interest at all, lies in the light they throw on thegradual progress of dramatic art in this domain. And they illustrateit pretty fully, and show it passing through some of the main generalphases that may be traced in the evolution of the Elizabethan Tragedyas a whole. At the outset we have one specimen of the Roman play inwhich the legitimate drama is just beginning to disengage itself fromthe old Morality, and another in which the unique Senecan exemplar istransformed rather than translated to suit the primitive art of thetime. Then we have several more artistic specimens deriving directlyor indirectly from the French imitators of Seneca, which were the mostdignified and intelligent the sixteenth century had to show. And lastlywe have a specimen of what the Roman play became when elaborated by thescholar-playwrights for the requirements of the popular London stage. A survey of these will show how far the ground was prepared forShakespeare by the traditions of this branch of the drama when heturned to cultivate it himself. 1. APPIUS AND VIRGINIA. THE TRANSLATION OF OCTAVIAThe crudest if not the earliest of the series is entitled _A newTragicall Comedie of Apius and Virginia_, by R. B. , initials whichhave been supposed with some probability to stand for Richard Bower,who was master of the Chapel Royal at Windsor in 1559. It was firstprinted in 1575, but must have been written some years before. Aphrase it contains, “perhaps a number will die of the sweat,” has beenthought to refer to the prevalence of the plague in 1563, and it maybe identified with a play on the same subject that was acted at thattime by the boys of Westminster. At any rate several expressions showbeyond doubt that it was meant for representation, but only on theold-fashioned scaffold which was soon to be out-of-date. Its characterand scope belong too, in part, to a bygone age. The prologue proclaimsits ethical intention with the utmost emphasis:    You lordings all that present be, this Tragidie to heare    Note well what zeale and loue heerein doth well appeare,    And, Ladies, you that linked are in wedlocke bandes for euer    Do imitate the life you see, whose fame will perish neuer:    But Uirgins you, oh Ladies fair, for honour of your name    Doo lead the life apparent heere to win immortall fame. [1]It is written in commendation of chastity and rebuke of vice:    Let not the blinded God of Loue, as poets tearm him so,    Nor Venus with her venery, nor Lechors, cause of wo,    Your Uirgins name to spot or file: deare dames, obserue the life    That faire Verginia did obserue, who rather wish(ed) the knife    Of fathers hand hir life to ende, then spot her chastety.    As she did waile, waile you her want, you maids, of courtesie.    If any by example heere would shun that great anoy,[2]    Our Authour would rejoyce in hart, and we would leap for joy. [1] Quotations taken, with a few obvious emendations, from Mr. Farmer’sreproduction in the Tudor Facsimile Texts. [2] The hurt of impurity, not of death. No Moral Play could be more explicit in its lesson, and the Moral Playhas also suggested a large number of the personages. Conscience,Justice, Rumour, Comfort, Reward, Doctrine, Memory, are introduced,and some of them not only in scenes by themselves, but in associationwith the concrete characters. Occasionally their functions are merelyfigurative, and can be separated from the action that is supposed tobe proceeding: and then of course they hardly count for more than theattributes that help to explain a statue. Thus, when Appius resolves topursue his ruthless purpose, he exclaims:    But out, I am wounded: how am I deuided!    Two states of my life from me are now glided:and the quaint stage direction in the margin gives the comment: “Herelet him make as thogh he went out, and let Consience and Justice comeout of[3] him, and let Consience hold in his hande a Lamp burning, andlet Justice haue a sworde and hold it before Apius brest. ” Thus, too,another stage direction runs: “Here let Consience speake within:    ‘Judge Apius, prince, oh stay, refuse: be ruled by thy friende:    What bloudy death with open shame did Torquin gaine in ende? ’”[3] Altered unnecessarily to _out after_ by Mr. Carew Hazlitt in hisedition of Dodsley’s _Old English Plays_. Appius’ words imply that thetwo principles pass from his life, and the spectators are asked toimagine that they actually see the process. And he answers: “Whence doth this pinching sounde desende? ” Hereclearly it is merely the voice of his own feelings objectified: and inboth instances the interference of the Abstractions is almost whollydecorative; they add nothing to the reflections of Appius, but onlyserve to emphasise them. This however is not always the case. Theyoften comport themselves in every respect like the real men and women. Comfort stays Virginius from suicide till he shall see the punishmentof the wicked. Justice and Reward (that is, Requital) summoned by theunjust judge to doom the father, pronounce sentence on himself. In theend Virginius enters in company with Fame, Doctrina, and Memory. Other of the characters, again, if more than general ideas, are lessthan definite individuals. There is a sub-plot not at all interwovenwith the main plot, in which the class types, Mansipulus, Mansipula,and their crony, Subservus, play their parts. With their help someattempt is made at presenting the humours of vulgar life. They quarrelwith each other, but are presently reconciled in order to divertthemselves together, and put off the business of their master andmistress, hoping to escape the punishment for their negligence bytrickery and good luck. But we do not even know who their master andmistress are, and they come into no contact with either the historicalor the allegorical figures. The only personage who finds his way into both compartments of the“Tragicall Comedie” is Haphazard the Vice, who gives the story suchunity as it possesses. His name happily describes the double aspect ofhis nature. On the one hand he stands for chance itself; on the otherfor dependence on chance, the recklessness that relies on accident,and trusts that all will end well though guilt has been incurred. Inthis way he is both the chief seducer and the chief agent, alike of thepetty rogues and of the grand criminal. To the former he sings:    Then wend ye on and folow me, Mansipulus,[4] Mansipula,    Let croping cares be cast away; come folow me, come folow me:                          Subseruus is a joly loute            Brace[5] Haphazard, bould blinde bayarde! [6]    A figge for his uncourtesie that seekes to shun good company! [4] Text, _Mansipula_. [5] Altered by Hazlitt to “brave. ” It probably means “embrace. ”[6] A horse that does not see where it is going. To Appius’ request for advice he replies:    Well, then, this is my counsell, thus standeth the case,    Perhaps such a fetche as may please your grace:    There is no more wayes but _hap_ or _hap not_,    Either hap or els hapless, to knit up the knot:    And if you will hazard to venter what falles,    Perhaps that Haphazard will end all your thralles. His distinctive note is this, that he tempts men by suggesting thatthey may offend and escape the consequences. In the end he falls intothe pit that he has digged for others, and when his hap is to behanged, like a true Vice he accepts the _contretemps_ with jest andjape. Yet despite the stock-in-trade that it takes over from Morality orInterlude, _Appius and Virginia_ has specialties of its own that werebetter calculated to secure it custom in the period of the Renaissance. The author bestows most care on the main story, and makes a genuineattempt to bring out the human interest of the subject and the persons. In the opening scene he tries, in his well-meaning way, to give theimpression of a home in which affection is the pervading principle, butin which affection itself is not allowed to run riot, but is restrainedby prudence and obligation. Father, mother, and daughter sing a dittyin illustration of this sober love or its reverse, and always return tothe refrain:    The trustiest treasure in earth, as we see,    Is man, wife, and children in one to agree;    Then friendly, and kindly, let measure be mixed    With reason in season, where friendship is fixed. There is some inarticulate feeling for effect in the contrast betweenthe wholesomeness of this orderly family life and the incontinenceof the tyrant who presently seeks to violate it. And the dramaticbent of the author—for it is no more than a bent—appears too in theportraiture of the parties concerned. The mingled perplexity and dreadof Virginius, when in his consciousness of right he is summoned to thecourt, are justly conceived; and there is magnanimity in his answerto Appius’ announcement that he must give judgment “as justice dothrequire”:    My lord, and reason good it is: your seruaunt doth request    No parciall hand to aide his cause, no parciall minde or brest.    If ought I haue offended you, your Courte or eke your Crowne,    From lofty top of Turret hie persupetat me downe:    If treason none by me be done, or any fault committed,    Let my accusers beare the blame, and let me be remitted. Similarly, the subsequent conflict in his heart between fondness forhis daughter and respect for her and himself is clearly expressed. Andher high-spirited demand for death is tempered and humanised by herinstinctive recoil when he “proffers a blow”:    The gods forgeue thee, father deare! farewell: thy blow do bend—    Yet stay a whyle, O father deare, for fleash to death is fraile.    Let first my wimple bind my eyes, and then thy blow assaile,    Nowe, father, worke thy will on me, that life I may injoy. But the most ambitious and perhaps the most successful delineation isthat of Appius. At the outset he is represented as overwhelmed by hissudden yearning. Apelles, he thinks, was a “prattling fool” to boast ofhis statue; Pygmalion was fond “with raving fits” to run mad for thebeauty of his work, for he could make none like Virginia. Will not theGods treat him as they treated Salmacis, when Hermophroditus, bathingin the Carian fountain near the Lycian Marches, denied her suit?                    Oh Gods aboue, bend downe to heare my crie    As once ye[7] did to Salmasis, in Pond hard Lyzia by:    Oh that Virginia were in case as somtime Salmasis,    And in Hermofroditus stede my selfe might seeke my blisse!    Ah Gods! would I unfold her armes complecting of my necke?    Or would I hurt her nimble hand, or yeelde her such a checke?    Would I gainsay hir tender skinne to baath where I do washe?    Or els refuse her soft sweete lippes to touch my naked fleshe?    Nay! Oh the Gods do know my minde, I rather would requier    To sue, to serue, to crouch, to kneele, to craue for my desier.    But out, ye Gods, ye bend your browes, and frowne to see me fare;    Ye do not force[8] my fickle fate, ye do not way my care.    Unrighteous and unequall Gods, unjust and eke unsure,    Woe worth the time ye made me liue, to see this haplesse houre. This, we may suppose, is intended for a mad outbreak of voluptuouspassion, “the nympholepsy of some fond despair”; and, as such, itis not very much worse than some that have won the applause of morecritical ages. It may suggest the style of the Interlude in the_Midsummer-Night’s Dream_, or more forcibly, the “_King Cambyses’_vein” that was then in vogue (for Preston’s play of that name,published about a couple of years later than the probable date whenthis was performed, is in every way the nearest analogue to _Appiusand Virginia_ that the history of our stage has to offer). But incomparison with the normal flow of the Moralities, the lines haveundoubtedly a certain urgency and glow. And there are other touchesthat betray the incipient playwright. Appius is not exhibited as amere monster; through all his life his walk has been blameless, andhe is well aware of his “grounded years,” his reputation as judge,and the value of good report. He is not at ease in the course he nowadopts; there is a division in his nature, and he does not yield to histemptation without forebodings and remorse.              Consience he pricketh me contempnèd,    And Justice saith, Judgement wold haue me condemned:    Consience saith, crueltye sure will detest me;[9]    And Justice saith, death in thend will molest me:    And both in one sodden, me thinkes they do crie    That fier eternall my soule shall destroy. [7] In original, _he_. [8] Heed. [9] Make me detestable. But he always comes back to the supreme fact of his longing forVirginia:    By hir I liue, by hir I die, for hir I joy or woe,    For hir my soule doth sinke or swimme, for her, I swere, I goe. And there are the potentialities of a really powerful effect in thetransition from his jubilant outburst when he thinks his waiting is atan end:    O lucky light! lo, present heere hir father doth appeare,to his misgivings when he sees the old man is unaccompanied:    O, how I joy! Yet bragge thou not. Dame Beuty bides behinde. And immediately thereafter the severed head is displayed to his view. Nor was R. B. , whether or not he was Richard Bower, Master of theChapel children, quite without equipment for the treatment of aclassical theme, though in this respect as in others his procedure isuncertain and fumbling in the highest degree. The typical personages ofthe under-plot have no relish of Latinity save in the termination ofthe labels that serve them as names, and they swear by God’s Mother,and talk glibly of church and pews and prayer books, and a “pair ofnew cards. ” Even in the better accredited Romans of Livy’s story thereare anachronisms and incongruities. Appius, though ordinarily a judge,speaks of himself as prince, king or kaiser; and references are madeto his crown and realm. Nevertheless the author is not without thevelleities of Humanism. He ushers in his prologue with some atrociousLatin Elegiacs, which the opening lines of the English are obligingenough to paraphrase:     Qui cupis aethereas et summas scandere sedes,       Vim simul ac fraudem discute, care, tibi.     Fraus hic nulla juvat, non fortia facta juvabunt:       Sola Dei tua te trahet tersa fides.     Cui placet in terris, intactae paludis[10] instar,       Vivere Virginiam nitere, Virgo, sequi:     Quos tulit et luctus, discas et gaudia magna,       Vitae dum parcae scindere fila parant.     Huc ades, O Virgo pariter moritura, sepulchro;       Sic ait, et facies pallida morte mutat.    Who doth desire the trump of fame to sound unto the skies,    Or els who seekes the holy place where mighty Joue he lies,    He must not by deceitfull mind, nor yet by puissant strength,    But by the faith and sacred lyfe he must it win at length;    And what[11] she be that virgins lyfe on earth wold gladly leade,    The fluds that Virginia did fall[12] I wish her reade,    Her doller and hir doleful losse and yet her joyes at death:   “Come, Virgins pure, to graue with me,” quoth she with latest breath. [10] Professor Butler, to whom I am indebted for other emendationsof the passage, which is very corrupt in the printed text, suggests_Palladis_, which gives a meaning, _the Virgin goddess_, and saves themetre. But I am not sure that R. B. had any bigoted objection to falsequantities. [11] _I. e. _ “whoever. ”[12] Fall, causative; “the tears she copiously shed. ”In the same way there is throughout a lavish display of cheap boyisherudition. Thus Virginius, reckoning up his services to Appius,soliloquises:    In Mars his games, in marshall feates, thou wast his only aide,    The huge Carrebd his[13] hazards thou for him hast[14] ofte assaied.    Was Sillas force by thee oft shunde or yet Lady Circe’s[15] lande,    Pasiphae’s[16] childe, that Minnotaur, did cause thee euer stande? [13] Charybdis. [14] Original, _was_. [15] So Hazlitt; in the original _Adrice_. [16] In the original, _Lacefaer_. We are here indeed on the threshold of a very different kind of art, ofwhich, in its application to Roman history, a sample had been submittedto the English public two years previously in the _Octavia_ ascribed toSeneca. The Latin Tragedy, merely because it was Latin, and for that reasonwithin the reach of a far greater number of readers, was much betterknown than the Greek at the period of the Renaissance. But apart fromits advantage in accessibility, it attracted men of that age notonly by its many brilliant qualities but by its very defects, itstendency to heightened yet abstract portraiture, its declamation, itssententiousness, its violence, its unrestfulness. It had both forgood and bad a more modern bearing than the masterpieces of Hellenicantiquity, and in some ways it corresponded more closely with theculture of the sixteenth century than with our own. It was thereforebound to have a very decisive influence in shaping the traditions ofthe later stage; and the collection of ten plays ascribed to Seneca,the poor remainder of a numerous tribe that may be traced back tothe third century before Christ, furnished the pattern which criticsprescribed for imitation to all who would achieve the tragic crown. And if this was true of the series as a whole, it was also true of theplay, which, whatever may be said of the other nine, is certainly notby Seneca himself, the poorest of them all, with most of the faults andfew of the virtues of the rest, _Octavia_, the sole surviving exampleof the _Fabula Praetexta_, or the Tragedy that dealt with native Romanthemes. The _Octavia_, however, was not less popular and influentialthan its companions, and has even a claim to especial attentioninasmuch as it may be considered the remote ancestress of the ModernHistoric Play in general and of the Modern Roman Play in particular. It inspired Mussato about 1300 to write in Latin his _Eccerinis_,which deals with an almost contemporary national subject, the fateof Ezzelino: it inspired the young Muretus about 1544 to write his_Julius Caesar_, which in turn showed his countrymen the way to treatsuch themes in French. Before eight years were over they had begunto do so, and many were the Roman plays composed by the School ofRonsard. Certainly Seneca’s method would suit the historical dramatistwho was not quite at home in his history, for of local colour andvisual detail it made small account, and indeed was hardly compatiblewith them. And it would commend itself no less to men of letters who,without much dramatic sympathy or aptitude, with no knowledge of stagerequirements, and little prospect of getting their pieces performed,felt called upon _honoris causâ_ to write dramas, which one of the mostdistinguished and successful among them was candid enough to entitlenot plays but treatises. It is worth while to have a clear idea ofthe _Octavia_ from which in right line this illustrious and forgottenprogeny proceeded. The date of the action is supposed to be 62 A. D. when Nero, who had forsome time wished to wed his mistress, Poppaea Sabina, and had murderedhis mother, partly on account of her opposition, divorced his virtuouswife, his step-sister Octavia, and exiled her to Pandataria, whereshortly afterwards he had her put to death. The fact that Seneca is oneof the persons in the piece, and that there are anticipatory referencesto Nero’s death, which followed Seneca’s compulsory suicide only afteran interval of three years, sufficiently disposes of the theory thatthe philosopher himself was the author. The text accepted in the sixteenth century suffered much, not only fromthe corruption of individual expressions, but from the displacementof entire passages. Greatly to its advantage it has been rearrangedby later editors, but in the following account, their conjectures,generally happy and sometimes convincing, have been disregarded, asthey were unknown to Thomas Nuce, who rendered it into English in1561. In his hands, therefore, it is more loosely connected than itoriginally was, or than once more it has become for us; and somethingof regularity it forfeits as well, for the dislocated framework ledhim to regard it as a drama in only four acts. Despite these flaws inhis work he is a cleverer craftsman than many of his colleagues inSenecan translation, whose versions of the ten tragedies, most of themalready published separately, were collected in a neat little volume in1851. [17][17] It is from this that I quote. I have not been able to see eitherthe first edition or the reprint for the Spenser Society. An original “argument” summarises the story with sufficient clearness.    Octauia, daughter to prince Claudius grace,    To Nero espousd, whom Claudius did adopt,    (Although Syllanus first in husbandes place    Shee had receiu’d, whom she for Nero chopt[18]),    Her parentes both, her Make that should have bene,    Her husbandes present Tiranny much more,    Her owne estate, her case that she was in,    Her brother’s death, (pore wretch), lamenteth sore.    Him Seneca doth persuade, his latter loue,    Dame Poppie, Crispyne’s wife that sometime was,    And eake Octauias maide, for to remoue.    For Senecks counsel he doth lightly passe[19]    But Poppie ioynes to him in marriage rites.    The people wood[20] unto his pallace runne,    His golden fourmed shapes[21]; which them sore spytes,    They pull to ground: this uprore, now begunne,    To quench, he some to griesly death doth send.    But her close cased up in dreadful barge,    With her unto Compania coast to wend    A band of armed men, he gave in charge. This programme the play proceeds to fill in. In the first act Octavia, unbosoming herself to her nurse, relieves herheart of its woe and horror. She recounts the misfortunes of her house,the atrocities of her lord, his infidelities to her, her detestationof him. The nurse is full of sympathy, but admonishes her to patience,consoling her with assurances of the people’s love, and reminding herof the truancies that the Empress of Heaven had also to excuse in herown husband and brother:    Now, madam, sith on earth your powre is pight    And haue on earth Queene Junos princely place,    And sister are and wyfe to Neroes grace,    Your wondrous restles dolours great appease. [22][18] Exchanged. [19] Has small consideration. [20] Mad. [21] Statues. [22]    Tu quoque terris altera Juno    Soror Augusti    coniunxque graves vince dolores. (Line 224, ed. Peiper & Richter). This is now assigned to the chorus. The chorus closes the act with a variation on the same themes, passingfrom praises of Octavia’s purity and regrets for the ancient Romanintolerance of wrong, to the contrasted picture of Nero’s unchallengedmalignity. The second act commences with a monologue by Seneca on the growingcorruption of the age, which is interrupted by the approach of hismaster in talk with the Prefect. His words, as he enters, are:    Dispatch with speede that we commaunded haue:    Go, send forthwith some one or other slaue,    That Plautius cropped scalpe, and Sillas eke,    May bring before our face: goe some man seeke. [23]Seneca remonstrates, but his remonstrances are of no avail; and ina long discussion in which he advocates a policy of righteousnessand goodwill and the sacredness of Octavia’s claims, he is equallyunsuccessful. The act, to which there is no chorus, concludes withNero’s determination to flout the wishes of the people and persist inthe promotion of Poppaea:    Why do we not appoynt the morrow next    When as our mariage pompe may be context? [24]The third act is ushered in with one of those boding apparitions ofwhich the Senecan Tragedy is so fond. The shade of Agrippina rises, thebridal torch of Nero and Poppaea in her hand:    Through paunch of riuened earth, from Plutoes raigne    With ghostly steps I am returnd agayne,    In writhled wristes, that bloud do most desyre,    Forguyding[25] wedlocke vyle with Stygian fire. [26][23]    Perage imperata: mitte qui Plauti mihi    Sillaeque caesi referat abscissum caput.    (Line 449. )[24]    Quin destinamus proximum thalamis diem?     (Line 604. )[25] Guiding to ruin. [26]    Tellure rupta Tartaro gressum extuli    stygiam cruenta praeferens dextra facem    thalamis scelestis.                         (Line 605. )She bewails her crimes on her son’s behalf and his parricidalingratitude, but vengeance will fall on him at last.    Although that Tyrant proude and scornful wight    His court with marble stone do strongly dyght,    And princelike garnish it with glistering golde:    Though troupes of soldiours, shielded sure, upholde    Their chieftaynes princely porch: and though yet still    The world drawne drye with taskes even to his will    Great heapes of riches yeeld, themselues to saue;    Although his bloudy helpe the Parthians craue,    And Kingdomes bring, and goods al that they haue;    The tyme and day shall come, when as he shall,    Forlorne, and quite undone, and wanting all,    Unto his cursed deedes his life, and more,    Unto his foes his bared throate restore. [27]As she disappears, Octavia enters in conversation with the chorus, whomshe dissuades from the expression of sympathy for her distress lestthey should incur the wrath of the tyrant. On this suggestion theydenounce the supineness of the degenerate Romans in the vindication ofright, and exhort each other to an outbreak. [27]    Licet extruat marmoribus atque auro tegat    superbus aulam, limen armatae ducis    servent cohortes, mittat immensas opes    exhaustus orbis, supplices dextram petant    Parthi cruentam, regna divitias ferant:    veniet dies tempusque quo reddat suis    animam nocentem sceleribus jugulum hostibus    desertus ac destructus et cunctis egens.    (Line 636. )In the fourth act, Poppaea, terrified by an ominous dream of Nerostabbing her first husband, and of Agrippina, a firebrand in her grasp,leading her down through the earth, rushes across the stage, but isstayed by her nurse, who soothes and encourages her, and bids herreturn to her bridal chamber. Yet it seems as though her worst fearswere at once to be realised. The chorus, acknowledging the charms ofthe new Empress, is interrupted by the hurried arrival of a messenger. He announces that the people are in uproar, overthrowing the statues ofPoppaea, and demanding the restitution of Octavia. But to what purpose? The chorus sings that it is vain to oppose the resistless arms of love. It is at least vain to oppose the arms of Nero’s soldiers. Confident intheir strength he enters, breathing forth threatenings and slaughter,and expectant of a time when he will exact a full penalty from thecitizens:    Then shall their houses fall by force of fire;    What burning both, and buildings fayre decay,[28]    What beggarly want, and wayling hunger may,    Those villaines shall be sure to have ech day. [29]Dreaming of the future conflagration, he is dissatisfied with theprefect, who tells him that the insurrection has been easily quelledwith the death of one or two, and meanwhile turns all his wrath againstthe innocent cause of the riot. The play does not, however, end withthe murder of Octavia. She informs the chorus that she is to bedispatched in Agrippina’s death-ship to her place of exile,    But now no helpe of death I feele,    Alas I see my Brothers boate:    This is the same, whose vaulted keele    His Mother once did set a flote.    And now his piteous Sister I,    Excluded cleane from spousall place    Shall be so caried by and by;[30]    No force hath virtue in this case. [31][28] Destruction of fair buildings. [29]    Mox tecta flammis concidant urbis meis,    ignes ruinae noxium populum premant    turpisque egestas saeva cum luctu fames.    (Line 847. )[30] At once. [31]    Sed iam spes est nulla salutis:    fratris cerno miseranda ratem,    hac en cuius vecta carina    quondam genetrix    nunc et thalamis expulsa soror    miseranda vehar.                (Line 926. )And the final song of the chorus, with a touch of dramatic irony,wishes her a prosperous voyage, and congratulates her on her removalfrom the cruel city of Rome:    O pippling puffe of western wynde,    Which sacrifice didst once withstand,    Of Iphigen to death assignde:    And close in Cloude congealed clad    Did cary hir from smoking aares[32]    Which angry, cruell Virgin had;    This Prince also opprest with cares    Saue from this paynefull punishment    To Dian’s temple safely borne:    The barbarous Moores, to rudenesse bent,    Then[33] Princes Courtes in Rome forlorne    Haue farre more Cyuile curtesie:    For there doth straungers death appease    The angry Gods in heauens on hie,    But Romayne bloude our Rome must please. [34][32] Altars. [33] Than. [34]    Lenes aurae zephyrique leves    tectam quondam nube aetheria    qui vixistis raptam saevae    virginis aris Iphigeniam,    hanc quoque tristi procul a poena    portate precor templa ad Triviae.    Urbe est nostra mitior Aulis    et Maurorum {note} barbara tellus;    hospitis illic caede litatur    numen superum,    civis gaudet Roma cruore.      (Line 1002. )    {note} Better reading, Taurorum. There could be no greater contrast than between _Appius and Virginia_,with its exits and entrances, its changefulness and bustle, its mixtureof the pompous and the farcical; and the monotonous declamation,the dismissal of all action, the meagreness of the material in the_Octavia_. And yet they are more akin than they at first sight appear. Disregard the buffoonery which the mongrel “tragicall comedie”inherited from the native stock, and you perceive traits that suggestanother filiation. The similarity with the Latin Play in its Englishversion is, of course, misleading, except in so far as it shows howthe Senecan drama must present itself to an early Elizabethan inthe light of his own crude art. The devices of the rhetorician weretravestied by those who knew no difference between rhetoric and rant,and whose very rant, whether they tried to invent or to translate, wasclumsy and strained. Hence the “tenne tragedies” of Seneca and thenearly contemporary Mixed Plays have a strong family resemblance instyle. In all of them save the _Octavia_ the resemblance extends fromdiction to verse, for in dialogue and harangue they employ the trailingfourteen-syllable measure of the popular play, while in the _Octavia_this is discarded for the more artistic heroic couplet. In this andother respects, T. N. , as Nuce signs himself, is undoubtedly more athis ease in the literary element than others of the group; neverthelesshe is often content to fly the ordinary pitch of R. B. This is mostobvious when their performances are read and compared as a whole, butit is evident enough in single passages. The Nurse, for example, saysof Nero to Octavia:    Eft steppèd into servile Pallace stroke,    To filthy vices lore one easly broke,    Of Divelish wicked wit this Princocks proude,    By stepdames wyle prince Claudius Sonne auoude;    Whome deadly damme did bloudy match ylight,    And thee, against thy will, for feare did plight. [35][35] The original author has a right to complain:    Intravit hostis hei mihi captam domum    dolisque novercae principis factus gener    idemque natus iuvenis infandi ingeni    scelerum capacis dira cui genetrix facem    accendit et te iunxit invitam metu.      (Line 155. )These words might almost suit the mouths of Appius and his victims. But leaving aside the affinities due to the common use of Englishby writers on much the same plane of art, the London medley is notimmeasurably different from or inferior to the Roman _Praetexta_,even when confronted with the latter in its native dress. In both thecharacterisation is in the same rudimentary and obvious style, andshows the same predilection for easily classified types. There is evenless genuine theatrical tact in the Latin than in the English drama. The chief persons are under careful supervision and are kept rigidlyapart. Nero never meets Octavia or Poppaea, Poppaea and Octavia nevermeet each other. No doubt there are some successful touches: the firstentrance of Nero is not ineffective; the equivocal hopefulness of thelast chorus is a thing one remembers: the insertion of Agrippina’sprophecy and Poppaea’s dream does something to keep in view the futurerequital and so to alleviate the thickening gloom. Except for these,however, and a few other felicities natural to a writer with longdramatic traditions behind him, the _Octavia_ strikes us as a seriesof disquisitions and discussions, well-arranged, well-managed, ofteneffective, sometimes brilliant, that have been suggested by a singleimpressive historical situation. 2. THE FRENCH SENECANSThese salient features are transmitted to the Senecan dramas of France,except that the characterisation is even vaguer, the declamationampler, and the whole treatment less truly dramatic and more obviouslyrhetorical; of which there is an indication in the greater relativeprominence of monologue as compared with dialogue, and in the excessivepredilection for general reflections,[36] many of them derived fromSeneca and Horace, but many of them too of modern origin. [36] “Jodelle’s und Garnier’s Dramen sind reicher an Sentenzen als dieSeneca’s, Jodelle hat mehr als doppelt so viel. ” _Gedankenkreis . . . in Jodelle’s und Garnier’s Tragödien_, by Paul Kahnt, who gives theresults of his calculations in an interesting table. At the head of the list stands the _Julius Caesar_ of Muretus, a playwhich, even if of far less intrinsic worth than can be claimed forit, would always be interesting for the associations with which it issurrounded. Montaigne, after mentioning among his other tutors “Marc AntoineMuret,” que le France et l’Italie recognoist pour le meilleur orateurdu temps, goes on to tell us: “J’ay soustenu les premiers personnagesez tragedies latines de Buchanan, de Guerente et de Muret, qui serepresenterent en nostre college de Guienne avecques dignité: en cela,Andreas Goveanus, nostre principal, comme en toutes aultres parties desa charge, feut sans comparaison le plus grand principal de France; etm’en tenoit on maistre ouvrier. ”The _Julius Caesar_ written in 1544 belongs to the year beforeMontaigne left Bordeaux at the age of thirteen, so he may have takenone of the chief parts in it, Caesar, or M. Brutus, or Calpurnia. This would always give us a kind of personal concern in Muret’s shortboyish composition of barely 600 lines, which he wrote at the age ofeighteen and afterwards published only among his _Juvenilia_. But ithas an importance of its own. Of course it is at the best an academicexperiment, though from Montaigne’s statement that these plays werepresented “avecques dignité,” and from the interest the principal tookin the matter, we may suppose that the performance would be exemplaryin its kind. Of course, too, even as an academic experiment it doesnot, to modern taste, seem on the level of the more elaborate tragedieswhich George Buchanan, “ce grand poëte ecossois,” as Montaignereverently styles his old preceptor, had produced at the comparativelymature age of from thirty-three to thirty-six, ere leaving Bordeaux twoyears before. It is inferior to the _Baptistes_ and far inferior tothe _Jephthes_ in precision of portraiture and pathos of appeal. Butin the sixteenth century, partly, no doubt, because the subject wasof such secular importance and the treatment so congenial to learnedtheory, but also, no doubt, because the eloquence was sometimes sogenuinely eloquent, and the Latin, despite a few licenses in metre andgrammar, so racy of the classic soil, it obtained extraordinary fameand exercised extraordinary influence. For these reasons, as well asthe additional one that it is now less widely known than it ought tobe, a brief account of it may not be out of place. The first act is entirely occupied with a soliloquy by Caesar, in whichhe represents himself as having attained the summit of earthly glory.    Let others at their pleasure count their triumphs, and name    themselves from vanquished provinces. It is more to be    called Caesar: whoso seeks fresh titles elsewhere, takes    something away thereby. Would you have me reckon the regions    conquered under my command? Enumerate all there are. [37]Even Rome has yielded to him, even his great son-in-law admitted hispower,    and whom he would not have as an equal, he has borne as a    superior. [38][37]    Numerent triumphos, cum volent, alii suos,    Seque {note} subactis nominent provinciis.    Plus est vocari Caesarem; quisquis novos    Aliunde titulos quaerit, is jam detrahit:    Numerare ductu vis meo victas plagas?    Percurrito omnes. {note} Insert _ex_. [38]    quemque noluerat parem,    Tulit priorem. What more is to be done?    My quest must be heaven, earth is become base to me. . . .    Now long enough have I lived whether for myself or for my    country. . . . The destruction of foes, the gift of laws to    the people, the ordering of the year, the restoration of    splendour to worship, the settlement of the world,—than    these, greater things can be conceived by none, nor pettier    be performed by me. . . . When life has played the part    assigned to it, death never comes in haste and sometimes too    late. [39][39]    Coelum petendum est: terra jam vilet mihi. . . .    Jam vel mihi, vel patriae vixi satis. . . .    Hostes perempti, civibus leges datae,    Digestus annus, redditus sacris nitor,    Compostus orbis, cogitari nec queunt    Majora cuiquam, nec minora a me geri. . . .    Cum vita partes muneris functa est sui,    Mors propera nunquam, sera nonnunquam venit. The chorus sings of the immutability of fortune. In the second act Brutus, in a long monologue, upbraids himself withhis delay.    Does the virtue of thy house move thee nought, and nought    the name of Brutus? Nought, the hard lot of thy groaning    country, crushed by the tyrant and calling for thine aid?    Nought the petitions in which the people lament that Brutus    comes not to champion the state? If these things fail to    touch thee, thy wife now gives thee rede enough that thou    be a man; who has pledged her faith to thee in blood, thus    avouching herself the offspring of thine uncle. [40][40]    Nihilne te virtus tuorum commovet,    Nomenque Bruti? nihil {note} gementis patriae,    Pressae a tyranno, opemque poscentis tuam    Conditio dura? nil libelli supplices,    Queis Brutum abesse civitatis vindicem    Cives queruntur? Haec parum si te movent,    Tua jam, vir ut sis, te satis conjux monet,    Fidem cruore quae tibi obstrinxit suam.    Testata sic se avunculi prolem tui.    {note} Certainly read _nil_. He raises and meets the objections which his understanding offers:    Say you he is not king but dictator? If the thing be    the same, what boots a different name? Say you he shuns    that name, and rejects the crowns they proffer him: this    is pretence and mockery, for why then did he remove the    tribunes? True, he gave me dignities and once my life; with    me my country outweighs them all. Whoso shows gratitude to    a tyrant against his country’s interest, is ingrate while he    seeks to be stupidly grateful. [41]And his conclusion is    The sun reawakening to life saw the people under the yoke, and    slaves: at his setting may he see them free. [42]To him enters Cassius exultant that the day has arrived, impatient forthe decisive moment, scarce able to restrain his eagerness. Only onescruple remains to him; should Antony be slain along with his master? Brutus answers:            Often already have I said that my purpose is this,            to destroy tyranny but save the citizens.    _Cass. _ Then let it be destroyed from its deepest roots, lest if              only cut down, it sprout again at some time hereafter.    _Brut. _ The whole root lurks under a single trunk.    _Cass. _ Think’st thou so? I shall say no more. Thy will                 be done: we all follow thy guidance. [43][41]    At vero non rex iste, sed dictator est.    Dum res sit una, quid aliud nomen juvat?    At nomen illud refugit, et oblatas sibi    Rejicit coronas. Fingere hoc et ludere est.    Nam cur Tribunos igitur amovit loco?    At mihi et honores et semel vitam dedit.    Plus patria illis omnibus apud me potest.    Qui se tyranno in patriam gratum exhibet,    Dum vult inepte gratus esse, ingratus est. [42]    Phoebus renascens subditos cives jugo,    Servosque vidit: liberos videat cadens. [43]                 Jam saepe dixi, id esse consilium mihi,                 Salvis perimere civibus tyrannida.    _Cass. _ Perimatur ergo ab infimis radicibus,                 Ne quando posthac caesa rursum pullulet.     _Bru. _ Latet sub uno tota radix corpore.    _Cass. _ Itan’ videtur? amplius nil proloquar.                 Tibi pareatur; te sequimur omnes ducem. The chorus sings the glories of those who, like Harmodius with his“amiculus,” destroy the tyrants, and the risks these tyrants run. In the third act Calpurnia, flying in panic to her chamber, is met byher nurse, to whom she discloses the cause of her distress. She hasdreamed that Caesar lies dead in her arms covered with blood, andstabbed with many wounds. The nurse points out the vanity of dreams andthe unlikelihood of any attempt against one so great and beneficent,whose clemency has changed even foes to friends. Calpurnia, only halfcomforted, rejoins that she will at least beseech him to remain at homethat day, and the chorus prays that misfortune may be averted. In the fourth act Calpurnia tries her powers of persuasion. To herpassionate appeal, her husband answers:                What? Dost thou ask me to trust thy dreams?     _Cal. _ No; but to concede something to my fear.    _Caes. _ But that fear of thine rests on dreams alone.     _Cal. _ Assume it to be vain; grant something to thy wife. [44]She goes on to enumerate the warning portents, and at length Caesarassents to her prayers since she cannot repress her terrors. But hereDecimus Brutus strikes in:    High-hearted Caesar, what word has slipped from thee? [45]He bids him remember his glory:    O most shameful plight if the world is ruled by Caesar and    Caesar by a woman. . . . What, Caesar, dost thou suppose the    Fathers will think if thou bidst them, summoned at thy    command, to depart now and to return when better dreams    present themselves to Calpurnia. Go rather resolutely and    assume a name the Parthians must dread: or if this please    thee not, at least go forth, and thyself dismiss the    Fathers; let them not think they are slighted and had in    derision. [46][44]            Quid? Somniis me credere tuis postulas?     _Cal. _ Non: sed timori ut non nihil tribuas meo.    _Caes. _ At iste solis nititur somniis timor.     _Cal. _ Finge esse vanum: tribuito aliquid conjugi. [45]    Magnanime Caesar, quod tibi verbum excidit? [46]                  O statum deterrimum,    Si Caesar orbem, Caesarem mulier regit! . . .    Quid, Caesar, animi patribus credis fore,    Si te jubente convocatos jusseris    Abire nunc, redire, cum Calpurniae    Meliora sese objecerint insomnia?    Vade potius constanter, et nomen cape    Parthis timendum; aut, hoc minus si te juvat,    Prodito saltem, atque ipse patres mittito:    Ne negligi se, aut ludibrio haberi putent. Caesar is bent one way by pity for his wife, another by fear of thesetaunts; but, at last, leaving Calpurnia to her misgivings, he exclaims:    But yet, since even to fall, so it be but once, is better    than to be laden with lasting fear; not if three hundred    prophet-voices call me back, not if with his own voice the    present Deity himself warn me of the peril and urge my    staying here, shall I refrain. [47]The chorus cites the predictions of Cassandra to show that it wouldsometimes be wise to follow the counsel of women. In the fifth act Brutus and Cassius appear in triumph.    _Brut. _ Breathe, citizens; Caesar is slain! . . . In the Senate                    which he erewhile overbore, he lies overborne.    _Cass. _ Behold, Rome, the sword yet warm with blood, behold                 the hand that hath championed thine honour. That                 loathsome one who in impious frenzy and blind rage                 had troubled thee and thine, sore wounded by this same                 hand, by this same sword which thou beholdest, and                 gashed in every limb, hath spewed forth his life in                 a flood of gore. [48][47]                Sed tamen quando semel    Vel cadere praestat, quam metu longo premi;    Non si tracentis vocibus vatum avocer,    Non si ipse voce propria praesens Deus    Moneat pericli, atque hic manendum suadeat,    Me continebo. [48]    _Brut. _ Spirate cives! Caesar interfectus est. . . .                 In curia, quam oppresserat, oppressus jacet.    _Cass. _ En, Roma, gladium adhuc tepentem sanguine;                 En dignitatis vindicem dextram tuae.                 Impurus ille, qui furore nefario,                 Rabieque caeca, te et tuos vexaverat,                 Hac, hac manu, atque hoc, hocce gladio, quem vides,                 Consauciatus, et omnibus membris lacer                Undam cruoris, et animum evomuit simul. As they leave, Calpurnia enters bewailing the truth of her dream, andinviting to share in her laments the chorus, which denounces vengeanceon the criminals. Then the voice of Caesar is heard in rebuke of theirtears and in comfort of their distress. Only his shadow fell, but hehimself is joined to the immortals.    Weep no more: it is the wretched that tears befit. Those    who assailed me with frantic mind—a god am I, and true is    my prophecy—shall not escape vengeance for their deed. My    sister’s grandson, heir of my virtue as of my sceptre, will    require the penalty as seems good to him. [49][49]    Desinite flere: lacrymae miseros decent.    Qui me furenti, (vera praemoneo Indiges)    Sunt animo adorti, non inultum illud ferent.    Heres meae virtutis, ut sceptri mei,    Nepos sororis, arbitratu pro suo    Poenos reposcet. Calpurnia recognises the voice, and the chorus celebrates the bliss ofthe “somewhat” that is released from the prison house of the body. It is interesting to note that Muretus already employs a number of the_motifs_ that reappear in Shakespeare. Thus he gives prominence to theself-conscious magnanimity of Caesar: to the temporary hesitation ofBrutus, with his appeal to his name and the letters that are placed inhis way; to his admiration for the courage and constancy of Portia; tohis final whole-heartedness and disregard of Caesar’s love for him; tohis prohibition of Mark Antony’s death; to Cassius’ vindictive zeal andeager solicitation of his friend; to Calpurnia’s dream, and the contestbetween her and Decimus Brutus and in Caesar’s own mind; to Caesar’sfatal decision in view of his honour, and his rejection of the fear ofdeath; to the exultation of Brutus and Cassius as they enter with theirblood-stained swords after the deed is done. And more noticeable thanany of these details, are the divided admiration and divided sympathythe author bestows both on Brutus and Caesar—which are obvious evenin the wavering utterances of the chorus. We are far removed from thetimes when Dante saw Lucifer devouring Brutus and Cassius in two ofhis mouths with Judas between them; or when Chaucer, making a compositemonster of the pair, tells how “false Brutus-Cassius,”    “That ever hadde of his hye state envye,”“stikede” Julius with “boydekins. ” But we are equally far from thetimes when Marie-Joseph Chénier was to write his tragedy of _Brutus etCassius, Les Derniers Romains_. At the renaissance the characteristicfeeling was enthusiasm for Caesar and his assassin alike, though it wasShakespeare alone who knew how to reconcile the two points of view. [50]Of the admiration which Muret’s little drama excited there isdocumentary proof. Prefixed to it are a number of congratulatoryverses, and among the eulogists are not only scholars, likeBuchanan,[51] but literary men, members of the Pléiade—Dorât, Baïf,and especially Jodelle, who has his complimentary conceits on theappropriateness of the author’s name, Mark Antony, to the feat he hasaccomplished. [50] I am quite unable to agree with Herr Collischonn’s view thatMuret’s play is more republican in sentiment than that of Grévin. In both there is some discrepancy and contradiction, but withMuret, Caesar is a more prominent figure than Brutus, taking partin three scenes, if we include his intervention after death, whileBrutus appears only in two, and to my mind Caesar makes fully assympathetic an impression. On the other hand, the alleged monarchicbias of Grévin’s work cannot be considered very pronounced, when,as M. Faguet mentions in his _Tragédie française au XVIͤ Siècle_,“it was reprinted in the time of Ravaillac with a preface violentlyhostile to the principle of monarchy. ” But see Herr Collischonn’sexcellent introduction to his _Grevin’s Tragödie “Caesar,” Ausgaben undAbhandlungen, etc. , LII_. [51] See Ruhnken’s edition of Muretus. For the text I have generallybut not always used Collischonn’s reprint. But this last testimony leads us to the less explicit but not lessobvious indications of the influence exercised by Muret’s tragedy whichappear in the subsequent story of literary production. This influencewas both indirect and direct. The example of this modern Latin playcould not but count for something when Jodelle took the further stepof treating another Roman theme in the vernacular. In the vernacular,too, Grévin was inspired to rehandle the same theme as Muretus,obtaining from his predecessor most of his material and his apparatus. These experiments again were not without effect on the later dramas ofGarnier, two of which were to leave a mark on English literature. The first regular tragedy as well as the first Roman history in theFrench language was the _Cléopatre Captive_ of Jodelle, acted withgreat success in 1552 before Henry II. by Jodelle’s friends, who atthe subsequent banquet presented to him, in semi-pagan wise, a goatdecked with flowers and ivy. The prologue[52] to the King describes thecontents.              “C’est une tragedie    Qui d’une voix plaintive et hardie    Te represente un Romain, Marc Antoine,    Et Cleopatre, Egyptienne royne,    Laquelle après qu’Antoine, son amy,    Estant desjà vaincu par l’ennemy,    Se fust tué, ja se sentant captive,    Et qu’on vouloit la porter toute vive    En un triomphe avecques ses deux femmes,    S’occit. Icy les desirs et les flammes    De deux amants: d’Octavian aussi    L’orgueil, l’audace et le journel soucy    De son trophée emprains tu sonderas.

”But this programme conveys an impression of greater variety andabundance than is justified by the piece. In point of fact it beginsonly after the death of Antony, who does not intervene save as a ghostin the opening scene, to bewail his offences and announce that in adream he has bid Cleopatra join him before the day is out. [53] Nor dowe hear anything of “desirs et flammes” on his part; rather he resentsher seductions, and has summoned her to share his torments:[52] _Ancien Théatre François_, Tome IV. ed Viollet Le Duc. [53] As he puts it, rather comically to modern ears:    ‘Avant que ce soleil qui vient ores de naistre,    Ayant tracé son jour, _chez sa tante se plonge_. ’    Or se faisant compagne en ma peine et tristesse    Qui s’est faite longtemps compagne en ma liesse. The sequel does little more than describe how his command is carriedout. Cleopatra enters into conversation with Eras and Charmium, anddespite their remonstrances resolves to obey. The chorus sings of thefickleness of fortune: (Act I. ). Octavianus, after a passing regretfor Antony, arranges with Proculeius and Agrippa to make sure of herpresence at his triumph. The chorus sings of the perils of pride:(Act II. ). Octavianus visits the Queen, dismisses her excuses, butgrants mercy to her and her children, and pardons her deceit when herretention of her jewellery is exposed by Seleucus. But Seleucus isinconsolable for his offence as well as his castigation, and exclaims:    Lors que la royne, et triste et courageuse,    Devant Cesar aux chevaux m’a tiré,    Et de son poing mon visage empiré,    S’elle m’eust fait mort en terre gesir,    Elle eust preveu à mon present desir,    Veu que la mort n’eust point esté tant dure    Que l’eternelle et mordante pointure    Qui jà desjà jusques au fond me blesse    D’avoir blessé ma royne et ma maistresse. The chorus oddly enough discovers in her maltreatment of thetale-bearer a proof of her indomitable spirit, and an indication thatshe will never let herself be led to Rome: (Act III. ). Cleopatra nowexplains that her submission was only feigned to secure the livesof her children, and that she herself has no thought of followingthe conqueror’s car. Eras and Charmium approve, and all three departto Antony’s tomb to offer there a last sacrifice, which the chorusdescribes in full detail: (Act IV. ). Proculeius in consternationannounces the sequel:    “J’ay veu (ô rare et miserable chose! )    Ma Cleopatre en son royal habit    Et sa couronne, au long d’un riche lict    Peint et doré, blesme et morte couchée,    Sans qu’elle fust d’aucun glaive touchée,    Avecq Eras, sa femme, à ses pieds morte,    Et Charmium vive, qu’en telle sorte    J’ay lors blasmée: ‘A a! Charmium, est-ce    Noblement faict? ’ ‘Ouy, ouy, c’est de noblesse    De tant de rois Egyptiens venuë    Un tesmoignage. ’ Et lors, peu soustenuë    En chancelant et s’accrochant en vain,    Tombe a l’envers, restans un tronc humain. ”The chorus celebrates the pitifulness and glory of her end, and thesupremacy of Caesar: (Act _V. _). Thus, despite the promises of the prologue, the play resolves itself toa single _motif_, the determination of Cleopatra to follow Antony indefiance of Octavianus’ efforts to prevent her. Nevertheless, simple asit is, it fails in real unity. The ghost of Antony, speaking, one mustsuppose, the final verdict, pronounces condemnation on her as well ashimself; yet in the rest of the play, even in the undignified episodewith Seleucus, Jodelle bespeaks for her not only our sympathy but ouradmiration. It is just another aspect of this that Antony treats herdeath as the beginning of her punishment, but to her and her attendantsand the women of Alexandria it is a desirable release. The recurrenttheme of the chorus, varied to suit the complexion of the differentacts, is always the same:    Joye, qui dueil enfante    Se meurdrist; puis la mort,    Par la joye plaisante,    Fait au deuil mesme tort. Half a dozen years later, in 1558, the _Confrères de la Passion_ wereacting a play which Muretus had more immediately prompted, and whichdid him greater credit. This was the _Cesar_ of Jacques Grévin, a youngHuguenot gentlemen who, at the age of twenty, recast in French theeven more juvenile effort of the famous scholar, expanding it to twicethe size, introducing new personages, giving the old ones more to do,and while borrowing largely in language and construction, shaping itto his own ends and making it much more dramatic. Indeed, his tragedystrikes one as fitter for the popular stage than almost any other ofits class, and this seems to have been felt at the time, for besidesrunning through two editions in 1561 and 1562, it was reproduced bythe _Confrères_ with great success in the former year. Of course itstheatrical merit is only relative, and it does not escape the faultsof the Senecan school. Grévin styles his _dramatis personae_ ratherominously and very correctly “entre-parleurs”; for they talk ratherthan act. They talk, moreover, in long, set harangues even when theyare conversing, and Grévin so likes to hear them that he sometimes letsthe story wait. Nor do they possess much individuality or concretelife. But the young author has passion; he has fire; and he knows thedramatic secret of contrasting different moods and points of view. He follows his exemplar most closely, and often literally, in thefirst three acts, though even in them he often goes his own way. Thus,after Caesar’s opening soliloquy, which is by no means so Olympianas in Muret, he introduces Mark Antony, who encourages his masterwith reminders of his greatness and assurances of his devotion. Inthe second act, after Marcus Brutus’ monologue, not only Cassius butDecimus has something to say, and there is a quicker interchange ofstatement and rejoinder than is usual in such a play. In the thirdact, the third and fourth of Muretus are combined, and after theconversation of Calpurnia with the Nurse, there follow her attemptsto dissuade her husband from visiting the senate house, the hesitationof Caesar, the counter-arguments of Decimus; and in conclusion, whenDecimus has prevailed, the Nurse resumes her endeavours at consolation. The fourth act is entirely new, and gives an account of theassassination by the mouth of a Messenger, who is also a new person, tothe distracted Calpurnia and her sympathetic Nurse. In the fifth Grévinbegins by returning to his authority in the jubilant speeches of Brutusand Cassius, but one by Decimus is added; and rejecting the expedientof the ghostly intervention, he substitutes, much more effectively,that of Mark Antony, who addresses the chorus of soldiers, rouses themto vengeance, and having made sure of them, departs to stir up thepeople. Altogether a creditable performance, and a distinct improvement on themore famous play that supplied the groundwork. One must not be misledby the almost literal discipleship of Grévin in particular passages, tosuppose that even in language he is a mere imitator. The discipleshipis of course undeniable. Take Brutus’ outburst:    Rome effroy de ce monde, exemple des provinces,    Laisse la tyrannie entre les mains des Princes    Du Barbare estranger, qui honneur luy fera,    Non pas Rome, pendant que Brute vivera. And compare:    Reges adorent barbarae gentes suos,    Non Roma mundi terror, et mundi stupor.    Vivente Bruto, Roma reges nesciet. So, too, after the murder Brutus denounces his victim:    Ce Tyran, ce Cesar, ennemi du Senat. . . .    Ce bourreau d’innocens, ruine de nos loix,    La terreur des Romains, et le poison des droicts. The lines whence this extract is taken merely enlarge Muretus’ conciserstatement:    Ille, ille, Caesar, patriae terror suae,    Hostis senatus, innocentium carnifex,    Legum ruina, publici jures lues. But generally Grévin is more abundant and more fervid even when hereproduces most obviously, and among the best of his purple patches aresome that are quite his own. He indeed thought differently. He modestlyconfesses:    Je ne veux pourtant nier que s’il se trouve quelque traict    digne estre loué, qu’il ne soit de Muret, lequel a esté mon    precepteur quelque temps es lettres humaines, et auquel je    donne le meilleur comme l’ayant appris de luy. All the same there is nothing in Muretus like the passage in whichBrutus promises himself an immortality of fame:    Et quand on parlera de Cesar et de Romme,    Qu’on se souvienne aussi qu’il a esté un homme,    Un Brute, le vangeur de toute cruauté,    Qui aura d’un seul coup gaigné la liberté.    Quand on dira, Cesar fut maistre de l’empire,    Qu’on die quant-et-quant, Brute le sceut occire.    Quand on dira, Cesar fut premier Empereur,    Qu’on die quant-et-quant, Brute en fut le vangeur.    Ainsi puisse a jamais sa gloire estre suyvie    De celle qui sera sa mortelle ennemie. Grévin’s tragedy had great vogue, was preferred even to those ofJodelle, and was praised by Ronsard, though Ronsard afterwardsretracted his praises when Grévin broke with him on religious grounds. His protestantism, however, would be a recommendation rather thanotherwise in England, and one would like to know whether some ofthe lost English pieces on the same subject owed anything to theFrench drama. The suggestion has even been made that Shakespeare wasacquainted with it. There are some vague resemblances in particularthoughts and phrases,[54] the closest of which occurs in Caesar’spronouncement on death:                    Il vault bien mieux mourir    Asseuré de tout poinct, qu’incessament perir    Faulsement par la peur. [54] Enumerated by Collischonn in his excellent edition, see above. Hehas, however, overlooked the one I give. This suggests:    Cowards die many times before their deaths:    The valiant never taste of death but once.                                   (II. ii. 32. )Herr Collischonn also draws attention to a coincidence in situationthat is not derived from Plutarch. When the conspirators are discussingthe chances of Caesar’s attending the senate meeting, Cassius says:                    Encore qu’il demeure    Plus long temps à venir, si fault il bien qu’il meure:and Decimus answers:    Je m’en vay au devant, sans plus me tormenter,    Et trouveray moyen de le faire haster. It is at least curious to find the same sort of addition, in the samecircumstances and with the same speakers in Shakespeare.      _Cassius. _           But it is doubtful yet,                      Whether Caesar will come forth to-day, or no. . . .    _Dec. Brut. _ Never fear that: if he be so resolved,                      I can o’ersway him. . . .                      For I can give his humour the true bent                      And I will bring him to the Capitol.                                         (II. i. 194, 202, 210. )Such _minutiae_, however, are far from conclusive, especially since, asin the two instances quoted, which are the most significant, Plutarch,though he did not authorise, may at any rate have suggested them. Thefirst looks like an expansion of Caesar’s remark when his friendswere discussing which death was the best: “Death unlooked for. ” Thesecond follows as a natural dramatic anticipation of the part thatDecimus actually played in inducing Caesar to keep tryst. They mayvery well have occurred independently to both poets; or, if there bea connection, may have been transmitted from the older to the youngerthrough the medium of some forgotten English piece. There is morepresumptive evidence that Grévin influenced the _Julius Caesar_ of SirWilliam Alexander, Earl of Stirling; but Stirling’s paraphrase of hisauthorities is so diffuse that they are not always easy to trace. Hisapparent debts to Grévin may really be due to the later and much morefamous French Senecan Garnier, two of whose works have an undoubtedthough not very conspicuous place in the history of the English Dramagenerally, and especially of the Roman Play in England. _Cornélie_, the earlier and less successful of the pair, written inGarnier’s twenty-eighth year, was performed at the Hôtel de Bourgognein 1573, and was published in 1574. The young author was not altogetherunpractised in his art, for already in 1568 he had written a dramaon the subject of Portia, but he has not yet advanced beyond hispredecessors, and like them, or perhaps more obviously than they, isat the stage of regarding the tragedy “only as an elegy mixed withrhetorical expositions. ” The episode that he selected lent itself tosuch treatment. Cornelia, the daughter of Metellus Scipio, had after the loss of herfirst husband, the younger Cassius, become the wife of Pompey theGreat, of whose murder she was an eye-witness. Meanwhile her fatherstill made head against Caesar in Africa, and the play deals withher regrets and suspense at Rome till she learns the issue of thisfinal struggle. In the first act Cicero soliloquises on the woes ofthe country, which he traces to her lust of conquest; and the chorustakes up the burden at the close. In the second Cornelia bewails herown miseries, which she attributes to her infidelity in marryingagain: Cicero tries to comfort her and she refuses his comfort, bothin very long harangues; and the chorus describes the mutability ofmortal things. In the third act she narrates an ominous dream in whichthe shade of Pompey has visited her. Scarcely has she left the stagewhen Cicero enters to announce the triumph of Caesar and the death ofScipio. Cornelia re-enters to receive the urn with Pompey’s ashes, thesight of which stirs her to new laments for herself and imprecationsagainst Caesar. The chorus dwells on the capriciousness of fortune. Inthe fourth act the resentment against Caesar is emphasised by Cassiusin discourse with Decimus Brutus, and the chorus sings of Harmodios andAristogeiton; but after that Caesar and Antony come in and discuss themeans to be taken for Caesar’s safety, Antony advocating severity andcaution, Caesar leniency and confidence. This act is closed by a chorusof Caesar’s friends, who celebrate his services and virtues. The fifthact is chiefly occupied with the messenger’s account of Scipio’s lastbattle and death, at the end of which Cornelia at some length declaresthat when she has paid due funeral rites to husband and father, shewill surrender her own life. From this analysis it will be seen that _Cornélie_ as a play is aboutas defective as it could be. The subject is essentially undramatic,for the heroine—and there is no hero—has nothing to do but spend hertime in lamentations and forebodings, in eulogies and vituperations. Yet the subject is more suitable than the treatment. There is no traceof conflict, internal or external; for the persons maintain their ownpoint of view throughout, and the issue is a matter of course fromthe first. There is no entanglement or plot; but all the speakers, asthey enter in turn, are affected with a craving to deliver their mindseither in solitude or to some congenial listener: and their prolationslead to nothing. Even the unity of interest, which the classicistsso prized, and over-prized, is lacking here, despite the bareness ofthe theme. Cicero has hardly less to say than Cornelia, and in twoacts she does not so much as appear, while in one of them attentionis diverted from her sorrows to the dangers of Caesar. The heroine nodoubt retains a certain kind of primacy, but save for that, M. Faguet’sdescription would be literally correct: “The piece in the author’sconception might be entitled _Thoughts of various persons concerningRome at the Date of Thapsus_. ”[55] The _Cornélie_ is by no means devoidof merit, but that merit is almost entirely rhetorical, literary, andpoetical. The language is never undignified, the metres are carefullymanipulated; the descriptions and reflections, many of them taken fromLucan, though sometimes stilted, are often elevated and picturesque. But the most dramatic passages are the conversations in the fourthact, where the _inter-locuteurs_, as Garnier calls the characters witheven more reason than Grévin calls those of his play _entre-parleurs_,are respectively Decimus Brutus and Cassius, Caesar and Mark Antony:and this is typical for two reasons. In the first place, these sceneshave least to do with the titular subject, and are, as it were,mere excrescences on the main theme. In the second place, they areborrowed, so far as their general idea is concerned, from Grévin, asGrévin in turn had borrowed them from Muretus; and even details havebeen transmitted to the cadet in the trinity from each and both ofhis predecessors. Thus in the _Cornélie_ Decimus not very suitablyreplaces or absorbs Marcus Brutus, but the whole tone and movement ofthe interview with Cassius are the same in all the three plays, andparticular expressions reappear in Garnier that are peculiar to one orother of his elder colleagues or that the later has adapted from theearlier. For example, Garnier’s Cassius describes Caesar as[55] _Tragédie Française au XVIͤ Siècle. _          un homme effeminé    Qui le Roy Nicomede a jeune butiné. [56][56] _Garnier’s Tragédies_, ed. Foerster. There is no express reference to this scandal in Muretus, but itfurnishes Grévin’s Decimus with a vigorous couplet which obviously hasinspired the above quotation:    N’endurons plus sur nous regner un Ganimede    Et la moitié du lict de son Roy Nicomede. Here, on the other hand, is an instance of Garnier getting a phrasefrom Muretus that Grévin passed over. Decimus says in excuse of hisformer patron:    Encor’ n’est il pas Roy portant le diadême:to which Cassius replies:    Non, il est Dictateur: et n’est-ce pas de mesme? In the Latin both objection and answer are put in the lips of MarcusBrutus, but that does not affect the resemblance.    At vero non rex iste, sed dictator est.    Dum res sit una, quid aliud nomen juvat? In other cases the parallelism is threefold. Thus Garnier’s Cassiusexclaims:    Les chevaux courageux ne maschent point le mors    Sujets au Chevalier qu’avecque grands efforts;    Et les toreaux cornus ne se rendent domtables    Qu’à force, pour paistrir les plaines labourables.    Nous hommes, nous Romains, ayant le coeur plus mol,    Sous un joug volontaire irons ployer le col. Grévin’s Marcus Brutus said:    Le taureau, le cheval ne prestent le col bas    A l’appetit d’un joug, si ce n’est pas contraincte:    Fauldra il donc que Rome abbaisse sous la craincte    De ce nouveau tyran le chef de sa grandeur? In Muretus the same personage puts it more shortly:    Generosiores frena detrectant equi:    Nec nisi coacti perferunt tauri jugum:    Roma patietur, quod recusant belluae. In the scene between Caesar and Antony the resemblances are less markedin detail, partly owing to the somewhat different role assigned to thesecond speaker, but they are there; and the general tendency, from theself-conscious monologue of Caesar with which it opens, to the dialoguein which he gives expression to his doubts, is practically the same inboth plays. And these episodes are of some importance in view of their subsequentas well as their previous history. Though neither entirely originalnor entirely relevant, they seem, perhaps because of their comparativefitness for the stage, to have made a great impression at the time. It has been suggested that they were not without their influence onShakespeare when he came to write his _Julius Caesar_: a point thediscussion of which may be reserved. It is certain that they suppliedAlexander, though he may also have used Grévin and even Muretus, withthe chief models and materials for certain scenes in his tragedy on thesame subject. Thus, he too presents Caesar and Antony in consultation,and the former prefaces this interchange of views with a high-flowndeclaration of his greatness. Thus, too, the substance of their talkis to a great extent adapted from Garnier and diluted in the process. Compare the similar versions of the apology that Caesar makes for hisaction. In Alexander he exclaims:    The highest in the heaven who knows all hearts,    Do know my thoughts as pure as are their starres,    And that (constrain’d) I came from forraine parts    To seeme uncivill in the civill warres.    I mov’d that warre which all the world bemoanes,    Whil’st urged by force to free my selfe from feares;    Still when my hand gave wounds, my heart gave groanes;    No Romans bloud was shed, but I shed teares. [57][57] Works of Sir William Alexander, Glasgow, 1872. _Julius Caesar_,II. i. It is very like what Garnier’s Caesar says:    J’atteste Jupiter qui sonne sur la terre,    Que contraint malgré moy j’ay mené ceste guerre:    Et que victoire aucune où j’apperçoy gesir    Le corps d’un citoyen, ne me donne plaisir:    Mais de mes ennemis l’envie opiniatre,    Et le malheur Romain m’a contraint de combattre. So, too, when Antony asserts that some are contriving Caesar’s death,the speakers engage in a dialectical skirmish:    _Caesar. _ The best are bound to me by gifts in store.    _Antony. _ But to their countrey they are bound farre more.    _Caesar. _ Then loathe they me as th’ enemy of the state?    _Antony. _ Who freedom love, you (as usurper) hate.    _Caesar. _ I by great battells have enlarg’d their bounds.    _Antony. _ By that they think your pow’r too much abounds. The filiation with Garnier is surely unmistakable, though it cannot beshown in every line or phrase.    _Antoine. _ Aux ennemis domtez il n’y a point de foy.      _Cesar. _ En ceux qui vie et biens de ma bonté reçoivent?    _Antoine. _ Voire mais beaucoup plus à la Patrie ils doivent.      _Cesar. _ Pensent-ils que je sois ennemy du païs?    _Antoine. _ Mais cruel ravisseur de ses droits envahis.      _Cesar. _ J’ay à Rome soumis tant de riches provinces.    _Antoine. _ Rome ne peut souffrir commandement de Princes. The scene with the conspirators Stirling treats very differently andmuch more freely. It had had, as we have seen, a peculiar history. In Muretus it was confined to Marcus Brutus and Cassius, in GrévinDecimus Brutus is added, in Garnier Decimus is retained and Marcusdrops out. Alexander discriminates. He keeps one discussion for Marcusand Cassius, in so far restoring it to the original and more fittingform it had obtained from Muretus, though he transfers to Marcussome of the sentiments that Garnier had assigned to Decimus. But thehalf-apologetic rôle that Decimus plays in Garnier had impressedhim, and he did not choose to forego the spice of variety which thiscontributed. So he invents a new scene for him in which Cicero takesthe place of Cassius and solicits his support. But though the oneepisode is thus cut in two, and each of the halves enlarged far beyondthe dimensions of the original whole, it is unquestionable that theyowe their main suggestion and much of their matter to the _Cornélie_. Since then Garnier, when his powers were still immature, could soeffectively adapt these incidental passages, it is not surprising thathe should by and by be able to stand alone, and produce plays in whichthe central interest was more dramatic. Of these we are concerned only with _Marc Antoine_, which was actedwith success at the Hôtel de Bourgogne in 1578, and was printed in thesame year. In it Garnier has not altogether freed himself from hisformer faults. There are otiose personages who are introduced merelyto supply general reflections: Diomedes, the secretary, on the pathosof Cleopatra’s fall; Philostratus, the philosopher, on the overthrowof the Egyptian monarchy. There is no interaction of character oncharacter, all the protagonists being so carefully excluded from eachother that Octavianus does not meet Antony, Antony does not meetCleopatra, Cleopatra does not meet Octavianus. The speeches are stillover long, and the “sentences” over abundant. Nevertheless there is areal story, there are real characters; and the story and charactersadmit, or rather demand, an effective alternation of passion. The time comprises the interval between Antony’s final reverse and thesuicide of Cleopatra: it is short, but a good deal longer than whatJodelle allowed himself in the companion play. Further, the situationis much more complex and less confined, so that Garnier, whileborrowing many _motifs_ from Jodelle, or from their common authority,Plutarch, is able to avoid the monotony of _Cléopatre Captive_. Nordoes the coherence suffer. It is true that the account of Antony’sdeath, announced by Dercetas, occurs as with Shakespeare in the fourthact; but the play is rightly named after him and not after the Queen. He is the principal and by far the most interesting figure, and itis his tragic fate to which all that precedes leads up, and whichdetermines all that follows. The first act, as so often in these Senecan plays, is entirelyoccupied with a soliloquy, which Antony declaims; but even this hasa certain share of dramatic life, though rather after the fashion ofa dramatic lyric than of a dramatic scene. He rages against what hesupposes to be the crowning perfidy of his mistress, he recalls allthat his infatuation has cost him; the worst of his woes is that theyare caused by her; but he must love her still. The second act has atthe opening and the close respectively the unnecessary monologues ofPhilostratus and Diomedes, but they serve as setting for the animatedand significant conversation between Cleopatra and her women. From itwe learn that of the final treason at least she is innocent, but sheis full of remorse for the mischief that her love and her capriceshave done, and determines, despite the claims of her children, toexpiate it in death. Then, entering the monument she despatchesDiomedes with her excuses to Antony. To him we return in the thirdact, which is central in interest as in position, and we hear himdisburden his soul to his friend Lucilius. His fluctuations of feeling,shame at his undoing, passion for the fair undoer, jealousy lest hisconqueror should supplant him in love as in empire, are delineated withsympathetic power:    Ait Cesar la victoire, ait mes biens, ait l’honneur    D’estre sans compagnon de la terre seigneur,    Ait mes enfans, ma vie au mal opiniâtre,    Ce m’est tout un, pourveu qu’il n’ait ma Cleopatre:    Je ne puis l’oublier, tant j’affole, combien    Que de n’y penser point servoit non plus grand bien. He remembers his past glory and past prowess, and it stings him that heshould now be overcome by an inferior foe:      un homme effeminé de corps et de courage    Qui du mestier de Mars n’apprist oncque l’usage. But he has only himself to blame, for he has debased his life:    N’ayant soing de vertu, ny d’aucune louange;    Ains comme un porc ventru touille dedans la fange,    A coeur saoul me voitray en maints salles plaisirs,    Mettant dessous le pied tous honnestes desirs. Now it only remains for him to die. In the fourth act Octavianusdwells on the arduousness of his triumphs and the enormity of Antony’soffences, in order to justify a ruthless policy; and a discussionfollows between him and Agrippa, like the one between Julius and Antonyin the _Cornélie_, except that here the emperor and his adviser havetheir parts reversed. When his resolution seems fixed Dercetas entersin dismay with tidings that Antony has sought to take his own life,and that mortally wounded he has been drawn up into the monument tobreathe his last in Cleopatra’s arms. For a moment his conqueror’sheart is touched. But only for a moment. He speedily gives ear to thewarning of Agrippa, that to secure her treasures and preserve her life,Cleopatra must be seized. In the fifth act she has all her preparationsmade to follow her lord. In vain Euphron tries to stay her by gatheringher children round and predicting their probable fate:       _Eufron. _          Desja me semble voir                      Cette petite enfance en servitude cheoir,                      Et portez en trionfe, . . .                      Et au doigt les monstrer la tourbe citoyenne.    _Cleopatre. _ Hé! plutost mille morts. But she persists in her resolve and dismisses them. Her only regret isthat she has delayed so long,    Et ja fugitive Ombre avec toy je serois,    Errant sous les cyprès des rives escartees. She has waited only to pay the due rites, but now she is free tobreathe her last on her lover’s corpse:    Que de mille baisers, et mille et mille encore    Pour office dernier ma bouche vous honore.    Et qu’en un tel devoir mon corps affoiblissant    Defaille dessur vous, mon ame vomissant. 3. ENGLISH FOLLOWERS OF THE FRENCH SCHOOL. “THE WOUNDS OF CIVIL WAR”The _Marc Antoine_ is the best tragedy on a Roman theme, and one ofthe best imitations of Seneca that France in the sixteenth centuryhas to show. It deserved to find admirers on the other side of theChannel, and it did. Among the courtly and cultured circles in whoseeyes the Latin drama was the ideal and criterion to which all poetsshould aspire and by which their achievements should be tested, it wasbound to call forth no little enthusiasm. In England ere this similarattempts had been made and welcomed, but none had been quite so movingand interesting, above all none had conformed so strictly to theformal requirements of the humanist code. In _Gorboduc_, the first ofthese experiments, Sidney, lawgiver of the elect, was pleased to admitthe “honest civility” and “skilful poetry,” but his praises were notwithout qualification:    As it is full of stately speeches and well sounding Phrases,    clyming to the height of Seneca his stile, and as full of    notable moralitie, which it doth most delightfully teach,    and so obtayne the very end of Poesie: yet in troth it    is very defectious in the circumstaunces: which greeveth    mee, because it might not remaine as an exact model of all    Tragedies. For it is faulty both in place, and time, the    two necessary companions of all corporall actions. For    where the stage should alwaies represent but one place, and    the uttermost time presupposed in it, should be, both by    Aristotles precept, and common reason, but one day: there is    both many dayes, and many places, inartificially imagined. [58][58] _Apologie for Poetrie_, Arber’s reprint. Nor in such respects were things much better in the _Misfortunes ofArthur_, by Thomas Hughes, which was composed in 1587, the year afterSidney’s death. But meanwhile France had been blessed with a play atleast the equal of these native products in poetry and pathos, and muchmore observant of the unities that scholars were proclaiming. If thescene was not absolutely unchanged, at least the changes were confinedwithin the area of a single town. If the time was not precisely marked,and in Plutarch’s narrative slightly exceeded the orthodox limits,still Garnier had so managed it that the occurrences set forth mighteasily be conceived to take place in a single day. It seems just themodern play that would have fulfilled the desire of Sidney’s heart;and since it was composed in a foreign tongue, what could be morefitting than that Sidney’s sister, the famous Countess of Pembroke,who shared so largely in Sidney’s literary tastes and literary gifts,should undertake to give it an English form? It may have been on herpart a pious offering to his _manes_, and in 1590, four years after herbrother’s death, her version was complete. [59] She was well fitted forher task, and she has discharged it well. Sometimes she may take herliberties, but generally she is wonderfully faithful, and yet neitherin diction nor versification is she stiffer than many contemporarywriters of original English verse. Here, for instance, is Diomed’seulogy of Cleopatra’s charm:    Nought liues so faire. Nature by such a worke    Hir selfe, should seeme, in workmanship hath past.    She is all heau’nlie: neuer any man    But seing hir, was rauish’d with hir sight.    The Allablaster couering of hir face,    The corall colour hir two lipps engraines,    Hir beamie eies, two sunnes of this our world,    Of hir faire haire the fine and flaming golde,    Hir braue streight stature and her winning partes    Are nothing else but fiers, fetters, dartes.      Yet this is nothing to th’ enchaunting skilles,    Of her coelestiall Sp’rite, hir training speache,    Hir grace, hir Maiestie, and forcing voice,    Whether she it with fingers speache consorte,    Or hearing sceptred kings ambassadors    Answer to eache in his owne language make. [59] There is an edition of this by Miss Alice Luce,_Literarhistorische Forschungen_, 1897, but I am told it is out ofprint, and at any rate I have been unable to procure it. The extractsI give are transcripts from the British Museum copy, which is indexedthus: _Discourse of Life and Death written in French by P. Mornay. Antonius a tragedie, written also in French by R. Garnier. Both done inEnglish by the Countesse of Pembroke, 1592_. This edition has generallybeen overlooked by historians of the drama, from Professor Ward toProfessor Schelling (probably because it is associated with Mornay’stract), and, as a rule, the translation of Garnier is said to havebeen first published in 1595. That and the subsequent editions bear adifferent title from the neglected first; the _Tragedie of Antonie_,instead of _Antonius_. This excellently preserves many details as well as the pervading toneof the original:    Rien ne vit de si beau, Nature semble avoir    Par un ouvrage tel surpassé son pouvoir:    Elle est toute celeste, et ne se voit personne    La voulant contempler, qu’elle ne passionne.    L’albastre qui blanchist sur son visage saint,    Et le vermeil coral qui ses deux lévres peint,    La clairté de ses yeux, deux soleils de ce monde,    Le fin or rayonnant dessur sa tresse blonde,    Sa belle taille droitte, et ses frians attraits,    Ne sont que feux ardents, que cordes, et que traits.      Mais encor ce n’est rien aupres des artifices    De son esprit divin, ses mignardes blandices,    Sa maiestie, sa grace, et sa forçante voix,    Soit qu’ell’ la vueille joindre au parler de ses doigts,    Ou que des Rois sceptrez recevant les harangues,    Elle vueille respondre à chacun en leurs langues. The most notable privilege of which the translation makes use is tosoften or refine certain expressions that may have seemed too vigorousto the high-bred English lady. This, for example, is her rendering ofthe lines already quoted in which Antony denounces his voluptuous life:    Careless of uertue, careless of all praise,    Nay, as the fatted swine in filthy mire,    With glutted heart I wallow’d in delights,    All thoughts of honor troden under foote. Similarly, in Cleopatra’s closing speech, the original expression, “moname vomissant,” yields to a gentler and not less poetical equivalent:    A thousand kisses, thousand thousand more    Let you my mouth for honor’s farewell give:    That, in this office, weake my limmes may growe    Fainting on you, and fourth _my soule may flowe_. As the deviations are confined to details, it is not necessary torepeat the account of the tragedy as a whole. These extracts will showthat Garnier’s _Marc Antoine_ was presented to the English public ina worthy dress; and the adequacy of the workmanship, the appeal tocultivated taste, the prestige of the great Countess as “Sidney’ssister, Pembroke’s mother,” her personal reputation among literary men,procured it immediate welcome and lasting acceptance. Fifteen yearsafter its first publication it had passed through five editions, andmust have been a familiar book to Elizabethan readers who cared forsuch wares. Moreover, it directly evoked an original English play thatfollowed in part the same pattern and treated in part the same theme. In 1594 appeared the _Cleopatra_ of Samuel Daniel, dedicated to LadyPembroke with very handsome acknowledgments of the stimulus he hadreceived from her example and with much modest deprecation of thesupplement he offered. His muse, he asserts, would not have digressedfrom the humble task of praising Delia,          had not thy well graced Antony    (Who all alone, having remained long)    Requir’d his Cleopatra’s company. These words suggest that it was not written at once after theCountess’s translation: on the other hand there can have been novery long delay, as it was entered for publication in October, 1593. The first complete and authorised edition of _Delia_ along with the_Complaint of Rosamond_, which Daniel does not mention, had been givento the world in 1592; and we may assume from his own words that the_Cleopatra_ was the next venture of the young author just entering histhirties, and ambitious of a graver kind of fame than he had won bythese amatorious exercises. He had no reason to be dissatisfied withthe result, and perhaps from the outset his self-disparagement was notvery genuine. His play was reprinted seven times before his death, andthese editions show one complete revision and one thorough recast ofthe text. Poets are not wont to spend such pains on works that theydo not value. The truth is that Daniel’s _Cleopatra_ may take itsplace beside his subsequent _Philotas_ among the best original Senecantragedies that Elizabethan England produced. Its claims, of course,are almost exclusively literary and hardly at all theatrical, thoughsome of the changes in the final version of 1607 seem meant to givea little mobility to the slow-paced scenes. But from first to lastit depends on the elegiac and rhetorical qualities that characterisethe whole school, and in its undivided attention to them recallsrather Jodelle’s _Cléopatre Captive_ than Garnier’s _Marc Antoine_. The resemblance to the earlier drama is perhaps not accidental. Thesituation is precisely the same, for the story begins after the deathof Antony, and concludes with the account of Cleopatra’s suicide. Thus,despite Daniel’s statement, his play is not in any true sense a sequelto the one which the Countess had rendered, nor is it the case, ashis words insinuate, that in the _Antonius_ Cleopatra still delayedto join her beloved: on the contrary we take leave of her as she isabout to expire upon his corpse. So though his patroness’s translationmay very well have suggested to him his heroine, it could not possiblyprescribe to him his argument. And surely after Garnier had shown themore excellent way of treating the subject so as to include both thelovers, this truncated section of the history would not spontaneouslyoccur to any dramatist as the material most proper for his needs. Itseems more than likely that Daniel was acquainted with Jodelle’s play,and that the precedent it furnished, determined him in his not veryhappy selection of the final episode to the exclusion of all that wentbefore. A careful comparison of the two _Cleopatras_ supports thisview. No doubt in general treatment they differ widely, and most ofthe coincidences in detail are due to both authors having exploitedPlutarch’s narrative. But this is not true of all. There are sometraits that are not to be accounted for by their common pedigree, butby direct transmission from the one to the other. Thus, to mentionthe most striking, in Jodelle Seleucus is made to express penitencefor exposing the Queen’s misstatement about her treasure. There isno authority for this: yet in Daniel the new _motif_ reappears. Ofcourse it is not merely repeated without modification. In Jodelleit is to the chorus that the culprit unbosoms himself; in Daniel itis to Rodon, the false governor who has betrayed Caesarion, and whosimilarly and no less fictitiously is represented as full of remorsefor his more heinous treason. But imitators frequently try in thisfashion to vary or heighten the effect by duplicating the rôles theyborrow; and Daniel has done so in a second instance, when he happenedto get his suggestion from Garnier. In the _Marc Antoine_, as wesaw, there is the sententious but quite superfluous figure of thephilosopher Philostratus; Daniel retains him without giving him moreto do, but places by his side the figure of the equally sententiousand superfluous philosopher Arius. In Rodon we have just such anotherexample of gemination. It is safe to say that the contrite Seleucuscomes straight from the pages of Jodelle; and his presence, if therewere any doubt, serves to establish Daniel’s connection with the firstFrench Senecan in the vernacular. But the Countess’s protégé differs from her not only in reverting to anelder model: he distinctly improves on her practice by substituting forher blank verse his own quatrains. The author of the _Defence of Ryme_showed a right instinct in this. Blank verse is doubtless the betterdramatic measure, but these pseudo-Senecan pieces were lyric ratherthan dramatic, and it was not the most suitable for them. The justiceof Daniel’s method is proved by its success. He not only carried theexperiment successfully through for himself, which might have beena _tour de force_ on the part of the “well-languaged” poet, but heimposed his metre on successors who were less skilled in managing it,like Sir William Alexander. Such, then, is the _Cleopatra_ of Daniel, a play that, compared evenwith the contemporary classical dramas of France, belongs to a bygonephase of the art; a play that is no play at all, but a series ofharangues interspersed with odds and ends of dialogue and the duechoric songs; but that nevertheless, because it fulfils its own idealso thoroughly, is admirable in its kind, and still has charms for thelover of poetry. The first act is occupied with a soliloquy of Cleopatra,[60] in whichshe laments her past pleasure and glory, and proclaims her purpose ofdeath.    Thinke, Caesar, I that liu’d and raign’d a Queene,    Do scorne to buy my life at such a rate,    That I should underneath my selfe be seene,    Basely induring to suruiue my state:    That Rome should see my scepter-bearing hands    Behind me bound, and glory in my teares;    That I should passe whereas Octauia stands,    To view my misery, that purchas’d hers. [61][60] That is, in the original version. Subsequently Daniel threw alater narrative passage describing Cleopatra’s parting from Caesarionand Rodon into scenic form, introduced it here, and followed it up witha discussion between Caesar and his advisers. This seems to be one ofhis attempts to impart more dramatic animation to his play, and itdoes so. But as dramatic animation is not what we are looking for, theimprovement is doubtful. [61] Dr. Grosart’s Edition. She has hitherto lived only to temporise with Caesar for the sake ofher children, but to her late-born love for Antony her death is due. She remembers his doting affection, and exclaims:    And yet thou cam’st but in my beauties waine,    When new appearing wrinckles of declining    Wrought with the hand of yeares, seem’d to detaine    My graces light, as now but dimly shining . . .    Then, and but thus, thou didst loue most sincerely,    O Antony, that best deseru’d it better,    This autumn of my beauty bought so dearely,    For which in more then death, I stand thy debter. In the second act Proculeius gives an account of Cleopatra’s capture,and describes her apparent submission, to Caesar, who suspects that itis pretence. In the first scene of the third act Philostratus and Ariusphilosophise on their own misfortunes, the misfortunes of the land, andthe probable fate of Cleopatra’s children. The next scene presents thefamous interview between Caesar and Cleopatra, with the disclosuresof Seleucus, to which are added Dolabella’s avowal of his admiration,and Caesar’s decision to carry his prisoner to Rome. In the fourth actSeleucus, who has betrayed the confidence of his mistress, bewails hisdisloyalty, to Rodon, who has delivered up Caesarion to death; but theydepart to avoid Cleopatra, whom Dolabella has informed of the victor’sintentions, and who enters, exclaiming:    What, hath my face yet powre to win a louer?    Can this torn remnant serue to grace me so,    That it can Caesar’s secret plots discouer,    What he intends with me and mine to do?    Why then, poore beauty, thou hast done thy last    And best good seruice thou could’st doe unto me:    For now the time of death reueal’d thou hast,    Which in my life didst serue but to undoe me. In the first scene of the fifth act Titius tells how Cleopatra has senta message to Caesar, and in the second scene we learn the significanceof this from the Nuntius, who himself has taken her the asps.    Well, in I went, where brighter then the Sunne,    Glittering in all her pompeous rich aray,    Great Cleopatra sate, as if sh’ had wonne    Caesar, and all the world beside, this day:    Euen as she was, when on thy cristall streames,    Cleare Cydnos, she did shew what earth could shew:    When Asia all amaz’d in wonder, deemes    Venus from heauen was come on earth below.    Euen as she went at firste to meete her loue,    So goes she now againe to finde him.    But that first, did her greatnes onely proue,    This last her loue, that could not liue behind him. Her words to the asp are not without a quaint pathetic tenderness,as she contrasts the “ugly grimness” and “hideous torments” of otherdeaths with this that it procures:    Therefore come thou, of wonders wonder chiefe,    That open canst with such an easie key    The doore of life: come gentle cunning thiefe    That from our selues so steal’st our selues away. And her dallying with the accepted and inevitable end is good:    Looke how a mother at her sonnes departing,    For some farre voyage bent to get him fame,    Doth entertaine him with an ydle parting    And still doth speake, and still speakes but the same:    Now bids farewell, and now recalles him backe,    Tels what was told, and bids againe farewell,    And yet againe recalles; for still doth lacke    Something that Loue would faine and cannot tell:    Pleased he should goe, yet cannot let him goe.    So she, although she knew there was no way    But this, yet this she could not handle so    But she must shew that life desir’d delay. But this is little more than by-play and make-believe. She does thedeed, and when Caesar’s messengers arrive, it is past prevention.    For there they found stretcht on a bed of gold,    Dead Cleopatra; and that proudly dead,    In all the rich attire procure she could;    And dying Charmion trimming of her head,    And Eras at her feete, dead in like case.    “Charmion, is this well done? ” sayd one of them.    “Yea, well,” sayd she, “and her that from the race    Of so great Kings descends, doth best become. ”    And with that word, yields to her faithfull breath    To passe th’ assurance of her loue with death. One more example of the influence of the French Senecans remains tobe mentioned, and though, as a translation, it is less importantthan Daniel’s free reproduction, the name of the translator gives ita special interest. The stately rhetoric of the _Cornélie_ caughtthe fancy of Thomas Kyd, who from the outset had found somethingsympathetic in Garnier’s style, and, perhaps in revolt from thesensationalism of his original work, he wrote an English version whichwas published in 1594. When this was so, it need the less surprise usthat the Senecan form should still for years to come be cultivatedby writers who had seen the glories of the Elizabethan stage, aboveall for what would seem the peculiarly appropriate themes of classichistory: that Alexander should employ it for his _Julius Caesar_ andthe rest of his _Monarchic Tragedies_ even after Shakespeare’s _JuliusCaesar_ had appeared, and that Ben Jonson himself should, as it were,cast a wistful, backward glance at it in his _Catiline_, which hesupplies, not only with a chorus, but with a very Senecan expositionby Sylla’s ghost. If this style appealed to the author of _The SpanishTragedy_, it might well appeal to the more fastidious connoisseursin whom the spirit of the Renaissance was strong. It was to themKyd looked for patronage in his new departure, and he dedicates his_Cornelia_ to the Countess of Suffolk, aunt of the more memorable ladywho had translated the _Marc Antoine_. In execution it hardly equals the companion piece: the language is lessflexible and graphic, and the whole effect more wearisome; which,however, may be due in part to the inferior merit of the play Kyd hadto render, as well as to the haste with which the rendering was made. But he aims at preserving the spirit of the French, and does preserveit in no small degree. The various metres of the chorus are managedwith occasional dexterity; the rhyme that is mingled with the blankverse of the declamation relieves the tedium of its somewhat monotonoustramp, and adds point and effectiveness. A fair specimen of his averageprocedure may be found in his version of the metaphorical passage inCassius’ speech, that, as has been pointed out, can be traced back toGrévin and Muretus.    The stiff-neckt horses champe not on the bit    Nor meekely beare the rider but by force:    The sturdie Oxen toyle not at the Plough    Nor yeeld unto the yoke, but by constraint.    Shall we then that are men and Romains borne,    Submit us to unurged slauerie?    Shall Rome, that hath so many ouerthrowne    Now make herselfe a subject to her owne? [62][62] Kyd, ed. Boas. The _Cornelia_ has also been edited by H. Gassner;but this edition, despite some considerable effort, I have been unableto procure. Kyd was certainly capable of emphasis, both in the good and the badsense, which stands him in good stead when he has to reproduce thepassages adapted from Lucan. These he generally presents in somethingof their native pomp, and indeed throughout he shows a praiseworthyeffort to keep on the level of his author. The result is a grave anddecorous performance, which, if necessarily lacking in distinctivecolour, since the original had so little, is almost equally free frommodern incongruities. It can hardly be reckoned as such that Scipiograsps his “cutlass,” or that in similar cases the equivalent for atechnical Latin term should have a homely sound. Perhaps the mostserious anachronism occurs when Cicero, talking of “this great town” ofRome, exclaims:    Neither could the flaxen-haird high Dutch,    (A martiall people, madding after Armes),    Nor yet the fierce and fiery humord French. . . .    Once dare t’assault it. Garnier is not responsible: he writes quite correctly:    Ny les blons Germains, peuple enragé de guerre,    Ny le Gaulois ardent. This, however, is a very innocent slip. It was different when anotherscholar of the group to which Kyd belonged treated a Roman theme in amore popular way. But before turning to him it may be well to say a word concerning theinfluence which these Senecan pieces are sometimes supposed to have hadon Shakespeare’s Roman plays that dealt with kindred themes. And in the first place it may be taken as extremely probable that hehad read them. They were well known to the Elizabethan public, theleast famous of them, Kyd’s _Cornelia_, reaching a second editionwithin a year of its first issue. They were executed by personswho must have bulked large in Shakespeare’s field of vision. Apartfrom her general social and literary reputation, the Countess ofPembroke was mother of the two young noblemen to whom the first folioof Shakespeare’s plays was afterwards dedicated on the ground thatthey had “prosequutted both them and the author living with so muchfavour. ” Some of Daniel’s works Shakespeare certainly knew, for thereare convincing parallelisms between the _Complaint of Rosamond_ onthe one hand, and the _Rape of Lucrece_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ onthe other; nor can there be much question about the indebtedness ofShakespeare’s _Sonnets_ to Daniel’s _Delia_. Again, with Kyd’s actingdramas Shakespeare was undoubtedly acquainted. He quotes _The SpanishTragedy_ in the _Taming of the Shrew_, _Much Ado About Nothing_, _KingLear_; and the same play, as well as _Solyman and Perseda_, if thatbe Kyd’s, in _King John_: nor is it to be forgotten that many seeKyd’s hand and few would deny Kyd’s influence in _Titus Andronicus_,and that some attribute to him the lost _Hamlet_. All these thingsconsidered, Shakespeare’s ignorance of the English Senecans would bemuch more surprising than his knowledge of them. Further, though hisown method was so dissimilar, he would be quite inclined to appreciatethem, as may be inferred from the approval he puts in Hamlet’s mouthof _Æneas’ tale to Dido_, which reads like a heightened version ofthe narratives that occur so plentifully in their pages. So there isnothing antecedently absurd in the conjecture that they gave him hintswhen he turned to their authorities on his own behalf. Nevertheless satisfactory proof is lacking. The analogies withGarnier’s _Marc Antoine_ not accounted for by the obligation of bothdramatists to Plutarch are very vague, and oddly enough seem vaguer inthe translation than in the original. Of this there is a good examplein Antony’s words when he recalls to his shame how his victor    Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had    In the brave squares of war.                       (_A. and C. _ III. x. 39. )There is similarity of _motif_, and even the suggestion of somethingmore, in his outburst in Garnier:    Un homme effeminé de corps et de courage    Qui du mestier de Mars n’apprist oncque l’usage. But only the _motif_ is left in the Countess of Pembroke’s rendering:    A man, a woman both in might and minde,    In Marses schole who neuer lesson learn’d. The alleged parallels are thus most apparent when Shakespeare iscollated with the French, and of these the chief that do not come fromPlutarch have already been quoted in the description of the _MarcAntoine_. They are neither numerous nor striking. Besides Antony’sdisparagement of his rival’s soldiership there are only three that inany way call for remark. In Garnier, Cleopatra’s picture of her shadewandering beneath the cypress trees of the Underworld may suggest, inShakespeare, her lover’s anticipation of Elysium, “where souls do couchon flowers” (_A. and C. _ IV. xiv. 51); but there is a great differencein the tone of the context. Her dying utterance:    Que de mille baisers, et mille et mille encore    Pour office dernier ma bouche vous honore:is in the wording not unlike the dying utterance of Antony:    Of many thousand kisses the poor last    I lay upon thy lips;                 (_A. and C. _ IV. xv. 20. )but there is more contrast than agreement in the ideas. Above all,Cleopatra’s horror at the thought of her children being led in triumphthrough Rome and pointed at by the herd of citizens is close akin tothe feeling that inspires similar passages in Shakespeare (_A. andC. _ IV. xv. 23, V. ii. 55, V. ii. 207); but even here the resemblanceis a little deceptive, since in Shakespeare she feels this horror forherself. The correspondences between Shakespeare and Daniel are equallyconfined to detail, but they are more definite and more significant. It is Daniel who first represents Cleopatra as scorning to be made aspectacle in Rome; and her resentment at Caesar’s supposing    That I should underneath my selfe be seene,might have expressed itself in Shakespeare’s phrase,    He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not    Be noble to myself.                             (_A. and C. _ V. ii. 191. )Noteworthy, too, in the same passage, is her reluctance to pass beforethe injured Octavia, for there is no mention of this point in Plutarch,but Shakespeare touches on it twice. Further, her very noticeablereferences to her waning charms, her wrinkles, her declining yearshave their analogies in Shakespeare and in Shakespeare alone; forPlutarch expressly says that she was “at the age when a woman’s beawtieis at the prime. ” The tenderness in tone of her address to the aspis common and peculiar to both English poets; and her adornment inpreparation for death suggests to each of them, but not to Plutarch,her magnificence when she met Antony on the Cydnus. [63][63] The last point is mentioned by Mr. Furness (Variorum Edition), whocites others, of which one occurs in Plutarch and the rest seem to meuntenable or unimportant. These coincidences are interesting, but they are not conclusive. Theyare none of them such as could not occur independently to two writerswho vividly realised the meaning of Plutarch’s _data_; for he, as itwere, gives the premises though he does not draw the inference. Thushe says nothing of Cleopatra’s disdain for the Roman populace, but hedoes make the knowledge that she must go to Rome determine her to die. He says nothing of her recoil from the thought of Octavia seeing herin her humiliation, but he does tell us of her jealousy of Octavia’ssuperior claims. He never hints that Cleopatra was past her bloom,but his praise of her as at her prime belongs to 41 B. C. , and theclosing incident to 30 B. C. , when she was in her thirty-ninth year. Hedoes not attribute to her any kindly greeting of the asp, but he doesreport that she chose it as providing the easiest and gentlest meansof death. And though in describing her suicide he makes no referenceto the meeting on the Cydnus, he dwells on the glorious array on bothoccasions, and the fancy naturally flies from one to the other. Eachof these particulars separately might well suggest itself to more thanone sympathetic reader. The most that can be said is that in theirmass they have a certain cogency. In any case, however, characteristicand far-reaching as some of them are, they bear only on details of theconception. The possible connection of _Julius Caesar_ with the _Cornélie_ is ofa somewhat different kind. It is restricted almost entirely to theconversations between Cassius and Decimus Brutus on the one hand,and between Cassius and Marcus Brutus on the other. It is thought toshow itself partly in particular expressions, partly in the generalsituation. So far as the former are concerned, it is neither precisenor distinctive; and it is rather remarkable that, as in the caseof the _Marc Antoine_, more is to be said for it when Shakespeare’sphraseology is compared with that of the original than when it iscompared with that of the translation. [64] In regard to the latter M. Bernage, the chief advocate of the theory, writes:    In the English play (_Julius Caesar_), as in our own, Brutus    and Cassius have an interview before the arrival of the    Dictator; the subject of their conversation is the same; it    is Cassius too who “strikes so much show of fire” (_fait    jaillir l’etincelle_) from the soul of Brutus. . . . These    characters are painted by Garnier in colours quite similar    (to Shakespeare’s), and he is momentarily as vigorous and    great. In like manner . . . Caesar crosses the stage after    the interview of the two conspirators; he is moreover    accompanied by Antony. [65][64] See Appendix A. [65] _Étude sur Garnier_, 1880. In the whole tone and direction of the dialogue, too, Shakespeareresembles Garnier and does not resemble Plutarch. The _Life_ recordsone short sentence as Brutus’ part of the colloquy, while Cassius doesnothing more than explain the importance of the anonymous letters andset forth the expectations that Rome has formed of his friend. There isno denunciation in Plutarch of Caesar either for his overgrown power orfor his “feeble temper”; there is no lament for the degeneracy of theRomans; there is no reference to the expulsion of the kings or appealto Brutus’ ancestry; all of these matters on which both the dramatistsinsist. And at the end the two friends are agreed on their policy anddepart to prosecute their plans, while in Garnier as in ShakespeareBrutus comes to no final decision. It would be curious if this conjecture were correct, and if this famousscene had influenced Shakespeare as it was to influence Alexander. There would be few more interesting cases of literary filiation, for,as we have seen, there is no doubt that here Garnier bases and improveson Grévin, and that Grévin bases and improves on Muretus; so thegenealogy would run Muretus, Grévin, Garnier, Kyd, Shakespeare. Here the matter may rest. The grounds for believing that Shakespearewas influenced by Garnier’s _Marc Antoine_ are very slight; forbelieving that he was influenced by Daniel’s _Cleopatra_ are somewhatstronger; that he was influenced by Garnier’s _Cornélie_ are strongerstill; but they are even at the best precarious. In all three instancesthe evidence brought forward rather suggests the obligation as possiblethan establishes it as certain. But it seems extremely likely thatShakespeare would be acquainted with dramas that were widely read andwere written by persons none of whom can have been strange to him; andin that case their stateliness and propriety may have affected him inother ways than we can trace or than he himself knew. Meanwhile the popular play had been going its own way, and among othersubjects had selected a few from Roman history. We may be certainthat slowly and surely it was absorbing some of the qualities thatcharacterised the imitations of the classics; and this process wasaccelerated when university men, with Marlowe at their head, took aleading share in purveying for the London playhouse. The developmentis clearly marked in the general history of the drama. Of the Romanplay in this transition phase, as treated by a scholar for thedelectation of the vulgar, we have only one specimen, but it is aspecimen that despite its scanty merit is important no less for thename of the author than for the mode of the treatment. That authorwas Thomas Lodge, so well known for his songs, novels, pamphlets, andtranslations. As dramatist he is less conspicuous, and we possessonly two plays from his hand. In one of them, _A Looking Glass forLondon and England_, which gives a description of the corruption andrepentance of Nineveh, and was acted in 1591, he co-operated withRobert Greene. Of the other,[66] _The Wounds of Civill War: Lively setforth in the true Tragedies of Marius and Scilla: As it hath beenepublicquely plaide in London, by the Right Honourable the Lord HighAdmirall his Servants_, he was sole author, and it is with it thatwe are concerned. It was printed in 1594, but was probably composedsome years earlier. [67] In any case it comes after the decisiveappearance of Marlowe; but Lodge was far from rivalling that masteror profiting fully by his example, and indeed is inferior to suchminor performers as Peele or Greene. Moreover, in the present case headds to his general dramatic disabilities, the incapacity to treatclassical history aright. In this respect, indeed, he improves on theSenecan school by borrowing graphic minutiae from Plutarch, such asthe prefiguration of Marius’ future glory in his infancy by the seveneagles, the account of the Gaul’s panic in Minturnae, or the unwillingbetrayal of Antonius by the slave. But on the other hand he astonishesus by his failure to make use of picturesque incidents which he musthave known; like Sulla’s flight for shelter to his rival’s house, therelief of Marius by the woman whom he had sentenced, the responseof the exile from the ruins of Carthage. And even when he utilisesPlutarch’s touches, Lodge is apt to weaken or travesty them in hisadaptation. The incident of the eagles, though it furnishes two of thebest passages in the play, illustrates the enfeeblement. Plutarch hadsaid:[66] I quote from Dodsley’s _Old English Plays_, ed. Hazlitt. [67] Professor Ward calls attention to the stage direction (Act III. ):“Enter Sylla in triumph in his chair triumphant of gold, drawn by fourMoors; before the chariot, his colours, his crest, his captains, hisprisoners; . . . bearing crowns of gold and manacled. ” This, he pointsout, seems a reminiscence of the similar situation in _TamburlaineII. _, Act iv. sc. 3. : “Enter Tamberlaine drawn in his chariot by theKings of Trebizon and Soria, with bits in their mouths, reins in hisleft hand, and in his right hand a whip with which he scourgeth them. ”From this Professor Ward infers that Lodge’s play belongs approximatelyto the same date as Marlowe’s, possibly to 1587. It may be so, butthere are some reasons for placing it later. The mixture of rhyme andprose instead of the exclusive use of blank verse would suggest thatthe influence of _Tamburlaine_ was not very immediate. It has somepoints of contact with the _Looking Glass_ which Lodge wrote along withGreene. It has the same didactic bent, though the purpose is politicalrather than moral, for the _Wounds of Civill War_ enforces on itsvery title page the lesson that Elizabethans had so much at heart,the need of harmony in the State. Like the _Looking Glass_ it dealsrather with an historic transaction than with individual adventures,for it summarises the whole disastrous period of the conflict betweenMarius and Sulla. And like the _Looking Glass_ it visualises this byscenes taken alike from dignified and low life, the latter even moreout of place than the episodes of the Nineveh citizens and peasantsin the joint work. In so far one is tempted to put the two togetherabout 1591. And there is one detail that perhaps favours this view—theintroduction of the Gaul with his bad English and worse French. InGreene’s _James IV. _ (c. 1590) the assassin hired to murder QueenDorothea is also a Frenchman who speaks broken English, and in thatplay such a personage is quite in keeping, violating the probabilitiesneither of time nor of place. It is, therefore, much more probablethat, if he proved popular, Lodge would reproduce the same characterinappropriately to catch the applause of the groundlings, than thatLodge should light on the first invention when that invention was quiteunsuitable, and that Greene should afterwards borrow it and give it afit setting. In the latter case we can only account for the absurdityby supposing that Lodge carried much further the anachronism in_Cornelia_ of “the fierce and fiery-humour’d French. ”    When Marius was but very young and dwelling in the contry,    he gathered up in the lappe of his gowne the ayrie of an    Eagle, in the which were seven young Eagles; whereat his    father and mother much wondering, asked the Sooth-sayers,    what that ment? They answered, that their sonne one day    should be one of the greatest men in the world, and that    out of doubt he should obtain seven times in his life the    chiefest office of dignity in his contry. Plutarch is not quite sure about the trustworthiness of this story, forthe characteristic reason that “the eagle never getteth but two youngeones,” and his hesitation may have led Lodge to modify the vivid andimprobable detail. Favorinus the Minturnian tells the story thus:              Yonder Marius in his infancy    Was born to greater fortunes than we deem:    For, being scarce from out his cradle crept,    And sporting prettily with his compeers,    On sudden seven young eagles soar’d amain,    And kindly perch’d upon his tender lap.    His parents wondering at this strange event,    Took counsel of the soothsayers in this:    Who told them that these seven-fold eagles’ flight    Forefigurèd his seven times consulship. And this version, with only another slight variation, is repeatedrather happily in the invented narrative of the presage of Marius’death:    Bright was the day, and on the spreading trees    The frolic citizens of forest sung    Their lays and merry notes on perching boughs;    When suddenly appeared in the east    Seven mighty eagles with their talons fierce,    Who, waving oft above our consul’s head,    At last with hideous cry did soar away:    When suddenly old Marius aghast,    With reverend smile, determin’d with a sigh    The doubtful silence of the standers-by.    “Romans,” he said, “old Marius must die:    These seven fair eagles, birds of mighty Jove,    That at my birthday on my cradle sat,    Now at my last day warn me to my death. ”But the other two passages Lodge modernises beyond recognition andbeyond decency. Of the attempt on Marius’ life at Minturnae, Plutarch narrates veryimpressively:    Now when they were agreed upon it, they could not finde a    man in the citie that durst take upon him to kill him; but    a man of armes of the Gaules, or one of the Cimbres (for    we finde both the one or the other in wryting) that went    thither with his sword drawen in his hande. Now that place    of the chamber where Marius lay was very darke, and, as it    is reported, the man of armes thought he sawe two burninge    flames come out of Marius eyen, and heard a voyce out of    that darke corner, saying unto him: “O, fellowe, thou,    darest thou come to kill Caius Marius? ” The barbarous Gaule,    hearing these words, ranne out of the chamber presently,    castinge his sworde in the middest of the flower,[68] and    crying out these wordes onely: “I can not kill Caius Marius. ”[68] Floor. Here is Lodge’s burlesque with the Gaul nominated Pedro, whose nameis as unsuitable to his language as is his language to his supposednationality.      _Pedro. _ Marius tu es mort. Speak dy preres in dy sleepe,    for me sal cut off your head from your epaules, before you    wake. Qui es stia? [69] What kinde of a man be dis?      _Favorinus. _ Why, what delays are these? Why gaze ye thus?      _Pedro. _ Notre dame! Jésu! Estiene! O my siniors, der be    a great diable in ce eyes, qui dart de flame, and with de    voice d’un bear cries out, “Villain, dare you kill Marius? ”    Je tremble; aida me, siniors, autrement I shall be murdered.      _Pausanins. _ What sudden madness daunts this stranger thus?      _Pedro. _ O, me no can kill Marius; me no dare kill Marius!    adieu, messieurs, me be dead, si je touche Marius. Marius    est un diable. Jesu Maria, sava moy!                                               _exit fugiens. _[69] Probably: “Qui est lá? ” the misprint of _i_ for _l_ is common. Things are scarcely better in the episode of Antonius’ betrayal. Plutarch has told very simply how the poor man with whom the oratortook refuge, wishing to treat him hospitably, sent a slave for wine,and how the slave, by requiring the best quality for the distinguishedguest, provoked the questions of the drawer. In Lodge the unsuspectingserving man becomes a bibulous clown who blabs the secret in a drunkencatch that he sings as he passes the soldiers:    O most surpassing wine,    The marrow of the vine!    More welcome unto me    Than whips to scholars be.    Thou art, and ever was,    A means to mend an ass;    Thou makest some to sleep,    And many mo to weep,    And some be glad and merry.    With heigh down derry, derry.    Thou makest some to stumble    A many mo to fumble    And me have pinky neyne. [70]    More brave and jolly wine!    What need I praise thee mo,    For thou art good, with heigh-ho! . . .                                    (_To the Soldiers_):    You would know where Lord Antony is? I perceive you.    Shall I say he is in yond farm-house? I deceive you.    Shall I tell you this wine is for him? The gods forfend.    And so I end. [70] Pink eyes. Lodge is not more fortunate with his additions. Thus, after Sylla’sfinal resignation, two burghers with the very Roman names of Curtalland Poppy are represented as tackling the quondam dictator.      _Curtall. _ And are you no more master-dixcator, nor    generality of the soldiers?      _Sylla. _ My powers do cease, my titles are resign’d.      _Curtall. _ Have you signed your titles? O base mind, that    being in the Paul’s steeple of honour, hast cast thyself    into the sink of simplicity. Fie, beast!          Were I a king, I would day by day          Suck up white bread and milk,          And go a-jetting in a jacket of silk;          My meat should be the curds,          My drink should be the whey,    And I would have a mincing lass to love me every day.      _Poppy. _ Nay, goodman Curtall, your discretions are very    simple; let me cramp him with a reason. Sirrah, whether is    better good ale or small-beer? Alas! see his simplicity that    cannot answer me; why, I say ale.      _Curtall. _ And so say I, neighbour.

_Poppy. _ Thou hast reason; ergo, say I, ’tis better be a    king than a clown. Faith, Master Sylla, I hope a man may now    call ye knave by authority. Even more impertinent, because they violate the truth of character andmisrepresent an historical person, are some of the liberties Lodgetakes with Marius. Such is the device with the echo, which he transfersfrom the love scenes of poetical Arcady, where it is quite appropriate,to the mountains of Numidia, where it would hardly be in place even ifwe disregarded the temperament and circumstances of the exile.    _Marius. _ Thus Marius lives disdain’d of all the gods,                                              _Echo. _ Gods!    _Marius. _ With deep despair late overtaken wholly.                                              _Echo. _ O, lie!    _Marius. _ And will the heavens be never well appeased?                                              _Echo. _ Appeased.    _Marius. _ What mean have they left me to cure my smart?                                              _Echo. _ Art.    _Marius. _ Nought better fits old Marius’ mind then war.                                              _Echo. _ Then, war!    _Marius. _ Then full of hope, say, Echo, shall I go?                                              _Echo. _ Go!    _Marius. _ Is any better fortune then at hand?                                              _Echo. _ At hand.    _Marius. _ Then farewell, Echo, gentle nymph, farewell.                                              _Echo. _ Fare well.    _Marius. _ (soliloquises). O pleasing folly to a pensive man! Yet Lodge was a competent scholar who was by and by to translate _TheFamous and Memourable Workes of Josephus, a Man of Much Honour andLearning among the Jewes_, and the _Works both Moral and Natural ofLucius Annaeus Seneca_. And already in this play he makes Sylla’sgenius, invisible to all, summon him in Latin Elegiacs audible onlyto him. If then the popular scenes in Shakespeare’s Roman plays donot make a very Roman impression, it should be remembered that he ispunctilious in comparison with the University gentleman who precededhim. Nor did the fashion of popularising antique themes with vulgarfrippery from the present die out when Shakespeare showed a moreexcellent way. There is something of very much the same kind inHeywood’s _Rape of Lucrece_ which was published in 1608. But these superficial laches are not the most objectionable things inthe play. There is nothing organic in it. Of course its neglect of theunities of time and place is natural and right, but it is carelessof unity in structure or even in portraiture. The canvas is crowdedwith subordinate figures who perplex the action without producing avivid impression of their own characters. A few are made distinct byinsistence on particular traits, like Octavius with his unbending civicvirtue, or Antonius with his ‘honey-dropping’ and rather ineffectualeloquence, or Lepidus with his braggard temporising. The only oneof them who has real individuality is the younger Marius, insolent,fierce, and cruel, but full of energy and filial affection, and tooproud to survive his fortunes. He perhaps is the most consistent andsympathetic person in the piece; which of itself is a criticism, forhe occupies a much less important place than the two principals,expressly announced as the heroes in the title-page. It is difficulteven to guess the intention of the author in this delineation of them,and in any case the result is not pleasing. Marius, despite a certainamount of tough fortitude—which for the rest is not so indomitable asin Plutarch—and a rude magnanimity displayed in the imaginary scenewith Sylla’s daughter and wife, is far from attractive; and it comesas a surprise that after all his violence and vindictiveness he shouldmeet his death “with a reverend smile” in placid resignation. But withSylla matters are worse. He would be altogether repulsive but forhis courage, and Lodge seems to explain him and his career only byappealing to his own adopted epithet of Felix or Fortunate. His lastwords are:                Fortune, now I bless thee    That both in life and death would’st not oppress me. And when, “to conclude his happiness,” his sumptuous funeral isarranged, Pompey expresses the same idea in the lines that close theplay:    Come, bear we hence this trophy of renown    Whose life, whose death was far from Fortune’s frown. The problem of his strange story is not so much stated as implied,and far less is there any attempt at a solution. After all hisblood-guiltiness, he too, like Marius, passes away in peace, but withhim the peacefulness rises to the serenity of a saint or sage. To hisfriend he exclaims:    My Flaccus, worldly joys and pleasures fade;    Inconstant time, like to the fleeting tide    With endless course man’s hopes doth overbear:    Now nought remains that Sylla fain would have    But lasting fame when body lies in grave. To his wife, who soon after asks:    How fares my lord? How doth my gentle Sylla? he replies still more devoutly:    Free from the world, allied unto the heavens;    Not curious of incertain chances now. There is thus no meaning in the story. The rival leaders are equallyresponsible for the Wounds of Civil War, but end as happily as thoughthey had been benefactors of society. And this is by no means presentedas an example of tragic irony, in which case something might be saidfor it, but as the natural, fitting, and satisfactory conclusion. YetPlutarch tells of Marius’ sleeplessness, drunkenness, and perturbation,and of Sylla‘s debaucheries and disease. These were hints, one mighthave thought, that would have suited the temper of an Elizabethandramatist; but Lodge passes them over. It is the same with the public story. If Rome is left in quiet it isonly because Sylla’s ruthlessness has been ‘fortunate’; it is notrepresented as the rational outcome of what went before, nor is thereany suggestion of what was to follow after. The merit of the play, such as it is, lies in its succession ofstirring scenes—but not the most stirring that might have beenselected—from the career of two famous personalities in the historyof a famous State. It is almost incredible that in barely more thanhalf a dozen years after its publication London playgoers werelistening to _Julius Caesar_ with its suggestive episodes, its noblecharacterisation, and full realisation of what the story meant. Yet Lodge’s play is probably as good as any of those based on RomanHistory till Shakespeare turned his attention to such subjects. Thetitles of a number of others have come down to us. Some of these areof early date and may have approximated to the type of _Apius andVirginia_. Others would attempt the style of Seneca, either after thecrude fashion of _Gorboduc_ or subsequently under the better guidanceof the French practitioners; and among these later Senecans weredistinguished men like Lord Brooke, who destroyed a tragedy on _Antonyand Cleopatra_ in 1601, and Brandon, whose _Vertuous Octavia_, writtenin 1598, still survives. [71] In others again there may have been ananticipation or imitation of the more popular manner of Lodge. But thefact that they were never published, or have been lost, or, in one ortwo cases where isolated copies are extant, have not been thought worthreprinting, affords a presumption that their claims are inferior, andthat in them no very characteristic note is struck. It is pretty safeto suppose that they did not contain much instruction for Shakespeare,and that none of them would bridge the gap between Lodge’s medley andShakespeare’s masterpiece. [71] It is in the Dyce Collection in South Kensington and isinaccessible to me. It is described as claiming sympathy for Antony’sneglected wife. The progress made since the middle of the century was, of course,considerable. A pioneer performance, like _Apius and Virginia_, hadthe merit of pushing beyond the landmarks of the old Morality, and ofbringing Roman story within the ken of English playgoers, but it didnothing more. It treated this precisely as it might have treated anyother subject, and looked merely to the lesson, though, no doubt, itsought to make the lesson palatable with such dramatic condiments asthe art of the day supplied. The Senecans, inspired by the _Octavia_,make a disinterested effort to detach and set forth the conception ofold Roman greatness, as it was given that age to understand it, andthese productions show no impropriety and much literary skill, butthe outlines and colours are too vague to admit of reality or life. Lodge is realistic enough in his way, but it is by sacrificing what issignificant and characteristic, and submerging the majesty of ancientRome in the banalities and trivialities of his own time. No dramatisthad been able at once to rise to the grandeur of the theme and keep afoothold on solid earth, to reconcile the claims of the ideal and thereal, the past and the present. That was left for Shakespeare to do. CHAPTER IISHAKESPEARE’S TREATMENT OF HISTORYThe turn of the centuries roughly bisects the dramatic career ofShakespeare. In the first half he had written many comedies and a fewtragedies; in the second he was to write many tragedies with a fewplays which, on account of the happy ending and other traits, maybe assigned to the opposite class. But beyond these recognised andlegitimate subdivisions of the Romantic Drama, he had also before 1600busied himself with that characteristic product of the ElizabethanAge, the Historical Play dealing with the national annals. In thiskind, indeed, he had been hardly less abundant than in comedy, theproportions being nine of the one to eleven of the other. Then suddenlyhe leaves it aside, and returns to it only at the close in _HenryVIII. _, which moreover is but partially his handiwork. Thus, while the tragic note is not inaudible in the earlier period ofhis activity nor the comic note in the later, the third, that soundedso loud in the sixteenth century, utterly or all but utterly dies awayin the seventeenth. Why this should be so it is impossible to say. It may be that thepatriotic self-consciousness stirred by the defeat of the Armada andthe triumph of England waned with the growing sense of internalgrievances and the loss of external prestige, and that the nationalstory no longer inspired such curiosity and delight. It may be thatShakespeare had exhausted the episodes which had a special attractionfor contemporaries and himself. It may be that he found in the recordsof other lands themes that gave his genius freer scope and more fullysatisfied the requirements of his art. Or all these considerations mayhave co-operated. For the last of them there is at any rate this much to say, that,though the play on native history virtually disappears, the HistoricalPlay as such survives and wins new triumphs. The Roman group resemblesthe English group in many ways, and, where they differ, it hasexcellences of its own. What are the main points in which respectively they diverge or coincide? (1) There is no doubt that it was patriotic enthusiasm that called intoexistence the Chronicle Histories so numerous in Elizabeth’s reign,of which the best in Shakespeare’s series are only the consummateflower. The pride in the present and confidence in the future ofEngland found vent, too, in occupation with England’s past, and sincethe general appetite could not be satisfied by the histories of everysort and size that issued from the press, the vigorous young dramaseized the opportunity of extending its operations, and stepped in tosupply the demand. Probably with a more definite theory of its aims,methods, and sphere there might have been less readiness to undertakethe new department. But in the popular conception the play was littleelse than a narrative presented in scenes. The only requirement wasthat it should interest the spectators, and few troubled themselvesabout classic rule and precedent, or even about connected structureand arrangement. And when by and by the Elizabethan Tragedy andComedy became more organic and vertebrate, the Historic Play hadsecured recognition, and was able to persist in what was dramaticallya more rudimentary phase and develop without regard to more exactingstandards. Shakespeare’s later Histories, precisely the superlativespecimens of the whole species, illustrate this with conspicuousforce. The subject of _Henry IV. _, if presented in summary, mustseem comparatively commonplace; the ‘argument’ of both parts, ifanalysed, is loose and straggling; the second part to a great extentrepeats at a lower pitch the _motifs_ of the first; yet it is hardlyif at all less excellent than its predecessor, and together theyrepresent Shakespeare’s grand achievement in this kind. In _HenryV. _, which has merits that make it at least one of the most popularpieces that Shakespeare ever wrote, the distinctively narrative winsthe day against the distinctively dramatic. Not only are some of theessential links supplied only in the story of the chorus, but thereis no dramatic collision of ideas, no conflict in the soul of thehero, except in the scenes preliminary to Agincourt, not even much ofthe excitement of suspense. It is a plain straightforward history,admirably conveyed in scene and speech, all the episodes significantand picturesque, all the persons vividly characterised, bound to stirand inspire by its sane and healthy patriotism; but in the notes thatare considered to make up the _differentia_ of a drama, whether ancientor modern, it is undoubtedly defective. In proportion then as Shakespeare realised the requirements of theChronicle History, and succeeded in producing his masterpieces in thisdomain, he deviated from the course that he pursued in his other plays. And this necessarily followed from the end he had in view. He wishedto give, and his audience wished to get, passages from the history oftheir country set forth on the stage as pregnantly and attractively aspossible; but the history was the first and chief thing, and in it thewhole species had its _raison d’être_. History delivered the materialand prescribed the treatment, and even the selection of the episodestreated was determined less perhaps by their natural fitness fordramatic form, than by the influence of certain contemporary historicinterests. For the points which the average Elizabethan had most atheart were—(1) The unity of the country under the strong and orderlygovernment of securely succeeding sovereigns, who should preserve itfrom the long remembered evils of Civil War; (2) Its rejection ofPapal domination, with which there might be, but more frequently amongthe play-going classes, there was not associated the desire for amore radical reconstruction of the Church; (3) The power, safety andprestige of England, which Englishmen believed to be the inevitableconsequence of her unity and independence. So whatever in bygone timesbore on these matters and could be made to illustrate them, whether byparallel or contrast, was sure of a sympathetic hearing. And in thisas in other points Shakespeare seems to have felt with his fellow-menand shared their presuppositions. At least all the ten plays on Englishhistory in which he is known to have had a hand deal with rivalry forthe throne, the struggle with Rome, the success or failure in Franceaccordingly as the prescribed postulates are fulfilled or violated. It may have been his engrossment in these concerns that sometimes ledhim to choose subjects which the mere artist would have rejected as ofsmall dramatic promise. When he turned to the records of antiquity, the conditions were verydifferent. Doubtless to a man of the Renaissance classical history inits appeal came only second, if even second, to the history of his ownland; doubtless also to the man who was not a technical scholar, thehistory of Rome had far more familiar charm than the history of Greece. When, therefore, Shakespeare went outside his own England in searchfor historical themes, he was still addressing the general heart,and showed himself in closer accord with popular taste than, _e. g. _Chapman, whose French plays are perhaps next to his own among the bestElizabethan examples of the historical drama. But we may be sure thatAmbois and Biron and Chabot were much less interesting persons to theordinary Londoner than Caesar and Antony and Coriolanus. Not merelyin treatment, but in selection of the material—which cannot fail toinfluence the treatment—Shakespeare was in touch with common feelingand popular taste. All the same a great deal more was now required than in the case ofthe English series. In that the story of a reign or the section ofa reign, the chronicle of a flimsy conspiracy or a foreign campaignmight furnish the framework for a production that would delight theaudience. It was otherwise when dramatist and spectators alike knew thehistory only in its mass, and were impressed only by the outstandingfeatures. Just as with individuals so with nations, many things becomesignificant and important in those of our familiar circle that wouldseem trivial in mere strangers and acquaintances. If the Roman playswere to be popular as the English ones had been, Shakespeare was boundto select episodes of more salient interest and more catholic appealthan such as had hitherto sometimes served his turn. In the best ofthe English plays we constantly wonder that Shakespeare could getsuch results from stories that we should have thought in advance tobe quite unfit for the stage. But the fall of Caesar and the fate ofthose who sought to strangle the infant empire, the shock of opposingforces in Augustus and Antony and the loss of the world for Cleopatra’slove, the triumph and destruction of the glorious renegade from whosewrath the young republic escaped as by fire—that there are tragicpossibilities in themes like these is patent to a casual glance. Itis significant that, while of the subjects handled in the Englishhistories only the episode of Joan of Arc and the story of RichardIII. have attracted the attention of foreign dramatists, all the Romanplays have European congeners. One of the reasons may be, that thoughthe events described in the national series are dramatic enough fornational purposes, they do not like the others satisfy the severerinternational test. And to a difference in the character of the material corresponds adifference in the character of the treatment. The best of the Englishplays, as we have seen, are precisely those that it would be hardest todescribe in terms of the ordinary drama. The juvenile _Richard III. _is the only one that could nowadays without objection be included in alist of Shakespeare’s tragedies. But with the Roman plays it is quitethe reverse. In the main lines of construction they are of tragicbuild; there is invariably a tragic problem in the hero’s career; andit reaches a tragic solution in his self-caused ruin. So they arealways ranked with the Tragedies, and though here and there they mayshow a variation from Shakespeare’s usual tragic technique, it wouldoccur to no one to alter the arrangement. (2) Yet these little variations may remind us that after all theywere not produced under quite the same presuppositions as plays like_Hamlet_ and _Othello_, or even _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. In a sensethey remain _Histories_, as truly histories as any of their Englishanalogues. The political vicissitudes and public catastrophes do notindeed contribute the chief elements of interest. Here as everywhereShakespeare is above all occupied with the career of individuals,with the interaction of persons and persons, and of persons andcircumstances. Nevertheless in these plays the characters are alwaysexhibited in relation to the great mutations in the State. Not merelythe background but the environment and atmosphere are supplied by thelarge life of affairs. It is not so in _Lear_, where the legend offeredno tangible history on which the imagination could take hold; it isonly partially so in _Macbeth_, where Shakespeare knew practicallynothing of the actual local conditions; nor, had it been otherwise, wasthere anything in these traditions of prerogative importance for latertimes. But in the Roman plays the main facts were accredited and known,and of infinite significance for the history of the world. They couldnot be overlooked, they had to be taken into account. For the same reason they must no more be tampered with than theaccepted facts of English History. The two historical series are againalike in this, that they treat their sources with much more reverencethan either the Comedies or the other Tragedies show for theirs. Evenin _Lear_ the dramatist has no scruple about altering the traditionalclose; even in _Macbeth_ he has no scruple about blending the storiesof two reigns. But in dealing with the professedly authentic recordswhether of England or Rome, Shakespeare felt that he had to do with theactual, with what definitely had been; and he did not conceive himselffree to give invention the rein, as when with a light heart he reshapedthe caprices of a novel or the perversions of a legend. As historicaldramatist he was subordinated to his subject much in the same way asthe portrait painter. He could choose his point of view, and managethe lights and shades, and determine the pose. He could emphasizedetails, or slur them over, or even leave them out. He could interpretand reveal, so far as in him lay, the meaning and spirit of history. But he had his marching orders and could no more depart from them totake a more attractive way of his own, than the portrait painter cancorrect the defects of his sitter to make him an Apollo. It cannotalways have been easy to keep true to this self-denying ordinance. Despite the suitability of the subject in general suggestion and evenin many particular incidents there must have been a recalcitrance totreatment here and there; and traces of this may be detected, if theRoman plays are compared with the tragedies in which the genius ofShakespeare had quite unimpeded sway. To some of the chief of thesetraces Mr. Bradley has called attention. Thus there is in the middle of_Antony and Cleopatra_, owing to the undramatic nature of the historicmaterial, an excessive number of brief scenes “in which the _dramatispersonae_ are frequently changed, as though a novelist were to tell hisstory in a succession of short chapters, in which he flitted from onegroup of his characters to another. ” In _Coriolanus_, “if Shakespearehad made the hero persist and we had seen him amid the flaming ruins ofRome, awaking suddenly to the enormity of his deed and taking vengeanceon himself . . . that would merely have been an ending more strictlytragic[72] than the close of Shakespeare’s play. ” In _Julius Caesar_the “famous and wonderful” quarrel scene between Brutus and Cassius is“an episode the removal of which would not affect the actual sequenceof events (unless we may hold that but for the emotion caused by thequarrel and reconciliation Cassius would not have allowed Brutusto overcome his objection to the fatal policy of offering battle atPhilippi). ” Mr. Bradley discusses this in another connection, and here,as we shall see, Shakespeare only partially adheres to his authority. In the same play, however, we have the episode of the poet Cinna’smurder which, however useful in illustrating the temper of the moband suggestive in other respects, is nevertheless a somewhat crudeintrusion of history, for it leads to nothing and in no way helps onthe action. But Shakespeare will put up with an occasional awkwardnessin the mechanism rather than fail to give what he considers a faithfulpicture. As in the best English Histories he omits, he compresses, heeven regroups; but he never consciously alters the sense, and to bringout the sense he utilises material that puts a little strain on his art. [72] _I. e. _ more tragic in the technical sense. Of course Mr. Bradleyis quite aware that as it stands _Coriolanus_ is “a much nobler play. ”It is right to add that he expresses no opinion whether the actualclose of Shakespeare’s play “was due simply to his unwillingness tocontradict his historical authority on a point of such magnitude. ” Atany rate, I am convinced that in his eyes that was a sufficient ground. Yet of course this does not mean that in the Roman any more thanin the English plays he attempts an accurate reconstruction of thepast. It may even be doubted whether such an attempt would have beenintelligible to him or to any save one or two of his contemporaries. To the average Elizabethan (and in this respect Shakespeare was anaverage Elizabethan, with infinitely clearer vision certainly, butwith the same outlook and horizon) the past differed from the presentchiefly by its distance and dimness; and distinctive contrasts inmanners and customs were but scantily recognised. A generation laterFrench audiences could view the perruques and patches of Corneille’sRomans without any sense of incongruity, and the assimilation of theancient to the modern was in some respects much more thorough-going inShakespeare’s England. In all his classical pieces the impression ofhistoric actuality and the genuine antique _cachet_ is only producedwhen there is a kind of inner kinship between the circumstances tobe represented and the English life that he knew. There was a gooddeal of such correspondence between Elizabethan life and Roman life,so the Roman Tragedies have a breath of historic verisimilitude andeven a faint suggestion of local colour. There was much less betweenElizabethan life and Greek life, so _Timon_ and _Troilus and Cressida_,though true as human documents, have almost nothing Hellenic aboutthem. But even in the Roman plays, so soon as there is anything thatinvolves a distinctive difference between Rome and London Shakespeareis sure to miss it. Anachronisms in detail are of course abundantlyunimportant, though a formidable list of them could be computed. In_Julius Caesar_ there are clocks that strike, and the crowd throw uptheir sweaty nightcaps. The arrangements of the Elizabethan stagefurnish Cleopatra and Comminius with similes. Menenius is familiar withfuneral knells and batteries and Galen’s prescriptions. These are _minutiae_ on which students like Bacon or Ben Jonson mightset store, but in regard to which Shakespeare was quite untroubledand careless. Perhaps they deserve notice only because they add onelittle item to the mass of proof that the plays were written by aman of merely ordinary information, not by a trained scholar. Butfor themselves they may be disregarded. It is not such trifles thatinterfere with fidelity to antiquity. But in weightier matters,too, Shakespeare shows an inevitable limitation in reproducing acivilisation that was in some aspects very different from his own,and for which he had no parallel in his own experience. He shows aprecisely analogous limitation when he deals with themes from EnglishHistory that were partly alien to the spirit of the time. Of this _KingJohn_ furnishes the grand example. We all know why that troublesomereign is memorable now, not merely to the constitutional historian,but to the man in the street and the child on the school bench. YetShakespeare makes no mention of Runnymede or the Great Charter; andwe may assume that he, like most Elizabethans, if interested in suchmatters at all, would have been unsympathetic to a movement thatextorted liberties by civil strife. To him the significant pointsare the disputed succession, the struggle with the Pope, the initialinvasion of France by England when the Kingdom is of one accord, andthe subsequent invasion of England by France, when it is dividedagainst itself. So _King John_, though very true to human nature andeven to certain aspects of the period, pays no heed to the aspect whichother generations have considered the most important of all, and onewhich on any estimate is not to be overlooked. But if Shakespeare thusmisses a conspicuous feature in a set of occurrences that took placeamong his own people less than four hundred years before, we need notwonder if he failed to detect the peculiar features of ancient Romeas it existed at a further distance of twelve or sixteen centuries. His approximation to the actual or alleged conditions varies indeedin the different plays. It is closest in _Antony and Cleopatra_. Inthat there is hardly a personage or circumstance for which he had notsome sort of a clue. He knew about soldiers of fortune like Enobarbusand pirate-adventurers like Menas; a ruler like Henry VII. had in hima touch of Octavius, there were not a few notabilities in Europe whocarried a suggestion of Mark Antony, the orgies of Cleopatra’s courtin Egypt were analogous to those of many an Italian or French court atthe Renaissance. It is all native ground to Shakespeare and he wouldfeel himself at home. On the other hand, he is least capable of seeingeye to eye the primitive republican life which on Plutarch’s evidencehe has to depict in _Coriolanus_. The shrewd, resolute, law-abidingCommons, whom some of the traditions that Plutarch worked up seem meantto exalt; the plebs that might secede to the Holy Mount, but would notrise in armed revolt; that secured the tribunate as its constitutionallever with which it was by and by to shift the political centre ofgravity, this was like nothing that he knew or that anybody else knewabout till half a century had elapsed. He could only represent it interms of a contemporary city mob; and the consequence is that thoughhe has given a splendid picture that satisfies the imagination andeven realises some of Plutarch’s hints, it is not true to the wholesituation as envisaged by Plutarch. [73] _Julius Caesar_ occupies a kindof intermediate position, and for that reason illustrates his methodmost completely. He could understand a good deal of the politicalcrisis in Rome on which that story turns, from the existing conditionsor recent memories of his own country. In both a period of civilturmoil had ended in the establishment of a strong government. In boththere were nobles who from principle or interest were opposed to thechange, so he could enter into the feelings of the conspirators. Inboth the centralisation of authority was the urgent need, so he couldappreciate the indispensableness of the Empire, the ‘spirit of Caesar. ’But of zeal for the republican theory as such he knows nothing, andtherefore his Brutus is only in part the Brutus of Plutarch. [73] Of course Shakespeare could not be expected to anticipate thelater theories and researches that go to prove that the political powerof plebs and tribunate has been considerably antedated. Thus Shakespeare in his picture of Rome and Romans, does not give thenotes that mark off Roman from every other civilisation, but ratherthose that it possessed in common with the rest, and especially withhis own. He even puts into it, without any consciousness of thediscrepancy, qualities that are characteristic of Elizabethan ratherthan of Roman life. And the whole result, the quickening of the antiquematerial with modern feeling in so far as that is also antique, andoccasionally when it is not quite antique, is due to the thoroughrealisation of the subject in Shakespeare’s own mind from his ownpoint of view, with all the powers not only of his reason, but of hisimagination, emotion, passion, and experience. Hence his delineationsare in point of fact more truly antique than those of many much morescholarly poets, who can reproduce the minute peculiarities, but not,what is more central and essential, the living energy and principle ofit all. This was felt by contemporaries. We have the express testimonyof the erudite Leonard Digges, who after graduating as Bachelor inOxford, continued his studies for many years in several foreignuniversities, and consequently was promoted on his return to thehonorary degree of Master, a man who, with his academic training andacademic status, would not be apt to undervalue literal accuracy. Buthe writes:    So have I seen when Caesar would appear,    And on the stage at half-sword parley were    Brutus and Cassius: oh! how the audience    Were ravish’d, with what wonder went they thence;    When some new day they would not brook a line    Of tedious though well-labour’d _Catiline_,—    Sejanus too was irksome. Ben Jonson in _Sejanus_ and _Catiline_ tried to restore antiquity inits exclusive and exceptional traits. Shakespeare approached it onits more catholic and human side, interpreted it by those qualitiesin modern life that face towards the classical ideal, and even wentthe length of using at unawares some that were more typical of hisnew world. And Jonson’s Roman plays were felt to be well-laboured andirksome, while his filled the spectators with ravishment and wonder. In both series then, English and Roman alike, Shakespeare on the onehand loyally accepted his authorities and never deviated from them ontheir main route, but on the other he treated them unquestioninglyfrom his own point of view, and probably never even suspected thattheir own might be different. This is the double characteristic of hisattitude to his documents, and it combines pious regard for the assumedfacts of History with complete indifference to critical research. Heis as far as possible from submitting to the dead hand of the past,but he is also as far as possible from allowing himself a free handin its manipulation. His method, in short, implies and includes twoprinciples, which, if separated, may easily become antagonistic, andwhich, in point of fact, have led later schools of the historic dramain quite opposite directions. A short examination of these contrastedtendencies may perhaps help to throw a clearer light on Shakespeare’sown position. The one that lays stress on the artist’s right to take counsel withhis own ideas has been explained by Lessing in a famous passage ofthe _Hamburg Dramaturgy_, which is all the more interesting for thepresent purpose, that throughout it tacitly or expressly appeals tothe practice of Shakespeare. Lessing starts with Aristotle’s doctrinethat poetry is more pregnant than history, and asks why, when this isso, the poet does not keep within the kingdom of his imagination, whymore especially the dramatist descends to the lower artistic levelof the historian to trespass on the domain of prosaic fact. And heanswers that it is merely a matter of convenience. There is advantageto be gained from illustrious position and impressive associations;and moreover the playwright finds it helpful that the audience shouldalready have some idea of the story to be told, that they should, asit were, meet him half way, and bring to the understanding of hispiece some general knowledge of the persons. He gains his purpose ifhe employs famous names which appear in a nimbus of associations, andsaves time in describing their characters and circumstances; and thusthey attune our minds for what is to come and serve as so many labelsby means of which, when we see a new play, we may inform ourselveswhat it is all about. The initial familiarity and the prestige itimplies are fulcra for moving the interest of the beholders. Thehistorical dramatist, therefore, must be careful not to alter thecurrent conceptions of character; but, with that proviso, he has almostunlimited powers, and may omit or recast or invent incidents, or forgean entirely new story, just as he pleases, so long, that is, as heleaves the character intact and does not interfere with our idea of thehero. In that case the historic label would be more of a hindrance thana help to our enjoyment. Lessing’s view of the Historic Drama (and there is no doubt that hethought he was describing the method of Shakespeare) is thereforethat it is a free work of fiction woven around characters that arefairly well known. He was certainly wrong about Shakespeare, and histheory strikes us nowadays as strangely inadequate, but it had veryimportant results. It directly influenced the dramatic art of Germany,and it would be hard to overestimate the share it had in determiningSchiller’s methods of composition. It was in the air at the time ofthe Romantic Movement in France, and is really the principle on whichHugo constructs his more important plays in this kind. Schiller’streatment of history is very free; he invents scenes that have noshadow of foundation in fact, and yet are of crucial importance in hisidealised narrative; he invents subordinate persons who are hardly lessconspicuous than the authentic principals, and who vitally affect theplot and action. All his plays contain these licenses. Such episodes asthe interview between Mary and Elizabeth, of Jeanne Darc’s indulgenceof her pity illustrate the first, such figures as Mortimer or Max andThekla illustrate the second; but what would _Mary Stuart_ or the _Maidof Orleans_ or _Wallenstein_ be without them? And with Victor Hugo thisemancipation from authority is pushed to even greater lengths. Playslike _Le Roi s’amuse_ or _Marion de Lorme_ might recall the vagaries ofearly Elizabethan experiments like Greene’s _James IV. _, were it notthat they are works of incomparably higher genius. Hugo has acceptedthe traditional view of a French king and a French court, but all therest is sheer romance on which just here and there we detect the trailof an old _mémoire_. Now, some of the extreme examples suggest a two-fold objection toLessing’s account as a quite satisfactory explanation of the species. In the first place, when the poet carries his privilege of independenceso far, why should he not go a step further and invent his entiredrama, names and all? As it is, we either know something of the realhistory or we do not. If we do not, what is the advantage of appealingto it? If we do, will not such lordly disregard of facts stir up thesame recalcitrance as disregard of traditional character, and shallwe not be rather perplexed than aided by the conflict between ourreminiscences and the statements of the play? And, in the second place, is the portrayer of human nature to takehis historical persons as once for all given and fixed, so that hemust leave the accepted estimate of them intact without attemptingto modify it? Surely that would be to deprive the dramatist of hisgreater privilege and the drama of its greatest opportunity. For thenwe should only see a well-known character illustrated or describedanew, displaying its various traits in this or that set of novelsurroundings. But there would be little room for the sort of work thatthe historic drama is specially fitted to do, viz. the expositionof ambiguous or problematic natures, which will give us a differentconception of them from the one we have hitherto had. Hence there arose in Germany a view directly opposed to that ofLessing, and Lotze does not hesitate to recommend the most painstakinginvestigation and observance of the real facts. The poet, he thinks,will find scope enough in giving a new interpretation of the careerand individuality of the hero, after he has used all the means in hispower to bring home to his imagination the actual circumstances fromwhich they emerged. Probably little was known in England of this theoryof Lotze’s, though utterances to the same effect occur in Carlyle,especially in his remarks on Shakespeare’s English Histories; yetit seems to give a correct account of the way in which most Englishhistorical dramas were constructed in the nineteenth century. Sir HenryTaylor, while calling _Philip van Artevelde_ “a dramatic romance,” iscareful to state that “historic truth is preserved in it, as far as thematerial events are concerned. ” Mr. Swinburne, in his trilogy on MaryStuart, versifies whole pages of contemporary writers (_e. g. _ in theinterview of Mary and Knox taken almost verbatim from Knox’s _Historyof the Reformation_), and in his prose essay seems specially to valuehimself on his exact delineation of her career, and his solution ofthe problem of her strange nature. But the prerogative instance isfurnished by Tennyson. In his dedication of _Harold_, he writes toLord Lytton: “After old-world records like the Bayeux Tapestry and theRoman de Rou, Edward Freeman’s _History of the Norman Conquest_ andyour father’s historical romance treating of the same theme have beenmainly helpful to me in writing this drama. ” He puts his antiquarianresearches first, his use of the best modern critical authoritiessecond, and only in the third place an historical romance, to which forthe rest Freeman has said that he owes something himself. Nor would itbe difficult to show that in _Queen Mary_ and _Becket_ he has followedthe same lines. And on such lines it is clear that the historicaldramatist’s only aim must be to present in accurate though artisticform a selection of the incidents and circumstances of the hero’s lifeand times, and place them in such mutual relation that they throw newlight on the nature and destiny of the man. But from this point of view the functions of the poet and the historianwill tend to coalesce, and it is just this that at first sight rousessuspicion. After all can we so reproduce the past as to give it realimmediate truth? It is hardly possible by antiquarian knowledgequickened by ever so much poetic power to galvanise into life a stateof things that once for all is dead and gone. And meanwhile the mereeffort to do so is apt to make the drama a little frigid, as Tennyson’sdramas are. We are seldom carried away on a spontaneous stream ofpassion; for after all the methods of the historian and the poet areradically different, and the painful mosaic work of the one is almostdirectly opposed to the complete vision, the creation in one jet, whichmay be rightly expected of the other. But it is noteworthy that though the two schools which we have justdiscussed, make appeal to Shakespeare, his own procedure does notprecisely agree with that of one or other. He is too much of theheaven-born poet for the latter; he has too genuine a delight in factsfor the former. He has points of contact with both, but in a way heis more _naïf_ and simple-minded than either. He at the same timeaccepts the current conception of character with Lessing, and respectsthe allegations of history with Carlyle. But though he begins withthe ordinary impression produced by his hero, he does not stop there. Such an impression is bound to be incoherent and vague. Shakespeareprobes and defines it; he tests it in relation to the assumed facts onwhich it is based; he discovers the latent difficulties, faces them,and solves them, and, starting with a conventional type, leaves uswith an individual man. In doing this he treats the facts as a means,not as an end, but he does not sophisticate them. We hardly ever findfictitious persons and scenes in Schiller’s style, and when we do theexception proves the rule, for they have not the same function as inSchiller’s theatre. Falstaff plays his part aside, as it were, fromthe official history, he belongs to the private life of Prince Hal,and is impotent to affect the march of public events. People likeLucius in _Julius Caesar_, or Nicanor in _Coriolanus_, or Silius in_Antony and Cleopatra_ do not interfere in the political story; theyare present to make or to hear comments, or at most to assist theinward interpretation. No unhistorical person has historical work todo, and no unhistorical episode affects the historical action. [74] Yethe quite escapes from the chill and closeness of the book-room. Heengages in no critical investigations to sift out the genuine facts. Hedoes not study old tapestry or early texts. Unhampered by the learnedapparatus of the scholar, undistracted by the need of pausing to verifyor correct, he speeds along on the flood-tide of his own inspiration,which takes the same course with the interests of the nation. For it isthe reward of the intimate sympathy which exists between him and hiscountrymen, that he goes to work, his personal genius fortified andenlarged by the popular enthusiasms, patriotic or cosmopolitan. Andnothing can withstand the speed and volume of the current. There is agreat contrast between the broad free sweep of his Histories, Englishor Roman, that lift us from our feet and carry us away, and the littleartificial channels of the antiquarian dramas, on the margin of whichwe stand at ease to criticise the purity of the distilled water. Yetnone the less he is in a sense more obedient to his authorities thanany writer of the antiquarian school. Just because, while desiring togive the truth as he knows it, he is careless to examine the accuracyor estimate the value of the documents he consults; and just because,while determined to give a faithful narrative, he spares himself alllabour of comparison and research and takes a statement of Holinshedor Plutarch as guaranteeing itself, he is far more in the hands ofthe guide he follows than a later dramatist would be. He takes thetext of his author, and often he has not more than one: he accepts itimplicitly and will not willingly distort it: he reads it in the lightof his own insight and the spirit of the age, and tries to recreate theagents and the story from the more or less adequate hints that he finds. [74] Even the intervention of the Bastard in _King John_ was guaranteedby the old play and was doubtless considered authentic by Shakespeare. Now, proceeding in this way it is clear that while in every caseShakespeare’s indebtedness to his historical sources must be great,it will vary greatly in quality and degree according to the materialdelivered to him. The situations may be more or less dramatic, thenarrative more or less firmly conceived. And among his sourcesPlutarch occupies quite an exceptional place. From no one else hashe ‘conveyed’ so much, and no one else has he altered so little. And the reason is, that save Chaucer and Homer, on whom he drew for_Troilus and Cressida_, but from whom he could assimilate little thatsuited his own different ideas, no other writer contained so muchthat was of final and permanent excellence. To put it shortly, inPlutarch’s _Lives_ Shakespeare for the first and almost the only timewas rehandling the masterpieces of a genius who stood at the summit ofhis art. It was not so in the English Histories. One does not like tosay a word in disparagement of the Elizabethan chronicles, especiallyHolinshed’s, on which the maturer plays are based. They are goodreading and deserve to be read independently of the dramatist’s use ofthem. But they are not works of phenomenal ability, and they betray theinfancy of historical writing, not only in scientific method, which inthe present connection would hardly matter, but in narrative art aswell. Cowley in _his_ Chronicle, _i. e. _ the imaginary record of hislove affairs, breaks off with a simile and jest at their expense. If,he says, I were to give the details,    I more voluminous should grow—      (Chiefly if I like them should tell      All change of weathers that befell)    Than Holinshed and Stowe. Their intention is good, and they often realise it so as to interestand impress, but the introduction of such-like trifles as Cowleymentions, without much relevance or significance, may give us themeasure of their technical skill. Again, though in the second andthird part of _Henry VI. _ Shakespeare was dealing with the work ofMarlowe, we have to remember, first, that his originals were compositepieces not by Marlowe alone, and, further, that even Marlowe could notaltogether escape the disabilities of a pioneer. In Plutarch, however, Shakespeare levied toll on no petty vassallike the compilers of the Chronicles, or innovating conqueror likethe author of _Tamburlaine_, but on the king by right divine of along-established realm. And the result is that he appropriates more,and that more of greater value, than from any other tributary. CHAPTER IIIANCESTRY OF SHAKESPEARE’S ROMAN PLAYS1. PLUTARCH[75]Plutarch, born at Chaeronea in Boeotia, about 45 or 50 A. D. , flourishedin the last quarter of the first and the earliest quarter of thesecond century. He came of good stock, which he is not reluctant totalk about. Indeed, his habit of introducing or quoting his father,his grandfather, and even his great grandfather, gives us glimpsesof a home in which the prescribed pieties of family life werewarmly cherished; and some of the references imply an atmosphere ofsimplicity, urbanity, and culture. [75] See Plutarch’s works _passim_, especially North’s version ofthe _Lives_ reprinted in the _Tudor Translations_, and the _Morals_translated by Philemon Holland (1603). See also Archbishop Trench’s_Lectures on Plutarch_. The lad was sent to Athens to complete his education under Ammonius,an eminent philosopher of that generation, though in Carlyle’s phrase,‘now dim to us,’ who also took part in what little administrativework was still intrusted to provincials, and more than once held thedistinguished position of strategos. Thus, as in childhood Plutarch wastrained in the best domestic traditions of elder Greece, so now he hadbefore his eyes an example of such active citizenship as survived inthe changed condition of things. The same spirit of reverence for the past presided over his routine ofstudy. His works afterwards show a wide familiarity with the earlierliterature and philosophy of his country, and the foundations of thismust have been laid in his student days. It was still in accordancewith accepted precedents and his own reminiscent tastes, that when heset out on his travels, he should first, as so many of his predecessorswere reported to have done, betake himself to the storied land ofEgypt. We know that this must have been after 66 A. D. , for in thatyear, when Nero made his progress through Greece, Plutarch tells usthat he was still the pupil of Ammonius. We know, further, that he musthave visited Alexandria, for he mentions that in his grandfather’sopinion his father gave too large a banquet to celebrate theirhomecoming from that city. But he does not inform us how much of Egypthe saw, or how long was his stay, or in what way he employed himself. It is only a probable conjecture at most that his treatise on _Isis andOsiris_ may be one of the fruits of this expedition. Of another and later journey that took him to Italy, there is more tobe said. Plutarch at an early age, whether before or after the Egyptiantour, had already been employed in public affairs. He tells us:    I remember my selfe, that when I was but of yoong yeres I    was sent with another in embassage to the Proconsul: and    in that my companion staid about I wot not what behind, I    went alone and did that which we had in commission to do    together. After my returne when I was to give an account    unto the State, and to report the effect of my charge and    message back again, my father arose, and taking me apart,    willed me in no wise to speak in the singular number and    say, _I departed or went_, but, _We departed_; item not    _I said_ (or _quoth I_) but _We said_; and in the whole    narration of the rest to joine alwaies my companion as if he    had been associated and at one hand with me in that which I    did alone. [76][76] _Instructions for them, etc. _Such courtesy conciliates good will, and he was subsequently sent ‘onpublic business’ to Rome. This must have been before 90 A. D. , whenRusticus, whom Plutarch mentions that he met, was condemned to death,and when the philosophers were expelled from the city; and was probablysome time after 74 A. D. , the date of their previous expulsion, when,moreover, Plutarch was too young to be charged with matters so weightyas to need settlement in the capital. But it is not certain whetherthis was his only visit to Italy, and whether he made it in the reignof Vespasian or of Domitian. His story of a performing dog that tookpart in an exhibition in presence of Vespasian, has been thought tohave the verisimilitude of a witnessed scene, and has been used tosupport the former supposition: his description of the sumptuousnessof Domitian’s buildings makes a similar impression, and has been usedto support the latter. All this must remain doubtful, but some thingsare certain: that his business was so engrossing, and those who cameto him for instruction were so numerous, that he had little time forthe study of the Latin language; that he delivered lectures, some ofwhich were the first drafts of essays subsequently included in the_Moralia_; that he had as his acquaintances or auditors several of themost distinguished men in Rome, among them Mestrius Florus, a tablecompanion of Vespasian, Sosius Senecio, the correspondent of Pliny,and that Arulenus Rusticus afterwards put to death by Domitian, whoon one occasion would not interrupt a lecture of Plutarch’s to reada letter from the Emperor; that he traversed Italy as far north asRavenna, where he saw the bust of Marius, and even as Bedriacum, wherehe inspected the battlefields of 69 A. D. But though Plutarch loved travel and sight-seeing, and though he wasfully alive to the advantages of a great city, with its instructivesociety and its collections of books, his heart was in his nativeplace, and he returned to settle there. “I my selfe,” he says, “dwellein a poore little towne, and yet doe remayne there willingly, least itshould become lesse. ”[77] And in point of fact he seems henceforth onlyto have left it for short excursions to various parts of Greece. One ofthese exhibits him in a characteristic and amiable light. Apparentlysoon after his marriage a dispute had broken out between the parents ofthe newly wedded pair, and Plutarch in his conciliatory way took hiswife, as we should say, ‘on a pilgrimage,’ to the shrine at Thespiaeon Mount Helicon to offer a sacrifice to Love. [78] This is in keepingwith all the express utterances and all the unconscious revelations hemakes of his feeling for the sacredness of the family tie. He was oneof those whose soul rings true to the claims of kith and kin. He thanksFortune as a chief favour for the comradeship of his brother Timon,and delights to show off the idiosyncrasies of his brother Lamprias. We do not know when his marriage took place, but if Plutarch acted onhis avowed principles, it must have been when he was still a youngman, and it was a very happy one. As we should expect; for of all theaffections it is wedded love that he dwells on most fully, and few havespoken more nobly and sincerely of it than he. Again and again he givesthe point of view, which is often said to have been attained by theModern World only by the combined assistance of Germanic character andChristian religion. Thus he says of a virtuous attachment:[77] _Life of Demosthenes. _[78] _Love. _    But looke what person soever love setleth upon in mariage,    so as he be inspired once therewith, at the very first,    like as it is in Platoes Common-wealth, he will not have    these words in his mouth, _Mine_ and _Thine_; for simply    all goods are not common among all friends, but only those    who being severed apart in body, conjoine and colliquate as    it were perforce their soules together, neither willing nor    believing that they should be twaine but one: and afterward    by true pudicitie and reverence one unto the other, whereof    wedlock hath most need. . . . In true love there is so much    continency, modesty, loyalty and faithfulnesse, that though    otherwhile it touche a wanton and lascivious minde, yet    it diverteth it from other lovers, and by cutting off all    malapert boldnesse, by taking downe and debasing insolent    pride and untaught stubornesse, it placeth in lieu thereof    modest bashfulnesse, silence, and taciturnity; it adorneth    it with decent gesture and seemly countenance, making it    for ever after obedient to one lover onely. . . . For like    as at Rome, when there was a Lord Dictatour once chosen,    all other officers of state and magistrates valed bonnet,    were presently deposed, and laied downe their ensignes of    authority; even so those over whom love hath gotten the    mastery and rule, incontinently are quit freed and delivered    from all other lords and rulers, no otherwise than such as    are devoted to the service of some religious place. [79][79] _Love. _His wife bore him at least five children, of whom three died inchildhood, the eldest son, “the lovely Chaeron,” and then their littledaughter, born after her four brothers, and called by her mother’sname, Timoxena. The letter of comfort which Plutarch, who was absentat Tanagra, sent home after the death took place, is good to read. There is perhaps here and there a touch that suggests the professionalmoralist and rhetorician: as when he recounts a fable of Aesop’sto enforce his advice; or bids his wife not to dwell on her griefsrather than her blessings, like “those Criticks who collect and gathertogether all the lame and defective verses of Homer, which are but fewin number; and in the meane time passe over an infinite sort of otherswhich were by him most excellently made”; or warns her to look to herhealth because, if “the bodie be evill entreated and not regarded withgood diet and choice keeping, it becometh dry, rough and hard, in suchsort as from it there breathe no sweet and comfortable exhalationsunto the soule, but all smoakie and bitter vapors of dolour griefeand sadnesse annoy her. ” These were the toll Plutarch paid to his ageand to his training. But the tender feeling for his wife’s grief, andthe confidence in her dignified endurance of it are very beautifuland human. And his descriptions of the child’s sweet nature, whichhe does not leave general, but after his wont lights up with specialreminiscences, and which, he insists, they must not lose from mind orturn to bitterness but cherish as an abiding joy, strike the note thatis still perhaps most comforting to mourners. After telling over herother winsome and gracious ways, he recalls:    She was of a wonderfull kinde and gentle nature; loving she    was againe to those that loved her, and marvellous desirous    to gratifie and pleasure others: in which regards she both    delighted me and also yielded no small testimonie of rare    debonairetie that nature had endued her withall; for she    would make pretie means[80] to her nourse, and seeme (as it    were) to intreat her to give the brest or pap, not only to    other infants but also to little babies[81] and puppets and    such-like gauds as little ones take joy in and wherewith    they use to play; as if upon a singular courtesie and    humanitie shee could finde in her heart to communicate and    distribute from her owne table even the best things that    shee had, among them that did her any pleasure. But I see    no reason (sweet wife) why these lovely qualities and such    like, wherein we took contentment and joy in her life time,    should disquiet and trouble us now after her death, when we    either think or make relation of them: and I feare againe,    lest by our dolour and griefe, we abandon and put cleane    away all the remembrance thereof; like as Clymene desired to    do when she said    “I hate the bow so light of cornel tree:    All exercise abroad, farewell for me,”    as avoiding alwaies and trembling at the commemoration    of her sonne which should do no other good but renew her    griefe and dolour; for naturally we seeke to flee all that    troubleth and offendeth us. We oughte therefore so to    demeane ourselves, that, as whiles she lived, we had nothing    in the world more sweet to embrace, more pleasant to see or    delectable to heare than our daughter; so the cogitation    of her may still abide and live with us all our life time,    having by many degrees our joy multiplied more than our    heavinesse augmented. [82][80] = Coax. [81] Dolls. [82] _Epistle to Wife. _And then there is the confident expectation of immortality to mitigatethe present pang of severance. But Plutarch and his wife had other consolations as well. Two sons,Aristobulus and a younger Plutarch, lived to be men, and to them hededicated a treatise on the _Timaeus_. We know that one of them atleast married and had a son in his father’s lifetime. Beyond hisdomestic circle Plutarch had a large number of friends in Chaeroneaand elsewhere, including such distinguished names as Favorinus thephilosopher and Serapion the poet; and being, in Dr. Johnson’s phrase,an eminently “clubbable man,” he was often host and guest at banquets,fragments of the talk at which he has preserved in his _Symposiacs_. Almost the only rigorous line in his portrait is contributed by AulusGellius, his later contemporary, and the friend of their common friendFavorinus. Gellius[83] represents the philosopher Taurus as tellingabout “Plutarchus noster”—a phrase that shows the attachment men feltfor him—a story of which Dryden gives the following free and amplifiedbut very racy translation:[83] _Noctes Atticae_, I. xxvi.    Plutarch had a certain slave, a saucy stubborn kind of    fellow; in a word one of these pragmatical servants who    never make a fault but they give a reason for it. His    justifications one time would not serve his turn, but his    master commanded that he should be stripped and that the law    should be laid on his back. He no sooner felt the smart but    he muttered that he was unjustly punished, and that he had    done nothing to deserve the scourge. At last he began to    bawl out louder; and leaving off his groaning, his sighs,    and his lamentations, to argue the matter with more show    of reason: and, as under such a master he must needs have    gained a smattering of learning, he cried out that Plutarch    was not the philosopher he pretended himself to be; that    he had heard him waging war against all the passions, and    maintaining that anger was unbecoming a wise man; nay,    that he had written a particular treatise in commendation    of clemency; that therefore he contradicted his precepts    by his practices, since, abandoning himself over to his    choler, he exercised such inhuman cruelty on the body of    his fellow-creature. “How is this, Mr. Varlet? ” (answered    Plutarch). “By what signs and tokens can you prove that I am    in passion? Is it by my countenance, my voice, the colour    of my face, by my words or by my gestures that you have    discovered this my fury? I am not of opinion that my eyes    sparkle, that I foam at the mouth, that I gnash my teeth, or    that my voice is more vehement, or that my colour is either    more pale or more red than at other times; that I either    shake or stamp with madness; that I say or do anything    unbecoming a philosopher. These, if you know them not, are    the symptoms of a man in rage. In the meantime,” (turning to    the officer who scourged him) “while he and I dispute this    matter, mind your business on his back. ”This story, as we have seen, comes from one who was in a position toget authentic information about Plutarch, and it may very well betrue; but it should be corrected, or at least supplemented, by his ownutterances in regard to his servants. “Sometimes,” he says, “I use toget angry with my slaves, but at last I saw that it was better to spoilthem by indulgence, than to injure myself by rage in the effort toamend them. ” And more emphatically:    As for me I coulde never finde in my hart to sell my drawght    Oxe that hadde plowed my lande a longe time, because he    coulde plowe no longer for age; and much lesse my slave to    sell him for a litle money, out of the contrie where he had    dwelt a long time, to plucke him from his olde trade of life    wherewith he was best acquainted, and then specially, when    he shalbe as unprofitable for the buyer as also for the    seller. [84][84] _Cato Major. _Plutarch was thus fully alive to the social and domestic amenitiesof life, and to his responsibilities as householder, but he did notfor them overlook other claims. He became priest of Apollo in Delphi,and for many years fulfilled the priestly functions, taking partin the sacrifices, processions and dances even as an old man; forphilosopher as he was, his very philosophy supplied him with variouscontrivances for conformity with the ancient cult, and he probablyhad no more difficulty about it than a modern Hegelian has with theThirty-nine Articles. His deeper religious needs would be satisfied bythe Mysteries, in which he and his wife were initiated. He was equally assiduous in public duties, which he did not despisefor the pettiness to which under the Roman domination they had shrunk. In his view even the remnants of self-government are to be jealouslyguarded and loyally employed, though they may concern merely parochialand municipal affairs, and for them vigilant training and disciplineare required.    Surely impossible it is that they should ever have their    part of any great roial and magnificall joy, such as indeed    causeth magnanimitie and hautinesse of courage, bringeth    glorious honour abroad or tranquillitie of spirit at home,    who have made choice of a close and private life within    doors, never showing themselves in the world nor medling    with publicke affaires of common weale; a life, I say,    sequestered from all offices of humanitie, far removed    from any instinct of honour or desire to gratifie others,    thereby to deserve thankes or winne favour: for the soul,    I may tell you, is no base and small thing; it is not vile    and illiberal, extending her desires onely to that which is    good to be eaten, as doe these poulpes[85] or pour cuttle    fishes which stretch their cleies as far as to their meat    and no farther: for such appetites as these are most quickly    cut off with satietie and filled in a moment. But when the    motives and desires of the minde tending to vertue and    honestie, to honour and contentment of conscience are once    growen to their vigour and perfection, they have not for    their limit, the length and tearme onely of one man’s life;    but surely the desire of honour and the affection to profit    the societie of men, comprehending all aeternitie, striveth    still to goe forward in such actions and beneficiall deedes    as yield infinite pleasures that cannot be expressed. [86][85] Polypes. [86] _That a man cannot live pleasantly, etc. _He was true to his principles. He not only officiated as Archon ofChaeronea, but, “gracing the lowliest act in doing it,” was willing todischarge the functions of a more subordinate post, which some thoughtbeneath his dignity.    Mine answer is to such as reprove me, when they find me    in proper person present, at the measuring and counting    of bricks and tiles, or to see the stones, sand and    lime laid downe, which is brought into the citie: “It    is not for myselfe that I builde, but for the citie and    commonwealth. ”[87][87] _Instructions for them, etc. _He was thus faithful over a few things; tradition made him ruler overmany things. It is related that Trajan granted him consular rank anddirected the governor of Achaia to avail himself of his advice. Thiswas embellished by the report that he had been Trajan’s preceptor; andin the Middle Ages a letter very magisterial in tone was fabricatedfrom him to his imperial pupil. It was even said that in his old ageHadrian had made him governor of Greece. There is a poetic justification for such legends. The government ofTrajan and Hadrian was felt to be such that the precepts of philosophymight very fittingly have inspired it, and that the philosopher mightvery well have been the administrator of their policy. And indeed itis perhaps no fable that Plutarch had something to do with the better_régime_ that was commencing; for his nephew Sextus of Chaeronea, whomay have inherited something of his uncle’s spirit, was an honouredteacher of Marcus Aurelius, and influenced his pupil by his exampleno less than by his teaching. The social renovation which was then inprogress should be remembered in estimating Plutarch’s career. Gibbonsays: “If a man were called to fix the period in the History of theWorld, during which the condition of the human race was most happy andprosperous, he would, without hesitation, name that which elapsed fromthe death of Domitian to the accession of Commodus. ” Probably thisstatement would need to be, if not greatly qualified, at least greatlyamplified, before it commanded universal assent, but, as it stands,there is a truth in it which anyone can perceive. There was peacethroughout a great portion of the world; there was good governmentwithin the Empire; there was a rejuvenescence of antique culture,literature, and conduct. Indeed, the upward tendency begins withthe reigns of Vespasian and Titus, and even the thwarting influenceof Domitian’s principate would be felt in Rome rather than in theprovinces. It was in this time of “reaction against corruption” thatPlutarch flourished, and his later life especially fell well withinthat Indian summer of classical civilisation that Gibbon celebrates. The tradition that he survived till the accession of Antonine may beincorrect, but he certainly enjoyed eight years of Trajan’s government,and, by Eusebius’ statement, was still alive in the third year ofHadrian’s reign. It is to his latter days that his _Lives_ as a wholeare assigned, partly on account of the casual reference to contemporaryevents that some of them contain. Plutarch’s character, circumstances, and career in a world which wasreaching its close, well fitted him for the work that he did. ThisGreek citizen of the Roman Empire had cultivated his mind by study andtravel, and had assimilated the wisdom of wide experience and pregnantmemories which Antiquity had amassed in earlier times and to whichthis interval of revival was heir. Benevolent and dutiful, temperateand devout, with a deep sense of his public obligations and the ethosof his race, he sympathised with the best principles that had mouldedthe life of olden days, and that were emerging to direct the life ofthe present. And he combined his amplitude of traditional lore andenthusiasm for traditional virtue in a way that made him more thanan antiquary or a moralist. The explorer and practitioner of antiqueideas, in a sense he was their artist as well. His treatment and style already suggest the manifold influences thatwent to form his mind. One of his charms lies in his quotations, whichhe culls, or rather which spring up of their own accord, from hisreading of the most various authors of the most different times. He isat home in Greek literature, and likes to clinch his argument with asaying from the poets, for he seems to find that their words put histhought better than he could himself. But this affects his originalexpression. Dryden writes:    Being conversant in so great a variety of authors, and    collecting from all of them what he thought most excellent,    out of the confusion or rather mixture of their styles he    formed his own, which partaking of each was yet none of    them, but a compound of them all:—like the Corinthian metal    which had in it gold and brass and silver, and yet was a    species in itself. There may be a suggestion of the curious mosaic-worker in hisprocedure, something of artifice, or at least of conscious art; andindeed his treatises are not free from a rhetorical and sometimesdeclamatory strain. [88] That in so far is what Courier means when hesays that Plutarch writes in the style of a _sophistes_; but it wasinseparable from his composite culture and academic training, and itdoes not interfere with his sincerity and directness. [88] Even in the narrative passages one is conscious that thedescriptions have been worked up. Take, _e. g. _ the following passagefrom the _Life of Marius_:—Ἐπεὶ δὲ πολλοὺς τῶν Ἀμβρώνων οἰ Ῥωμαῖοι διαφθείραντες ἀνεχώρησαν ὀπίσωκαὶ σκότος ἐπέσχεν, οὐχ ὥσπερ εὐτυχήματι τοσούτῳ τὸν στρατὸν ἐδέξαντοπαιᾶνες ἐπινίκιοι καὶ πότοι κατὰ σκηνὰς καὶ φιλοφροσύναι περὶ δεῖπνα,καὶ, τὸ πάντων ἥδιστον ἀνδράσιν εὐτυχῶς μεμαχημένοις, ὕπνος ἤπιος,ἀλλ’ ἐκείνην μάλιστα τὴν νύκτα φοβερὰν καὶ ταραχώδη διήγαγον. Ἦν μὲνγὰρ αὐτοῖς ἀχαράκωτον τὸ στρατόπεδον καὶ ἀτείχιστον, ἀπελείποντο δὲτῶν βαρβάρων ἔτι πολλαὶ μυριάδες ἀήττητοι καὶ σνμμεμιγμένων τούτοις,ὅσοι διαπεφεύγεσαν, τῶν Ἀμβρώνων ὀδυρμὸς ἦν διὰ νυκτὸς, οὐ κλαυθμοῖςούδὲ στεναγμοῖς ἀνθρώπων ἐοικῶς, ἀλλὰ θηρομιγής τις ὠρυγὴ καὶ βρύχημαμεμιγμένον ἀπειλαῖς καὶ θρήνοις ἀναπεμπόμενον ἐκ πλήθους τοσούτου τάτε πέριξ ὄρη καὶ τὰ κοῖλα τοῦ ποταμοῦ περιεφώνει. Καὶ κατεῖχε φρικώδηςἦχος τὸ πεδίον.    (XX. Döhner’s Edition. )Or take this from the _Life of Sulla_:—Τὴν δὲ κραυγὴν καὶ ἀλαλαγμὸν οὐκ ἔστεγεν ὁ ἀὴρ ἐθνῶν τοσούτων ἅμακαθισταμένων εἰς τάξιν. Ἤν δὲ ἅμα καὶ τὸ κομπῶδες καὶ σοβαρὸν αὐτῶντῆς πολυτελείας οὐκ ἀργὸν οὐδὲ ἄχρηστον εἰς ἔκπληξιν, ἀλλ’ αἵ τεμαρμαρυγαὶ τῶν ὅπλων ἠσκημένων χρνσῷ τε καὶ ἀργύρῳ διαπρεπῶς αἵτε βαφαὶ τῶν Μηδικῶν καὶ Σκυθικῶν χιτώνων ἀναμεμιγμέναι χαλκῷ καὶσιδήρῳ λάμποντι πυροειδῆ καὶ φοβερὰν ἐν τῷ σαλεύεσθαι καὶ διαφέρεσθαιπροσέβαλλον ὄψιν, ὤστε τοὺς Ῥωμαίους ὑπὸ τὸν χάρακα συστέλλειν ἑαυτοὺςκαὶ τὸν Σύλλαν μηδενὶ λόγῳ τὸ θάμβος αὐτῶν ἀφελεῖν δυνάμενον βιάζεσθαίτε ἀποδιδράσκοντας οὐ βονλόμενον ἡσυχίαν ἄγειν καὶ φέρειν βαρέωςἐφυβρίζοντας ὁρῶντα κομπασμῷ καὶ γέλωτι τοὺς βαρβάρους.    (XVI. Döhner’s Edition. )This is very different from the unstudied charm of Herodotus. Even inNorth’s translation, though something of the cunning has been lost inthe selection and manipulation of the words, it is easy to see that thepictures are elaborate both in their general effect and their details. Now the Romaines, after they had overcome the most parte of theAmbrons, retyring backe by reason the night had overtaken them, didnot (as they were wont after they had geven such an overthrow) singsonges of victory and triumphe, nor make good chere in their tentesone with an other, and least of all sleepe: (which is the best andsweetest refreshing for men that have fought happely), but contrarilythey watched all that night with great feare and trouble, bicause theircampe was not trenched and fortified, and bicause they knewe also thatthere remained almost innumerable thowsandes of barbarous people, thathad not yet fought: besides also that the Ambrons that had fled andscaped from the overthrow, did howle out all night with lowd cries,which were nothing like men’s lamentacions and sighes, but rather likewild beastes bellowing and roaringe. So that the bellowinge of such agreat multitude of beastly people, mingled together with threates andwaylinges, made the mountains thereabouts and the running river torebounde againe of the sounde and ecco of their cries marvellously:by reason whereof, all the valley that lay between both, thundered toheare the horrible and fearfull trembling. The ayer was even cut a sunder as it were with the violence of thenoyse and cries of so many sundry nations, which altogether did putthem selves in battell ray. The sumptuousness of their furnituremoreover, was not altogether superfluous and unprofitable, but servedgreatly to feare the beholders. For the glistering of their harnesse,so richly trimmed and set forth with gold and silver, the cullers oftheir arming coates upon their curaces, after the facion of the Medesand Scythians, mingled with the bright glistering steele and shiningcopper, gave such a showe as they went and removed to and fro, thatmade a light as clere as if all had bene on a very fire, a fearfullthing to looke upon. In so much as the Romaines durst not so much asonce goe out of the trenches of their campe, nor Sylla with all hisperswasion coulde take away this great conceived feare from them:wherefore, (and bicause also he would not compell them to goe forth inthis feare) he was driven not to stirre, but close to abide, (thoughit grieved him greatly) to see the barbarous people so proudly andvillanously laugh him and his men to scorne. His philosophy makes a similar impression. He is an eclectic orsyncretist, and has learned from many of the mighty teachers ofbygone times. Plato is his chief authority, but Plato’s doctrines areconsciously modified in an Aristotelian sense, while nevertheless thoseaspects of them are made prominent which were afterwards elaboratedby Neo-Platonism strictly so-called. But Plutarch, though he has thegood word of Neo-Platonic thinkers, is not himself to be reckonedof their company. He is comparatively untouched by their mysticism,borrowed freely from the Theosophy of the East, and he stands in closerlineal relation to the antique Greek spirit than some, like Philo, whoprecede him in time. He was so indifferent to the Semitic habit ofmind that, despite his almost omnivorous curiosity, he never thoughtit worth while to instruct himself in the exact nature of Judaism orits difference from the Syrian cult, far less to spend on Christianityso much as a passing glance. He approaches Neo-Platonism most nearlyin certain religious imaginings which, as he himself recognised, haveaffinity with beliefs which prevailed in Persia and Egypt; but evenso, he hardly ceases to be national, for these were the two countrieswith which in days of yore Greece had the most important historicconnections. And moreover, his interest in such surmises is not, inthe first place, a speculative one, but springs from the hope of hisfinding some explanation of and comfort for the trials and difficultiesof actual life. For on the whole he differs from Plato chiefly inhis subordination of theory to practice. This compels him to acceptloans from the very schools that he most criticises, the Stoics, theSceptics, the Epicureans themselves. It is his preoccupation withconduct, rather than eclectic debility, that makes him averse toany one-sided scheme, and inclined to supplement it with manifoldadditions. But as in his style, so in his thought, he blends theheterogeneous elements to his own purpose, and fixes on them the stampof his own mind. It is not without reason that his various treatisesare included under the common title of _Moralia_. He may dilate on theworship of _Isis and Osiris_, or _The Face appearing within the Roundleof the Moone_; he may discuss _Whether creatures be more wise, they ofthe land or those of the water_; _What signifieth this word Ei engravenover the Dore of Appolloes Temple in the City of Delphi_, and variousother recondite matters; but the prevailing impression is ethical,and he is at his best when he is discoursing expressly on some moraltheme, on _Unseemly and Naughty Bashfulnesse_, or _Brotherly Love_,or _Tranquillitie and Contentment of Mind_, or the _Pluralitie ofFriends_, or the question _Whether this common Mot be well said ‘LiveHidden. ’_ There is the background of serious study and philosophicknowledge, but against it is detached the figure of the sagacious andpractical teacher, who wishes to make his readers better men and betterwomen, but never forgets his urbanity and culture in his admonitions,and drives them home with pointed anecdote and apt quotation. And thesubstance of his teaching, though so sane and experimental that itis sometimes described as obvious and trite, has a generous, ideal,and even chivalrous strain, when he touches on such subjects as love,or devotion, or the claims of virtue; and his sympathy goes outspontaneously to noble words or deeds or minds. It is an easy step from the famous _Moralia_ to the still morefamous _Parallel Lives_. “All history,” says Dryden, in referenceto the latter, “is only the precepts of moral philosophy reducedinto examples. ” This, at least, is no bad description of Plutarch’spoint of view; and his methods do not greatly differ in the series ofessays and in the series of biographies. In the essays he did not lethimself be unduly hampered by the etiquette of the Moral Treatise, butexpatiated at will among Collections and Recollections, and embroideredhis abstract argument with the stories that he delights to tell. As historian, on the other hand, he is not tied down to historicalnarration and exposition, but indulges his moralising bent to the full. He is on the lookout for edification, and is seldom at a loss for a pegto hang a lecture on. And these discourses of his, though the materialis sometimes the sober drab of the decent _bourgeois_, are always finein texture, and relieved by the quaintness of the cut and the ingenuityof the garnishing: nor are they the less interesting that they do notbelong to the regulation historical outfit. Such improving digressions,indeed, are among Plutarch’s charms. “I am always pleased,” saysDryden, “when I see him and his imitator Montaigne when they strike alittle out of the common road; for we are sure to be the better fortheir wandering. The best quarry does not always lie on the open field,and who would not be content to follow a good huntsman over hedges andditches, when he knows the game will reward his pains. ”[89][89] There are so many good things, despite all the inevitablemistakes, in Dryden’s _Life of Plutarch_, that one half regrets thatProfessor Ker’s plan did not allow him to include at least part of itin his admirable selection. Thus, in excuse for omitting the catalogueof Plutarch’s lost works, which had been given in full in the Parisedition: “But it is a small comfort to the merchant to pursue his billof freight when he is certain his ship is cast away; moved by the likereason, I have omitted that ungrateful task. ”Proceeding in this way it is not to be expected that Plutarch shouldcompose his _Lives_ with much care for dexterous design. Just as in hisphilosophy he has no rigidly consequent system of doctrine, so in hisbiographies he has no orderly or well-digested plan. The excellencesthat arise from a definite and vigorous conception of the whole arenot those at which he aims. He would proceed very much at haphazard,were it not for the chronological clue; which, for the rest, he is verywilling to abandon if a tempting by-path presents itself, or if hethinks of something for which he must retrace his steps. Yet, no morethan in his metaphysics is he without an instinctive method of his own. The house is finished, and with all its irregularities it is good todwell in; the journey is ended, and there has been no monotony on thedevious track. There is this advantage indeed in his procedure overthat of more systematic biographers, that it offers hospitality to allthe suggestions that crowd for admission. None is rejected because itis out of place and insignificant. Gossip and allotria of every kindthat do not make out their claims at first sight, and that the moreambitious historian would exclude as trivial, find an entry if they canshow a far-off connection with the subject. And, lo and behold, theyoften turn out to be the most instructive of all. But Plutarch welcomes them without scrutinising them very austerely. Hesubmits their credentials to no stringent test. He is no severe criticof their authenticity. He takes them where he finds them, just as hepicks up philosophic ideas from all quarters, even from the detestedEpicureans, without condemning them on account of their suspicioussource: it is enough for him if they adapt themselves to his use. Nor does he educe from them all that they involve. He does not evenconfront them with each other, to examine whether opposite hints abouthis heroes may not lead to fuller and subtler conceptions of them. Thisis the point of the charge brought against him by St. Évremond, thathe might have carried his analysis further and penetrated more deeplyinto human nature. St. Évremond notes how different a man is fromhimself, the same person being just and unjust, merciful and cruel;“which qualities,” proceeds the critic, “seeming to belie each otherin him, [Plutarch] attributes these inconsistencies to foreign causes. He could never . . . reconcile contrarieties in the same subject. ” Henever tried to do so. He collects a number of vivid traits, which,like a number of minute lines, set forth the likeness to his own mind,but he is ordinarily as far from interrogating and combining hisimpressions as he is from subjecting them to any punctilious test. Heexhibits characters in the particular aspects and manifestations whichhistory or hearsay has presented, and is content with the generalsense of verisimilitude that these successive indications, creditedor accredited, have left behind. But he stops there, and does notstudy his manifold data to construct from them a consistent complexindividuality in its oneness and difference. And if this is true of himas biographer, it is still truer of him as historian. He touches on allsorts of historical subjects—war, policy, administration, government;and he has abundance of acute and just remarks on them all. But it isnot in these that his chief interest lies, and it is not over them thathe holds his torch. This does not mean that he fails to perceive themain drift of things or to appreciate the importance of statecraft. Mr. Wyndham, defending him against those who have “denied him anypolitical insight,” very justly shows that, despite “the paucity of hispolitical pronouncements,” he has a “political bent. ” His choice ofheroes, in the final arrangement to which they lent themselves, provesthat he has an eye for the general course of Greek and Roman history,for the impotence into which the city state is sunk by rivalry withneighbours in the one case, for its transmutation into an Empire on theother: “The tragedy of Athens, the drama of Rome,” says Mr. Wyndham,“these are the historic poles of the _Parallel Lives_. ” And Plutarchhas a political ideal: the “need of authority and the obligation ofthe few to maintain it—by a ‘natural grace’ springing on the one handfrom courage combined with forbearance, and leading, on the other, toharmony between the rulers and the ruled—is the text, which, given outin the _Lycurgus_, is illustrated throughout the _Parallel Lives_. ” Somuch indeed we had a right to expect from the thoughtful patriot andexperienced magistrate of Chaeronea. The salient outlines of the storyof Greece and Rome could hardly remain hidden from a clear-sighted manwith Plutarch’s knowledge of the past: the relations of governor andgoverned had not only engaged him practically, but had suggested to himone of his most pithy essays, _Praecepta gerendae Reipublicae_, a titlewhich Philemon Holland paraphrases in stricter accordance with thecontents, _Instructions for them that manage Affaires of State_. Butthis does not carry us very far. Shakespeare in his English Historiesshows at least as much political discernment and political instinct. Hebrings out the general lesson of the wars of Lancaster and York, and in_Henry V. _ gives his conception of the ideal ruler. But no one wouldsay that this series shows a conspicuous genius for political researchor political history. The same thing is true, and in a greater degree,of Plutarch. He is public-spirited, but he is not a publicist. Hehas not much concern or understanding for particular measures andmovements and problems, however critical they may be. It is impossibleto challenge the justice of Archbishop Trench’s verdict, either in itsgeneral scope or in its particular instances, when he says:    One who already knows the times of Marius and Sulla will    obtain a vast amount of instruction from his several _Lives_    of these, will clothe with flesh and blood what would else,    in some parts, have been the mere skeleton of a story; but    I am bold to say no one would understand those times from    him. The suppression of the Catilinarian Conspiracy was the    most notable event in the life of Cicero; but one rises    from Plutarch’s _Life_ with only the faintest impression of    what that conspiracy, a sort of anticipation of the French    Commune, and having objects social rather than political,    meant. Or take his _Lives_ of the Gracchi. Admirable in    many respects as these are, greatly as we are debtors to    him here for important facts, whereof otherwise we should    have been totally ignorant, few, I think, would affirm that    he at all plants them in a position for understanding that    vast revolution effected, with the still vaster revolution    attempted by them, and for ever connected with their names. In Plutarch the historian, as well as the biographer, is subordinate tothe ethical teacher who wishes to enforce lessons that may be useful tomen in the management of their lives. He gathers his material for its“fine moral effects,” not for “purposes of research. ”[90][90] De Quincey says: “Nor do I believe Wordsworth would much havelamented on his own account if all books had perished, except theentire body of English poetry and Plutarch’s Lives. . . . I do not mean toinsinuate that Wordsworth was at all in the dark about the inaccuracyor want of authentic weight attaching to Plutarch as historian, buthis business with Plutarch was not for _purposes of research_; he wassatisfied with his _fine moral effects_. ” So too one of Plutarch’slatest editors, Mr. Holden, says in a similar sense: “Plutarch hasno idea of historic criticism. . . . He thought far less of finding outand relating what actually occurred than of edifying his readers andpromoting virtue.

”Plutarch, then, had already composed many disquisitions to commend hishumane and righteous ideas, and it was partly in the same didacticspirit that he seems to have written his _Parallel Lives_. At thebeginning of the _Life of Pericles_ he says:    Vertue is of this power, that she allureth a mans minde    presently to use her, and maketh him very desirous in his    harte to followe her: and doth not frame his manners that    beholdeth her by any imitation but by the only understanding    and knowledge of vertuous deedes, which sodainely bringeth    unto him a resolute desire to doe the like. _And this is the    reason why methought I should continew still to write on the    lives of noble men. _And similar statements occur again and again. They clearly show theaim that he consciously had in view. The new generation was to beadmonished and renovated by the examples of the leading spirits whohad flourished in former times. And since he was addressing the wholecivilised world, he took his examples both from Roman and from GrecianHistory, and arranged his persons in pairs, each pair supplying thematter for one book. Thus he couples Theseus and Romulus, Alcibiadesand Coriolanus, Alexander and Caesar, Dion and Brutus, Demetrius andAntony. Such parallelism is a little far-fetched, and though some ofthe detailed comparisons with which it is justified, are not fromPlutarch’s hand, and belong to a later time, it of itself betraysa certain fondness for symmetry and antithesis, a leaning towardsartifice and rhetoric which, as we have seen, the author owed to hisenvironment. He wishes in an eloquent way to inculcate his lessons,and is perhaps, for the same reason, somewhat prone to exaggerate thegreatness of the past, and show it in an idealised light. But thisis by no means the pose of the histrionic revivalist. It correspondsto an authentic sentiment in his own nature, which loved to lingeramid the glooms and glories of tradition, and pay vows at the shrineof the Great Departed. “The cradle of war and statecraft,” says Mr. Wyndham, “was become a memory dear to him, and ever evolved by hispersonal contact with the triumphs of Rome. From this contrast flowedhis inspiration for the _Parallel Lives_—his desire as a man to drawthe noble Grecians, long since dead, a little nearer to the noon-day ofthe living; his delight as an artist in setting the noble Romans, whosenames were in every mouth, a little further into the twilight of moreancient Romance. ”But this transfiguration of the recent and resurrection of the remoterpast, in which Mr. Wyndham rightly sees something “romantic,” does notlay Plutarch open to the charge of vagueness or unreality. He was savedfrom such vices by his interest in human nature and suggestive _ana_and picturesque incidents on the one hand, and by his deference forpolitical history and civil society on the other. He loved marked individualities: no two of his heroes are alike, andeach, though in a varying degree, has an unmistakable physiognomy ofhis own. There is no sameness in his gallery of biographies, and eventhe legends of demigods yield figures of firm outline that resist thetouch. This is largely due to his joy in details, and the imperiousdemand his imagination makes for them. In his _Life of Alexander_he uses words which very truly describe his own method, words whichBoswell[91] was afterwards to quote in justification of his own similarprocedure.    The noblest deedes doe not alwayes shew men’s vertues and    vices, but often times a light occasion, a word, or some    sporte, makes men’s natural dispositions and manners appear    more plaine, then the famous battells wonne wherein are    slaine tenne thousande men, or the great armies, or cities    wonne by siege or assault. For like as painters or drawers    of pictures, which make no accompt of other parts of the    bodie, do take the resemblaunces of the face and favor of    the countenance, in the which consisteth the judgement of    their maners and disposition; even so they must give us    leave to seeke out the signes and tokens of the minde only,    and thereby shewe the life of either of them, referring you    unto others to wryte the warres, battells and other great    thinges they did. [92][91] _Johnson’s Life_, ed. B. Hill, i. 31. [92] _Life of Alexander. _So he likes to give the familiar traits and emphasise the suggestivenothings that best discover character. But his purpose is almostalways to discover character, and, so far as his principal personsare concerned, to discover great character. Though so assiduous insharking up their mannerisms, foibles, and oddities, their tricks ofgait or speech or costume, he is not like the Man with the Muck Rake,and is not piling together the rubbish of tittle-tattle just becausehe has a soul for nothing higher. Still less does he take the valet’sview of the hero, and hold that he is no hero at all because he canbe seen in undress or in relations that show his common human nature. Reverence for greatness is the point from which he starts, reverencefor greatness is the star that guides his course, and his reverenceis so entire, that on the one hand he welcomes all that will help himto restore the great one in his speech and habit as he lived, and onthe other, he assumes that the greatness must pervade the whole life,and that flashes of glory will be refracted from the daily talk andwalk. Like Carlyle, though in a more _naïf_ and simple way, he is ahero-worshipper; like Carlyle he believes that the hero will not losebut gain by the record of his minutest traits, and that these will onlythrow new light on his essential heroism. In the object he proposedto himself he has succeeded well. “Plutarch,” says Rousseau, almostreproducing the biographer’s own words, “has inimitable dexterityin painting great men in little things, and he is so happy in hisselection, that often a phrase, a simile, a gesture suffices him toset forth a hero. That is the true art of portraiture. The physiognomydoes not display itself in the main lines, nor the characters ingreat actions; it is in trifles that the temperament disclosesitself. ” An interesting testimony; for Rousseau, when he sets up ascharacter-painter, belongs to a very different school. It is not otherwise with his narratives of actions or his descriptionsof scenes, if action or scene really interest him; and there is littleof intrinsic value, comic or tragic, vivacious or stately, familiar orweird, that does not interest him. Under his quick successive strokes,some of them so light that at first they evade notice, some of themso simple that at first they seem commonplace, the situation becomesvisible and luminous. He knows how to choose the accessories and whatto do with them. When our attention is awakened, we ask ourselves howhe has produced the effect by means apparently so insignificant; and wecannot answer. Here he may have selected a hint from his authorities,there he may derive another from the mental vision he himself hasevoked, but in either case the result is equally wonderful. Whetherfrom his tact in reporting or his energy in imagining, he contrives tomake us view the occurrence as a fact, and a fact that is like itselfand like nothing else. But again Plutarch was saved from wanton and empty phantasms by hispolitical bias. He was not a politician or a statesman or an historianof politics or institutions, but he was a citizen with a citizen’srespect for the State. “For himself,” to quote Mr. Wyndham once more,“he was painting individual character, and he sought it among menbearing a personal stamp. But he never sought it in a private person,or a comedian, nor even in a poet or a master of the Fine Arts. ” Heconfines himself to public men, as we should call them, and neverfails to recollect that they played their part on the public stage. And this not only gave a robustness of touch and breadth of stroketo his delineations; the connection with well-known and certifiedevents preserved him from the worst licenses to which the romanticand rhetorical temper is liable. Courier, indeed, says of him thathe was “capable of making Pompey win the battle of Pharsalia, if itwould have rounded his sentence ever so little. ” But though he may becredulous of details and manipulate his copy, and with a light heartmake one statement at one time and a different one at another, the sortof liberty Courier attributes to him is precisely the one he does nottake. Facts are stubborn things, and the great outstanding facts he iscareful to observe: they bring a good deal else in their train. 2. AMYOT[93]A book like the _Parallel Lives_ was bound to achieve a greatpopularity at the Renaissance. That it was full of instruction andserved for warning and example commended it to a generation that wasbut too inclined to prize the didactic in literature. Its long list ofworthies included not a few of the names that were being held up asthe greatest in human history, and these celebrities were exhibitednot aloft on their official pedestals, but, however impressive andimposing the _mise-en-scène_ might be, as men among men in theprivate and personal passages of their lives. And yet they were notprivate persons but historical magnates, the founders or leaders ofworld-renowned states: and as such they were particularly congenial toan age in which many of the best minds—More and Buchanan, L’Hôpitaland La Boëtie, Brand and Hutten—were awakening to the antique idea ofcivic and political manhood, and finding few unalloyed examples of itin the feudalised West. It was not enough that Plutarch was made moreaccessible in the Latin form. He deserved a vernacular dress, and aftervarious tentative experiments this was first satisfactorily, in truth,admirably, supplied by Bishop Amyot in France. [93] See De Blignières’ _Essai sur Amyot_, and Amyot’s translations_passim_, with the prefatory epistles. Jacques Amyot was born in October, 1513, in Melun, the little town onthe Seine, some thirty miles to the south-east of Paris. His parentswere very poor, but at any rate from his earliest years he was withinthe sweep of the dialect of the Île de France, and had no _patois_to unlearn when he afterwards appeared as a literary man. Perhapsto this is due some of the purity and correctness which the mostfastidious were afterwards to celebrate in his style. These influenceswould be confirmed when as a lad he proceeded to Paris to pursue hisstudies. His instructors in Greek were—first, Evagrius, in the collegeof Cardinal Lemoine, and afterwards, Thusan and Danès, who, at theinstance of Budaeus, had just been appointed _lecteurs royaux_ inAncient Philosophy and Literature. Stories are told of the privationsthat he endured in the pursuit of scholarship, how his mother sent himevery week a loaf by the watermen of the Seine, how he read his booksby the light of the fire, and the like; but similar circumstances arerelated of others, and, to quote Sainte Beuve, are in some sort “thelegend of the heroic age of erudition. ” It is better authenticatedthat he supported himself by becoming the domestic attendant of richerstudents till he graduated as Master of Arts at the age of nineteen. Then his position began to improve. He became tutor in importanthouseholds, to the nephews of the Royal Reader, and to the children ofthe Royal Secretary. Through such patrons his ability and knowledgewere made known to the King’s sister, Marguérite de Valois, thebeneficent patroness of literature and learning. He had proceeded toBourges, it is said, to study law, but by her influence was appointedto discharge the more congenial functions of Reader in the Greek andLatin Languages, and was soon promoted to the full professorship. TheUniversity of Bourges was at the time the youngest in France save thatof Bordeaux, having been founded less than three-quarters of a centurybefore in 1463, when the Renaissance was advancing from conquest toconquest in Italy, and when Medievalism was moribund even in France. The new institution would have few traditions to oppose to the newspirit, and there was scope for a missionary of the New Learning. Forsome ten or twelve years Amyot remained in his post, lecturing twohours daily, in the morning on Latin, in the afternoon on Greek. Nodoubt such instruction would be elementary in a way; but even so, itwas a laborious life, for in those days the classical teacher had fewof the facilities that his modern colleague enjoys. It was, however, agood preparation for Amyot’s peculiar mission, and he even found timeto make his first experiments in the sphere that was to be his own. By1546 he had completed a translation of the _Aethiopica_ of Heliodorus,the famous Greek romance that deals with the loves and adventuresof Theagenes and Chariclea. Amyot afterwards, on the authority of amanuscript which he discovered in the Vatican, identified the authorwith a Bishop of Tricca who lived in the end of the fourth century, andof whom a late tradition asserted that when commanded by the provincialsynod either to burn his youthful effusion or resign his bishopric,he chose the latter alternative. “Heliodorus,” says Montaigne, whendiscussing parental love, “ayma mieulx perdre la dignité, le proufit,la devotion d’une prelature si venerable, que de perdre sa fille,fille qui dure encores bien gentille, mais à l’aventure pourtant unpeu curieusement et mollement goderonnee pour fille ecclesiastique etsacerdotale, et de trop amoureuse façon. ”[94] In the case of the youngFrench professor it had happier and opposite consequences, for itprocured him from the king the Abbey of Bellozane. This gift, one ofthe last that Francis bestowed for the encouragement of letters, waspartly earned, too, by a version of some of Plutarch’s _Lives_, whichAmyot presented to his royal patron and had executed at his command. [94] II. viii. , _De l’affection des pères aux enfants_. With an income secured Amyot was now in a position to free himself fromthe drudgery of class work, and follow his natural bent. In those daysnot all the printed editions of the classics were very satisfactory,and some works of the authors in whom he was most interested stillexisted only in manuscript or were known only by name. He set out forItaly in the hope of discovering the missing _Lives_ of Plutarch andof obtaining better texts than had hitherto been within his reach, andseems to have remained abroad for some years. For a moment he becomes aconspicuous figure in an uncongenial scene. In May, 1551, the Councilof Trent had been reopened, but Charles delayed the transaction ofbusiness till the following September. The Italian prelates, impatientand indignant, were hoping for French help against the emperor, butinstead of the French Bishops there came only a letter from the “FrenchKing addressed to ‘the Convention’ which he would not dignify withthe name of a council. The King said he had not been consulted abouttheir meeting. He regarded them as a private synod got up for their ownpurposes by the Pope and the Emperor and he would have nothing to dowith them. ”[95] It was Amyot who was commissioned with the delivery andcommunication of the ungracious message. Probably the selection of thesimple Abbé was intended less as an honour to him than as an insult tothe assemblage. At any rate it was no very important part that he hadto play, but it was one which made him very uncomfortable. He writes:“Je filois le plus doux que je pouvois, me sentant si mal et assez pourme faire mettre en prison, si j’eusse un peu trop avant parle. ” He wasnot even named in the letter, and had not so much as seen it beforehe was called to read it aloud, so that he complains he never saw amatter so badly managed, “si mal cousu,” but he delivered the contentswith emphasis and elocution. “Je croy qu’il n’y eust personne en toutela compagnie qui en perdist un seul mot, s’il n’estoit bien sourd, desorte que si ma commission ne gisoit qu’a présenter les lettres duroy, et à faire lecture de la proposition, je pense y avoir amplementsatisfait. ”But his real interests lay elsewhere, and he brought back from Italywhat would indemnify him for his troubles as envoy and please him morethan the honour of such a charge. In his researches he had made someveritable finds, among them a new manuscript of Heliodorus, and BooksXI. to XVII. of Diodorus Siculus’ _Bibliotheca Historica_, only the twolast of which had hitherto been known at all. His treatment of thisdiscovery is characteristic,[96] both of his classical enthusiasm andhis limitations as a classical scholar. He did not, as the specialistof that and perhaps of any age would have done, edit and publish theoriginal text, but contented himself with giving to the world a Frenchtranslation. But the _Historic Library_ has neither the allurement ofa Greek romance nor the edification of Plutarch’s _Lives_; and in thisversion, which for the rest is said to be poor, Amyot for once appealedto the popular interest in vain. [95] Froude, _Council of Trent_, chap. xii. [96] See M. de Job’s remarks in Petit de Julleville’s _LittératureFrançaise_. The Diodorus Siculus appeared in 1554, and in the same year Henry II. appointed Amyot preceptor to his two sons, the Dukes of Orleans andAnjou, who afterwards became respectively Charles IX. and Henry III. Ashis pupils were very young their tuition cannot have occupied a greatdeal of his time, and he was able to pursue his activity as translator. In 1559, besides a revised edition of _Theagenes and Chariclea_, thereappeared anonymously a rendering, probably made at an earlier date,of the _Daphnis and Chloe_, a romance even more “curieusement etmollement goderonnee pour fille ecclesiastique et sacerdotale” than itscompanion. But it is with his own name and a dedication to the Kingthat Amyot published almost at the same date his greatest work, thecomplete translation of Plutarch’s _Parallel Lives_. If his Heliodorusgave him his first step on the ladder of church preferment, hisPlutarch was a stronger claim to higher promotion. Henry II. , indeed,died before the end of the year, but the accession of Amyot’s elderpupil in 1560, after the short intercalary reign of Francis II. , waspropitious to his fortunes, for the new king, besides bestowing on himother substantial favours, almost immediately named him Grand Almonerof France. Amyot was an indefatigable but deliberate worker. Fifteen years hadelapsed between his first appearance as translator and the issue of hismasterpiece. Thirteen more were to elapse before he had new materialready for the press. The interval in both cases was filled up withpreparation, with learned labour, with the leisurely prosecution of hisplan. A revised edition of the _Lives_ appeared in 1565 and a thirdin 1567, and all the time he was pushing on a version of Plutarch’s_Moralia_. Meanwhile in 1570 Charles gave him the bishopric of Auxerre;and without being required to disown the two literary daughters of hisvivacious prime, “somewhat curiously and voluptuously frounced and oftoo amorous fashion” though they might be, he had yet to devote himselfrather more seriously to his profession than he hitherto seems to havedone. He set about it in his usual steady circumspect way. He composedsermons, first, it is said, writing them in Latin and then turningthem into French; he attended faithfully to the administration of hisdiocese; he applied himself to the study of theological doctrine,and is said to have learned the _Summa_ of St. Thomas Aquinas byheart. [97] These occupations have left their trace on his next work,which was ready by 1572. Not only are Plutarch’s moral treatisesperfectly consonant in tone with Amyot’s episcopal office, but thepreface is touched with a breath of religious unction, of which hisprevious performances show no trace. Perhaps the flavour is a littletoo pronounced when in his grateful dedication to his royal master hedeclares: “The Lord has lodged in you singular goodness of nature. ” Thesubstantive needs all the help that can be wrung from the adjective,when used of Charles IX. in the year of St. Bartholomew. But Amyot,though the exhibiter of “Plutarch’s men,” was essentially a privatestudent, and was besides bound by ties of intimacy and obligation tohis former pupil, who had certainly done well by him. Nor was theyounger brother behindhand in his acknowledgments. Charles died beforetwo years were out (for Amyot had a way of dedicating books to kingswho deceased soon after), and was lamented by Amyot in a simple andheartfelt Latin elegy. But his regrets were quite disinterested, forwhen Henry III. succeeded in 1574, he showed himself as kind a master,and in 1578 decreed that the Grand Almoner should also be Commander ofthe Order of the Holy Ghost without being required to give proofs ofnobility. [97] Twelve volumes! Invested with ample revenues and manifold dignities, Amyot for thenext eleven years lived a busy and simple life, varying the routineof his administrative duties with music, of which he was a lover anda practitioner; with translations, never published and now lost, fromthe Greek tragedians, who had attracted him as professor, and fromSt. Athanasius, who appealed to him as bishop; above all, with therevision of his Plutarch, for which he never ceased to collect newreadings. Then came disasters, largely owing to his reputation forpartiality and complaisance. When the Duke and the Cardinal of Guisewere assassinated in 1589, he was accused by the Leaguers of havingapproved the crime and of having granted absolution to the King. Thishe denied; but his Chapter and diocesans rose against him, the populacesacked his residence, and he had to fly from Auxerre. Nor were hiswoes merely personal. On August 3rd the House of Valois, to which hewas so much beholden, became extinct with the murder of Henry III. ;and however worthless the victim may have been, Amyot cannot have beenunaffected by old associations of familiarity and gratitude. Six dayslater he writes that he is “the most afflicted, desolate and destitutepoor priest I suppose, in France. ” His private distress was not of longduration. He made peace with the Leaguers, denounced the “politicians”for supporting Henry IV. , returned to his see, resumed his episcopalduties, though he was divested of his Grand Almonership, and was ableto leave the large fortune of two hundred thousand crowns. But he didnot survive to see the establishment of the new dynasty or the triumphof Catholicism, for he died almost eighty years old in February, 1593,and only in the following June was Henry IV. reconciled to the Church. Perhaps had he foreseen this consummation Amyot would have found somecomfort in the thought that a third pupil, a truer and greater one thanthose who were no more, would reign in their stead, and repair thedamage their vice and folly had caused. “Glory to God! ” writes Henry ofNavarre to his wife, “you could have sent me no more pleasant messagethan the news of the zest for reading which has taken you. Plutarchalways attracts me with a fresh novelty. To love him is to love me, forhe was for long the instructor of my early years. My good mother, towhom I owe everything, and who had so great a desire to watch over myright attitude and was wont to say that she did not wish to see in herson a distinguished dunce, put this book in my hands when I was all butan infant at the breast. It has been, as it were, my conscience, andhas prescribed in my ear many fair virtues and excellent maxims for mybehaviour and for the management of my affairs. ”[98][98] Vive Dieu! vous ne m’auriés sceu rien mander qui me fust plusagréable que la nouvelle du plaisir de lecture qui vous a prins. Plutarque me soubrit toujours d’une fresche nouveauté; l’aymer c’estm’aymer, car il a esté longtemps l’instituteur de mon bas age: ma bonnemère à laquelle je doibs tout, et qui avoit une affection si grandede veiller à mes bons deportmens, et ne vouloit pas (ce disoit-elle)voir en son filz un illustre ignorant, me mist ce livre entre lesmains, encores que je ne feusse à peine plus un enfant de mamelle. Ilm’a esté comme ma conscience et il m’a dicté à l’oreille beaucoup debonnes honestetés et maximes excellentes pour ma conduite, et pour legouvernment de mes affaires. Amyot has exerted a far-reaching influence on the literature of his owncountry and of Europe. Though as a translator he might seem to have nomore than a secondary claim, French historians of letters have dwelt onhis work at a length and with a care that are usually conceded only tothe achievements of creative imagination or intellectual discovery. Andthe reason is that his aptitude for his task amounts to real genius,which he has improved by assiduous research, so that in his treatment,the ancillary craft, as it is usually considered, rises to the rankof a free liberal art. He has the insight to divine what stimulus andinformation the age requires; the knowledge to command the sources thatwill supply them; the skill to manipulate his native idiom for the newdemands, and suit his expression, so far as may be, both to his subjectand to his audience. Among the great masters of translation he occupiesa foremost place. Of spontaneous and initiative power he had but little. He cannotstand alone. For Henry II. he wrote a _Projet de l’Eloquence Royal_,but it was not printed till long after his death; and of this andhis other original prose his biographer, Roulliard, avows that thestyle is strangely cumbersome and laggard (_estrangement pesant ettraisnassier_). Even in his prefaces to Plutarch he is only goodwhen he catches fire from his enthusiasm for his author. Just as hismisgivings at the Council of Trent, his commendations of his royalpatrons, his concessions to his enemies of the League, suggest a defectin independent force of character, so the writings in which he mustrely on himself show a defect in independent force of intellect. Nor is he a specialist in scholarship. Already in 1635, when he hadbeen less than a century in his grave, Bachet de Méziriac, expert inall departments of learning, exposed his shortcomings in a Discourseon Translation, which was delivered before the Academy. His criticdescribes him as “a promising pupil in rhetoric with a mediocreknowledge of Greek, and some slight tincture of Polite Letters”;and asserts that there are more than two thousand passages in whichhe has perverted the sense of his author. Even in 1580-81, duringAmyot’s lifetime, Montaigne was forced to admit in discussion withcertain learned men at Rome that he was less accurate than hisadmirers had imagined. He was certainly as far as possible from beinga _Zunftgelehrter_. His peculiar attitude is exactly indicated byhis treatment of the missing books of Diodorus which it was his goodfortune to light upon. He is not specially interested in his discovery,and has no thought of giving the original documents to the world. Atthe same time he has such a reverence for antiquity that he must dosomething about them. So with an eye to his chosen constituency, hisown countrymen, he executes his vernacular version. For of his own countrymen he always thought first. They are hisaudience, and he has their needs in his mind. And that is why he madePlutarch the study of his life. His romances are mere experiments forhis pastime and equipment:[99] his Diodorus is a task prescribed byaccident and vocation: but his Plutarch is a labour of love and ofpatriotism. It was knowledge of antiquity for which the age clamouredand of which it stood in need; and who else could give such a summaryand encyclopaedia of Classical Life as the polyhistor of Chaeronea,who interested himself in everything, from details of householdmanagement to the government of states, from ancestral superstitionsto the speculations of philosophers, from after-dinner conversation tothe direction of campaigns; but brought them all into vital relationwith human nature and human conduct? Plutarch appealed to the popularinstinct of the time and to the popular instinct in Amyot’s own breast. It is his large applicability “distill’d through all the needfuluses of our lives” and “fit for any conference one can use” that,for example, arouses the enthusiasm of Montaigne. After mentioningthat when he writes he willingly dispenses with the companionship orrecollection of books, he adds:[99] As he himself states in the _Proesme of Théagène et Chariclée_. He has occupied himself with this only, “aux heures extraordinaires,pour adoucir le travail d’autres meilleures et plus fructueusestraductions,” so as to be made “plus vif à la consideration des chosesd’importance. ”    But it is with more difficulty that I can get rid of    Plutarch: he is so universal and so full that on all    occasions and whatever out-of-the-way subject you have    taken up, he thrusts himself into your business, and holds    out to you a hand lavish and inexhaustible in treasures    and ornaments. I am vexed at his being so much exposed to    the plunder of those who resort to him. I can’t have the    slightest dealings with him myself, but I snatch a leg or    a wing. [100]And again:    I am above all grateful to [Amyot] for having had the    insight to pick out and choose a book so worthy and so    seasonable, to make a present of it to his country. We    dunces should have been lost, if this book had not raised    us out of the mire. Thanks to it we now dare to speak and    write. With it the ladies can lecture the school-masters.    It is our breviary. [101][100] Je me puis plus malaysement desfaire de Plutarque; il est siuniversel et si plein, qu’à toutes occasions, et quelque subjectextravagant que vous ayez prins, il s’ingère à vostre besongne,et vous tend une main liberale et inespuisable de richesses etd’embellissements. Il m’en faict despit, d’estre si fort exposé aupillage de ceulx qui le hantent: je ne le puis si peu raccointer, queje n’en tire cuisse ou aile (iii. 5). [101] Mais, surtout, je lui sçais bon gré d’avoir sceu trier et choisirun livre si digne et si à propos, pour en faire présent à son pais. Nous aultres ignorants estions perdus, si ce livre ne nous eust relevédu bourbier: sa mercy nous osons à cette heure et parler et escrire;les dames en regentent les maistres d’eschole; c’est notre bresviaire(ii. 4). “In all kinds Plutarch is my man,” he says elsewhere. And indeed itis obvious, even though he had not told us, that Plutarch with Senecasupplies his favourite reading, to which he perpetually recurs. “I havenot,” he writes, “systematically acquainted myself with any solid booksexcept Plutarch and Seneca, from whom I draw like the Danaides, fillingand pouring out continually. ”[102] To the latter he could go forhimself; for the Greek he had to depend on Amyot. For combined profitand pleasure, he says, “the books that serve me are Plutarch, _since heis French_, and Seneca. ”[103] But it is to the former that he seems togive the palm.    Seneca is full of smart and witty sayings, Plutarch of    things: the former kindles you more and excites you, the    latter satisfies you more and requites you better; he guides    us while the other drives us. [104][102] Je n’ay dressé commerce avecques aulcun livre solide sinonPlutarque et Senecque, où je puyse comme les Danaïdes remplissant etversant sans cesse (i. 25). [103] Les livres qui m’y servent, c’est Plutarque depuis qu’il estfrançois, et Seneque (ii. iv. ). Of course Montaigne knew some Greekand read it more or less. He has even his own opinion about Plutarch’sstyle (see page 104), and M. Faguet conjectures: “It is quiteconceivable that Montaigne compared the translation with the text, andthat it is a piece of mere affectation when he says he knows nothing ofthe Greek. ” But doubtless he read the French much more habitually andeasily. [104] Seneque est plein de poinctes et saillies, Plutarque de choses;celuy là vous eschauffe plus et vous esmeut, cettuy ci vous contentedavantage et vous paye mieulx; il nous guide, l’aultre nous poulse (ii. 10). It is indeed impossible to imagine Montaigne without Plutarch, to whomhe has a striking resemblance both in his free-and-easy homilies and inhis pregnant touches. It is these things on which he dwells.    There are in Plutarch many dissertations at full length well    worth knowing, for in my opinion he is the master-craftsman    in that trade; but there are a thousand that he has merely    indicated; he only points out the track we are to take if we    like, and confines himself sometimes to touching the quick    of a subject. We must drag (the expositions) thence and put    them in the market place. . . . It is a dissertation in itself    to see him select a trivial act in the life of a man, or a    word that does not seem to have such import. [105][105] Il y a dans Plutarque beaucoup de discours estendus très dignesd’estre sceus, car, à mon gré, c’est le maistre ouvrier de tellebesongne; mais il y en a mille qu’il n’a que touchez simplement; etguigne seulement du doigt par où nous irons, s’il nous plaist; etse contente quelquefois de ne donner qu’une attaincte dans le plusvif d’un propos. Il les fault arracher de la, et mettre en placemarchande. . . . Cela mesme de luy voir trier une legere action en la vied’un homme, ou un mot qui semble ne porter cela, c’est un discours (i. 25). But Montaigne did not stand alone in his admiration. He himself, aswe have seen, bears witness to the widespread popularity of Amyot’sPlutarch and the general practice of rifling its treasures. Indeed,Plutarch was seen to be so congenial to the age, that frequentattempts had been made before Amyot to place him within the reachof a larger circle than the little band of Greek scholars. In 1470,_e. g. _ a number of Italians had co-operated in a Latin version of the_Lives_, published at Rome by Campani, and this was followed by severalpartial translations in French. [106] But the latter were immediatelysuperseded, and even the former had its authority shaken, by Amyot’sachievement. This was due partly to its greater intelligence and faithfulness,partly to its excellent style. In regard to the first, it should be remembered that the criticism ofAmyot’s learning must be very carefully qualified. Scholarship is aprogressive science, and it is always easy for the successor to pointout errors in the precursor, as Méziriac did in Amyot. Of course,however, the popular expositor was not a Budaeus or Scaliger, and thesavants whom Montaigne met in Rome were doubtless justified in theirstrictures. Still the zeal that he showed and the trouble that he tookin searching for good texts, in conferring them with the printed booksand in consulting learned men about his conjectural emendations,[107]would suggest that he had the root of the matter in him, and there isevidence that expert opinion in his own days was favourable to hisclaims. [108][106] There were also translations in Italian, Spanish, and German;but none of them had anything like the literary importance of Amyot’s,and they were made from the Latin, not from the Greek. Of HieronymusBoner, for instance, who published his _Plutarch, Von dem Leben derallerdurchlauchtigsten Griechen und Romern_ (1st edition, Augsburg,1534), it is misleading to say that he “anticipated” Amyot. Merzdorfwrites of Boner’s versions of Greek authors generally (_AllgemeineDeutsche Biographie_) that he “turned them into German not from theoriginal Greek but from Latin translations. Moreover, one must notexpect from him any exact rendering, but rather a kind of paraphrasewhich he accommodates to the circumstances of the time. ”[107] See his preface, towards the close. [108] In later days, too, Mr. Holden, who has busied himself withPlutarch, says “Amyot’s version is more scholarlike and correct thanthose of Langhorne or Dryden and others. ”At the time when he was translating the _Lives_ into French twoscholars of high reputation were, independently of each other,translating them into Latin. Xylander’s versions appeared in 1560,those of Cruserius were ready in the same year, but were not publishedtill 1564. They still hold their place and enjoy consideration. Now,they both make their compliments to Amyot. Xylander, indeed, has onlya second-hand acquaintance with his publication, but even that he hasfound valuable:    After I had already finished the greater part of the work,    the _Lives of Plutarch_ written by Amyot in the French    language made their appearance. And since I heard from    those who are skilled in that tongue, a privilege which I    do not possess, that he had devoted remarkable pains to the    book and used many good MSS. , assisted by the courtesy of    friends, I corrected several passages about which I was in    doubt, and in not a few my conjecture was established by the    concurrence of that translator. [109][109] Cum jam majorem operis partem absolvissem, prodierunt VitaePlutarchi gallicâ linguâ ab Amyoto conscriptae. Quem cum praeclaramei libro operam impendisse ex iis qui linguae ejus sunt periti (quodmihi non datum est) et usum multis ac bonis codicibus audirem; amicorumadjutus . . . officio, nonnullos, de quibus dubitabam, locos correxi; inhaud paucis mea conjectura est illius interpretis suffragio comprobata(Ed. 1560). Xylander’s friends must have given him yeoman’s help, forhe frequently discusses Amyot’s readings, generally adopting them; andfor the whole life of Cato, he even goes so far as to avow: “Amyotiversionem secutus sum, Graecis non satis integris. ”Cruserius, again, in his prefatory _Epistle to the Reader_, warmlycommends the merits of Xylander and Amyot, but refers with scarcelyveiled disparagement to the older Latin rendering, which neverthelessenjoyed general acceptance as the number of editions proves, and wasconsidered the standard authority.    If indeed (he writes) I must not here say that I by myself    have both more faithfully and more elegantly interpreted    _Plutarch’s Lives_, the translation of which into Latin    a great number of Italians formerly undertook without much    success; this at least I may say positively and justly that    I think I have done this. [110]On the other hand “Amiotus” has been a help to him. When he hadalready polished and corrected his own version, he came acrossthis very tasteful rendering in Brussels six months after it hadappeared. “This man’s scholarship and industry gave me some light onseveral passages. ”[111] It is well then to bear in mind, when Amyot’scompetency is questioned, that by their own statement he cleared upthings for specialists like Xylander and Cruserius. And this is allthe more striking, that Cruserius, whom his preface shows to be verygenerous in his acknowledgments, has no word of recognition for hisItalian predecessors even though Filelfo was among their number. [112]But his Epistle proceeds: “To whom (_i. e. _ to Amyot) I will give thistestimony that nowadays it is impossible that anyone should renderPlutarch so elegantly in the Latin tongue, as he renders him in hisown. ”[113] And this praise of Amyot’s style leads us to the next point. [110] Ego quidem si dicere hîc non valeam, vitas me Plutarchi, quasplurimi sumpserunt antehac Itali Latine reddendas parum feliciter, meexplicavisse unum et verius et mundius; hoc certe dicere queo liquideet recte, esse arbitratum me hoc effecisse (_Epistola ad Lectorem_,1561, edition 1599). [111] Interea cum jam polivissem atque emendassem vitas meas Plutarchi,ostendit mihi Bruxellae, ubi agebam illustrissimi principis meilegatus, secretarius regius editas elegantissime ab Amioto linguâgallicâ vitas Plutarchi, quae exierant tamen in publicum sex mensesantequam eas viderem. Hujus viri mihi eruditio et diligentia aliquidlucis nonnullis in locis attulit. Cui ego hoc testimonium dabo: nonposse fieri, ut quisquam hoc tempore Plutarchum tam vertat ornatelinguâ Latina quam vertit ille suâ (_Ib. _). [112] Amyot’s own attitude is very similar. He cites the Latin versionsin proof of the hardness of the original, and challenges a comparisonof them with his own. [113] Interea cum jam polivissem atque emendassem vitas meas Plutarchi,ostendit mihi Bruxellae, ubi agebam illustrissimi principis meilegatus, secretarius regius editas elegantissime ab Amioto linguâgallicâ vitas Plutarchi, quae exierant tamen in publicum sex mensesantequam eas viderem. Hujus viri mihi eruditio et diligentia aliquidlucis nonnullis in locis attulit. Cui ego hoc testimonium dabo: nonposse fieri, ut quisquam hoc tempore Plutarchum tam vertat ornatelinguâ Latina quam vertit ille suâ (_Ib. _). If Amyot claims the thanks of Western Europe for giving it withadequate faithfulness a typical miscellany of ancient life and thought,his services to his country in developing the native language arehardly less important. Before him Rabelais and Calvin were the onlywriters of first-rate ability in modern French. But Rabelais’ prosewas too exuberant, heterogeneous and eccentric to supply a model;and Calvin, besides being suspect on account of his theology, was ofnecessity as a theologian abstract and restricted in his range. The newcandidate had something of the wealth and universal appeal of the one,something of the correctness and purity of the other. Since Plutarch deals with almost all departments of life, Amyot hadneed of the amplest vocabulary, and a supply of the most diverselocutions. Indeed, sometimes the copious resources of his vernacular,with which he had doubtless begun to familiarise himself among thesimple folk of Melun, leave him in the lurch, and he has to make loansfrom Latin or Greek. But he does this sparingly, and only when no othercourse is open to him. Generally his thorough mastery of the dialect ofthe Île de France, the standard language of the kingdom, helps him out. Yet he is far from adopting the popular speech without consciouslymanipulating it. He expressly states that he selects the fittest,sweetest, and most euphonious words, and such as are in the mouthsof those who are accustomed to speak well. The ingenuousness of hisutterance, which is in great measure due to his position of pioneerin a new period, should not mislead us into thinking him a carelesswriter. His habit of first composing his sermons in Latin and thentranslating them into French tells its own story. He evidently realisedthe superiority in precision and orderly arrangement of the speech ofRome, and felt it a benefit to submit to such discipline the artless_bonhomie_ of his mother tongue. But since he is the born interpreter,whose very business it was to mediate between the exotic and theindigenous, and assimilate the former to the latter, he never forgetsthe claims of his fellow Frenchmen and his native French. He does notforce his idiom to imitate a foreign model, but only learns to developits own possibilities of greater clearness, exactitude, and regularity. It is for these excellencies among others, “pour la naifeté et purétédu language en quoi il surpasse touts aultres,”[114] that Montaignegives him the palm, and this purity served him in good stead duringthe classical period of French literature, which was so unjust tomost writers of the sixteenth century, and found fault with Montaignehimself for his “Gasconisms. ” Racine thought that Amyot’s “old style”had a grace which could not be equalled in our modern language. Fénelonregretfully looks back to him for beauties that are fallen into disuse. Nor was it only men of delicate and poetic genius who appreciated hismerits. Vaugelas, the somewhat illiberal grammarian and purist, is themost enthusiastic of the worshippers.    What obligation (he exclaims) does our language not owe to    him, there never having been anyone who knew its genius and    character better than he, or who used words and phrases    so genuinely French without admixture of the provincial    expressions which daily corrupt the purity of the true    French tongue. All stores and treasures are in the works of    this great man. And even to-day we have hardly any noble and    splendid modes of speech that he has not left us; and though    we have cut out a half of his words and phrases, we do not    fail to find in the other half almost all the riches of    which we boast. [114] ii. 4. It will be seen, however, that in such tributes from the seventeenthcentury (and the same thing is true of others left unquoted), it isimplied that Amyot is already somewhat antiquated and out of fashion. He is honoured as ancestor in the right line of classical French, buthe is its ancestor and not a living representative. Vaugelas admitsthat half his vocabulary is obsolete, Fénelon regrets his charms justbecause their date is past, Racine wonders that such grace should havebeen attained in what is not the modern language. And this may remind us of the very important fact, that Amyot could noton account of his position deliver a facsimile of the Greek. Plutarchlived at the close of an epoch, he at the beginning. The one employeda language full of reminiscences and past its prime; the other, alanguage that was just reaching self-consciousness and that had thefuture before it. Both in a way were artists, but Plutarch shows hisart in setting his stones already cut, while Amyot provides moulds forthe liquid metal. At their worst Plutarch’s style becomes mannered andAmyot’s infantile. By no sleight of hand would it have been possible togive in the French of the sixteenth century an exact reproduction ofthe Greek of the second. Grey-haired antiquity had to learn the accentsof stammering childhood. Sometimes Amyot hardly makes an attempt at literal fidelity. The styleof his original he describes as “plein, serré et philosophistorique. ”With him it retains the fulness, but the condensation, or rather what amodern scholar describes as “the crowding of the sentence,”[115] oftengives place to periphrasis, and of the “philosophistorique” small traceremains. Montaigne praises him because he has contrived “to expoundso thorny and crabbed[116] an author with such fidelity. ” What ismost crabbed and thorny in Plutarch he passes over or replaces witha loose equivalent; single words he expands to phrases; difficultieshe explains with a gloss or illustration that he does not hesitate toinsert in the text; and he is anxious to bring out the sense by addingmore emphatic and often familiar touches. [115] Mr. Holden. [116] Espineux et ferré (ii. iv. ). Perhaps _ferré_ should be rendered_difficult_ rather than _crabbed_. But even _thorny and difficult_ arehardly words that one would apply to Plutarch. Montaigne’s meaning mayperhaps be illustrated by the criticism of Paley: “Plutarch’s Greek isnot like Lucian’s, fluent and easy, nor even clear. ” He uses many wordsnot in the ordinary Greek vocabulary; and he too often constructs longsentences, the thread of which separately as well as the connectioncannot be traced without close attention. Hence he is unattractive as awriter. The result of it all undoubtedly is to lend Plutarch a more popularand less academic bearing than he really has. Some of Amyot’s mostattractive effects either do not exist or are inconspicuous in hisoriginal. The tendency to artifice and rhetoric in the pupil ofAmmonius disappears, and he is apt to get the credit for an innocenceand freshness that are more characteristic of his translator. M. Faguetjustly points out that Amyot in his version makes Plutarch “a simplewriter, while he was elegant, fastidious, and even affected in hisstyle. ” . . . He “emerges from Amyot’s hands as _le bon Plutarque_ of theFrench people, whereas he was certainly not that. ” Thus it is beyonddispute that the impression produced is in some respects misleading. But there is another side to this. Plutarch in his tastes and idealsdid belong to an older, less sophisticated age, though he was bornout of due time and had to adapt his speech to his hyper-civilisedenvironment. Ampère has called attention to the picture, suggestedby the facts at our disposal, of Plutarch living in his littleBoeotian town, obtaining his initiation into the mysteries, punctuallyfulfilling the functions of priest, making antiquities and traditionshis hobby. “There was this man under the rhetorician,” he adds, “andwe must not forget it. For if the rhetorician wrote, it was the otherPlutarch who often dictated. ” Of course in a way the antithesis is anunreal one. Plutarch was after all, as every one must be, the child ofhis own generation, and his aspirations were not confined to himself. The _Sophistes_ is, on the one hand, what the man who makes antiquityand traditions his hobby, is on the other. Still it remains certainthat his love was set on things which pertained to an earlier and lesselaborate phase of society, to “the good old days” when they foundspontaneous acceptance and expression. On him the ends of the worldare come, and he seeks by all the resources of his art and learning torevive what he regards as its glorious prime. His heart is with the men“of heart, head, hand,” but when he seeks to reveal them, he must do soin the chequered light of a vari-coloured culture. Hence there was a kind of discrepancy between his spirit and hisutterance; and Amyot, removing the discrepancy, brings them into anatural harmony. There is truth in the paradox that the form whichthe good bishop supplies is the one that was meant for the matter. “Amyot,” says Demogeot, summing up his discussion of this aspect of thequestion, “has in some sort created Plutarch, and made him truer andmore complete than nature made him. ”But though Plutarch’s ideas seem from one point of view to enterinto their predestined habitation, this does not alter the fact thatthey lose something of their distinctive character in accommodatingthemselves to their new surroundings. It is easy to exaggerate theiraffinity with the vernacular words, as it is easy to exaggerate thecorrespondence between author and translator. Thus Ampère, half injest, pleases himself with drawing on behalf of the two men a parallelsuch as is appended to each particular brace of _Lives_. Both ofthem lovers of virtue, he points out, for example, that both had aveneration for the past, of which the one strove to preserve thememories even then beginning to fade, and the other to rediscover andgather up the shattered fragments. Both experienced sad and troubloustimes without having their tranquillity disturbed, the one by thecrimes of Domitian or the other by the furies of St. Bartholomew’s. Both belonged to the hierarchy, the one as priest of Apollo, the otheras Bishop of Auxerre. But it is not hard to turn such parallels into so many contrasts. Thepast with which Plutarch was busy was in a manner the familiar pastof his native country or at least of his own civilisation; but Amyotloved the past of that remote and alien world in which for ages men hadneglected their heritage and taken small concern. The sequestered lifeof the provincial under the Roman Empire, a privacy whence he emergesto whatever civil offices were within his reach, is very differentfrom the dislike and refusal of public activity that characterisesthe Frenchman in his own land at a time when learning was recognisedas passport to high position in the State. The priest of a heathencult which he could accept only when explained away by a rationalisticidealism, and which was by no means incompatible with his familyinstincts, was very different from the celibate churchman who ended bysubmitting to the terms imposed by the intolerance of the Holy League. The analogies are there, and imply perhaps a strain of intellectualkinship, but the contrasts are not less obvious, and refute the idea ofa perfect unison. Now, it is much the same if we turn from the writers to their writings. All translation is a compromise between the foreign material and thenative intelligence, but in Amyot the latter factor counts most. Classical life is very completely assimilated to the contemporarylife that he knew, but such contemporary life was in some ways quiteunlike that which he was reproducing. There is an illusory samenessin the effects produced as there is an illusion of coincidence inthe characters and careers of the men who produce them, and this mayhave its cause in real contact at certain points. But the gaps thatseparate them are also real, though at the time they were seldomdetected. “Both by the details and the general tone of his version,”says M. Lanson, “[Amyot] modernises the Graeco-Roman world, and by thisinvoluntary travesty he tends to check the awakening of the sense forthe differences, that is, the historic sense. As he invites Shakespeareto recognise the English _Mob_ in the _Plebs Romana_, so he authorisesCorneille and Racine and even Mademoiselle Scudéry to portray underancient names the human nature they saw in France. ”And this tendency was carried further in Amyot’s English translator. 3. NORTHOf Sir Thomas North, the most recent and direct of the authoritieswho transmitted to Shakespeare his classical material, much less isknown than of either of his predecessors. Plutarch, partly becauseas original author he has the opportunity of expressing his ownpersonality, partly because he uses this opportunity to the full infrank advocacy of his views and gossip about himself, may be picturedwith fair vividness and in some detail. Such information fails inregard to Amyot, since he was above all the mouthpiece for other men;but his high dignities placed him in the gaze of contemporaries, andhis reputation as pioneer in classical translation and nursing-fatherof modern French ensured a certain interest in his career. But North,like him a translator, had not equal prominence either from hisposition or from his achievement. Such honours and appointments as heobtained were not of the kind to attract regard. He was a mere unit inthe Elizabethan crowd of literary importers, and belonged to the lowerclass who never steered their course “to the classic coast. ” He had nosuch share as Amyot in shaping the traditions of the language, but wasone writer in an age that produced many others, some of them greatermasters than he. Yet to us, as the immediate interpreter of Plutarch toShakespeare, he is the most important of the three, the most famous andthe most alive. Sainte Beuve, talking of Amyot, quotes a phrase fromLeopardi in reference to the Italians who have associated themselvesforever with the Classics they unveiled: “Oh, how fair a fate! to beexempt from death except in company with an Immortal! ” This fair fateis North’s in double portion. He is linked with a great Immortal bydescent, and with a greater by ancestry. Thomas North, second son of the first Baron North of Kirtling, wasborn about 1535, to live his life, as it would seem, in straitenedcircumstances and unassuming work. Yet we might have anticipated forhim a prosperous and eminent career. He had high connections andpowerful patrons; his father made provision for him, his brother helpedhim once and again, a royal favourite interested himself on his behalf. His ability and industry are evident from his works; his honesty andcourage are vouched for by those in a position to know; the efficiencyof his public services received recognition from his fellow-citizensand his sovereign. But with all these advantages and qualifications hewas even in middle age hampered by lack of means, and he never had muchshare in the pelf and pomp of life. Perhaps his occupation with largerconcerns than personal aggrandisement may have interfered with hismaterial success. At any rate, in his narrower sphere he showed himselfa man of public interest and public spirit, and the authors with whomhe busies himself are all such as commend ideal rather than tangiblepossessions as the real objects of desire. And we know besides that hewas an unaggressive man, inclined to claim less than his due; for inone of his books he professes to get the material only from a Frenchtranslation, when it is proved that he must have had recourse to theSpanish original as well. This was his maiden effort, _The Diall of Princes_, published in 1557,when North was barely of age and had just been entered a student ofLincoln’s Inn; and with this year the vague and scanty data for hishistory really begin. He dedicates his book to Queen Mary, who hadshown favour to his father, pardoning him for his support of Lady JaneGrey, raising him to the peerage, and distinguishing him in otherways. But on the death of Mary, Lord North retained the goodwill ofElizabeth, who twice kept her court at his mansion, and appointed himLord Lieutenant of Cambridgeshire and the Isle of Ely. The family hadthus considerable local influence, and it was not diminished when, onthe old man’s death in 1564, Roger, the first son, succeeded to thetitle. Before long the new Lord North was made successively an aldermanof Cambridge, Lord Lieutenant of the County, and High Steward; whileThomas, who had benefited under his father’s will, was presented to thefreedom of the town. All through, the career of the junior appears as asort of humble pendant to that of the senior, and he picks up his doleof the largesses that Fortune showers on the head of the house. What hehad been doing in the intervening years we do not know, but he cannothave abandoned his literary pursuits, for in 1568, when he receivedthis civic courtesy, he issued a new edition of the _Diall_, correctedand enlarged; and he followed it up in 1570 with a version of Doni’s_Morale Filosofia_. Meanwhile the elder brother was advancing on his brilliant course. Hehad been sent to Vienna to invest the Emperor Maximilian with the Orderof the Garter; he had been commissioned to present the Queen on hisreturn with the portrait of her suitor, the Archduke Charles; he hadheld various offices at home, and in 1574 he was appointed AmbassadorExtraordinary to congratulate Henry III. of France on his accession,and to procure if possible toleration for the Huguenots and a renewalof the Treaty of Blois. On this important legation he was accompaniedby Thomas, who would thus have an opportunity of seeing or hearingsomething of Amyot, the great Bishop and Grand Almoner who was soon tobe recipient of new honours from his royal pupil and patron, and whohad recently been drawing new attention on himself by his third editionof the _Lives_ and his first edition of the _Morals_. [117] It may wellbe that this visit suggested to Thomas North his own masterpiece,which he seems to have set about soon after he came home in the end ofNovember. At least it was to appear in January, 1579, before anotherlustre was out; and a translation even from French of the entire_Lives_, not only unabridged but augmented (for biographies of Hannibaland Scipio are added from the versions of Charles de l’Escluse),[118]is a task of years rather than of months. [117] I do not know what authority Mr. Wyndham has for his statementthat Amyot’s version of the _Morals_ “fell comparatively dead. ” It is,of course, much less read nowadays, but at the time it ran throughthree editions in less than four years (1572, 1574, 1575), and for thenext half century there are frequent reprints. [118] These, translated from the Latin collection of 1470, to whichthey had been contributed by Acciaiuoli, were included in Amyot’s thirdedition. The embassage, despite many difficulties to be overcome, had been asuccess, and Lord North returned to receive the thanks and favourshe deserved. He stood high in the Queen’s regard, and in 1578 shehonoured him with a visit for a night. He was lavish in his welcome,building, we are told, new kitchens for the occasion; filling them withprovisions of all kinds, the oysters alone amounting to one cart loadand two horse loads; rifling the cellars of their stores, seventy-fourhogsheads of beer being reinforced with corresponding supplies ofale, claret, white wine, sack, and hippocras; presenting her at herdeparture with a jewel worth £120 in the money of the time. In suchmagnificent doings he was by no means unmindful of his brother, to whomshortly before he had made over the lease of a house and householdstuff. Yet precisely at this date, when Thomas North was completingor had completed his first edition of the _Lives_, his circumstancesseem to have been specially embarrassed. Soon after the book appearedLeicester writes on his behalf to Burleigh, stating that he “is a veryhonest gentleman and hath many good parts in him which are drowned onlyby poverty. ” There is perhaps a certain incongruity between these wordsand the accounts of the profusion at Kirtling in the preceding year. Meanwhile Lord North, to his reputation as diplomatist and courtiersought to add that of a soldier. In the Low Countries he greatlydistinguished himself by his capacity and courage; but he was calledhome to look after the defences of the eastern coast in view of theexpected Spanish invasion, and this was not the only time that theGovernment resorted to him for military advice. No such important charge was entrusted to Thomas, but he too was readyto do his duty by his country in her hour of need, and in 1588 hadcommand of three hundred men of Ely. In the interval between this andthe distressful time of 1579 his position must have improved; forin 1591, in reward it may be for his patriotic activity, the Queenconferred on him the honour of knighthood, which in those days impliedas necessary qualification the possession of land to the minimum valueof £40 a year. This was followed by other acknowledgments and dignitiesof moderate worth. In 1592 and again in 1597 he sat on the Commissionof Peace for Cambridgeshire. In 1598 he received a grant of £20 fromthe town of Cambridge, and in 1601 a pension of £40 a year from theQueen. These amounts are not munificent, even if we take them at theoutside figure suggested as the equivalent in modern money. [119] Theygive the impression that North was not very well off, that in hiscircumstances some assistance was desirable, and a little assistancewould go a long way. At the same time they show that his conductdeserved and obtained appreciation. Indeed, the pension from the Queenis granted expressly “in consideration of the good and faithful servicedone unto us. ”He also benefited by a substantial bequest from Lord North, who haddied in 1600, but he was now an old man of at least sixty-six, andprobably he did not live long to enjoy his new resources. Of thebrother Lloyd records: “There was none better to represent our Statethan my Lord North, who had been two years in Walsingham’s house,four in Leicester’s service, had seen six courts, twenty battles,nine treaties, and four solemn jousts, whereof he was no mean part. ”In regard to the younger son, even the year of whose death we do notknow, the parallel summary would run: “He served a few months in anambassador’s suite; he commanded a local force, he was a knight, andsat on the Commission of Peace; he made three translations, one ofwhich rendered possible Shakespeare’s Roman Plays. ”[120][119] That is, if we multiply them by eight. [120] Most of the facts of the foregoing sketch are taken from thearticles on the Norths in the _Dictionary of National Biography_,which, however, must not be considered responsible for the inferences. This is his “good and faithful service” unto us, not that he fulfilledduties in which he might have been rivalled by any country justice ormilitia captain. And, “a good and faithful servant,” he had qualifiedhimself for his grand performance by a long apprenticeship in thecraft. Like Amyot, he devotes himself to translation from first tolast, but unlike Amyot he knows from the outset the kind of book thatit is given him to interpret. He is not drawn by the fervour of youthto “vain and amatorious romance,” nor by conventional considerations tothe bric-a-brac of antiquarianism. From the time that he has attainedthe years of discretion and comes within our knowledge, he applies hisheart to study and supply works of solid instruction.    Souninge in moral vertu was his speche,    And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche. It is characteristic, too, both of his equipment and his style, thatthough he may have known a little Greek and certainly knew some Latin,as is shown by a few trifling instances in which he gives Amyot’sexpressions a more learned turn, he never used an ancient writeras his main authority, but confined himself to the adaptations andtranslations that were current in modern vernaculars. Thus his earliest work is the rendering, mainly from the French, of thenotable and curious forgery of the Spanish Bishop, Antonio de Guevara,alleged by its author to have been derived from an ancient manuscriptwhich he had discovered in Florence. It was originally entitled _ElLibro Aureo de Marco Aurelio, Emperador y eloquentissimo Orator_, butafterwards, when issued in an expanded form, was rechristened, _MarcoAurelio con el Relox de Principes_. It has however little to do withthe real Marcus Aurelius, and the famous _Meditations_ furnish onlya small ingredient to the work. It is in some ways an imitation ofXenophon’s _Cyropaedia_, that is, it is a didactic romance which aimsat giving in narrative form true principles of education, morals,and politics. But the narrative is very slight, and most of the bookis made up of discussions, discourses, and epistles, the substanceof which is in many cases taken with a difference from Plutarch’s_Moralia_. These give the author scope to endite “in high style”;and in his balanced and erudite way of writing, which with all itstastelessness and excess has a far-off resemblance to Plutarch’s morerhetorical effects, as well as in his craze for allusions and similes,he anticipates the mannerisms of the later Euphuists. But despite themoralisings and affectations (or rather, perhaps, on account of them,for the first fell in with the ethical needs of the time, and thesecond with its attempts to organise its prose), the book was a greatfavourite for over a hundred years, and Casaubon says that except theBible, hardly any other has been so frequently translated or printed. Lord Berners had already made his countrymen acquainted with it inshorter form, but North renders the _Diall of Princes_ in full, andeven adds another treatise of Guevara’s, _The Favored Courtier_, asfourth book to his second edition. It is both the contents and the form that attract him. In the titlepage he describes it as “right necessarie and pleasaunt to allgentylmen and others which are louers of vertue”; and in his preface hesays that it is “so full of high doctrine, so adourned with auncienthistories, so authorised with grave sentences, and so beautified withapte similitudes, that I knowe not whose eies in reding it can beweried, nor whose eares in hearing it not satisfied. ”That North’s contemporaries agreed with him in liking such fare isshown by the publication of the new edition eleven years after thefirst, and even more strikingly by the publication of John Lily’simitation eleven years after the second. For Dr. Landmann has provedbeyond dispute that the paedagogic romance of _Euphues_, in purpose, inplan, in its letters and disquisitions, its episodes and persons, islargely based on the _Diall_. He has not been quite so successful intracing the distinctive tricks of the Euphuistic style through North toGuevara. It has to be remembered that North’s main authority was notthe Spanish _Relox de Principes_, but the French _Orloge des princes_;and at the double remove a good many of the peculiarities of Guevarismwere bound to become obliterated: as in point of fact has occurred. Itwould be a mistake to call North a Euphuistic writer, though in the_Diall_, and even in the _Lives_, there are Euphuistic passages. Still,Guevara did no doubt affect him, for Guevara’s was the only elaborateand architectural prose with which he was on intimate terms. He had notthe advantage of Amyot’s daily commerce with the Classics, and constantpractice in the equating of Latin and French. In the circumstances adash of diluted Guevarism was not a bad thing for him, and at any ratewas the only substitute at his disposal. To the end he sometimes usesit when he has to write in a more complex or heightened style. But if the Spanish Bishop were not in all respects a salutary model,North was soon to correct this influence by working under the guidanceof a very different man, the graceless Italian miscellanist, AntonioFrancesco Doni. That copious and audacious conversationalist couldwrite as he talked, on all sorts of themes, including even those inwhich there was no offence, and seldom failed to be entertaining. Heis never more so than in his _Morale Filosofia_, a delightful book towhich and to himself North did honour by his delightful rendering. Thedescriptive title runs: “The Morall Philosophie of Doni: drawne outof the auncient writers. A worke first compiled in the Indian tongue,and afterwards reduced into diuers other languages: and now lastlyEnglished out of Italian by Thomas North. ” This formidable announcementis a little misleading, for the book proves to be a collection of theso-called Fables of Bidpai, and though the lessons are not lacking,the main value as well as the main charm lies in the vigour andpicturesqueness of the little stories. [121][121] A charming reprint was edited by Mr. Joseph Jacobs in 1888. Thus in both his prentice works North betrays the same general bias. They are both concerned with the practical and applied philosophy oflife, and both convey it through the medium of fiction: in so far theyare alike. But they are unlike, in so far as the relative interest ofthe two factors is reversed, and the accent is shifted from the oneto the other. In the _Diall_ the narrative is almost in abeyance, andthe pages are filled with long-drawn arguments and admonitions. In the_Fables_ the sententious purpose is rather implied than obtruded, andin no way interferes with the piquant adventures; which are recountedin a very easy and lively style. North was thus a practised writer and translator, with a good knowledgeof the modern tongues, when he accompanied his brother to France in1574. In his two previous attempts he had shown his bent towardsimproving story and the manly wisdom of the elder world; and in thesecond, had advanced in appreciation of the concrete example and theracy presentment. If he now came across Amyot’s Plutarch, we cansee how well qualified he was for the task of giving it an Englishshape, and how congenial the task would be. Of the _Moral Treatises_he already knew something, if only in the adulterated concoctionsof Guevara, but the _Lives_ would be quite new to him, and wouldexactly tally with his tastes in their blend of ethical reflectionand impressive narrative. There is a hint of this double attractionin the opening phrase of the title page: “The Lives of the NobleGrecians and Romans compared by that grave learned _Philosopher_ and_Historiographer_, Plutarch of Chaeronea. ” The philosophy and thehistory are alike signalised as forming the equipment of the author,and certainly the admixture was such as would appeal to the public aswell as to the translator. The first edition of 1579, imprinted by Thomas Vautrouillier and JohnWight, was followed by a second in 1595, imprinted by Richard Fieldfor Bonham Norton. Field, who was a native of Stratford-on-Avon, andhad been apprenticed to Vautrouillier before setting up for himself,had dealings with Shakespeare, and issued his _Venus and Adonis_ and_Rape of Lucrece_. But whether or no his fellow townsman put himin the way of it, it is certain that Shakespeare was not long indiscovering the new treasure. It seems to leave traces in so early awork as the _Midsummer-Night’s Dream_, which probably borrowed fromthe life of _Theseus_, as well as in the _Merchant of Venice_, withits reference to “Cato’s daughter, Brutus’ Portia”; though it didnot inspire a complete play till _Julius Caesar_. In 1603 appearedthe third edition of North’s Plutarch, enlarged with new Lives whichhad been incorporated in Amyot’s collection in 1583: and this somethink to have been the particular authority for _Antony and Cleopatra_and _Coriolanus_. [122] And again a fourth edition, with a separatesupplement bearing the date of 1610, was published in 1612; and ofthis the famous copy in the Greenock Library has been claimed asthe dramatist’s own book. If by any chance this should be the case,then Shakespeare must have got it for his private delectation, forby this time he had finished his plays on ancient history and almostceased to write for the stage. But apart from that improbable andcrowning honour, there is no doubt about the value of North’s versionto Shakespeare as dramatist, and the four editions in Shakespeare’slifetime sufficiently attest its popularity with the general reader. [122] The whole question about the editions which Shakespeare read isa complicated one. Two things are pretty certain: (1) He must haveused the first edition for _Midsummer-Night’s Dream_, which was in alllikelihood composed before 1595, when the second appeared. (2) He musthave used the first or second for _Julius Caesar_, which was composedbefore 1603, when the third appeared. It is more difficult to speakpositively in regard to _Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_. It hasbeen argued that the former cannot have been derived from the first twoeditions, because in them Menas’ remark to Sextus Pompeius runs:    “Shall I cut the gables of the ankers, and make thee Lord    not only of Sicile and Sardinia, but of the whole Empire of    Rome besides? ”In the third edition this is altered to _cables_, and this is the formthat occurs in Shakespeare:                          “Let me cut the cable;    And, when we are put off, fall to their throats:    All there is thine. ”                           (_A. and C. _ II. vii. 77. )But this change is a very slight one that Shakespeare might easily makefor himself on the same motives that induced the editor of the _Lives_to make it. And though attempts have been made to prove that the fourthedition was used for _Coriolanus_, there are great difficulties inaccepting so late a date for that play, and one phrase rather pointsto one of the first two editions (see Introduction to _Coriolanus_). If this is really so, it affects the case of _Antony and Cleopatra_too, for it would be odd to find Shakespeare using the first or secondedition for the latter play, and the third for the earlier one. Still, such things do occur, and I think there is a tendency in thosewho discuss this point to confine Shakespeare over rigidly to oneedition. In the twentieth century it is possible to find men reading orre-reading a book in the first copy that comes to hand without firstlooking up the date on the title page. Was this practice unknown inShakespeare’s day? This popularity is well deserved. Its permanent excellences weresure of wide appreciation, and the less essential qualities thatfitted Plutarch to meet the needs of the hour in France, were notless opportune in England. North’s prefatory “Address to the Reader”describes not only his own attitude but that of his countrymen ingeneral.    There is no prophane studye better than Plutarke. All other    learning is private, fitter for Universities then cities,    fuller of contemplacion than experience, more commendable    in the students them selves, than profitable unto others.    Whereas stories, (_i. e. _ histories) are fit for every    place, reache to all persons, serve for all tymes, teache    the living, revive the dead, so farre excelling all other    bookes as it is better to see learning in noble mens lives    than to reade it in Philosophers writings. Nowe, for the    Author, I will not denye but love may deceive me, for I must    needes love him with whome I have taken so much payne, but    I bileve I might be bold to affirme that he hath written    the profitablest story of all Authors. For all other were    fayne to take their matter, as the fortune of the contries    where they wrote fell out; But this man, being excellent in    wit, in learning, and experience, hath chosen the speciall    actes, of the best persons, of the famosest nations of the    world. . . . And so I wishe you all the profit of the booke. This passage really sums up one half the secret of Plutarch’sfascination for the Renaissance world. The aim is profit, and profitnot merely of a private kind. The profit is better secured by historythan by precept, just as the living example is more effectual thanthe philosophic treatise. And there is more profit in Plutarchthan in any other historian, not only on account of his personalqualifications, his wit, learning, and experience, but on account ofhis subject-matter, because he had the opportunity and insight tochoose the prerogative instances in the annals of mankind. Only itshould be noted that the profit is conceived in the most liberal andideal sense. It is the profit that comes from contact with great soulsin great surroundings, not the profit of the trite and unmistakablemoral. This Amyot had already clearly perceived and set forth in a finepassage of which North gives a fine translation. The dignity of thehistorian’s office is very high:    Forasmuch as his chiefe drift ought to be to serve the    common weale, and that he is but as a register to set downe    the judgements and definitive sentences of God’s Court,    whereof some are geven according to the ordinarie course    and capacitie of our weake naturall reason, and other some    goe according to God’s infinite power and incomprehensible    wisedom, above and against all discourse of man’s    understanding. In other words history is not profitable as always illustratinga simple retributive justice. It may do that, but it may also dootherwise. Some of its awards are mysterious or even inscrutable. Theprofit it yields is disinterested and spiritual, and does not lie inthe encouragement of optimistic virtue. And this indicates how it maybe turned to account. The stuff it contains is the true stuff forTragedy. The remaining half of Plutarch’s secret depends on the treatment,which loses nothing in the hands of those who now must manage it; ofwhom the one, in Montaigne’s phrase, showed “the constancy of so longa labour,” and the other, in his own phrase, “took so much pain,” toadapt it aright. But just as the charm of style, though undiminished,is changed when it passes from Plutarch to Amyot, so too this takesplace to some degree when it passes from Amyot to North. North wastranslating from a modern language, without the fear of the ancientsbefore his eyes. Amyot had translated from Greek, and was familiarwith classical models. Not merely does this affect the comparativefidelity of their versions, as it was bound to do, for North, with twointervals between, and without the instincts of an accurate scholar,could not keep so close as even Amyot had done to the first original. Indeed he sometimes, though not often, violates the meaning of theFrench, occasionally misinterpreting a word, as when he translatesCoriolanus’ final words to his mother: “Je m’en revois (i. e. _revais_,_retourne_) vaincu par toy seule,” by “I _see_ myself vanquished by youalone”; more frequently misconstruing an idiom, as when he goes wrongwith the negative in passages like the following: “Ces paroles feirentincontinent penser à Eurybides et craindre que les Atheniens ne s’envoulussent aller et les abandonner”; which he renders: “These wordesmade Eurybides presently thinke and feare that the Athenians would_not_ goe, and that they would forsake them. ”[123][123] Themistocles. But the same circumstance affects North’s mode of utterance as well. It is far from attaining to Amyot’s habitual clearness, coherence, andcorrectness. His words are often clumsily placed, his constructions aresometimes broken and more frequently charged with repetitions, he doesnot always find his way out of a complicated sentence with his grammarunscathed or his meaning unobscured. One of the few Frenchmen who takeexception to Amyot’s prose says that “it trails like the ivy creepingat random, instead of flying like the arrow to its mark. ” This isunfair in regard to Amyot; it would be fairer, though still unfair, inregard to North. Compare the French and English versions of the passagethat deals with Mark Antony’s “piscatory eclogue. ” Nothing could bemore lucid or elegant than the French.    Il se meit quelquefois à pescher à la ligne, et voyant    qu’il ne pouvoit rien prendre, si en estoit fort despit et    marry à cause que Cléopatra estoit présente. Si commanda    secrettement à quelques pescheurs, quand il auroit jeté sa    ligne, qu’ilz se plongeassent soudain en l’eau, et qu’ilz    allassent accrocher à son hameçon quelques poissons de ceulx    qu’ilz auroyent eu peschés auparavent; et puis retira aussi    deux or trois fois sa ligne avec prise. Cleopatra s’en    aperceut incontinent, toutes fois elle feit semblant de    n’en rien sçavoir, et de s’esmerveiller comme il peschoit    si bien; mais apart, elle compta le tout à ses familiers,    et leur dit que le lendemain ilz se trouvassent sur l’eau    pour voir l’esbatement. Ilz y vindrent sur le port en grand    nombre, et se meirent dedans des bateaux de pescheurs, et    Antonius aussi lascha sa ligne, et lors Cleopatra commanda    à lun de ses serviteurs qu’il se hastast de plonger devant    ceulx d’Antonius, et qu’il allast attacher a l’hameçon de    sa ligne quelque vieux poisson sallé comme ceulx que lon    apporte du païs de Pont. Cela fait, Antonius qui cuida qu’il    y eust un poisson pris, tira incontinent sa ligne, et adonc    comme lon peult penser, tous les assistans se prirent bien    fort à rire, et Cleopatra, en riant, lui dit: “Laisse-nous,    seigneur, à nous autres Ægyptiens, habitans[124] de Pharus et    de Canobus, laisse-nous la ligne; ce n’est pas ton mestier.    Ta chasse est de prendre et conquerer villes et citez, païs    et royaumes. ”[124] Greek Βασιλεῦσιν. Does the _habitans_ come from the 1470 Latinversion? A later emendation is ἁλιεῦσιν.

The flow of the English is not so easy and transparent.    On a time he went to angle for fish, and when he could take    none, he was as angrie as could be, bicause Cleopatra stoode    by. Wherefore he secretly commaunded the fisher men, that    when he cast in his line, they should straight dive under    the water, and put a fishe on his hooke which they had taken    before: and so snatched up his angling rodde and brought up    a fish twise or thrise. Cleopatra found it straight, yet she    seemed not to see it, but wondred at his excellent fishing:    but when she was alone by her self among her owne people,    she told them howe it was, and bad them the next morning    to be on the water to see the fishing. A number of people    came to the haven, and got into the fisher boates to see    this fishing. Antonius then threw in his line, and Cleopatra    straight commaunded one of her men to dive under water    before Antonius men and to put some old salte fish upon his    baite, like unto those that are brought out of the contrie    of Pont. When he had hong the fish on his hooke, Antonius,    thinking he had taken a fishe in deede, snatched up his line    presently. Then they all fell a-laughing. Cleopatra laughing    also, said unto him: “Leave us, (my lord), Ægyptians (which    dwell in the contry of Pharus and Canobus) your angling    rodde: this is not thy profession; thou must hunt after    conquering realmes and contries. ”This specimen is in so far a favourable one for North, that insimple narrative he is little exposed to his besetting faults, buteven here the superior deftness of the Frenchman is obvious. Weleave out of account little mistranslations, like _on a time_ for_quelquefois_,[125] or _the fishermen_ for _quelques pescheurs_,[126]or _alone by herself_ for _apart_. We even pass over the lack ofconnectedness when _they_ (_i. e. _ the persons informed) _in greatnumber_[127] becomes the quite indefinite _a number of people_, andthe omission of the friendly nudge, so to speak, _as you can imagine_,_comme lon peult penser_. But to miss the point of the phrase _pourvoir l’esbatement_, _to see the sport_, and translate it _see thefishing_, and then clumsily insert the same phrase immediatelyafterwards where it is not wanted and does not occur; to change theorder of the _fishe_ and the _hooke_ and entangle the connectionwhere it was quite clear, to change _s’esmerveiller_ to _wondred_,the infinitive to the indicative past, and thus cloud the sense; tosubstitute the ambiguous and prolix _When he had hong the fish on hishooke_, for the concise and sufficient _cela fait_—to do all this andmuch more of the same kind elsewhere was possible only because Northwas far inferior to Amyot in literary tact. In the English version wehave often to interpret the words by the sense and not the sense by thewords; and this is a demand which is seldom made by the French. [125] Yet in these three cases, where North is certainly behind Amyotas a narrator, he is more faithful to the Greek. This is the sort ofthing that makes one ask whether he was not really in closer contactwith the original than he professes to have been. One remembers hissimilar modesty in regard to the _Diall_, which, nominally from theFrench, really made use of the Spanish as well. [126] Yet in these three cases, where North is certainly behind Amyotas a narrator, he is more faithful to the Greek. This is the sort ofthing that makes one ask whether he was not really in closer contactwith the original than he professes to have been. One remembers hissimilar modesty in regard to the _Diall_, which, nominally from theFrench, really made use of the Spanish as well. [127] Yet in these three cases, where North is certainly behind Amyotas a narrator, he is more faithful to the Greek. This is the sort ofthing that makes one ask whether he was not really in closer contactwith the original than he professes to have been. One remembers hissimilar modesty in regard to the _Diall_, which, nominally from theFrench, really made use of the Spanish as well. But there are compensations. All modern languages have in theiranalytic methods and common stock of ideas a certain familyresemblance, in which those of antiquity do not share; and inparticular French is far closer akin to English than Greek to French. Since North had specialised in the continental literature of his dayand was now dispensing the bounty of France, his allegiance to thenational idiom was virtually undisturbed, even when he made leastchange in his original. He may be more licentious than Amyot in histreatment of grammar, and less perspicuous in the ordering of hisclauses, but he is equal to him or superior in word music, after theEnglish mode; and he is even richer in full-blooded words and inphrases racy of the soil. Not that he ever rejects the guidance ofhis master, but it leads him to the high places and the secret placesof his own language. So while he is quick to detect the rhythm of theFrench and makes it his pattern, he sometimes goes beyond it; though hecan catch and reproduce the cadences of the music-loving Amyot, it issometimes on a sweeter or a graver key. Take, for instance, that scene,the favourite with Chateaubriand, where Philip, the freedman of Pompey,stands watching by the headless body of his murdered master till theEgyptians are sated with gazing on it, till they have “seen it theirbellies full” in North’s words. Amyot proceeds:    Puis l’ayant layé de l’eau de la mer, et enveloppé d’une    sienne pauvre chemise, pour ce qu’il n’avoit autre chose, il    chercha au long de la greve ou il trouva quelque demourant    d’un vieil bateau de pescheur, dont les pieces estoyent bien    vieilles, mais suffisantes pour brusler un pauvre corps nud,    et encore non tout entier. Ainsi comme il les amassoit et    assembloit, il survint un Romain homme d’aage, qui en ses    jeunes ans avoit esté à la guerre soubs Pompeius: si luy    demanda: “Qui est tu, mon amy, qui fais cest apprest pour    les funerailles du grand Pompeius? ” Philippus luy respondit    qu’il estoit un sien affranchy. “Ha,” dit le Romain, “tu    n’auras pas tout seul cest honneur, et te prie vueille moy    recevoir pour compagnon en une si saincte et si devote    rencontre, à fin que je n’aye point occasion de me plaindre    en tout et partout de m’estre habitué en païs estranger,    ayant en recompense de plusieurs maulx que j’y ay endurez,    rencontré au moins ceste bonne adventure de pouvoir toucher    avec mes mains, et aider a ensepvelir le plus grand    Capitaine des Romains. ”This is very beautiful, but to English ears, at least, there issomething in North’s version, copy though it be, that is at once morestately and more moving.    Then having washed his body with salt water, and wrapped it    up in an old shirt of his, because he had no other shift    to lay it in,[128] he sought upon the sands and found at the    length a peece of an old fishers bote, enough to serve to    burne his naked bodie with, but not all fully out. [129] As he    was busie gathering the broken peeces of this bote together,    thither came unto him an old Romane, who in his youth had    served under Pompey, and sayd unto him: “O friend, what art    thou that preparest the funeralls of Pompey the Great. ”    Philip answered that he was a bondman of his infranchised.    “Well,” said he, “thou shalt not have all this honor alone,    I pray thee yet let me accompany thee in so devout a deede,    that I may not altogether repent me to have dwelt so long    in a straunge contrie where I have abidden such miserie and    trouble; but that to recompence me withall, I may have this    good happe, with mine owne hands to touche Pompey’s bodie,    and to helpe to bury the only and most famous Captaine of    the Romanes. ”[130][128] Amyot probably and North certainly has mistaken the sense. Afterwashing and shrouding the body “ἄλλο δε oὐδὲν ἔχων ἀλλὰ περισκοπῶν”;but having nothing else to carry out the funeral rites with, such aspine wood, spices, etc. , but looking about on the beach, he found, etc. [129] A misunderstanding on North’s part where Amyot translates theGreek quite adequately. The rendering should be “a poor naked body andmoreover an incomplete one,” _i. e. _ with the head wanting. [130] _Pompeius. _On the other hand, while anything but a purist in the diction heemploys, North’s foreign loans lose their foreign look, and becomemerely the fitting ornament for his native homespun. It is chiefly onthe extraordinary wealth of his vocabulary, his inexhaustible supplyof expressions, vulgar and dignified, picturesque and penetrating,colloquial and literary, but all of them, as he uses them, ofindisputable Anglicity—it is chiefly on this that his excellence asstylist is based, an excellence that makes his version of Plutarch byfar the most attractive that we possess. It is above all through theseresources and the use he makes of them that his book distinguishesitself from the French; for North treats Amyot very much as Amyottreats Plutarch; heightening and amplifying; inserting here an emphaticepithet and there a homely proverb; now substituting a vivid for acolourless term, now pursuing the idea into pleasant side tracks. ThusAmyot describes the distress of the animals that were left behind whenthe Athenians set out for Salamis, with his average faithfulness.    Et si y avoit ne sçay quoi de pitoyable qui attendrissoit    les cueurs, quand on voyoit les bestes domestiques    et privées, qui couroient ça et là avec hurlemens et    signifiance de regret après leurs maistres et ceulx qui les    avoient nourries, ainsi comme ilz s’embarquoient: entre    lesquelles bestes on compte du chien de Xantippus, père    de Pericles, que ne pouvant supporter le regret d’estre    laissé de son maistre, il se jeta dedans la mer après luy,    et nageant au long de la galère où il estoit, passa jusques    en l’isle de Salamine, là où si tost qu’il fust arrivé,    l’aleine luy faillit, et mourut soudainement. But this account stirs North’s sympathy, and he puts in little touchesthat show his interest and compassion.    There was besides, a certain pittie that made mens harts to    yerne, when they saw the _poore doggs, beasts and cattell_    ronne up and doune, _bleating, mowing, and howling out    aloude_ after their masters in token of sorowe, whan they    did imbarke. Amongst them there goeth a _straunge_ tale of    Xanthippus dogge, who was Pericles father; which, for sorowe    his master had left him behind him, dyd caste him self    after into the sea, and swimming still by the galley’s side    wherein his master was, he held on to the Ile of Salamina,    where so sone as _this poor curre_ landed, his breath fayled    him, and dyed instantly. [131][131] _Themistocles. _Similarly, when he recounts the story how the Gauls entered Rome, Northcannot restrain his reverence for Papirius or his delight in his blow,or his indignation at its requital. Amyot had told of the Gaul:    qui prit la hardiesse de s’approcher de Marcus Papyrius, et    luy passa tout doulcement[132] la main par dessus sa barbe qui    estoit longue. Papyrius luy donna de son baston si grand    coup sur la teste, qu’il la luy blecea; dequoy le barbare    estant irrité, desguaina son espée, et l’occit. North is not content with such reserve.    One of them went boldely unto M. Papyrius and layed his hand    fayer and softely upon his long beard. But Papyrius gave him    such a _rappe on his pate_ with his staffe, that the _bloude    ran about his eares_. This _barbarous beaste_ was in _such a    rage with the blowe_ that he drue out his sworde and slewe    him. [133]Or sometimes the picture suggested is so pleasant to North that hepartly recomposes it and adds some gracious touch to enhance its charm. Thus he found this vignette of the peaceful period that followed Numa:    Les peuples hantoient et trafiquoient les uns avec les    autres sans crainte ni danger, et s’entrevisitoient en toute    cordiale hospitalité, comme si la sapience de Numa eut été    une vive source de toutes bonnes et honnestes choses, de    laquelle plusieurs fleuves se fussent derivés pour arroser    toute l’Italie. This is how North recasts and embellishes the last sentence:    The people did trafficke and frequent together, without    feare or daunger, and visited one another, making great    cheere: _as if out of the springing fountain of Numa’s    wisdom many pretie brookes and streames of good and honest    life had ronne over all Italie and had watered it_. [134][132] Represents πράως. Amyot leaves out ἤψατο τοῦ γενελου, _caught thechin_: _si grand_, and _estant irrité_, are added. [133] _Furius Camillus. _[134] _Numa Pompilius. _But illustrations might be multiplied through pages. Enough have beengiven to show North’s debts to the French and their limits. Witha few unimportant errors, his rendering is in general wonderfullyfaithful and close, so that he copies even the sequence of thoughtand modulation of rhythm. He sometimes falls short of his authorityin simplicity, neatness, and precision of structure. On the otherhand he sometimes excels it in animation and force, in volume andinwardness. But, and this is the last word on his style, even when hefollows Amyot’s French most scrupulously, he always contrives to writein his own and his native idiom. And hence it came that he once forall naturalised Plutarch among us. His was the epoch-making deed. Hissuccessors, who were never his supersessors, merely entered into hislabours and adapted Plutarch to the requirements of the Restoration, orof the eighteenth or of the nineteenth century. But they were adaptingan author whom North had made a national classic.    Plutarch was a Greek, to be sure, and a Greek no doubt he is    still. But as when we think of a Devereux . . . we call him an    Englishman and not a Norman, so who among the reading public    troubles himself to reflect that Plutarch wrote Attic prose    of such and such a quality? Scholars know all about it to be    sure, as they know that the turkeys of our farm-yards come    originally from Mexico. Plutarch however is not a scholar’s    author, but is popular everywhere as if he were a native. [135][135] _Quarterly Review_, 1861. But one aspect of this is that North carries further the process whichAmyot had begun of accommodating antiquity to current conceptions. Theatmosphere of North’s diction is so genuinely national that objectsdiscerned through it take on its hue. Under his strenuous welcomethe noble Grecian and Roman immigrants from France are forced tomake themselves at home, but in learning the ways of the Englishmarket-place they forget something of the Agora and the Forum. Perhapsthis was inevitable, since they were come to stay. And the consequence of North’s method is that he meets Shakespearehalf way. His copy may blur some of the lines in the original picture,but they are lines that Shakespeare would not have perceived. He maypresent Antiquity in disguise, but it was in this disguise alonethat Shakespeare was able to recognise it. He has in short suppliedShakespeare with the only Plutarch that Shakespeare could understand. The highest compliment we can pay his style is, that it had a specialrelish for Shakespeare, who retained many of North’s expressions withlittle or no alteration. The highest compliment we can pay the contentsis, that, only a little more modernised, they furnished Shakespearewith his whole conception of antique history. The influence of North’s Plutarch on Shakespeare is thus of a two-foldkind. There is the influence of the diction, there is the influence ofthe subject-matter; and in the first instance it is more specificallythe influence of North, while in the second it is more specifically theinfluence of Plutarch. It would be as absurd as unfair to deny Shakespeare’s indebtednessto North not only in individual turns and phrases, but in continuousdiscourse. Often the borrower does little more than change the proseto poetry. But at the lowest he always does that; and there is perhapsin some quarters a tendency to minimise the marvel of the feat, andso, if not to exaggerate the obligation, at least to set it in a falselight. He has nowhere followed North so closely through so many linesas in Volumnia’s great speech to her son before Rome; and, next tothat, in Coriolanus’ great speech to Aufidius in Antium. In thesepassages the ideas, the arrangement of the ideas, the presentationof the ideas are practically the same in the translator and in thedramatist: yet, with a few almost imperceptible touches, a few changesin the order of construction, a few substitutions in the wording, thelanguage of North, without losing any directness or force, gains amajestic volume and vibration that are only possible in the cadencesof the most perfect verse. These are the cases in which Shakespeareshows most verbal dependence on his author, but his originality assertsitself even in them. North’s admirable appeal is not Shakespeare’s,Shakespeare’s more admirable appeal is not North’s. [136]Similarly there has been a tendency to overestimate the loans of theRoman Plays from Plutarch. From this danger even Archbishop Trench hasnot altogether escaped in an eloquent and well-known passage which inmany ways comes very near to the truth. After dwelling on the freedomwith which Shakespeare generally treats his sources, for instance thenovels of Bandello or Cinthio, deriving from them at most a hint ortwo, cutting and carving, rejecting or expanding their statements atwill, he concludes:    But his relations with Plutarch are very    different—different enough to justify or almost to justify    the words of Jean Paul when in his _Titan_ he calls    Plutarch “der biographische Shakespeare der Weltgeschichte. ”    What a testimony we have here to the true artistic sense and    skill which, with all his occasional childish simplicity[137]    the old biographer possesses, in the fact that the mightiest    and completest artist of all times, should be content to    resign himself into his hands and simply to follow where the    other leads. [136] The relations of the various versions—Greek, Latin, French, andEnglish—are illustrated by means of this speech in Appendix B. [137] Childish simplicity does not strike one as a correct descriptionof Plutarch’s method. To this it might be answered in the first place that Shakespeareshows the same sort of fidelity in kind, though not in degree, to thecomparatively inartistic chronicles of his mother country. That is, itis in part, as we have seen, his tribute not to the historical authorbut to the historical subject. Granting, however, the superior claimsof Plutarch, it is yet an overstatement to say that Shakespeare iscontent to resign himself into his hands, and simply to follow wherethe other leads. Delius, after an elaborate comparison of biography anddrama, sums up his results in the protest that “Shakespeare has muchless to thank Plutarch for than one is generally inclined to suppose. ”Indeed, however much Plutarch would appeal to Shakespeare in virtueboth of his subjects and his methods, it is easy to see that even asa “grave learned philosopher and historiographer” he is on the hitherside of perfection. He interrupts the story with moral disquisitions,and is a little apt to preach, and often, through such intrusions andirrelevancies, or the adherence of the commonplace, his most impressivetouches fail of their utmost possible effect: at least he does notalways seem aware of the full value of his details, of their depthand suggestiveness when they are set aright. Yet he is more excellentin details than in the whole: he has little arrangement or artisticconstruction; he is not free from contradictions and discrepancies; hegives the bricks and mortar but not the building, and occasionally someof the bricks are flawed or the mortar is forgotten. And his storieshave this inorganic character, because he is seldom concerned to pierceto the meaning that would give them unity and coherence. He moralises,and only too sententiously, whenever an opportunity offers; but of theprinciples that underlie the conflicts and catastrophes which in hisfree-and-easy way he describes, he has at best but fragmentary glimpses. And in all this the difference between the genial moralist and theinspired tragedian is a vast one—so vast that when once we perceiveit, it is hard to retain a fitting sense of the points of contact. InShakespeare, Plutarch’s weaknesses disappear, or rather are replacedby excellences of precisely the opposite kind. He rejects all thatis otiose or discordant in speech or situation, and adds from otherpassages in his author or from his own imagination, the circumstancesthat are needed to bring out its full poetic significance. He alwayslooks to the whole, removes discrepancies, establishes the innerconnection; and at his touch the loose parts take their places asmembers of one living organism. And in a sense, “he knows what it isall about. ” In a sense he is more of a philosophic historian thanhis teacher. At any rate, while Plutarch takes his responsibilitieslightly in regard both to facts and conclusions, Shakespeare, in sofar as that was possible for an Elizabethan, has a sort of intuitionof the principles that Plutarch’s narrative involves; and while addingsome pigment from his own thought and feeling to give them colour andvisible shape, accepts them as his presuppositions which interpret thestory and which it interprets. Thus the influences of North’s Plutarch, whether of North’s style orof Plutarch’s matter, though no doubt very great, are in the lastresort more in the way of suggestion than of control. But they donot invariably act with equal potency or in the same proportion. Thus _Antony and Cleopatra_ adheres most closely to the narrative ofthe biographer, which is altered mainly by the omission of detailsunsuitable for the purpose of the dramatist; but the words, phrases,constructions, are for the most part conspicuously Shakespeare’sown. Here there is a maximum of Plutarch and a minimum of North. In _Coriolanus_, on the other hand, apart from the unconsciousmodifications that we have noticed, Shakespeare allows himself moreliberty than elsewhere in chopping and changing the substance; butlengthy passages and some of the most impressive ones are incorporatedin the drama without further alteration than is implied in thetransfiguration of prose to verse. Here there is the maximum of Northwith the minimum of Plutarch. _Julius Caesar_, as in the matter of theinevitable and unintentional misunderstandings, so again here, occupiesa middle place. Many phrases, and not a few decisive suggestions forthe most important speeches, have passed from the _Lives_ into theplay: one sentence at least it is hard to interpret without referenceto the context; but here as a rule, even when he borrows most,Shakespeare treats his loans very independently. So, too, though heseldom wittingly departs from Plutarch, he elaborates the new materialthroughout, amplifying and abridging, selecting and rejecting, takingto pieces and recombining, not from one Life but from three. Here wehave the mean influence both of Plutarch and of North. In so far therefore _Julius Caesar_ gives the norm of Shakespeare’sprocedure; and with it, for this as well as on chronological grounds,we begin. _JULIUS CAESAR_CHAPTER I    POSITION OF THE PLAY BETWEEN THE HISTORIES AND        THE TRAGEDIES. ATTRACTION OF THE SUBJECT FOR        SHAKESPEARE AND HIS GENERATION. INDEBTEDNESS TO        PLUTARCHAlthough _Julius Caesar_ was first published in the Folio of 1623,seven years after Shakespeare’s death, there is not much doubt aboutits approximate date of composition, which is now placed by almost allscholars near the beginning of the seventeenth century. Some of theevidence for this is partly external in character. (1) In a miscellany of poems on the death of Elizabeth, printed in1603, and entitled _Sorrowes Joy_, the lines occur:    They say a _comet_ woonteth to appeare    When _Princes_ baleful destinie is neare:    So _Julius_ starre was seene with fiery crest,    Before his fall to _blaze_ among the rest. It looks as though the suggestion for the idea and many of the wordshad come from Calpurnia’s remonstrance,    When beggars die there are no _comets seen_:    The heavens themselves _blaze_ forth the death          of _princes_. [138]                                     (II. ii. 30. )[138] Pointed out by Mr. Stokes, _Chronological Order, etc. _ Mightnot some of the expressions come, however, from Virgil’s list of theportents that accompanied Caesar’s death? Compare especially “nec diritoties _arsere cometae_” (_G. _ i. 488). Another apparent loan belongs to the same year. In 1603 Drayton rewrotehis poem of _Mortimeriados_ under the title of _The Barons’ Wars_,altering and adding many passages. One of the insertions runs:    Such one he was, of him we boldely say,      In whose riche soule all soueraigne powres did sute,    In _whome in peace th(e) elements all lay_      _So mixt_ as none could soueraignty impute;    As all did gouerne, yet all did obey.      His liuely temper was so absolute,    That ’t seemde when heauen his modell first began,    In him it _shewd perfection in a man_. Compare Antony’s verdict on Brutus:    His life was gentle, and _the elements_    _So mix’d_ in him, that Nature might stand up    And say to all the world, “This _was a man_. ”                                       (V. v. 73. )Some critics have endeavoured to minimise this coincidence on theground that it was a common idea that man was compounded of the fourelements. But that would not account for such close identity of phrase. There must be some connection; and that Drayton, not Shakespeare, wasthe copyist, is rendered probable by the circumstance that Drayton, in1619, _i. e. _ after Shakespeare’s death, makes a still closer approachto Shakespeare’s language.    He was a man, then, boldly dare to say,      In whose rich soul the virtues well did suit;    In whom, _so mix’d the elements all lay_,      That none to one could sovereignty impute;    As all did govern, yet all did obey:      He of a temper was so absolute    As that it seem’d, when Nature him began,    She meant to show _all that might be in man_. [139][139] Collier’s Shakespeare. (2) Apart, however, from these apparent adaptations in 1603, thereis reason to conjecture that the play had been performed by May inthe previous year. At that date, as we know from Henslowe’s _Diary_,Drayton, Webster and others were engaged on a tragedy on the samesubject called _Caesar’s Fall_. Now it is a well ascertained fact thatwhen a drama was a success at one theatre, something on a similartheme commonly followed at another. The entry therefore, that in theearly summer of 1602 Henslowe had several playwrights working at thismaterial, apparently in a hurry, since so many are sharing in the task,is in so far presumptive evidence that Shakespeare’s _Julius Caesar_had been produced in the same year or shortly before. (3) But these things are chiefly important as confirming theprobability of another allusion, which would throw the date a littlefurther back still. In Weever’s _Mirror of Martyrs_ there is thequatrain:    The many headed multitude were drawne    By Brutus speech, that Caesar was ambitious,    When eloquent Mark Antony had showne    His vertues, who but Brutus then was vicious. [140][140] Mr. Halliwell-Phillips’ discovery. Now this has a much more specific reference to the famous scene inthe Play than to anything in Plutarch, who, for instance, even in the_Life of Brutus_, which gives the fullest account of Brutus’ dealingswith the citizens, does not mention the substance of his argument andstill less any insistence on Caesar’s ambition, but only says that he“made an oration unto them to winne the favor of the people, and tojustifie what they had done”; and this passage, which contains thefullest notice of Brutus’ speeches, like the corresponding one in the_Life of Caesar_, attributes only moderate success to his appeal in themarket place, while it goes on to describe the popular disapproval asexploding before the intervention of Antony. [141] Thus it seems fairlycertain that a knowledge of Shakespeare’s play is presupposed by the_Mirror of Martyrs_, which was printed in 1601. [141] “Brutus and his confederates came into the market place to speakeunto the people, who gave them such audience, that it seemed theyneither greatly reproved, nor allowed the fact: for by their greatsilence they showed that they were sorry for Caesar’s death and alsothat they did reverence Brutus. ” _Julius Caesar. _“When the people saw him in the pulpit, although they were a multitudeof rakehells of alle sortes, and had a good will to make some sturre,yet being ashamed to doe it for the reverence they bare unto Brutus,they kept silence to heare what he would say. When Brutus began tospeak they gave him quiet audience; howbeit immediately after, theyshewed that they were not all contented with the murther. For whenanother called Cinna would have spoken and began to accuse Caesar; theyfell into a great uprore among them, and marvelously reviled him. ” _M. Brutus. _On the other hand, it cannot have been much earlier. The absence ofsuch a typical “tragedy” from Meres’ list in 1598 is nearly proofpositive that it was not then in existence. After that the _data_ are less definite. _A Warning for Fair Women_,printed in 1599, contains the lines:                    I have given him fifteen wounds,    Which will be fifteen _mouths_ that do accuse me:    In every mouth there is a bloody _tongue_    Which will _speak_, although he holds his peace. It is difficult not to bring these into connection with Antony’s words:    Over thy wounds now do I prophesy——    Which like dumb _mouths_ do ope their ruby lips    To beg the voice and utterance of my _tongue_.                                   (III. i. 259. )And again:    I tell you that which you yourselves do know,    Show you sweet Caesar’s wounds, poor, poor dumb _mouths_,    And bid them _speak_ for me: but were I Brutus    And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony    Would ruffle up your spirits and put a _tongue_    In every _wound_.                                          (III. ii. 228. )But in this Shakespeare may have been the debtor not the creditor:and other coincidences like the “Et tu, Brute,” in _Acolastus hisAfterwit_[142] (1600) may be due to the use of common or currentauthorities. One little detail has been used as an argument that theplay was later than 1600. Cassius says:[142] By S. Nicholson.    There was a Brutus once that would have brook’d    The eternal devil to keep his state in Rome    As easily as a king.                                       (I. ii. 159·)Here obviously the word we should have expected is _infernal_ not_eternal_. It has been conjectured[143] that the milder expressionwas substituted in deference to the increasing disapproval of profanelanguage on the stage; and since three plays published in 1600 use_infernal_, the inference is that _Julius Caesar_ is subsequent tothem. One fails to see, however, why Shakespeare should admit thesubstantive and be squeamish about the adjective: in point of fact,much uglier words than either find free entry into his later plays. And one has likewise to remember that the _Julius Caesar_ we possesswas published only in 1623, and that such a change might very wellhave been made in any of the intervening years, even though it werewritten before 1600. The most then that can be established by this setof inferences, is that it was produced after Meres’ _Palladis Tamia_ in1598 and before Weever’s _Mirror of Martyrs_ in 1601. [143] By Mr. Wright, _Clarendon Press Edition_. The narrowness of the range is fairly satisfactory, and it may befurther reduced. It has been surmised that perhaps Essex’ treasonturned Shakespeare’s thoughts to the story of another conspiracy byanother high-minded man, and that Caesar’s reproach, “Et tu, Brute,”derived not from the Parallel Lives but from floating literarytradition, would suggest to an audience of those days the feeling ofElizabeth in regard to one whom Shakespeare had but recently celebratedas “the general of our gracious Empress. ” At any rate the time seemssuitable. Among Shakespeare’s serious plays _Julius Caesar_ mostresembles in style _Henry V. _, written between March and September1599, as the above allusion to Essex’ expedition shows,[144] and_Hamlet_, entered at Stationers’ Hall in 1602, as “latelie acted. ”But the connection is a good deal closer with the latter than withthe former, and extends to the parallelism and contrast between thechief persons, both of them philosophic students called upon to make adecision for which their temperament and powers do not fit them, andtherefore the one of them deciding wrong and the other hardly decidingat all. Both pieces contain references to the story of Caesar, butthose in _Hamlet_ accord better with the tone of the tragedy. Thus thechorus says of Henry’s triumph:[144] _Henry V. _ V. prologue 30.    The mayor and all his brethren in best sort,    Like to the senators of the antique Rome,    With the plebeians swarming at their heels,    Go forth to fetch their conquering Caesar in.                                (V. prologue 25. )Would this passage have been penned if Shakespeare had alreadydescribed how the acclamations of the plebs were interrupted by thetribunes, and how among the senators there were some eager to make awaywith the Victor? But the two chief references in _Hamlet_ merely abridge what is toldmore at large in the Play. Polonius says: “I did enact Julius Caesar: Iwas killed i’ the Capitol. Brutus killed me” (III. ii. 108), which isonly a bald summary of the central situation. Hamlet says:    In the most high and palmy state of Rome,    A little ere the mightiest Julius fell,    The graves stood tenantless, and the sheeted dead    Did squeak and gibber in the Roman streets:    As stars with trains of fire and dews of blood,    Disasters in the sun; and the moist star    Upon whose influence Neptune’s empire stands    Was sick almost to doomsday with eclipse.                                      (I. i. 113. )This reads like a condensed anthology from the descriptions of Casca,Cassius and Calpurnia, eked out with a few hints from another passagein Plutarch that had not hitherto been utilised. [145][145] Calpùrnia speaks of the appearance of comets at the death ofprinces, but merely in a general way, not as a presage then to beobserved: and there is no mention in the play of disasters in the sunor eclipses of the moon. Near the end of the _Life of Caesar_, Plutarchrecords the first two portents, and his language suggests the idea ofa solar, which, for variety’s sake, might easily be changed to a lunareclipse. “The great comet which seven nightes together was seene verybright after Caesar’s death, the eight night after was never seenemore. Also the _brightnes of the sunne was darkened_, the which allthat yeare through was very pale, and shined not out, whereby it gavebut small heate. ”Even the quatrain:    Imperious Caesar, dead and turn’d to clay,    Might stop a hole to keep the wind away:    O, that that earth which kept the world in awe,    Should patch a wall to expel the winter’s flaw!                                        (V. i. 236. )is in some sort the ironical development of Antony’s thought:    O mighty Caesar! dost thou lie so low?    Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,    Shrunk to this little measure?                                       (III. i. 148. )    But yesterday the word of Caesar might    Have stood against the world: now lies he there,    And none so poor to do him reverence.                                     (III. ii. 123. )Owing to Weever’s reference we cannot put _Julius Caesar_ after_Hamlet_, but it seems to have closer relations with _Hamlet_ than with_Henry V. _ It is not rash to place it between the two, in 1600 or 1601. This does not however mean that we necessarily have it quite in itsoriginal form. On the contrary, there are indications that it may havebeen revised some time after the date of composition. Thus Ben Jonson in his _Discoveries_ writes of Shakespeare: “His witwas in his own power: would the rule of it had been so too! Many timeshe fell into those things could not escape laughter, as when he saidin the person of Caesar, one speaking to him, ‘Caesar, thou dost mewrong,’ he replied, ‘Caesar did never wrong but with just cause,’ andsuch like; which were ridiculous. ” Most people would see in this a veryordinary example of the figure called Paradox, and some would explain_wrong_ in such a way that even the paradox disappears: but the alleged_bêtise_ tickled Ben’s fancy, for he recurs to it to make a point inthe Introduction to the _Staple of News_. One of the persons says: “Ican do that too, if I have cause”; to which the reply is made: “Cry youmercy; you never did wrong but with just cause. ”Now in the present play there is no such expression. The nearestanalogue occurs in the conclusion of the speech, in which Caesarrefuses the petition for Publius Cimber’s recall,    Know, Caesar doth not wrong, nor without cause    Will he be satisfied.                                     (III. i. 47. )It has been suggested[146] that Jonson simply misquoted the passage. But it is not likely that Ben would consciously or unconsciouslypervert the authentic text by introducing an absurdity, still lessby introducing an absurdity that few people find absurd. In hiscriticisms on Shakespeare he does not manufacture the things to whichhe objects, but regards them from an unsympathetic point of view. Itseems probable, therefore, that he has preserved an original reading,that was altered out of deference for strictures like his: and this inso far supports the theory that the play was corrected after its firstappearance. [146] By Mr. Verity, _Julius Caesar_, 198. So, too, with the versification. The consideration of certaintechnicalities, such as the weak ending, would place _Julius Caesar_comparatively early, but there are others that yield a more ambiguousresult. It may have been revived and revised about 1607 when thesubject was again popular. And perhaps it has survived only in an acting edition. It is unusuallyshort: and, that Shakespeare’s plays were probably abridged for thestage, we know from comparison of the Quarto with the Folio _Hamlets_. The same argument has been used in regard to _Macbeth_. Still granting the plausibility up to a certain point of thisconjecture, its importance must not be exaggerated. It does notaffect the fact that _Julius Caesar_ belongs essentially to the verybeginning of the century, and that it is an organic whole as itstands. If abridged, it is still full, compact and unattenuated. Ifrevised, its style, metre and treatment are still all characteristicof Shakespeare’s early prime. The easy flow of the verse, the luminousand pregnant diction, the skilful presentation of the story in a fewsuggestive incidents, all point to a time when Shakespeare had attainedcomplete mastery of his methods and material, and before he was drivenby his daemon to tasks insuperable by another and almost insuperable byhim,    Reaching that heaven might so replenish him    Above and through his art. It is perhaps another aspect of the perfect and harmonious beauty,which fulfils the whole play and every part of it, that while there isnone of the speeches “that is in the bad sense declamatory, none thatdoes not gain by its context nor can be spared from it without someloss to the dramatic situation,” there are many “which are eminentlyadapted for declamation”;[147] that is, for delivery by themselves. Inthe later plays, on the other hand, it is far more difficult to extractany particular jewel from its setting. [147] The late Mr. H. Sidgwick, “Julius Caesar and Coriolanus,” in_Essays and Addresses_. It is pretty certain then that _Julius Caesar_ is the first not only ofthe Roman Plays, but of the great series of Tragedies. The flame-tippedwelter of _Titus Andronicus_, the poignant radiance of _Romeo andJuliet_ belong to Shakespeare’s pupilage and youth. Their place isapart from each other and the rest in the vestibule and forecourt ofhis art. The nearest approach to real Tragedy he had otherwise made wasin the English History of _Richard III. _ And now when that period ofhis career begins in which he is chiefly occupied with the treatment oftragic themes, it is again to historical material that he has recourse,and he chooses from it the episode which was probably of supremeinterest to the Europe of his day. Since Muretus first showed the way,the fate of Caesar had again and again been dramatised in Latin and inthe vernacular, in French and in English. It was a subject that to agenius of the second rank might have seemed hackneyed, but a genius ofthe highest rank knows that the common is not hackneyed but catholic,and contains richer possibilities than the recondite. Shakespearehad already been drawn to it himself. The frequent references in hisearlier dramas show how he too was fascinated by the glamour of Caesar. In the plays adapted by him, he inserts or retains tributes to Caesar’sgreatness, to the irony or injustice of his fate. Bedford in hisenthusiasm for the spirit of Henry V. , as ordained to prosper the realmand thwart adverse planets, can prefer him to only one rival,    A far more glorious star thy soul will make    Than Julius Caesar.                       (_H. VI. _ A. I. i. 155. )Suffolk, in his self-conceit and self-pity, seeks for examples ofother celebrities who have perished by ignoble hands, and comparedwith his victim, even Brutus seems on the level of the meanest and mostunscrupulous.    A Roman sworder and banditto slave    Murder’d sweet Tully: Brutus’ bastard hand    Stabb’d Julius Caesar: savage islanders    Pompey the Great: and Suffolk dies by pirates.                        (_H. VI. _ B. IV. i. 134. )Margaret, when her boy is slaughtered at Tewkesbury, thinks of Caesar’smurder as the one deed which can be placed beside it, and which it eventranscends in horror.    They that stabb’d Caesar shed no blood at all,    Did not offend, nor were not worthy blame,    If this foul deed were by to equal it.                           (_H. VI. _ C. V. v. 53. )It is the same if we turn to Shakespeare’s indisputably spontaneousutterances. He sees Caesar’s double merit with pen and sword. Says thelittle Prince Edward:    That Julius Caesar was a famous man:    With what his valour did enrich his wit,    His wit set down to make his valour live.    Death makes no conquest of this conquerer:    For now he lives in fame, though not in life.                          (_R. III. _ III. i. 84. )Rosalind laughs at the self-consciousness of his prowess as she laughsat the extravagance of love in Troilus and Leander, but evidentlyShakespeare, just as he was impressed by their stories in Chaucer andMarlowe, was impressed in Plutarch with what she calls the “thrasonicalbrag of ‘I came, saw, and overcame. ’” Don Armado is made to quote itin his role of invincible gallant (L. L. L. IV. i. 68); and Falstaffparodies it by applying to himself the boast of “the hooked-nosedfellow of Rome” when Sir John Coleville surrenders (H. IV. B. IV. iii. 45). For to Shakespeare there are no victories like Caesar’s. Thefalse announcement of Hotspur’s success appeals to them for precedent:                O, such a day    So fought, so follow’d and so fairly won,    Came not till now to dignify the times    Since Caesar’s fortunes.                      (_H. IV. _ B. I. i. 20. )We have already noticed the references to his triumphs, his fate, theironical contrast between the _was_ and the _is_ in _Henry V. _ and_Hamlet_, the History and the Tragedy that respectively precede andsucceed the play of which he is titular hero. But Shakespeare keepsrecurring to the theme almost to the end. When in _Measure for Measure_the disreputable Pompey is conveyed to prison, it suggests a ridiculousparallel with that final triumph of Caesar’s when the tribunes saw farother                  tributaries follow him to Rome    To grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels. “How now, noble Pompey,” says Lucio as the go-between passes by behindElbow and the officers, “what, at the wheels of Caesar? art thou ledin triumph? ” (III. ii. 46). In _Antony and Cleopatra_, of course theincumbent presence of “broad-fronted Caesar” is always felt. But inCymbeline, too, it haunts us. Now his difficulties in the island, sincethere were difficulties even for him, are used as by Posthumus, toexalt the prowess of the Britons,                              When Julius Caesar    Smiled at their lack of skill, but found their courage    Worthy his frowning at:                                       (II. iv. 21. )or by the Queen:                            A kind of conquest    Caesar made here; but made not here his brag    Of “came” and “saw” and “overcame. ”                                      (III. i. 22. )But the dominant note is rather of admiration for    Julius Caesar, whose remembrance yet    Lives in men’s eyes, and will to ears and tongues    Be theme and hearing ever.                                      (III. i. 2. )Or if the fault that Brutus enforced is brought to view, the very faultbecomes a grandiose and superhuman thing:                              Caesar’s ambition,    Which swell’d so much, that it did almost stretch    The sides o’ the world.                                      (III. i. 49. )The subject then was one of widespread interest and had an abidingfascination for Shakespeare himself. After leaving national historyin _Henry V. _ he seems to have turned to the history of Rome for thefirst Tragedy of his prime in a spirit much like that in which he hadgone to the English Chronicles. And he goes to it much in the sameway. It has been said that in most of the earlier series “Holinshedis hardly ever out of the poet’s hands. ”[148] Substituting Plutarchfor Holinshed the expression is true in this case too. An occasionalphrase like the _Et tu, Brute_, he obtained elsewhere, most probablyfrom familiar literary usage, but conceivably from the lost Latin playof Dr. Eedes or Geddes. Stray hints he may have derived from otherauthorities; for instance, though this is not certain, a suggestionor two from Appian’s _Civil Wars_ for Mark Antony’s Oration. [149] Itis even possible that he may have been directed to the conception andtreatment of a few longer passages by his general reading: thus, as wehave seen, it has been maintained not without plausibility that thefirst conversation between Brutus and Cassius can be traced to thecorresponding scene in the _Cornélie_. [150] But in Plutarch he foundpractically all the stuff and substance for his play, except what wascontributed by his own genius; and any other ingredients are nearlyimperceptible and altogether negligible. Plutarch, however, has givenmuch. All the persons except Lucius come from him, and Shakespeareowes to him a number of their characteristics down to the minutesttraits. Cassius’ leanness and Antony’s sleekness, Brutus’ fondness forhis books and cultivation of an artificial style, Caesar’s liabilityto the falling sickness and vein of arrogance in his later years, areall touches that are taken over from the Biographer. So too with theevents and circumstances, and in the main, the sequence in which theyare presented. Plutarch tells of the disapproval with which the triumphover Pompey’s sons was regarded; of the prophecy of danger on the Idesof March; of the offer of the crown on the Lupercal; of the punishmentof the Tribunes; of Cassius’ conference with Brutus; of the anonymoussolicitations that are sent to the latter; of the respect in which hewas held; of his relations with his wife, and her demand to share hisconfidence; of the enthusiasm of the conspirators, their contempt foran oath, their rejection of Cicero as confederate, their exemption ofAntony at Brutus’ request; of Ligarius’ disregard of his illness; ofthe prodigies and portents that preceded Caesar’s death; of Calpurnia’sdream, her efforts to stay her husband at home and the counterarguments of Decius Brutus; of Artemidorus’ intervention, the secondmeeting with the soothsayer; of Portia’s paroxysm of anxiety; of allthe details of the assassination scene; of the speeches to the peopleby Brutus and Antony; of the effects of Caesar’s funeral; of the murderof the poet Cinna; of the proscription of the Triumvirate; of thedisagreement of Brutus and Cassius on other matters and with referenceto Pella, and the interruption of the intruder; of the apparition ofthe spirit, and the death of Portia; of Brutus’ discussion with Cassiuson suicide; of his imprudence at Philippi; of the double issue andrepetition of the battle; of the death of Cassius and Brutus on theirown swords; of the surrender of Lucilius; of Antony’s eulogy of Brutus. There is thus hardly a link in the action that was not forged onPlutarch’s anvil. [148] Mr. Churton Collins, _Studies in Shakespeare_. See also Mr. Boswell Stone, _Shakespere’s Holinshed_. [149] See Appendix C. [150] See Introduction, pages 60-61, and Appendix A. And even the words of North have in many cases been almost literallytranscribed. Says Lucilius when brought before Antony:    I dare assure thee, that no enemie hath taken, nor shall    take Marcus Brutus alive; and I beseech God keepe him from    that fortune. For wheresoever he be found, alive or dead; he    will be found like him selfe.                                                (_Brutus. _)Compare:    I dare assure thee that no enemy    Shall ever take alive the noble Brutus:    The gods defend him from so great a shame!    When you do find him, or alive or dead,    He will be found like Brutus, like himself.                                   (V. iv. 21. )Or take the passage—considering its length, the exactest reproductionof all—in which Portia claims full share in her husband’s secrets. Thesentiment is what we are accustomed to regard as modern; but Plutarch,who himself viewed marriage as a relation in which there was no Minenor Thine,[151] has painted the situation with heartfelt sympathy. After describing the wound she gives herself to make trial of herfirmness, he proceeds:[151] See page 98.    Then perceiving her husband was marvelously out of quiet,    and that he coulde take no rest: even in her greatest payne    of all, she spake in this sorte unto him: “I being, O Brutus    (sayed she), the daughter of Cato, was maried unto thee, not    to be thy bedde fellowe and companion at bedde and at borde    onelie, like a harlot; but to be partaker also with thee, of    thy good and evill fortune. Nowe for thy selfe, I can finde    no cause of faulte in thee as touchinge our matche: but for    my parte, howe may I showe my duetie towardes thee, and howe    muche I woulde doe for thy sake, if I cannot constantlie    beare a secret mischaunce or griefe with thee, which    requireth secrecy and fidelity? I confesse, that a woman’s    wit commonly is too weake to keepe a secret safely: but yet,    Brutus, good educacion, and the companie of vertuous men,    have some power to reforme the defect of nature. And for my    selfe, I have this benefit moreover: that I am the daughter    of Cato, and wife of Brutus. This notwithstanding, I did not    trust to any of these things before; untill that now I have    found by experience, that no paine nor griefe whatsoever can    overcome me. ’ With those wordes she shewed him her wounde    on her thigh, and told him what she had done to prove her    selfe. Brutus was amazed to heare what she sayd unto him,    and lifting up his handes to heaven, he besought the goddes    to give him grace he might bring his enterprise to so good    passe, that he might be founde a husband, worthie of so    noble a wife as Porcia. ”                                        (_Marcus Brutus. _)It is hardly necessary to point out how closely Shakespeare follows upthe trail.      _Portia. _ Within the bond of marriage, tell me, Brutus,    Is it excepted I should know no secrets    That appertain to you? Am I yourself    But, as it were, in sort or limitation;    To keep with you at meals, comfort your bed,    And talk to you sometimes? Dwell I but in the suburbs    of your good pleasure? If it be no more,    Portia is Brutus’ harlot, not his wife.      _Brutus. _ You are my true and honourable wife,    As dear to me as are the ruddy drops    That visit my sad heart.      _Portia. _ If this were true, then should I know this secret.    I grant I am a woman; but withal,    A woman that Lord Brutus took to wife;    I grant I am a woman; but, withal,    A woman well-reputed, Cato’s daughter.    Think you I am no stronger than my sex,    Being so father’d and so husbanded?    Tell me your counsels, I will not disclose ’em:    I have made strong proof of my constancy,    Giving myself a voluntary wound,    Here, in the thigh: can I bear that with patience,    And not my husband’s secrets?      _Brutus. _                     O ye gods,    Render me worthy of this noble wife.                                         (II. i, 280. )Here we have “the marriage of true souls”; and though the prelude tothis nuptial hymn, a prelude that heralds and enhances its sweetness,is veriest Shakespeare, when the main theme begins and the climax isreached, he is content to resign himself to the ancient melody, andre-echo, even while he varies, the notes. North’s actual slips or blunders are received into the play. Thus theaccount of the assassination runs: “Caesar was driven . . . againstthe base whereupon Pompey’s image stood, which ranne all of a goareblood. ” The last clause, probably by accident, adds picturesqueness toAmyot’s simple description, “qui en fust toute ensanglantee,” and isimmortalised in Antony’s bravura:    Even at the base of Pompey’s statua    Which all the while ran blood.                           (III. ii. 192. )More noticeable is the instance of Brutus’ reply to Cassius’ question,what he will do if he lose the battle at Philippi. Amyot’s translationis straightforward enough.    Brutus luy respondit: “Estant encore jeune et non assez    experimenté es affaires de ce monde, je feis ne sçay comment    un discours de philosophie, par lequel je reprenois et    blasmois fort Caton d’estre desfait soymesme” etc. That is:    Brutus answered him: “When I was yet young and not much    experienced in the affairs of this world, I composed,    somehow or other, a philosophic discourse in which I greatly    rebuked and censured Cato for having made away with himself! ”North did not notice where the quotation began; connected _feis_ with_fier_ in place of _faire_, probably taking it as present not as past;and interpreted _discours_ as _principle_, which it never meant andnever can mean, instead of _dissertation_. So he translates:    Brutus answered him, _being yet but a young man, and not    over-greatly experienced in the world_: I _trust_ (I know    not how) a certaine rule of Philosophie, by the which I did    greatly blame and reprove Cato for killing of him selfe;    as being no godly or lawful acte, touching the goddes; nor    concerning men, valliant; not to give place and yeld to    divine providence, and not constantly and paciently to take    whatsoever it pleaseth him to send us, but to drawe backe,    and flie: but being nowe in the middest of the daunger, I am    of a contrary mind. For if it be not the will of God, that    this battell fall out fortunate for us: I will looke no more    for hope, neither seeke to make any new supply for warre    againe, but will rid me of this miserable world, and content    me with my fortune. For, I gave up my life for my country in    the Ides of Marche, for the which I shall live in another    more glorious worlde. (_Marcus Brutus. _)It is possible that North used _trust_ in the first sentence as apreterite equal to _trusted_, just as he uses _lift_ for _lifted_. ButShakespeare at least took it for a present: so he was struck by thecontradiction which the passage seems to contain. He got over it, andproduced a new effect and one very true to human nature, by makingBrutus’ latter sentiment the sudden response of his heart, in defianceof his philosophy, to Cassius’ anticipation of what they must expect ifdefeated.      _Brutus. _ Even by the rule of that philosophy    By which I did blame Cato for the death    Which he did give himself, I know not how,    But I do find it cowardly and vile,    For fear of what might fall, so to prevent    The time of life: arming myself with patience    To stay the providence of some higher powers    That govern us below.      _Cassius. _            Then if we lose this battle.    You are contented to be led in triumph    Thorough the streets of Rome?      _Brutus. _ No, Cassius, no: think not, thou noble Roman,    That ever Brutus will go bound to Rome;    He bears too great a mind. But this same day    Must end that work the ides of March begun;    And whether we shall meet again I know not.    Therefore our everlasting farewell take.                                               (V. i. 101. )This last illustration may show us, however, that Shakespeare, evenwhen he seems to copy most literally, always introduces something thatcomes from himself. Despite his wholesale appropriation of territorythat does not in the first instance belong to him, the produce isemphatically his own. It is like the white man’s occupation of Americaand Australasia, and can be justified only on similar grounds. Thelands remain the same under their new as under their old masters, butthey yield undreamed-of wealth to satisfy the needs of man. Never didany one borrow more, yet borrow less, than Shakespeare. He finds theclay ready to his hand, but he shapes it and breathes into it thebreath of life, and it becomes a living soul. CHAPTER IISHAKESPEARE’S TRANSMUTATION OF HIS MATERIALThe examples given in the previous chapter may serve to show thatfrom one point of view it is impossible to exaggerate Shakespeare’sdependence on Plutarch. But this is not the only or the most importantaspect of the case. He alters and adds quite as much as he gets. Noslight modification of the story is implied by its mere reductionto dramatic shape, at least when the dramatiser is so consummate aplaywright as Shakespeare. And it is very interesting to observe theinstinctive skill with which he throws narrated episodes, like that ofthe death of Cassius, into the form of dialogues and scenes. But thedramatisation involves a great deal more than this. Shakespeare has tofix on what he regards as the critical points in the continuous story,to rearrange round them what else he considers of grand importance, andto bridge in some way the gaps between. These were prime essentialsin all his English historical pieces. The pregnant moments have to beselected; and become so many ganglia, in which a number of filamentschronologically distinct are gathered up; yet they have to be exhibitednot in isolation, but as connected with each other, and all belongingto one system. And in _Julius Caesar_ this is the more noticeable, asit makes use of more sources than one. The main authority is the _Lifeof Brutus_, but the _Life of Caesar_ also is employed very freely, andthe _Life of Antony_ to some extent. The scope and need for insight inthis portion of the task are therefore proportionately great. Thus the opening scene refers to Caesar’s defeat of the sons of Pompeyin Spain, for which he celebrated his triumph in October, 45 B. C. ButShakespeare dates it on the 15th February, 44 B. C. , at the LupercalianFestival. [152] Then, in the account of Caesar’s chagrin at hisreception, he mixes up, as Plutarch himself to some extent does, twoquite distinct episodes, one of which does not belong to the Lupercaliaat all. [153] Lastly, it was only later that the Tribunes were silencedand deprived of their offices for stripping the images, not of Caesar’s“trophies,” but of “diadems,”[154] or, more specifically, of the“laurel crown”[155] Antony had offered him. [152] Possibly he may have found a suggestion for this in Plutarch’sexpression that at the Lupercalia, Caesar was “apparelled in atriumphant manner” (_Julius Caesar_); or, more definitely “apparelledin his triumphing robe” (_Marcus Antonius_). [153] In the _Julius Caesar_ it is at an interview with the Senate inthe market place that Caesar, in his vexation, bares his neck to theblow, and afterwards pleads his infirmity in excuse; and nothing ofthe kind is recorded in connection with the offer of the crown at theLupercalia. In the _Marcus Antonius_ the undignified exhibition, asPlutarch regards it, is referred to the Lupercalia, and the previousincident is not mentioned. [154] _Julius Caesar. _[155] _Marcus Antonius. _The next group of events is clustered round the assassination, andthey begin on the eve of the Ides, the 14th March. But at first weare not allowed to feel that a month has passed. By various artificesthe flight of time is kept from obtruding itself. The position of thescene with the storm, which ushers in this part of the story, as thelast of the first act instead of the first of the second, of itselfassociates it in our minds with what has gone before. Then there areseveral little hints that we involuntarily expand in the same sense. Thus Cassius has just said:                                I will this night,    In several hands, in at his windows throw,    As if they came from several citizens,    Writings all tending to the great opinion    That Rome holds of his name; wherein obscurely    Caesar’s ambition shall be glanced at.                                      (I. ii. 319. )And now we hear him say:                      Good Cinna, take this paper,    And look you lay it in the praetor’s chair,    Where Brutus may but find it: and throw this    In at his window; set this up with wax    Upon old Brutus’ statue.                                   (I. iii. 142. )We seem to see him carrying out the programme that he has announced forthe night of the Lupercalia. Yet there are other hints,—the frequencywith which Brutus has received these instigations (II. i. 49), hisprotracted uncertainty since Cassius first sounded him (II. i. 61), thefact that he himself has had time to approach Ligarius,—which presentlymake us realise that the opening scenes of the drama are left a longway behind. And in this section, too, Shakespeare has crowded his incidents. Thedecisive arrangements of the conspirators, with their rejection of theoath, are dated the night before the assassination; Plutarch puts themearlier. Then, according to Plutarch, there was a senate meeting themorning after Caesar’s murder; and Antony, having escaped in slave’sapparel, proposed an amnesty for the perpetrators, offered his son ashostage, and persuaded them to leave the Capitol. On the followingday dignities were distributed among the ringleaders and a publicfuneral was decreed to Caesar. Only then did the reading of the will,the speech of Antony, and the _émeute_ of the people follow, and thereading of the will preceded the speech. After a while Octavius comesfrom Apollonia to see about his inheritance. In the play, on the other hand, Antony’s seeming agreement withthe assassins is patched up a few minutes after the assassination. Octavius, summoned by the dead Caesar, is already within seven leaguesof Rome. Antony at once proceeds with the corpse to the market place. He has hardly made his speech and then read the will, when, as thecitizens rush off in fury, he learns that Octavius has arrived. A lengthy interval elapses between the end of Act III. and thebeginning of Act IV. , occupied, so far as Rome and Italy wereconcerned, with the rivalry and intrigues of Antony and Octavius, andthe discomfiture of the former (partly through Cicero’s exertions),till he wins the army of Lepidus and Octavius finds it expedient tojoin forces with him and establish the Triumvirate. But of all this nota word in Shakespeare. He dismisses it as irrelevant, and creates anillusion of speed and continuity, where there is none. The servant whoannounces the arrival of Octavius, tells Antony:    He and Lepidus are at Caesar’s house.                          (III. xi. 269. )“Bring me to Octavius,” says Antony. And the fourth act opens “at ahouse in Rome,” “Antony, Octavius and Lepidus seated at a table,” justfinishing the lists of the proscription. The impression produced isthat their conference is direct sequel to the popular outbreak and theconspirators’ flight. Yet it is November, 43 B. C. , and nineteen ortwenty months have gone by since the Ides of March. And the progress oftime is indicated as well as concealed. Antony announces as a new andalarming piece of news                            And now, Octavius,    Listen great things:—Brutus and Cassius    Are levying powers.                                  (IV. i. 40. )This too covers a gap in the history and hurries on the connection. The suggestion is that they are beginning operations at last, and thathitherto they have been inactive. Their various intermediate adventuresand wanderings are passed over. We are carried forward to their grandeffort, and are reintroduced to them only when they meet again atSardis in the beginning of 42 B. C. , just before the final movement toPhilippi, where the battle was fought in October of the same year. And this scene also is “compounded of many simples. ” The dispute whichthe poet[156] interrupts, the difference of opinion about Pella, theappearance of the Spirit, are all located at Sardis by Plutarch, but heseparates them from each other; the news of Portia’s death is undated,the quarrel about money matters took place at Smyrna, and other traitsare derived from various quarters. Here they are all made    To join like likes, and kiss like native things. [156] In the _Lives_ Faonius or Phaonius, properly Favonius, a followerof Cato. (_Marcus Brutus. _)Then at Philippi itself, not only are some of the speeches transferredfrom the eve to the day of the engagement; but a whole series ofoperations, and two pitched battles, twenty days apart, after the firstof which Cassius, and after the second of which Brutus, committedsuicide, are pressed into a few hours. It will thus be seen that though the action is spread over a period ofthree years, from the triumphal entry of Caesar in October, 45 B. C. ,till the victory of his avengers in October, 42 B. C. , Shakespeareconcentrates it into the story of five eventful days, which howeverdo not correspond to the five separate acts, but by “overlapping” andother contrivances produce the effect of close sequence, while inpoint of fact, historically, they are not consecutive at all. In the first day there is the exposition, enforcing the predominance ofCaesar and the revulsion against it (Act I. i. and ii. ); assigned tothe 15th February, 44 B. C. In the second day there is the assassination with its immediatepreliminaries and sequels (Act I. iii. , Act II.

, Act III. ) allcompressed within the twenty-four hours allowed to a French tragedy,viz. within the interval between the night before the Ides of March andthe next afternoon or evening. [157][157] Cassius says at the end of the long opening scene of the series:“It is after midnight” (Act I. iii. 163). In the last scene of thegroup, Cinna, on his way to Caesar’s funeral, is murdered by therioters apparently just after they have left Antony. In the third day there is the account of the Proscription in November,43 B. C. (Act IV. i. ). In the fourth day the meeting of Brutus andCassius, which took place early in 42 B. C. , and the apparition of theboding spirit, are described (Act IV. ii. and iii. ). Both these daysare included in one act. The fifth day is devoted to the final battle and its accessories, andmust be placed in October, 42 B. C. (Act V. ). But the selection, assortment and filiation of the _data_ are not moreconspicuous in the construction of the plot than in the execution ofthe details. There will be frequent occasion to touch incidentally onthese and similar processes in the discussion of other matters, buthere it may be well to illustrate them separately, so far as that ispossible when nearly every particular instance shows the influence ofmore than one of them. Thus while Shakespeare’s picture of the very perfect union of Brutusand Portia is taken almost in its entirety from Plutarch, who washimself so keenly alive to the beauty of such a wedlock, the charm ofthe traits he adopts is heightened by the absence of those he rejects. Probably indeed he did not know, for Plutarch does not mention it, thatBrutus had been married before, and had got rid of his first wife bythe simple and regular expedient of sending her home to her father. But he did know that Portia, too, had a first husband, Bibulus, “bywhom she had also a young sonne. ” The ideal beauty of their relation isunbrushed by any hint of their previous alliances. So, too, he attributes the coolness between Brutus and Cassius at thebeginning of the story merely to Brutus’ inward conflicts, and toCassius’ misconstruction of his preoccupation. In point of fact, it hada more definite and less creditable cause. According to Plutarch, theyhad both been strenuous rivals for the position of City Praetor, Brutusrecommended by his “vertue and good name,” Cassius by his “many nobleexploytes” against the Parthians. Caesar, saying “Cassius cause isjuster, but Brutus must be first preferred,” had given Brutus the chiefdignity and Cassius the second: therefore “they grew straunge togetherfor the sute they had for the praetorshippe. ” But it would not answerShakespeare’s purpose to show Brutus as moved by personal ambitions, oreither of them as aspiring for honours that Caesar could grant. There are few better examples of the way in which Shakespearerearranges his material than the employment he makes of Plutarch’senumeration of the portents that preceded the assassination. It isgiven as immediate preface to the catastrophe of the Ides.    Certainly, destenie may easier be foreseene then avoyded;    considering the straunge and wonderfull signes that were    sayd to be seene before Caesars death. For touching the    fires in the element, and spirites running up and downe in    the night, and also these solitarie birdes to be seene at    noone dayes sittinge in the great market place: are not all    these signes perhappes worth the noting in such a wonderfull    chaunce as happened? But Strabo the Philosopher wryteth,    that divers men were seene going up and downe in fire:    and furthermore, that there was a slave of the souldiers,    that did cast a marvelous burning flame out of his hande,    insomuch as they that saw it, thought he had been burnt,    but when the fire was out, it was found he had no hurt.    Caesar selfe also doing sacrifice unto the Goddes, found    that one of the beastes which was sacrificed had no hart:    and that was a straunge thing in nature, how a beast could    live without a hart. Furthermore, there was a certain    soothsayer that had geven Caesar warning long time affore,    to take heede of the day of the Ides of Marche (which is the    fifteenth of the moneth), for on that day he should be in    great daunger. That day being come, Caesar going into the    Senate house, and speaking merily to the Soothsayer, tolde    him, ‘The Ides of Marche be come’: ‘So be they’, softly    aunswered the Soothsayer, ‘but yet are they not past. ’ And    the very day before, Caesar supping with Marcus Lepidus,    sealed certaine letters as he was wont to do at the bord:    so talke falling out amongest them, reasoning what death    was best: he preventing their opinions, cried out alowde,    ‘Death unlooked for. ’ Then going to bedde the same night as    his manner was, and lying with his wife Calpurnia, all the    windowes and dores of his chamber flying open, the noyse    awooke him, and made him affrayed when he saw such light:    but more when he heard his wife Calpurnia, being fast a    sleepe weepe and sigh, and put forth many fumbling and    lamentable speaches. For she dreamed that Caesar was slaine,    and that she had him in her armes. [158][158] _Julius Caesar. _It is interesting to note how Shakespeare takes this passage topieces and assigns those of them for which he has a place to theirfitting and effective position. Plutarch’s reflections on destiny andCaesar’s opinions on death he leaves aside. The first warning of thesoothsayer he refers back to the Lupercalia, and the second he shiftsforward to its natural place. Calpurnia’s outcries in her sleep and herprophetic dream, the apparition of the ghosts mentioned by her amongthe other prodigies, the lack of the heart in the sacrificial beast,are reserved for the scene of her expostulation with Caesar, and aredramatically distributed between the various speakers, Caesar, theservant, Calpurnia herself. Shakespeare relies on the fiery heavensand the fire-girt shapes, the flaming hand and the boding bird for hisgrand effect, and puts them in a setting where they gain unspeakablyin supernatural awe. Of course Shakespeare individualises Plutarch’shints and adds new touches. But the main terror is due to somethingelse. We are made to view these portents in the reflex light of Casca’spanic. He has just witnessed them, or believes that he has done so, andnow breathless, staring, his naked sword in his hand, the storm ragingaround, he gasps out his amazement at Cicero’s composure:    Are not you moved, when all the sway of earth    Shakes like a thing unfirm? O Cicero,    I have seen tempests, when the scolding winds    Have rived the knotty oaks, and I have seen    The ambitious ocean swell and rage and foam,    To be exalted with the threatening clouds:    But never till to-night, never till now,    Did I go through a tempest dropping fire.    Either there is a civil strife in heaven,    Or else the world, too saucy with the gods,    Incenses them to send destruction.      _Cicero. _ Why, saw you anything more wonderful?      _Casca. _ A common slave—you know him well by sight—    Held up his left hand, which did flame and burn    Like twenty torches join’d, and yet his hand,    Not sensible of fire, remain’d unscorch’d.    Besides,—I ha’ not since put up my sword—    Against the Capitol I met a lion,    Who glared upon me, and went surly by,    Without annoying me: and there were drawn    Upon a heap a hundred ghastly women,    Transformed with their fear; who swore they saw    Men all in fire walk up and down the streets.    And yesterday the bird of night did sit    Even at noon-day upon the market place    Hooting and shrieking. When these prodigies    Do so conjointly meet, let not men say,    ‘These are their reasons: they are natural’:    For, I believe, they are portentous things    Unto the climate that they point upon.                                       (I. iii. 3. )Here the superstitious thrill rises to a paroxysm of dread; but theeffect of dispersing the subsidiary presages through so many scenes isto steep the whole play in an atmosphere of weird presentiment, tillCaesar passes up to the very doors of the Capitol. But besides selecting and rearranging the separate details, Shakespeareestablishes an inner connection between them even when in Plutarch theyare quite isolated from each other. This is well exemplified by themanner in which the biography and the drama treat the circumstance thatthe conspirators were not sworn to secrecy. Plutarch says:    The onlie name and great calling of Brutus did bring on the    most of them to geve consent to this conspiracie. Who having    never taken othes together, nor taken or geven any caution    or assurance, nor binding them selves one to an other by    any religious othes, they all kept the matter so secret    to them selves, and could so cunninglie handle it, that    notwithstanding the goddes did reveal it by manifeste signes    and tokens from above, and by predictions of sacrifices, yet    all this would not be believed.                                            (_Marcus Brutus. _)The drama puts it thus:      _Brutus. _ Give me your hands all over, one by one.      _Cassius. _ And let us swear our resolution.      _Brutus. _ No, not an oath: if not the face of men    The suffrance of our souls, the time’s abuse,    If these be motives weak, break off betimes:                                         (II. i. 112. )and so on through the rest of his magnificent speech that breathes thepure spirit of virtue and conviction. The nobility of Brutus that isreverenced by all, the conspiracy of Romans that is safe-guarded byno vows, move Plutarch’s admiration, but he does not associate them. Shakespeare traces the one to the other and views them as cause andeffect. Shakespeare thus greatly alters the character of Plutarch’s narrativeby his ceaseless activity in sifting it, ordering it afresh, andreading into it an internal nexus that was often lacking in hisauthority. But this last proceeding implies that he also makesadditions, and these are not only numerous and manifold, but frequentlyquite explicit and very far-reaching. It is important to note thatPlutarch has furnished nothing more than stray hints, and oftennot even so much, for all the longer passages that have impressedthemselves on the popular imagination. Cassius’ description of theswimming match and of Caesar’s fever, Brutus’ soliloquy, his speechon the oath, his oration and that of Mark Antony, even, when regardedclosely, his dispute with Cassius, are all virtually the inventionsof Shakespeare. The only exception is the conversation with Portia,and even in it, though the climax, as we have seen, closely reproducesboth Plutarch’s matter and North’s expression, the fine introduction isaltogether Shakespearian. But it is not the purple patches alone of which this is true. The morecarefully one examines the finished fabric, the more clearly one seesthat the dramatist has not merely woven and fashioned and embroideredit, but has provided most of the stuff. Sometimes the new matter is a possible or plausible inference from thepremises he found in his author. Thus Plutarch represents the populace as on the whole favourable toCaesar, but the tribunes as antagonistic. He also records, concerningthe celebration of Caesar’s victory over Pompey’s sons in Spain:    The triumph he made into Rome for the same did as much    offend the Romanes, and more, then anything he had ever    done before; bicause he had not overcome Captaines that    were straungers, nor barbarous kinges, but had destroyed    the sonnes of the noblest man in Rome, whom fortune had    overthrowen. And bicause he had plucked up his race by the    rootes men did not thinke it meete for him to triumphe so    for the calamaties of his contrie.                                        (_Julius Caesar. _)This is all, but it is enough to give the foundation for the openingscene, which otherwise, both in dialogue and declamation, is anentirely free creation. Sometimes again Shakespeare has realised the situation so vividlythat he puts in some trait from the occurrences as in spirit he haswitnessed them, something of the kind that may very well have happened,though there is no trace of it in the records. Thus he well knowswhat an unreasonable monster a street mob can be, how cruel in itsgambols, how savage in its fun. So in the account of the poet Cinna’send, though the gist of the incident, the mistake in identity, thedisregard of the explanation, are all given in Plutarch, Shakespeare’srioters wrest their victim’s innocent avowal of celibacy to a flout atmarriage, and meet his unanswerable defence, “I am Cinna the poet,”with the equally unanswerable retort, “Tear him for his bad verses. ”(III. iii. 23. )Some of these new touches do more than lend reality to the scene. Though not incompatible with Plutarch’s account, they give it a turnthat he might disclaim and certainly does not warrant, but thatbelongs to Shakespeare’s conception of the case. Thus after describingthe “holy course” of the Lupercal, and the superstition connectedwith it, Plutarch mentions that Caesar sat in state to witness thesport, and that Antony was one of the runners. There is nothing more;and Calpurnia is not even named. Shakespeare’s introduction of heris therefore very curious. Whatever else it means, it shows thathe imagined Caesar as desirous, certainly, of having an heir, and,inferentially, of founding a dynasty. [159][159] Genée, _Shakespeare’s Leben und Werke_. Occasionally, however, the dramatist’s insertions directly contradictthe text of the _Lives_, if a more striking or more significant effectis to be attained, and if no essential fact is falsified. Thus Plutarchtells of Ligarius:    [Brutus] went to see him being sicke in his bedde, and sayed    unto him: “O Ligarius, in what a time art thou sicke! ”    Ligarius risinge uppe in his bedde and taking him by the    right hande, sayed unto him: “Brutus,” sayed he, “if thou    hast any great enterprise in hande worthie of thy selfe, I    am whole. ”                                            (_Marcus Brutus. _)Shakespeare, keeping the phrases quoted almost literally, emphasisesthe effort that Ligarius makes, emphasises too the magnetic influenceof Brutus, by representing the sick man as coming to his friend’shouse, as well as by amplifying his words:      _Lucius. _ Here is a sick man that would speak with you. . . .      _Brutus. _ O, what a time have you chose out, brave Caius,    To wear a kerchief! Would you were not sick!      _Ligarius. _ I am not sick, if Brutus have in hand    Any exploit worthy the name of honour. . . .    By all the gods that Romans bow before    I here discard my sickness! Soul of Rome!    Brave son, derived from honourable loins!    Thou, like an exorcist, hast conjured up    My mortified spirit. Now bid me run,    And I will strive with things impossible;    Yea, get the better of them. . . .     . . . With a heart new-fired I follow you,    To do I know not what: but it sufficeth    That Brutus leads me on.                                         (II. i. 310. )So too Plutarch describes the collapse of Portia in her suspense asmore complete than does the play, and makes Brutus hear of it justafter the critical moment when the conspirators fear that Lena hasdiscovered their plot:    Nowe in the meane time, there came one of Brutus men post    hast unto him, and tolde him his wife was a dying. . . . When    Brutus heard these newes, it grieved him, as is to be    presupposed: yet he left not of the care of his contrie and    common wealth, neither went home to his house for any newes    he heard. In Shakespeare not only is this very effective dramatic touch omitted,but Portia sends Brutus an encouraging message. As her weaknessincreases upon her, she collects herself for a final effort and managesto give the command:    Run, Lucius, and commend me to my lord:    _Say, I am merry_: come to me again    And bring me word what he doth say to thee.                                   (II. iv. 44. )Shakespeare may perhaps have been unwilling to introduce anything intothe assassination scene that might distract attention from the decisivebusiness on hand, but the alteration is chiefly due to another cause. These, the last words we hear Portia utter, were no doubt intended tobring out her forgetfulness of herself and her thought of Brutus evenin the climax of her physical distress. This, of course, does not affect our general estimate of Portia; butShakespeare has no scruple about creating an entirely new characterfor a minor personage, and, in the process, disregarding the hintsthat he found and asserting quite the reverse. Thus Plutarch has notmuch to say about Casca, so Shakespeare feels free to sketch him afterhis own fancy as rude, blunt, uncultured, with so little educationthat, when Cicero speaks Greek, it is Greek to him. This is a libel onhis up-bringing. Plutarch in one of the few details he spares to him,mentions that, when he stabbed Caesar, “they both cried out, Caesar inLatin, ‘O vile traitor, Casca, what doest thou? ’ and Casca in Greek tohis brother: ‘Brother, helpe me. ’”But some of Shakespeare’s interpolations are, probably unawares tohimself, of a vital and radical kind, and affect the conception of thechief characters and the whole idea of the story. Take, for example,Brutus’ soliloquy, as he rids himself of his hesitations and scruples. This, from beginning to end, is the handiwork of Shakespeare:    It must be by his death: and, for my part    I know no personal cause to spurn at him,    But for the general. He would be crown’d:    How that might change his nature, that’s the question.    It is the bright day that brings forth the adder,    And that craves wary walking. Crown him? —that:—    And then, I grant, we put a sting in him,    That at his will he may do danger with.    The abuse of greatness is, when it disjoins    Remorse from power: and, to speak truth of Caesar,    I have not known when his affections sway’d    More than his reason. But ’tis a common proof    That lowliness is young ambition’s ladder,    Whereto the climber upward turns his face:    But when he once attains the topmost round,    He then unto the ladder turns his back,    Looks in the clouds, scorning the base degrees    By which he did ascend. So Caesar may;    Then lest he may, prevent. And, since the quarrel    Will bear no colour for the thing he is,    Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented,    Would run to these and these extremities:    And therefore think him as a serpent’s egg,    Which, hatch’d, would as his kind, grow mischievous,    And kill him in the shell.                                         (II. i. 10. )These words are so unlike, or, rather, so opposite to all that weshould have expected, that Coleridge cannot repress his amazement. Hecomments:    This speech is singular:—at least, I do not at present    see into Shakespeare’s motive, his _rationale_, or in    what point of view he meant Brutus’ character to appear.    For surely . . . nothing can seem more discordant with our    historical preconceptions of Brutus, or more lowering to    the intellect of the Stoico-Platonic tyrannicide, than the    tenets here attributed to him—to him, the stern Roman    republican; namely,—that he would have no objection to    a king, or to Caesar, a monarch in Rome, would Caesar    but be as good a monarch as he now seems disposed to be.                               (_Lectures and Notes of 1818. _)And this in a way is the crucial statement of Brutus’ case. Here he hastried to get rid of the assumptions that move himself and the rest,and seeks to find something that will satisfy his reason. It is thusa more intimate revelation of his deliberate principles, though notnecessarily of his subconscious instincts or his untested opinions,than other utterances in which he lets feeling or circumstance havesway. Of these there are two that do not quite coincide with it. One ofthem is not very important, and in any case would not bring him nearerto the antique conception. In his plea for a pure administration ofaffairs, he asks Cassius:                        What, shall one of us,    That struck the foremost man of all this world    But for supporting robbers, shall we now    Contaminate our fingers with base bribes?                                    (IV. iii. 21. )But this, one feels, is merely an _argumentum ad hominem_, broughtforward very much in afterthought for a particular purpose. At thetime, neither in Brutus’ speeches to himself or others, nor in thediscussions of the conspirators, is Caesar accused of countenancingpeculation, or is this made a handle against him. And if it were, itwould not be incompatible with acquiescence in a royal government. [160][160] On this passage Coleridge has the note: “This seemingly strangeassertion of Brutus is unhappily verified in the present day. What isan immense army, in which the lust of plunder has quenched all theduties of the citizen, other than a horde of robbers, or differencedonly as fiends from ordinarily reprobate men? Caesar supported, andwas supported by, such as these;—and even so Buonaparte in our days. ”On this interpretation Brutus’ charge would come to nothing more thanthis, that Caesar had employed large armies. I believe there is amore definite reference to one passage or possibly two in the _MarcusAntonius_.    “(_a_) Caesar’s friends that governed under him, were    cause why they hated Caesar’s government . . . by reason    of the great insolencies and outragious parts that were    committed: amongst whom Antonius, that was of greatest    power, and that also committed greatest faultes, deserved    most blame. But Caesar, notwithstanding, when he returned    from the warres of Spayne, made no reckoning of the    complaints that were put up against him: but contrarily,    bicause he found him a hardy man, and a valliant Captaine,    he employed him in his chiefest affayres.    “(_b_) Now it greved men much, to see that Caesar    should be out of Italy following of his enemies, to end this    great warre, with such great perill and daunger: and that    others in the meane time abusing his name and authoritie,    should commit such insolent and outragious parts unto their    citizens. This me thinkes was the cause that made the    conspiracie against Caesar increase more and more, and layed    the reynes of the brydle uppon the souldiers neckes, whereby    they durst boldlier commit many extorsions, cruelties, and    robberies. ”Plutarch is speaking of Antony in particular, but surely this is thesort of thing that was in Shakespeare’s mind. The other is the exclamation with which he “pieces out” the anonymousletter that Cassius had left unfinished:    Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome?                                         (II. i. 52. )This certainly has somewhat of the republican ring. It breathes thesame spirit as Cassius’ own avowal:    I had as lief not be, as live to be    In awe of such a thing as I myself;                            (I. ii. 95. )except that Cassius feels Caesar’s predominance to be a personalaffront, while Brutus characteristically extends his view to the wholecommunity. But here Brutus is speaking under the excitement of Cassius’“instigation,” and making himself Cassius’ mouthpiece to fill in theblanks. Assuredly the declaration is not on that account the lesspersonal to himself; nevertheless in it Brutus, no longer attempting tosquare his action with his theory, falls back on the blind impulses ofblood that he shares with the other aristocrats of Rome. And in this,the most republican and the only republican sentiment that falls fromhis lips, which for the rest is so little republican that it mightbe echoed by the loyal subject of a limited monarchy, it is only thenegative aspect of the matter and the public _amour propre_ that areconsidered. Of the positive essence of republicanism, of enthusiasm fora state in which all the lawful authority is derived from the wholebody of fully qualified citizens, there is, despite Brutus’ talk offreemen and slaves and Caesar’s ambition, no trace whatever in any ofhis utterances from first to last. It has been said that Plutarch’sBrutus could live nowhere but in a self-governing commonwealth;Shakespeare’s Brutus would be quite at home under a constitutional kingand need not have found life intolerable even in Tudor England. Thisindeed is an exaggeration. True, in his soliloquy he bases his wholecase on the deterioration of Caesar’s nature that kingship might bringabout; and if it were proved, as it easily could be from instances likethat of Numa, which Shakespeare and therefore Shakespeare’s Brutusknew, that no such result need follow, his entire sorites would seemto snap. But though the form of his reflection is hypothetical andthe hypothesis will not hold, the substance is categorical enough. Brutus has such inbred detestation of the royal power that practicallyhe assumes it must beyond question be mischievous in its moraleffects. This, however, is no reasoned conviction, though it is thestarting point for what he means to be a dispassionate argument, buta dogma of traditional passion. And even were it granted it would notmake Brutus a true representative of classic republicanism. Shakespearehas so little comprehension of the antique point of view that to him athoughtful and public-spirited citizen can find a rational apology forviolent measures only by looking at Caesar’s future and not at all bylooking at Caesar’s past. This Elizabethan Brutus sees nothing to blamein Caesar’s previous career. He has not known “when his affections(_i. e. _ passions) sway’d more than his reason,” and implies that he hasnot hitherto disjoined “remorse (_i. e. _ scrupulousness) from power. ”Yet as Coleridge pertinently asks, was there nothing “in Caesar’s pastconduct as a man” to call for Brutus’ censure? “Had he not passedthe Rubicon,” and the like? But such incidents receive no attention. Perhaps Shakespeare thought no more of Caesar’s crossing the Rubiconto suppress Pompey and put an end to the disorders of Rome, than ofRichmond’s crossing the Channel to suppress Richard III. , and put endto the Wars of the Roses. At any rate he makes no mention of these andsimilar grounds of offence, though all or most of them were set down inhis authority. [161][161] Coleridge’s exact words, in continuation of the passage alreadydiscussed may be quoted. “How too could Brutus say that he found nopersonal cause, none in Caesar’s past conduct as a man? Had he notpassed the Rubicon? Had he not entered Rome as a conqueror? Had he notplaced his Gauls in the Senate? —Shakespeare, it may be said, has notbrought these things forward. —True;—and this is just the cause of myperplexity. What character did Shakespeare mean his Brutus to be? ”The verbal answer to this is of course that _personal cause_ refersnot to Caesar but to Brutus, and means that Brutus has no privategrievance; but the substance of Coleridge’s objection remainsunaffected, for Brutus proceeds to take Caesar’s character up to thepresent time under his protection. It may be noted, however, that Plutarch says nothing about the Gauls. If Shakespeare had known of it, it would probably have seemed to himno worse than the presence of the Bretons, “those overweening rags ofFrance,” as Richard III. calls them, in the army of the patriotic andvirtuous Richmond. Shakespeare’s position may be thus described. He read in Plutarch thatBrutus, the virtuous Roman, killed Caesar, the master-spirit of his ownand perhaps of any age, from a disinterested sense of duty. That waseasy to understand, for Shakespeare would know, and if he did not knowit from his own experience his well-conned translation of Montaignewould teach him, that the best of men are determined in their feelingof right by the preconceptions of race, class, education and the like. But he also read that Brutus was a philosophic student who would notaccept or obey the current code without scrutinising it and fitting itinto his theory. Of the political theory, however, which such an onewould have, Shakespeare had no knowledge or appreciation. So wheneverBrutus tries to harmonise his purpose with his idealist doctrine, hehas to be furnished with new reasons instead of the old and obviousones. And these are neither very clear nor very antique. They make oneinclined to quote concerning him the words of Caesar spoken to Ciceroin regard to the historical Brutus:    I knowe not what this young man woulde, but what he woulde    he willeth it vehemently.                                       (_Marcus Brutus. _)For what is it that he would? The one argument with which he can excuseto his own heart the projected murder, is that the aspirant to royalpower, though hitherto irreproachable, may or must become corrupted andmisuse his high position. This is as different from the attitude of theancient Roman as it well could be. It would never have occurred to thegenuine republican of olden time that any justification was needed fordespatching a man who sought to usurp the sovereign place; and if ithad, this is certainly the last justification that would have enteredhis head. But the introspection, the self-examination, the craving for an inwardmoral sanction that will satisfy the conscience, and the choice of theparticular sanction that does so, are as typical of the modern as theyare alien to the classical mind. It is clear that an addition of thiskind is not merely mechanical or superficial. It affects the elementsalready given, and produces, as it were, a new chemical combination. And this particular instance shows how Shakespeare transforms thewhole story. He reanimates Brutus by infusing into his veins a strainof present feeling that in some ways transmutes his character; and,transmuting the character in which the chief interest centres, hecannot leave the other _data_ as they were. He can resuscitate the pastin its persons, its conflicts, its palpitating vitality just becausehe endows it with his own life. It was an ancient belief that theshades of the departed were inarticulate or dumb till they had lappeda libation of warm blood; then they would speak forth their secrets. In like manner it is the life-blood of Shakespeare’s own passion andthought that throbs in the pulses of these unsubstantial dead and givesthem human utterance once more. This, however, has two aspects. It isthe dead who speak; but they speak through the life that Shakespearehas lent them. The past is resuscitated; but it is a resuscitation,not the literal existence it had before. Nor in any other way can thephantoms of history win bodily shape and perceptible motion for theworld of breathing men. This may be illustrated by comparing Shakespeare’s _Julius Caesar_with the _Julius Caesar_ of Sir William Alexander, afterwards Earlof Stirling, which seems to have been written a few years laterthan its more illustrious namesake. Alexander was an able man and aconsiderable poet, from whom Shakespeare himself did not disdain toborrow hints for Prospero’s famous reflections on the transitorinessof things. He used virtually the same sources as Shakespeare, likehim making Plutarch his chief authority, and to supplement Plutarch,betaking himself, as Shakespeare may also have done, to the traditionset in France by Muretus, Grévin, and Garnier. So they build on muchthe same sites and with much the same timber. But their methods areas different as can well be imagined. Alexander is by far the morescrupulous in his reproduction of the old-world record. He adopts theSenecan type of tragedy, exaggerating its indifference to movement andfondness for lengthy harangues; and this enables him to preserve muchof the narrative in its original form without thorough reduction to thecategory of action. This also in large measure exempts him from theneed of reorganising his material: practically a single situation isgiven, and whatever else of the story is required, has to be conveyedin the words of the persons, who can repeat things just as they havebeen reported. And proceeding in this way Alexander can include as muchas he pleases of Plutarch’s abundance, a privilege of which he availshimself to the utmost. Few are the details that he must absolutelyreject, for they can always be put in somebody’s mouth; he is slow totamper with Plutarch’s location of them; and he never connects themmore closely than Plutarch has authorised. He does not extract fromhis document inferences that have not already been drawn, nor falsifyit with picturesque touches that have not been already supplied, andhe would not dream of contradicting it in small things or great. EvenBrutus’ republicanism is sacred to the author of this “MonarchicTragedy,” though he was to be Secretary of State to Charles I. andnoted for his advocacy of Divine Right. He has a convenient theory tojustify Brutus as much as is necessary from his point of view. He makeshim explain:    If Caesar had been born or chused our prince    Then those, who durst attempt to take his life,    The world of treason justly might convince.    Let still the states, which flourish for the time,    By subjects be inviolable thought:    And those (no doubt) commit a monstrous crime,    Who lawfull soveraignty prophane in ought:    And we must think (though now thus brought to bow)    The senate, king; a subject Caesar is:    The soveraignty whom violating now    The world must damne, as having done amisse. Brutus’ motives, which Shakespeare sophisticates, can thus be lefthim. But does this bit of reasoning, which reads like a passage fromthe _Leviathan_, and explains why King James called Alexander “Myphilosophical poet,” really come nearer the historic truth than theheart-searching of Shakespeare’s Brutus? And does Alexander, takingBrutus’ convictions at second hand and manufacturing an apology forthem, do much more to revive the real Brutus, than Shakespeare, whosefervid imagination drives him to realise Brutus’ inmost heart, and whojust for that reason                      seeks into him    For that which is not in him? Here and generally Alexander gives the exacter, if not the morefaithful transcript, but the main truth, the truth of life, escapeshim; and therefore, too, despite all his painstaking fidelity, he isapt to miss even the vital touches that Plutarch gives. We have seenwith what reverent accuracy Shakespeare reproduces the conversationbetween Brutus and Portia. In a certain way Alexander is more accuratestill. Portia pleads:    I was not (Brutus) match’d with thee to be    A partner onely of thy boord and bed;    Each servile whore in those might equall me,    Who but for pleasure or for wealth did wed.    No, Portia spoused thee minding to remaine    Thy fortunes partner, whether good or ill: . . .    If thus thou seek thy sorrows to conceale    Through a distrust, or a mistrust of me,    Then to the world what way can I reveale,    How great a matter I would do for thee?    And though our sexe too talkative be deem’d,    As those whose tongues import our greatest pow’rs,    For secrets still bad treasurers esteem’d,    Of others greedy, prodigall of ours:    “Good education may reforme defects,”    And this may leade me to a vertuous life,    (Whil’st such rare patterns generous worth respects)    I Cato’s daughter am, and Brutus wife.    Yet would I not repose my trust in ought,    Still thinking that thy crosse was great to beare,    Till I my courage to a tryall brought,    Which suffering for thy cause can nothing feare:    For first to try how that I could comport    With sterne afflictions sprit-enfeebling blows,    Ere I would seek to vex thee in this sort,    (To whom my soule a dutious reverence owes);    Loe, here a wound which makes me not to smart,    No, I rejoyce that thus my strength is knowne;    Since thy distresse strikes deeper in my heart,    Thy griefe (lifes joy! ) makes me neglect mine owne. And Brutus answers:    Thou must (deare love! ) that which thou sought’st, receive;    Thy heart so high a saile in stormes still beares,    That thy great courage does deserve to have    Our enterprise entrusted to thine eares. Here, with the rhetorical amplification which was the chief and almostsole liberty that Alexander allowed himself, Plutarch’s train ofthought is more closely followed than by Shakespeare himself. KingJames’s “philosophical poet” does not even suppress the tribute toeducation, but rather calls attention to the edifying “sentence” bythe expedient less common west of the Channel than among his Frenchmasters, of placing it within inverted commas. But, besides loweringthe temperature of the whole, he characteristically omits the mostimportant passage, at least in so far as Brutus is concerned, hisprayer that “he might be founde a husband, worthie of so noble a wifeas Porcia. ”Suppose that a conscientious draughtsman and a painter of genius weremoved to reproduce the impression that a group of antique statuary hadmade on them, using the level surface which alone is at their disposal. The one might choose his station, and set down with all possibleprecision in his black and white as much as was given him to see. Theother taking into account the different conditions of the pictorial andthe plastic art, might visualise what seemed to him the inmost meaningto his own mind in his own way, and represent it, the same yet not thesame, in all the glory of colour. The former would deliver a versionmore useful to the historian of sculpture were the original to be lost,but one in which we should miss many beauties of detail, and fromwhich the indwelling spirit would have fled. The latter would not givemuch help to an antiquarian knowledge of the archetype, but he mighttransmit its inspiration, and rouse kindred feelings in an even greaterdegree just because they were mingled with others that came from hisown heart. The analogy is, of course, an imperfect one, for the problem ofrendering the solid on the flat is not on all fours with the problemof converting Plutarch’s _Lives_ to modern plays. But it applies tothis extent, that in both cases the task is to interpret a subject,that has received one kind of treatment, by a treatment that is quitedissimilar. And the difference between William Alexander and WilliamShakespeare is very much the difference between the conscientiousdraughtsman and the inspired artist. CHAPTER IIITHE TITULAR HERO OF THE PLAYThe modification of Brutus’ character typifies and involves themodification of the whole story, because the tragic interest isfocussed in his career. This must be remembered, if we would avoidmisconception. It has sometimes been said that the play suffers fromlack of unity, that the titular hero is disposed of when it is halfthrough, and that thereafter attention is diverted to the murderer. But this criticism is beside the point. Really, from beginning toend, Brutus is the prominent figure, and if the prominent figureshould supply the name, then, as Voltaire pointed out, the dramaought properly to be called _Marcus Brutus_. If we look at it in thisway, there is no lack of unity, though possibly there is a misnomer. Throughout the piece it is the personality of Brutus that attracts ourchief sympathy and concern. If he is dismissed to a subordinate place,the result is as absurd as it would be were Hamlet thus treated in thecompanion tragedy; while, his position, once recognised, everythingbecomes coherent and clear. But when this is the case, why should Shakespeare not say so? Why,above all, should he use a false designation to mix the trail? It has been answered that he was wholly indifferent to labels andnomenclature, that he gives his plays somewhat irrelevant titles, suchas _Twelfth Night_, or lets people christen them at their fancy, _WhatYou Will_, or _As You Like It_. Just in the same way, as a shrewdtheatrical manager with his eye on the audience, he may have turned toaccount the prevalent curiosity about Caesar, without inquiring toocuriously whether placard and performance tallied in every respect. And doubtless such considerations were not unknown to him. Shakespeare,as is shown by the topical allusions in which his works abound, byno means disdained the maxim that the playwright must appeal to thecurrent interests of his public, even to those that are adventitiousand superficial. At the same time, it is only his comedies, in whichhis whole method is less severe, that have insignificant or arbitrarytitles. There is no instance of a tragedy being misnamed. On thecontrary, the chief person or persons are always indicated, and in thisway Shakespeare has protested in advance against the mistake of viewing_King Lear_ as a whole with reference to Cordelia, or _Macbeth_ as awhole with reference to Lady Macbeth. But in the second place, _Julius Caesar_, both in its chronologicalposition and in its essential character, comes as near to theHistories as to the Tragedies; and the Histories are all named afterthe sovereign in whose reign most of the events occurred. He may nothave the chief role, which, for example, belongs in _King John_ tothe Bastard, and in _Henry IV. _ to Prince Hal. He may even drop outin the course of the story, which, for example, in the latter play iscontinued for an entire act after the King’s death: but he serves,as it were, for a landmark, to date and localise the action. It isnot improbable that this was the light in which Shakespeare regardedCaesar. In those days people did not make fine distinctions. He wasgenerally viewed as first in the regular succession of Emperors, and inso far could be considered to have held the same sort of position inRome, as any of those who had sat on the throne of England. But this is not all. Though it is manifest that Brutus is the principalcharacter, the _protagonist_, the chief representative of the action,the central figure among the living agents, the interest of his careerlies in its mistaken and futile opposition to Julius, to the idea ofCaesarism, to what again and again, in the course of the play, iscalled “the spirit of Caesar. ” The expression is often repeated. Brutusdeclares the purpose of the conspirators:    We all stand up against the spirit of Caesar;    And in the spirit of men there is no blood:    O, that we then could come by Caesar’s spirit,    And not dismember Caesar.                                     (II. i. 167. )Antony, above the corpse, sees in prophetic anticipation,    Caesar’s spirit ranging for revenge.                          (III. i. 273. )The ghost of Caesar proclaims what he is,    Thy evil spirit, Brutus.                            (IV. iii. 282. )And at the close Brutus apostrophises his dead victim:    Thy spirit walks abroad, and turns our swords    In our own proper entrails.                               (_V. _ iii. 95. )It is really Caesar’s presence, his genius, his conception thatdominates the story. Brutus is first among the struggling mortalswho obey even while resisting their fate, but the fate itself is theimperialist inspiration which makes up the significance of Caesar, andthe play therefore is fitly named after him. [162][162] See Professor Dowden, _Shakespeare’s Mind and Art_. This is brought home to us in a variety of ways. In the first place, Shakespeare makes it abundantly clear that therule of the single master-mind is the only admissible solution for theproblem of the time. Caesar, with his transcendent gifts, was chosen by Providence topreserve the Roman State from shipwreck, and steer it on its triumphantcourse; and even if the helmsman perished, the course was set. Shakespeare was guided to this view by Plutarch. The celebrant of thelife of ancient Greece was indeed very far from idealising the man whoconsolidated the supremacy of Rome. He records impartially and withappreciation, some of his noble traits, and without extenuation manythat were not admirable. But he “honours his memory” very much “on thisside idolatry,” reserves his chief enthusiasm for Brutus, and neverseems to take a full view of Caesar’s unique greatness in the mass. None the less, he is now and again forced to admit that he was the man,and his were the methods that the emergency required. Thus talking ofthe bribery and violence that then prevailed in Rome he remarks:    Men of deepe judgement and discression seeing such furie    and madnes of the people, thought them selves happy if    the common wealth were no worse troubled, then with the    absolut state of a Monarchy and soveraine Lord to governe    them. Furthermore, there were many that were not affraid to    speake it openly, that there was no other help to remedy the    troubles of the common wealth, but by the authority of one    man only that should commaund them all. [163]Again, commenting on the accident by which Brutus did not learn of thevictory that might have averted his final defeat, he has the weightyreflection;    Howbeit the state of Rome (in my opinion) being now brought    to that passe, that it could no more abide to be governed    by many Lordes, but required one only absolute Governor:    God, to prevent Brutus that it shoulde not come to his    government, kept this victorie from his knowledge. [164][163] _Julius Caesar. _[164] _Marcus Brutus. _And in one of those comparisons that Montaigne loved, he is moreemphatic still:    Howbeit Caesars power and government when it came to be    established, did in deede much hurte at his first entrie    and beginning unto those that did resist him: but    afterwardes unto them that being overcome had received his    government, it seemed he had rather the name and opinion[165]    onely of a tyranne, then otherwise that he was so in deed.    For there never followed any tyrannicall nor cruell act, but    contrarilie, it seemed that he was a mercifull Phisition,    whom God had ordeyned of speciall grace to be Governor of    the Empire of Rome, and to set all thinges againe at quiet    stay, the which required the counsell and authoritie of an    absolute Prince. . . . But the fame of Julius Caesar did set up    his friends againe after his death, and was of such force,    that it raised a young stripling, Octavius Caesar, (that had    no meanes nor power of him selfe) to be one of the greatest    men of Rome. [166][165] Reputation. [166] _The comparison of Dion with Brutus. _On these isolated hints Shakespeare seizes. He amplifies them and worksthem out in his conception of the situation. The vast territory that is subject to Rome, of which we have glimpsesas it stretches north and west to Gaul and Spain, of which we visit theMacedonian and Asiatic provinces in the east and south, has need ofwise and steady government. But is that to be got from the Romans? Theplebeians are represented as fickle and violent, greedy and irrational,the dupes of dead tradition, parasites in the living present. They haveshouted for Pompey, they strew flowers for Caesar: they can be tickledwith talk of their ancient liberties, they can be cajoled by the tricksof shifty rhetoric: they cheer when their favourite refuses the crown,they wish to crown his “better parts” in his murderer: they will nothear a word against Brutus, they rush off to fire his house: they teara man to pieces on account of his name, and hold Caesar beyond parallelon account of his bequest. Nor are things better with the aristocrats. Cassius, the movingspirit of the opposition, is, at his noblest, actuated by jealousyof greatness. And he is not always at his noblest. He confesses thathad he been in Caesar’s good graces, he would have been on Caesar’sside. This strain of servility is more apparent in the flatteries andofficiousness of Decius and Casca. And what is its motive? Cassiusseeks to win Antony by promising him an equal voice in disposing of thedignities: and he presently uses his position for extortion and thepatronage of corruption. Envy, ambition, cupidity are the governingprinciples of the governing classes: and their enthusiasm for freedommeans nothing more than an enthusiasm for prestige and influence,for the privilege of parcelling out the authority and dividing thespoils. What case have these against the Man of Destiny, whose geniushas given compass, peace, and security to the Roman world? But theirplea of liberty misleads the unpractical student, the worshipper ofdreams, memories, and ideals, behind whose virtue they shelter theirselfish aims, and whose countenance alone can make their conspiracyrespectable. With his help they achieve a momentary triumph. But ofcourse it leads not to a renovation of the republic, but to domesticconfusion and to a multiplication of oppressors. So far as the populaceis concerned, the removal of the master means submission to theunprincipled orator, who, with his fellow triumvirs, cheats it of itsinheritance and sets about a wholesale proscription. So far as theEmpire is concerned, the civil war is renewed, and the provincials arepillaged by the champions of freedom. Brutus sees too late that itis vain to strive against the “spirit of Caesar,” which is bound toprevail, and which, though it may be impeded, cannot be defeated. He isruined with the cause he espoused, and confesses fairly vanquished:    O Julius Caesar, thou art mighty yet. [167]                            (V. iii. 94. )[167] All this is so obvious that it can hardly be overlooked, yetoverlooked it has been, though it has frequently been pointed out. Inhis not very sympathetic discussion of this play, Dr. Brandes makes thetruly astounding statement: “As Shakespeare conceives the situation,the Republic which Caesar overthrew, might have continued to exist butfor him, and it was a criminal act on his part to destroy it. . . . ‘Ifwe try to conceive to ourselves’ wrote Mommsen in 1857, ’a London withthe slave population of New Orleans, with the police of Constantinople,with the non-industrial character of modern Rome, and agitated bypolitics after the fashion of the Paris of 1848, we shall acquire anapproximate idea of the republican glory, the departure of which Ciceroand his associates in their sulky letters deplore. ’ Compare with thispicture Shakespeare’s conception of an ambitious Caesar striving tointroduce monarchy into a well-ordered republican state” (Brandes,_William Shakespeare_). Of course Shakespeare had not read Mommsenor any of Mommsen’s documents, save Plutarch; and if he had, neitherhe nor any one else of his age, was capable of Mommsen’s criticaland constructive research. But considering the _data_ that Plutarchdelivered him he shows marvellous power in getting to the gist of thematter. I think we rise with a clearer idea, after reading him thanafter reading Plutarch, of the hopelessness and vanity of opposing thechanges that Caesar represented, of the effeteness of the republicansystem (“Let him be Caesar! ” cries the citizen in his strangerecognition of Brutus’ achievement), of the chaos that imperialismalone could reduce to rule. If Shakespeare’s picture of Rome is thatof “a well-ordered republican state,” one wonders what the picture ofa republic in decay would be. And where does Dr. Brandes find thatShakespeare viewed Caesar’s enterprise as a criminal act? Again, though it may seem paradoxical to say so, the all-compellingpower of Caesar’s ideal is indicated in the presentation of his owncharacter. This at first sight is something of a riddle and a surprise. Shakespeare, as is shown by his many tributes elsewhere, had ampleperception and appreciation of Caesar’s greatness. Yet in the playcalled after him it almost seems as though he had a sharper eye for anyof the weaknesses and foibles that Plutarch records of him, and evenwent about to exaggerate them and add to them. Thus great stress is laid on his physical disabilities. When the crownis offered him, he swoons, as Casca narrates, for, as Brutus remarks,he is subject to the falling sickness. There is authority for thesestatements. But Cassius describes how his strength failed him in theTiber and how he shook with fever in Spain, and both these touches areadded by Shakespeare. Nor is it the malcontents alone who signalisesuch defects. Caesar himself admits that he is deaf, though of hisdeafness history knows nothing. And not only does Shakespeare accentuate these bodily infirmities; heintroduces them in such a way and in such a connection that they conveyan ironical suggestion and almost make the Emperor ridiculous. At thegreat moment when he is putting by the coronet tendered him by Antonythat he may take with the more security and dignity the crown whichthe Senate will vote him, precisely then he falls down in a fit. Thisindeed is quasi-historical, but the other and more striking instancesare forged in Shakespeare’s smithy. It is just after his overweeningchallenge to the swimming-match that he must cry for aid: “Help me,Cassius, or I sink” (I. ii. 3). In his fever, as Cassius maliciouslynotes,        That tongue of his that bade the Romans    Mark him and write his speeches in their books,    Alas, it cried ‘Give me some drink, Titinius,’    As a sick girl.                                      (I. ii. 125. )A pretty saying to chronicle. He says superbly to Mark Antony, “AlwaysI am Caesar”; and in the very next line follows the anticlimax:    Come on my right hand, for this ear is deaf.                                (I. ii. 213. )But if his physical defects, which after all have little to do with thereal greatness of the man save in the eyes of spiteful detractors, arethus brought into satirical relief, much more is this the case with hismental and moral failings, which of course concern the heart of hischaracter. Already on his first appearance, we see this lord of the world thecredulous believer in magic rites. At the Lupercal he enjoins Calpurniato “stand directly in Antonius’ way” and Antony to touch her inhis “holy chase” (I. ii. 3 and 8), and he impresses on Antony theobservance of all the ritual: “Leave no ceremony out” (I. ii. 11). Itwas not ever thus. The time has been when he held these things at theirtrue value, and it is only recently, as watchful eyes take note, thathis attitude has changed.    He is superstitious grown of late,    Quite from the main opinion he held once    Of fantasy, of dreams and ceremonies.                                (II. i. 195. )And this is no mere invention of the enemy. He does have recourse tosacrifice, he does inquire of the priests “their opinions of success”(II. ii. 5); though afterwards, on the news of the portent, he tries toput his own interpretation on it:    The gods do this in shame of cowardice:    Caesar should be a beast without a heart,    If he should stay at home to-day for fear.                                 (II. ii. 41. )He is really impressed by his wife’s cries in her sleep, as appearsfrom his words to himself, when he has not to keep up appearancesbefore others, but enters, perturbed, in his nightgown, and seems urgedby his anxiety to consult the oracles. He affects to dismiss the signsand omens:                              These predictions    Are to the world in general as to Caesar;                                  (II. ii. 28. )But it is clear that he attaches importance to them, for, when Deciusgives Calpurnia’s dream an auspicious interpretation, he accepts it,and once again changing his mind, presently resolves to set out:    How foolish do your fears seem now, Calpurnia!    I am ashamed I did yield to them.    Give me my robe, for I will go.                                   (II. ii. 105. )Thus we see a touch of self-deception as well as of superstition inCaesar, and this self-deception reappears in other more importantmatters. He affects an absolute fearlessness:    Of all the wonders that I yet have heard,    It seems to me most strange that men should fear.                                        (II. ii. 33. )His courage, of course, is beyond question; but is there not a hint ofthe theatrical in this overstrained amazement, in this statement thatfear is the most unaccountable thing in all his experience? One recallsthe story of the young soldier who said that he knew not what it was tobe afraid, and received his commander’s answer: “Then you have neversnuffed a candle with your fingers. ” That was the reproof of bravadoby bravery in the mouth of a man so fearless that he could affordto acknowledge his acquaintance with fear. And surely Caesar couldhave afforded to do so too. We see and know that he is the bravest ofthe brave, but if anything could make us suspicious, it would be hisconstant harping on his flawless valour. So, too, he says of Cassius:                               I fear him not:    Yet if my name were liable to fear,    I do not know the man I should avoid    So soon as that spare Cassius . . .    I rather tell thee what is to be fear’d    Than what I fear; for always I am Caesar.                            (I. ii. 198, 211. )Why should he labour the point? If he has not fears, he has at leastmisgivings in regard to Cassius, that come very much to the same thing. His anxiety is obvious, as he calls Antony to his side to catechise himon his opinions of the danger. In the same way he prides himself on his inaccessibility to adulationand blandishments.    These couchings and these lowly courtesies    Might fire the blood of ordinary men,    And turn pre-ordinance and first decree    Into the law of children. Be not fond    To think that Caesar bears such rebel blood,    That will be thaw’d from the true quality    With that which melteth fools; I mean, sweet words,    Low crooked court’sies and base spaniel fawning.                                        (III. i. 36. )We may believe that he does indeed stand secure against the grosserkinds of parasites and their more obvious devices; but that does notmean that he cannot be hood-winked by meaner men who know how to playon his self-love. Decius says:    I can o’ersway him: for he loves to hear    That unicorns may be betray’d with trees,    And bears with glasses, elephants with holes,    Lions with toils, and men with flatterers;    But when I tell him he hates flatterers,    He says he does, being then most flattered.    Let me work.                                    (II. i. 203. )And Decius makes his words good. In like manner he fancies that he possesses an insight that readsmen’s souls at a glance. When he hears the cry: “Beware the Ides ofMarch,” he gives the command, “Set him before me; let me see hisface. ” A moment’s inspection is enough: “He is a dreamer: let us leavehim: pass” (I. ii. 24). Yet he fails to read the treachery of theconspirators, though they are daily about him, consults with Deciuswhom he “loves,” and bids Trebonius be near him. And then he elects to pose as no less immovable in resolution thaninfallible in judgment. When we have been witnesses of all hisvacillation and shilly-shally about attending the senate meeting—now hewould, now he would not, and again he would—it is hard to suppress thejeer at the high-sounding words:    I could be well moved, if I were as you:    If I could pray to move, prayers would move me:    But I am constant as the northern star,    Of whose true-fix’d and resting quality    There is no fellow in the firmament.    The skies are painted with unnumber’d sparks,    They are all fire, and every one doth shine,    But there’s but one in all doth hold his place:    So in the world: ’tis furnish’d well with men,    And men are flesh and blood, and apprehensive;    Yet in the number I do know but one    That unassailable holds on his rank,    Unshaked of motion: and that I am he,    Let me a little show it, even in this.                                     (III. i. 58. )Now, all these things are wholly or mainly the fabrications ofShakespeare. In Plutarch Caesar does not direct Calpurnia to putherself in Antony’s way, nor is there any indication that he attachedimportance to the rite. It is in the wife and not in the husband thatPlutarch notes an unexpected strain of credulity, remarking withreference to her dream: “Capurnia untill that time was never gevento any feare or supersticion. ”[168] Plutarch cites noble sayingsof Caesar’s in regard to fear, for instance that “it was better todye once, than alwayes to be affrayed of death:”[169] but he neverattributes to him any pretence of immunity from human frailty, andmakes him explicitly avow the feeling in the very passage where inShakespeare he disclaims it. “‘As for those fatte men, with smoothcomed heades,’ quoth he, ‘I never reckon of them: but these palevisaged and carian leane people, I feare them most. ’” The dismissal ofthe soothsayer after a contemptuous glance is unwarranted by Plutarch. There is no authority for his defencelessness among flatterers, orfor his illusion that he is superior to their arts. Yielding in quitea natural way and without any hesitation to the solicitations ofCalpurnia and the reports of the bad omens, Caesar in Plutarch resolvesto stay at home, but afterwards is induced to change his mind byDecius’ very plausible arguments. There is no hint of unsteadiness inhis conduct, as there described; nor in the final scene is there any ofthe ostentation but only the reality of firmness in his rejection ofMetellus Cimber’s petition. [168] _Julius Caesar. _[169] _Ibid. _Considering all this it is not difficult to understand the indignationof the critics who complain that Shakespeare has here given a libelrather than a portrait of Caesar, and has substituted impertinentcavil for sympathetic interpretation. And some of Shakespeare’sapologists have accepted this statement of the case, but have soughtto defend the supposed travesty on the ground that it is prescribedby the subject and the treatment. Thus Dr. Hudson suggests[170] that“the policy of the drama may have been to represent Caesar, not ashe was indeed, but as he must have appeared to the conspirators; tomake us see him as they saw him; in order that they might have fairand equal justice at our hands. ” With a slight variation this is alsothe opinion of Gervinus:[171] “The poet, if he intended to make theattempt of the conspirators his main theme, could not have ventured tocreate too great an interest in Caesar: it was necessary to keep himin the background, and to present that view of him which gave reasonfor the conspiracy. ” And alleging, what would be hard to prove, thatin Plutarch, Caesar’s character “altered much for the worse, shortlybefore his death,” he continues, in reference to his arrogance: “It isintended with few words to show him at that point when his behaviourwould excite those free spirits against him. ” But this explanation willhardly bear scrutiny. In the first place: if Shakespeare’s object hadbeen to provide a relative justification for the assassins, he couldhave done so much more naturally and effectively by adhering to the_data_ of the _Life_. Among them he could have found graver causes ofresentment against Caesar than any of those he invents, which at theworst are peccadillos and affectations rather than real delinquencies. And Plutarch does not slur them over: on the contrary the shadows inhis picture are strongly marked, and he lays a long list of offencesto Caesar’s score; culminating in what he calls the “shamefullestpart” that he played, to wit, his support of Clodius. Here was matterenough for the dramatic _Advocatus Diaboli_. It would have been aseasy to weave some of these damaging stories into the reminiscencesof Cassius, as to concoct harmless fictions about Caesar’s havinga temperature and being thirsty, or his failing to swim a river inflood. All these bygone scandals, whether domestic or political, wouldhave immensely strengthened the conspirators’ case, especially with aprecisian like Brutus. But Shakespeare is silent concerning them, andBrutus, as we have seen, gives Caesar in regard to his antecedents aclean bill of health. Of course almost all Caesar’s previous historyis taken for granted and left to the imagination, but the dubiouspassages are far more persistently kept out of sight than such as tendto his glory. And that is the bewildering thing, if Shakespeare’sdelineation was meant to explain the attitude of the faction. It issurely an odd way of winning our good will for a man’s murderersto keep back notorious charges against him of cruelty, treason andunscrupulousness, to certify that he has never abused his powers or lethis passion overmaster his reason, and then to trump up stories that hegives himself airs and is deaf in one ear. It reminds one of Swift’sdescription of Arbuthnot: “Our doctor has every quality and virtue thatcan make a man amiable or useful; but, alas, he hath a sort of slouchin his walk. ” Swift, however, was not explaining how people might cometo think that Dr. Arbuthnot should be got rid of. [170] _Shakespeare, His Life, Art and Characters. _[171] _Shakespeare Commentaries. _Again his tendency to parade by no means alters the fact, that he doespossess in an extraordinary degree the intellectual and moral virtuesthat he would exaggerate in his own eyes and the eyes of others. Independence, resolution, courage, insight must have been his inamplest store or he would never have been able to    Get the start of the majestic world    And bear the palm alone;                           (I. ii. 130. )and there is evidence of them in the play. He is not moved by thedeferential prayers of the senators: he does persist in the banishmentof Publius Cimber; he has in very truth read the heart and taken themeasure of Cassius:    Such men as he be never at heart’s ease,    Whiles they behold a greater than themselves;                                    (I. ii. 208. )he neither shrinks nor complains when the fatal moment comes. Theimpression he makes on the unsophisticated mind, on average audiencesand the elder school of critics, is undoubtedly an heroic one. It isonly minute analysis that discovers his defects, and though the defectsare certainly present and should be noted, they are far from sufficingto make the general effect absurd or contemptible. If they do so, wegive them undue importance. It was not so that Shakespeare meant themto be taken. For he has invented for his Caesar not only these trivialblemishes, but several conspicuous exhibitions of nobility, whichPlutarch nowhere suggests; and this should give pause to such as findin Shakespeare’s portrait merely a wilful or wanton caricature. Thus inregard to the interposition of Artemidorus, Shakespeare read in North:    He marking howe Caesar received all the supplications that    were offered him, and that he gave them straight to his    men that were about him, pressed neerer to him and sayed:    “Caesar, reade this memoriall to your selfe, and that    quickely, for they be matters of great waight and touch you    neerely. ” Caesar tooke it of him, _but coulde never reade    it, though he many times attempted it_, for the multitude    of people that did salute him: but holding it still in his    hande, keeping it to him selfe, went on withall into the    Senate house. [172][172] _Julius Caesar. _Compare this with the scene in the play:      _Artemidorus. _ Hail, Caesar! read this schedule.      _Decius.

_      Trebonius doth desire you to o’er-read,    At your best leisure, this his humble suit.      _Artemidorus. _ O Caesar, read mine first, for mine’s a suit    That touches Caesar nearer: read it, great Caesar.      _Caesar. _      What touches us ourself shall be last served.                                                       (III. i. 3. )Can one say that Shakespeare has defrauded Caesar of his magnanimity? Or again observe, in the imaginary conclusion to the unrecordedremonstrances of Calpurnia, how loftily he refuses to avail himselfof the little white untruths that after all pass current as quiteexcusable in society. They are beneath his dignity. He turns to Decius:      _Caesar. _    You are come in very happy time,    To bear my greeting to the senators    And tell them that I will not come to-day;    Cannot, is false, and that I dare not falser:    I will not come to-day: tell them so, Decius.      _Calpurnia. _ Say he is sick.      _Caesar. _    Shall Caesar send a lie?    Have I in conquest stretch’d mine arm so far,    To be afeard to tell graybeards the truth?    Decius, go tell them Caesar will not come . . .    The cause is in my will: I will not come.                                    (II. ii. 60. )But this last instance is not merely an example of Shakespeare’s homageto Caesar’s grandeur and his eagerness to enhance it with accessoriesof his own contrivance. It gives us a clue to the secret of hisadditions both favourable and the reverse, and points the way to hisconception of the man. For observe that this refusal of Caesar’s tomake use of a falsehood is an afterthought. A minute before he has,also in words that Shakespeare puts in his mouth, fully consented tothe proposal that he should feign illness. He pacifies Calpurnia:    Mark Antony shall say I am not well;    And, for thy humour, I will stay at home.                                (II. ii. 55. )This compliance he makes to his wife, but in presence of Decius Brutushe recovers himself and adopts the stricter standard. What does thisimply? Does it not mean that in a certain sense he is playing a partand aping the Immortal to be seen of men? Let us consider the situation. Caesar, a man with the human frailties,mental and physical, which are incident to men, is nevertheless endowedby the Higher Powers with genius that has raised him far above hisfellows. By his genius he has conceived and grasped and done much torealise the sublime idea of the Roman Empire. By his genius he hasraised himself to the headship of that great Empire which his ownthought was creating. Private ambitions may have urged and doubtfulshifts may have helped his career. He himself feels that within hisdrapery of grand exploits there is something that will not bearscrutiny; and hence his mistrust of Cassius:    He is a great observer and he looks    Quite through the deeds of men.                           (I. ii. 201. )But these things are behind him and a luminous veil is drawn overthem, beyond which we discern him only as “the foremost man of allthis world,” “the noblest man that ever lived in the tide of times,”devoted to the cause of Rome, fighting and conquering for her; fillingher public treasuries, her general coffers, with gold; sympathisingwith her poor to whom it will be found only after his death that he hasleft his wealth. The only hints of unrighteous dealing on his part aregiven in Artemidorus’ statement to himself: “Thou hast wronged CaiusLigarius,” and in Brutus’ statement about him that he was slain “butfor supporting robbers. ” But it is never suggested that he himselfwas guilty of robbery: and the wrong to Ligarius, who was accused“for taking parte with Pompey,” and “thanked not Caesar so muche forhis discharge, as he was offended with him for that he was broughtin daunger by his tyrannicall power,”[173] hardly deserves the name,at least in the common acceptation. Besides Shakespeare has a largetolerance for the practical statesman when dowered with patriotism,insight, and resolution; and will not lightly condemn him becausehe must use sorry tools, and takes some soil from the world, and isnot unmoved by personal interests. Provided that his more selfishaims coincide with the good of the whole, and that he has veracityof intellect to understand, with steadiness of will to satisfy theneeds of the time, Shakespeare will vindicate for him his share ofprosperity, honour, and desert. And this seems to be, in glorifiedversion, his view of Caesar. The only serious charge he brings againsthim in the play, the only charge to which he recurs elsewhere, isthat he was ambitious. But ambition is not wholly of sin, and bringsforth good as well as evil fruit. Indeed when a man’s desire for thefirst place merges in the desire for the fullest opportunity, andthat again in the desire for the task he feels he can do best, it isdistinguishable from a virtue, if at all, only by the demand that heshall be the agent. So is it, to compare celebrities of local and ofuniversal history, with the ambitious strain in the character of HenryIV. ; it is not incompatible with sterling worth that commands solidsuccess; it spurs him to worthy deeds that redeem the offences itexacts; and these offences themselves in some sort “tend the profitof the state. ” No doubt with both men their ambition brings its ownNemesis, the ceaseless care of the one, the premature death of theother. But that need not prevent recognition of their high qualities,or their just claims, or their providential mandate. Such men areministers of the Divine Purposes, as Plutarch said in regard to Caesar;and in setting forth the essential meaning of his career, Shakespearecan scorn the base degrees by which he did ascend. Partly his lesscreditable doings were necessary if he was to mount at all; partlythey may have seemed venial to the subject of the Tudor monarchy; atworst, when compared with the splendour of his achievement, they werespots in the sun. In any case they were not worth consideration. Withthem Shakespeare is not concerned, but with the plenary inspiration ofCaesar’s life, the inspiration that made him an instrument of Heavenand that was to bring peace and order to the world. So he passes overthe years of effort and preparation, showing their glories but slightlyand their trespasses not at all. He confines himself to the time whenthe summit is reached and the dream is fulfilled. Then to his mindbegins the tragedy and the transfiguration. [173] Marcus Brutus. He represents Caesar, like every truly great man, as carried away byhis own conception and made a slave to it. What a thing was this ideaof Empire, this “spirit of Caesar,” of which he as one of earth’smortal millions was but the vehicle and the organ! He himself as ahuman person cannot withhold homage from himself as the incarnate_Imperium_. Observe how he speaks of himself habitually in thethird person. Not “I do this,” but “Caesar does this,” “Caesar doesthat,” alike when talking to the soothsayer, to his wife and to thesenate. [174] It is almost as though he anticipated its later use asa common noun equivalent to Emperor: for in all these passages hedescribes, as it were, what the Emperor’s action and attitude shouldbe. And that is the secret of the strange impression that he makes. It is a case, an exaggerated case, of _noblesse oblige_. The Caesar,the first of those Caesars who were to receive their apotheosis andbe hailed as _Divi Augusti_, must in literal truth answer Hobbes’description of the State, and be a mortal god. He must be fearless,omniscient, infallible, without changeableness or shadow of turning:does he not represent the empire? He has to live up to an impossiblestandard, and so he must affect to be what he is not. He is themartyr of the idea that has made his fortune. He must not listen tohis instincts or his misgivings; there is no room in the Caesar fortimidity or mistake or fickleness. But, alas! he is only a man, and asa man he constantly gives the lie to the majesty which the spirit ofCaesar enjoins. We feel all the more strongly, since we are forced tothe comparison, the contrast between the shortcomings of the individualand the splendour of the ideal role he undertakes. And not only that. In this assumption of the Divine, involving as it does a touch ofunreality and falsehood, he has lost his old surety of vision andefficiency in act. He tries to rise above himself, and pays the penaltyby falling below himself, and rushing on the ruin which a little vulgarshrewdness would have avoided. But his mistake is due to his verygreatness, and his greatness encompasses him to the last, when with nofutile and undignified struggle, he wraps his face in his mantle andaccepts the end. Antony does not exaggerate when he says:    O, what a fall was there, my countrymen!    Then I, and you, and all of us fell down;                              (III. ii. 194. )for it was the Empire that fell. But to rise again! For the idea ofCaesarism, rid of the defects and limitations of its originator,becomes only the more invincible, and the spirit of Caesar begins itsfree untrammelled course. [174] Of course the substitution of the third for the second or firstperson is very noticeable all through this play, and may have been dueto an idea on Shakespeare’s part that such a mode of utterance suitedthe classical and Roman majesty of the theme. But this rather confirmsthan refutes the argument of the text, for the usage is exceptionallyconspicuous in regard to Caesar, in whom the majesty of Rome is summedup. The greatness of his genius cannot be fully realised unless the storyis carried on to the final triumph at Philippi, instead of breakingoff immediately after his bodily death. It is in part Shakespeare’sperception of this and not merely his general superiority of power,that makes his Caesar so much more impressive than the Caesar ofcontemporary dramatists that seem to keep closer to their theme. Not only then is _Julius Caesar_ the right name for the play, in sofar as his imperialist idea dominates the whole, but a very subtleinterpretation of his character is given when, as this implies, heis viewed as the exponent of Imperialism. None the less Brutus isthe leading personage, if we grant precedence in accordance with theinterest aroused. CHAPTER IVTHE EXCELLENCES AND ILLUSIONS OF BRUTUSThus Shakespeare has his Act of Oblivion for all that might give anunfavourable impression of Caesar’s past, and presents him very much asthe incarnate principle of Empire, with the splendours but also withthe disabilities that must attend the individual man who feels himselfthe vehicle for such an inspiration. He somewhat similarly screens from view whatever in the career ofBrutus might prejudice his claims to affection and respect: andcarries much further a process of idealization that Plutarch hadalready begun. For to Plutarch Brutus is, so to speak, the modelrepublican, the paragon of private and civic virtue. The promise tothe soldiers before the second battle at Philippi of two cities tosack, calls forth the comment: “In all Brutus’ life there is but thisonly fault to be found”: and even this, as the marginal note remarks,is “wisely excused”; on the plea, namely, that after Cassius’ deaththe difficulties were very great and the best had to be made of a badstate of things. But no other misconduct is laid to his charge: hisextortionate usury and his abrupt divorce are passed over in silence. All his doings receive indulgent construction, and the narrative isoften pointed with a formal _éloge_. In the _Comparison_, whereof course such estimates are expected, attention is drawn to hisrectitude, “only referring his frendschippe and enmitie unto theconsideracion of justice and equitie”; to “the marvelous noble minde ofhim, that for fear never fainted nor let falle any part of his corage”;to his influence over his associates so that “by his choyce of them hemade them good men”; to the honour in which he was held by his “verieenemies. ” But already the keynote is struck in the opening page:    This Marcus Brutus . . . whose life we presently wryte, having    framed his manners of life by the rules of vertue and    studie of philosophie, and having employed his wit, which    was gentle and constant, in attempting of great things: me    thinkes he was rightly made and framed unto vertue. And the story often deviates from its course into little backwaters ofcommendation, as when after some censure of Cassius, we are told:    Brutus in contrary manner, for his vertue and valliantnes,    was well-beloved of the people and his owne, esteemed of    noble men, and hated of no man, not so much as of his    enemies: bicause he was a marvelous lowly and gentle person,    noble minded, and would never be in any rage, nor caried    away with pleasure and covetousness, but had ever an upright    mind with him, and would never yeeld to any wronge or    injustice, the which was the chiefest cause of his fame, of    his rising, and of the good will that every man bare him:    for they were all perswaded that his intent was good. This conception Shakespeare adopts and purifies. He leaves out theshadow of that one fault that Plutarch wisely excused: he leaves outtoo the unpleasant circumstance, which Plutarch apparently thoughtneeded no excuse, that Brutus was applicant for and recipient ofoffices at the disposal of the all-powerful dictator. There mustbe nothing to mar the graciousness and dignity of the picture. Shakespeare wishes to portray a patriotic gentleman of the best Romanor the best English type, such “a gentleman or noble person” as itwas the aim of Spenser’s _Faerie Queene_ “to fashion in vertuous andgentle discipline,” such a gentleman or noble person as Shakespeare’sgeneration had seen in Spenser’s friend, Sir Philip Sidney. SoPlutarch’s summaries are expanded and filled in partly with touchesthat his narrative supplies, partly with others that the summariesthemselves suggest. To the latter class belongs the winning courtesy with which Brutus athis first appearance excuses himself to Cassius for his preoccupation. His inward trouble might well have stirred him to irritability andabruptness; but he only feels that it has made him remiss, and that anexplanation is due from him:                                  Vexed I am    Of late with passions of some difference,    Conceptions only proper to myself,    Which give some soil perhaps to my behaviours:    But let not therefore my good friends be grieved—    Among which number, Cassius, be you one—    Nor construe any further my neglect,    Than that poor Brutus, with himself at war,    Forgets the shows of love to other men.                                     (I. ii. 39. )So with his friends. Shakespeare invents the character of Lucius toshow how attentive and considerate Brutus is as master. He apologisesfor having blamed his servant without cause.    Bear with me, good boy, I am much forgetful.                                 (IV. iii. 255. )He notes compassionately that the lad is drowsy and overwatched (IV. iii. 241). At one time he dispenses with his services because he issleeping sound (II. i. 229). At another he asks a song from him not asa right but as a favour (IV. iii. 256). And immediately thereafter themaster waits, as it were, on the nodding slave, and removes his harplest it should be broken. But it is to his wife that he shows the full wealth of hisaffectionate nature. He would fain keep from her the anxieties thatare distracting his own mind: but when she claims to share them as theprivilege and pledge of wifehood, with his quick sympathy he sees it atonce:    You are my true and honourable wife,    As dear to me as are the ruddy drops    That visit my sad heart.                           (II. i. 288. )And yielding to her claim as a right, he recognises that it is a claimthat comes from an ideally noble and loving soul, and prays to be madeworthy of her. What insight Shakespeare shows even in his omissions! This is the prayer of Plutarch’s Brutus too, but he lifts up his handsand beseeches the gods that he may “bring his enterprise to so goodepasse that he mighte be founde a husband worthie of so noble a wife asPorcia. ” Shakespeare’s Brutus does not view his worthiness as connectedwith any material success. And these words are also an evidence of his humble-mindedness. Howeveraggressive and overbearing he may appear in certain relations, wenever fail to see his essential modesty. If he interferes, as oftenenough he does, to bow others to his will, it is not because he isself-conceited, but because he is convinced that a particular courseis right; and where right is concerned, a man must come forward toenforce it. But for himself he has no idea of the high estimation inwhich his character and parts are held. When Cassius insinuates thateveryone thinks him the man for the emergency, if he would only realiseit, his reply is a disclaimer: he has never supposed, and shrinks fromimagining, that he is fit for such a role. Yet such is his personalitythat, as all of the faction feel, his help is absolutely necessary ifthe conspiracy is to have a chance of approval. Cinna exhorts Cassiusto win him to the party, Casca bears witness to his popular credit andto the value of his sanction in recommending the enterprise, Ligariusis willing to follow any course if Brutus leads, the cynical Cassiusadmits his worth and their great need of him. For his amiable and attractive virtues are saved from all taint ofweakness by an heroic strain, both high-spirited and public-spirited,both stoical and chivalrous. Challenged by the solicitations of Cassiushe for once breaks through his reticence, and discloses his inwardtemper. We may be sure that even then he speaks less than he feels.    If it be aught toward the general good,    Set honour in one eye, and death i’ the other,    And I will look on both indifferently:    For let the gods so speed me, as I love    The name of honour more than I fear death.                                     (I. ii. 85. )This elevated way of thinking has been fostered and confirmed by study,just as in the case of Sidney, and by study of much the same kind. Plutarch says:    Now touching the Greecian Philosophers, there was no sect    nor Philosopher of them, but he heard and liked it: but    above all the rest, he loved Platoes sect best, and did not    much give himself to the new or meane Academy as they call    it, but altogether to the old Academy. He has striven to direct his life by right reason, and has ponderedits problems under the guidance of his chosen masters. His utterance,which Plutarch quotes, on suicide, shows how he has sought Plato’said for a standard by which to judge others and himself. [175] Hisutterance, which Shakespeare invents, on the death of Portia, shows howhe has schooled himself to fortitude, and suggests the influence of adifferent school.                        We must die, Messala:    With meditating that she must die once,    I have the patience to endure it now.                              (IV. iii. 190. )[175] Compare the argument in the _Phaedo_, with its conclusion: “Thenthere may be reason in saying that a man should wait and not take hisown life till God summons him. ” Jowett’s _Plato_, Vol. I. He is essentially a thinker, a reader, a student. Plutarch had toldhow on the eve of Pharsalia, when his companions were resting, orforecasting the morrow, Brutus “fell to his booke and wrote all daylong till night, wryting a breviarie of Polybius. ” And in his lastcampaign:    His heade ever busily occupied to thinke of his affayres,    . . . after he had slumbered a little after supper, he spent    all the rest of the night in dispatching of his waightiest    causes, and after he had taken order for them, if he had    any leysure left him, he would read some booke till the    third watch of the night, at what tyme the Captaines, pety    Captaines and Colonells, did use to come unto him. Shakespeare only visualises this description when he makes him find thebook, that in his troubles and griefs he has been “seeking for so,”in the pocket of his gown, with the leaf turned down where he stoppedreading. Does then Shakespeare take over Plutarch’s favourite, merely removingthe single stain and accenting all the attractions, to confront him asthe embodiment of republican virtue, with Caesar, against whom too noevil is remembered, as the embodiment of imperial majesty? Will he showthe inevitable collision between two political principles each worthilyrepresented in its respective champion? This has been said, and there are not wanting arguments to supportit. It is clear that the contrast is not perplexed by side issues. Brutus has no quarrel with Caesar as a man, and no justification isgiven for the conspiracy in what Caesar has done. On the contrary, hismurderer stands sponsor for his character, acknowledges his supremegreatness, and loves him as a dear friend. But neither on the otherhand is anything introduced that might divert our sympathies fromBrutus by representing him as bound by other than the voluntary tiesof affection and respect. And this is the more remarkable that inPlutarch there are two particulars full of personal pathos whichShakespeare cannot have failed to note, and which lend themselvesto dramatic purposes, as other dramatists have proved. One of them,employed by Voltaire, would darken the assassination to parricide. In explanation of the indulgence with which Caesar treated Brutus,Plutarch says:    When he was a young man, he had been acquainted with    Servilia, who was extreamelie in love with him. And bicause    Brutus was borne in that time when their love was hottest,    he perswaded him selfe that he begat him. [176]And then follows what can be alleged in proof. “What of anguish,” saysMr. Wyndham, “does this not add to the sweep of the gesture wherewiththe hero covered his face from the pedant’s sword! ”This is a mere casual hint; but the other point finds repeatedmention in the _Life_, and is dwelt upon though explained away in the_Comparison_. It is the circumstance that Brutus had fought on Pompey’sside, and that thereafter Caesar had spared him, amnestied his friends,and loaded him with favours.    The greatest reproache they could make against Brutus was:    that Julius Caesar having saved his life, and pardoned all    the prisoners also taken in battell, as many as he made    request for, taking him for his frende, and honoring him    above all his other frends, Brutus notwithstanding had    imbrued his hands in his blood. [177][176] Voltaire decorously invents a secret marriage! [177] _The comparison of Dion with Brutus. _Plutarch indeed instances this as the grand proof of Brutus’superiority to personal considerations; but it looks bad, and certainlyintroduces a new element into the moral problem. At all events, thoughit involves in a specially acute form that conflict of duties whichthe drama loves, and was so used by Shakespeare’s contemporaries, asearly as Muretus and as late as Alexander, Shakespeare dismisses it. Attention is concentrated on the single fact that Brutus felt it hisduty to take the life of Caesar, and no obligations of kinship orgratitude are allowed to complicate the one simple case of conscience. The victim and the sacrificer are thus set before us, each with anunstained record, and in only those personal relations that arise fromwarm and reverent friendship. Of their mutual attachment we are left in no doubt, nor are we eversuffered to forget it. Cassius in talk to himself, bears witness thatCaesar “loves Brutus” (I. ii. 317). Antony, in his speech to thepeople, appeals to this as a notorious fact:    Brutus, as you know, was Caesar’s angel:    Judge, O you Gods, how dearly Caesar loved him.                                    (III. ii. 185. )But the strongest testimony is Caesar’s own cry, the cry ofastonishment and consternation, whether from the betrayed when thebeloved is the traitor, or from the condemned when the beloved is thejudge:    Et tu Brute! Then fall, Caesar!                      (III. i. 77. )Nor is less stress laid on Brutus’ feeling. He avows it in the Forum,as before he had assured Antony that “he did love Caesar when he struckhim” (III. i. 182). Cassius tells him:    When thou didst hate him worst, thou lovedst him better    Than ever thou lovedst Cassius.                                        (IV. iii. 106. )But here again the most pathetic evidence is to be found in theassassination scene itself. When Brutus stoops in the guise ofpetitioner, we cannot suppose it is merely with treacherous adroitness:    I kiss thy hand, but not in flattery, Caesar.                                    (III. i. 52. )Knowing the man, do we not feel that this is the last tender farewell? But though all this is true it cannot be maintained, in view of thesoliloquy before the conspirators’ meeting, that Shakespeare makesBrutus the mouthpiece of republicanism, as he makes Caesar themouthpiece of imperialism. The opposition of principles is present, butit is of principles on a different plane. Caesar, the spirit of Caesar, is indeed the spirit of Empire,the spirit of practical greatness in the domains of war, policy,organisation: of this he is the exponent, to this he is the martyr. Brutus’ spirit is rather the spirit of loyalty to duty, which finds inhim its exponent and martyr too. He is lavishly endowed by nature with all the inward qualities that goto make the virtuous man, and these he has improved and disciplinedby every means in his power. His standard is high, but he is sostrenuous and sincere in living up to it, that he is recognised as noless pre-eminent in the sphere of ethics, than Caesar in the sphereof politics. Indeed their different ideals dominate and impel bothmen in an almost equal degree. And in each case this leads to a kindof pose. It appears even in their speech. The balanced precision ofthe one tells its own tale as clearly as the overstrained loftinessof the other, and is as closely matched with the part that he needsmust play. Obviously Brutus does not like to confess that he has beenin the wrong. No more in the σώφρων than in the Emperor is there roomfor any weakness. After his dispute with Cassius he assumes ratherunjustifiably that he has on the whole been in the right, that he hasbeen the provoked party, and that at worst he has shown momentary heat. But even this slight admission, coming from him, fills Cassius withsurprise.     _Brutus. _ When I spoke that, I was ill-temper’d too.    _Cassius. _ Do you confess so much? Give me your hand.                                          (IV. iii. 116. )The Ideal Wise Man must not yield to anger any more than to otherpassions, and it costs Brutus something to own that he has done so. Buthe minimises his confession by accepting Cassius’ apology for his rashhumour and promising to overlook any future offences, as though nonecould be laid to his own door. We like him none the worse for this, hiscult of perfection is so genuine: but sometimes the cult of perfectionbecomes the assumption and obtrusion of it. Read the passage whereMessala tells him of Portia’s death.      _Messala. _ Had you letters from your wife, my lord?      _Brutus. _ No, Messala.      _Messala. _ Nor nothing in your letters writ of her?      _Brutus. _ Nothing, Messala.      _Messala. _                  That, methinks, is strange.      _Brutus. _ Why ask you? hear you aught of her in yours?      _Messala. _ No. my lord.      _Brutus. _ Now, as you are a Roman, tell me true.      _Messala. _ Then like a Roman bear the truth I tell:    For certain she is dead, and by strange manner.      _Brutus. _ Why, farewell, Portia.                                           (IV. iii. 181. )Now Brutus had received earlier tidings. He may profess ignorance tosave himself the pain of explanation, though surely it would have beensimpler to say, “I know all. ” But the effect is undoubtedly to bringhis self-control into fuller relief in presence of Messala and Titiniuseven than in the presence of Cassius a few minutes before; for then hewas announcing what he already knew, here he would seem in the eyes ofhis informants to be encountering the first shock. Too much must notbe made of this, for Cassius who is aware of the circumstances, is noless impressed than the others, and Cassius would have detected anyhollow ring. But at the least it savours of a willingness to give ademonstration, so to speak, in Clinical Ethics. A man like this whose desires are set on building up a virtuouscharacter, but who is not free from the self-consciousness andself-confidence of the specialist in virtue, is exposed to peculiardangers. His interests and equipment are in the first place for theinward life, and his chief concern is the well-being of his soul. Butprecisely such an one knows that he cannot save his own soul alone. Itis not open to him to disregard the claims of his fellows or the needsof the world, so he is driven to take in hand matters for which he hasno inclination or aptitude. He may be quite aware of his unfitness forthe work and shrink from investing himself with qualities which heknows he does not possess. All the same, if the call comes, the logicof his nature will force him to essay the ungrateful and impossibletask; and he will be apt to imagine a call when there is none. So itis with Brutus. It is true that many of the best respect do look upto him and designate him as their leader: it is none the less truethat the unsigned instigations which he takes for the voice of Rome,are the fabrications of a single schemer. He would not be Brutusif he suspected or shirked the summons. This votary of duty cannotacknowledge a merely fugitive and cloistered virtue; this platonictheorist can easily be hood-winked by the practised politician. SoBrutus, who is so at home in his study with his book, who is soexemplary in all the private relations of friend, master and husband;predestined, one would say, for the serene labours of philosophicthought and the gracious offices of domestic affection, sweeps from hisquiet anchorage to face the storms of political strife, which such ashe are not born to master but which they think they must not avoid. It is a common case; and many have by their very conscientiousnessbeen hurried into a false position where they could not escape fromcommitting blunders and incurring guilt. But generally the blundersare corrigible and the guilt is venial. It is Brutus’ misfortune, thathis very greatness, his moral ascendancy with the prestige it bestows,gives him the foremost place, and shifts on his shoulders the mainresponsibility for all the folly and crime. For it is inevitable that he should proceed as he does. Yet it is noteasy for him. There is a conflict in this sensitive and finely tunedspirit, which, with all his acquired fortitude, bewrays itself in hisbearing to Cassius before any foreign suggestion has entered his mind,which afterwards makes him unlike himself in his behaviour to his wife,which drives sleep from his eyes for nights together, which so jarsthe rare harmony of his nature, in Antony’s view his chief perfection,that he seems to suffer from an insurrection within himself. And itis not hard to understand why this should be. Morality is the guidingprinciple of Brutus’ character, but what if it should be at variancewith itself? Now two sets of moral forces are at strife in his heart. There are the more personal sentiments of love and reverence for Caesarand of detestation for the crime he contemplates. Even after hisdecision he feels the full horror of conspiracy with its “monstrousvisage”; how much more must he feel the horror of assassinating afriend! On the other side are the more traditional ethical obligationsto state, class, and house. It is almost as fatal to this visionaryto be called Brutus, as it is to the poet to be called Cinna. For agreat historic name spares its bearer a narrow margin of liberty. Itshould be impossible for a Bourbon to be other than a legitimist; itwould be impossible for a Romanoff to abandon the Orthodox Church; itis impossible for a Brutus to accept the merest show of royal power. The memory of his stock is about him. Now Cassius reminds him of hisnamesake who would brook the eternal devil in Rome as easily as aking; now the admonition is affixed with wax upon Old Brutus’ statue;now he himself recalls the share his ancestors had in expelling theTarquin. If such an one acquiesced in the coronation of Caesar, he mustbe the basest renegade, or more detached from his antecedents than itis given a mortal man to be. And in Brutus there is no hint of suchdetachment. The temper that makes him so attentive and loyal to thepieties of life, is the very temper that vibrates to all that is bestin the past, and clings to the spirit of use-and-wont. Let it again berepeated that Brutus reveals himself to Shakespeare very much in theform of a cultured and high-souled English nobleman, the heir of greattraditions and their responsibilities, which he fulfils to the smallestjot and tittle; the heir also of inevitable preconceptions. But in Brutus there is more than individual morality and inheritedethos: there is superimposed on these the conscious philosophic theorywith which his actions must be squared. He has to determine his conductnot by instinct or usage, but by impersonal, unprejudiced reason. Itis to this tribunal that in the last resort he must appeal; and inthat strange soliloquy of his he puts aside all private preferenceson the one hand, all local considerations on the other, and discusseshis difficulty quite as an abstract problem of right and wrong. Hesees that if the personal rule of Caesar is to be averted, halfmeasures will not suffice. There are no safeguards or impedimentsthat can prevent the supremacy of so great a man if he is allowed tolive. This is his starting point: “It must be by his death. ” But thenthe question arises: is the death of such an one permissible? Andin answering it Brutus seems at the first glance to show admirableintellectual candour. He acquits Caesar of all blame; the quarrel“will bear no colour for the thing he is. ” What could be moredispassionate and impartial, what more becoming the philosopher? Thereis no sophistication of the facts in the interest of his party. Butimmediately there follow the incriminating words:    Fashion it thus; that what he is, augmented,    Would run to these and these extremities.                                    (II. i. 30. )There is a sophistication of the inference. Surely this line ofargument is invented to support a foregone conclusion. Already thathint to his conscience, “Fashion it thus,” betrays the resolve to makeout a case. And does the mere future contingency justify the presentinfliction of death? Brutus is appealing to his philosophy: by hisphilosophy he is judged: for just about this date he was condemning thesuicide of Cato because he found it                        Cowardly and vile,    _For fear of what might fall_, so to prevent    The time of life.                                    (V. i. 104. )But the argument is the same in both cases, and if it does not excuseself-murder, still less does it excuse the murder of others. The truth is that Brutus, though he personates the philosopher, is lessof one than he thinks. It is not his philosophy but his character thatgives him strength to bear the grief of Portia’s death; as Cassius says:    I have as much of this in art as you,    But yet my nature could not bear it so.                            (IV. iii. 194. )At the end he casts his philosophy to the winds rather than go boundto Rome: he “bears too great a mind” (V. i. 113). And just as on theseoccasions he is independent or regardless of it, so here he tamperswith it to get the verdict that is required. For even in his own eyeshe has to play the part of the ideally wise and virtuous man; andthough the obligations of descent and position, the consideration inwhich he is held, the urgings of a malcontent, and (as he believes notaltogether without reason) the expectations formed of him by his fellowcitizens, supply his real motives for the murder, he needs to give itthe form of ideal virtue and wisdom before he can proceed to it. Now, however, he persuades himself that he has the sanction of reasonand conscience, and he acts on the persuasion. His hesitations aregone. He can face without wincing the horror of conspiracy. With animpassioned eloquence, which he nowhere else displays, he can lift theothers to the level of his own views. No doubts or scruples becloud hisenthusiasm now.                    If not the face of men,    The sufferance of our souls, the time’s abuse—    If these be motives weak, break off betimes,    And every man hence to his idle bed;    So let high-sighted tyranny range on    Till each man drop by lottery.                                    (II. i. 114. )His certainty has advanced by leaps and bounds. A few minutes ago therewas no complaint against Caesar as he was or had been, but it couldbe alleged that he might or would change: now his tyranny, lightingby caprice on men, is announced as a positive fact of the future oreven of the present. But by this time Brutus is assured that the plotis just and that the confederates are the pick of men, both plot andconfederates so noble that for them an ordinary pledge would be aninsult:                        Unto bad causes swear    Such creatures as men doubt: but do not stain    The even virtue of our enterprise,    Nor the insuppressive metal of our spirits,    To think that or our cause or our performance    Did need an oath.                                        (II. i. 132. )He carries them away with him. They abandon the oath; they acceptall his suggestions; we feel that their thoughts are ennobled byhis intervention, that, as Plutarch noted to be the effect of hisfellowship, he has made them better men, at least for the time. Meanwhile it is a devout imagination, an unconscious sophistry thatlends him his power; and this brings its own Nemesis at its heels. Inthe future Brutus will be disillusioned of the merit of the exploit. Inthe present, persuading his associates of its unparalleled glory, hemakes them take their measures to suit. He will not hear of the murderof Antony, for that would be bloody and unnecessary. And his clemencyis based on disparagement of Antony’s abilities and contempt for hismoral character. Of this “limb of Caesar,” as he calls him, “who can dono more than Caesar’s arm when Caesar’s head is off,” he cries:    Alas, good Cassius, do not think of him:    If he love Caesar, all that he can do    Is to himself, take thought and die for Caesar:    And that were much he should; for he is given    To sports, to wildness and much company.                                        (II. i. 185. )It is not so in Plutarch:    Brutus would not agree to it. First for that he sayd it was    not honest: secondly, bicause he told them there was hope of    chaunge in him. For he did not mistrust, but that Antonius    being a noble minded and coragious man (when he should knowe    that Caesar was dead) would willingly helpe his contrie to    recover her libertie, having them an example unto him to    follow their corage and vertue. In this hope of converting a _rusé_ libertine like Antony, thereis no doubt a hint of idealism, but it is not so marked as in thehigh-pitched magnanimity of Shakespeare’s Brutus, who denies a man’spowers of mischief because his life is loose. Yet though Antony would always be a source of danger, the conspiratorsmight find compensation in the reputation for leniency they would gain,and the danger might be reduced were effective steps taken to renderhim innocuous. But this is only the beginning of Brutus’ mistakes. If indeed they had not begun before. With his masterful influence hehas dissuaded his friends from applying to Cicero, on the ground thatCicero will not share in any scheme of which he is not the author. Itmay be so, but one would think it was at least an experiment well worththe trying. Apart from the authority of his years and position, therewould have been the spell of his oratory; and of that they were soonto be sorely in need, again through Brutus’ crotchet that their courseevinced its own virtue, and that virtue was a sufficient defence.    “The first fault that he did,” says Plutarch, “was, when he    would not consent to his fellow conspirators, that Antony    should be slayne: and therefore he was justly accused, that    thereby he had saved a stronge and grievous enemy of their    conspiracy. The second fault was when he agreed that Caesars    funeralls should be as Antony would have them: the which in    deede marred all. ”This hint Shakespeare works out. He sees clearly that this furtherblunder marred all, and heightens the folly of it in various ways. Forin Plutarch the question is debated in the Senate, after it has beendetermined that the assassins shall be not only pardoned but honouredand after provinces have been assigned to them, Crete to Brutus, Africato Cassius, and the like. Only then, when their victory seems completeand assured, do they discuss the obsequies.    Antonius thinking good his testament should be red openly,    and also that his body should be honorably buried, and    not in hugger mugger, least the people might thereby take    occasion to be worse offended if they did otherwise: Cassius    stowtly spake against it. But Brutus went with the motion    and agreed unto it. That is the amount of his error: that when all seemed to be goingwell with the faction, Antony, who had shown himself in seeming andfor the time their most influential friend, commended the proposalon opportunist grounds, and Cassius opposed it, but Brutus supportedit and voted with the majority. In the Play his responsibility isundivided, and all the explanatory circumstances have disappeared. Heis not one member of an approving Senate, who, when the assassinationseems once for all a _chose jugée_, accepts a suggestion, madeapparently in the interests of peace and quiet, by the man to whom,more than to anyone else, the settlement of the affair is due. Whilethe position is still critical, without any evidence of Antony’s goodwill, without any pressure of public opinion or any plea of politicalexpediency, he endows the helpless suppliant with means to undo whathas been done and destroy those who have done it. No wonder thatCassius when he hears Brutus giving Antony permission to speak in themarket place, interrupts: “Brutus, a word with you,” and continues inthe alarmed aside:    You know not what you do: do not consent    That Antony speak in his funeral:    Know you how much the people may be moved    By that which he will utter?                                (III. i. 232. )But Brutus waves his remonstrance aside. He is now so besotted by hisown sophisms that he will listen to no warning. He thinks all risk willbe averted by his going into the pulpit first to show the “reason” ofCaesar’s death. He has quite forgotten that the one reason that hecould allege to himself was merely a hazardous conclusion from doubtfulpremises; and this forsooth is to satisfy the citizens of Rome. Butmeanwhile since their deed is so irreproachable and disinterested, theconspirators must act in accordance, and show their freedom from anypersonal motive by giving Caesar all due rites:    It shall advantage more than do us wrong. The infatuation is almost incredible, and it springs not only fromgenerosity to Antony and Caesar, but from the fatal assumption of thejustice of his cause, and the Quixotic exaltation the assumption bringswith it. For were it ever so just, could this be brought home to the Romanpopulace? Brutus, who is never an expert in facts, has been misledby the inventions of Cassius, which he mistakes for the generalvoice of Rome. Here, too, Shakespeare departs from his authority tomake the duping of his hero more conspicuous. For in Plutarch thesecommunications are the quite spontaneous incitements of the public, notthe contrivances of one dissatisfied aristocrat.    But for Brutus, _his frendes and contrie men_, both    by divers procurementes, and sundrie rumors of the citie,    and by many bills also, did openlie call and procure him    to doe that he did. For, under the image of his auncestor    Junius Brutus, that drave the kinges out of Rome, they    wrote: “O, that it had pleased the goddes that thou wert now    alive, Brutus: and againe that thou wert with us nowe. ” His    tribunall (or chaire) where he gave audience during the time    he was praetor, was full of such billes: “Brutus, thou art a    sleepe, and art not Brutus in deede. ”All these in Plutarch are worth their face value, but in Shakespearethey are not: and it is one of the ironies of Brutus’ career that hetakes them as appeals from the people when they are only the juggleriesof Cassius. So far from objecting to Imperialism, the citizens whenmost favourable to Brutus call out, “Let him be Caesar! ” “Caesar’sbetter parts shall be crowned in Brutus” (III. ii. 56). This is theacme of his success and the prologue to his disillusionment. But even if the case of the conspirators could be commended to thepopulace, Brutus is not the man to do it. It is comic and pathetic tohear him reassuring Cassius with the promise to speak first as thoughhe could neutralise in advance the arts of Antony. Compare his orationwith that of his rival. First, in the matter of it, there is no appealto the imagination or passions, but an unvarnished series of argumentsaddressed exclusively to the logical reason. Such a speech would makelittle impression on an assembly of those who are called educated men,and to convince an audience like the artisans of Rome (for such wasShakespeare’s conception of the People), it is ridiculously inadequate. But the style is no less out of place. The diction is as different aspossible from the free and fluent rhetoric of Antony. Shakespeare hadread in Plutarch:    They do note in some of his Epistells, that he    counterfeated that briefe compendious maner of speach of    the Lacedaemonians. As when the warre was begonne, he wrote    unto the Pergamenians in this sorte: “I understand you have    geven Dolabella money; if you have done it willingly, you    confesse you have offended me: if against your wills, shewe    it then by geving me willinglie. ” An other time againe    unto the Samians: “Your counsels be long, your doinges be    slowe, consider the ende. ” And in an other Epistell he    wrote unto[178] the Patareians: “The Xanthians despising    my good wil, have made their contrie a grave of dispaire:    and the Patareians that put them selves into my protection,    have lost no jot of their libertie. And therefore whilest    you have libertie, either choose the judgement of the    Patareians, or the fortune of the Xanthians. ”[178] _i. e. _ in reference to. Thus prompted Shakespeare makes Brutus affect the balanced structure ofEuphuism. Not only in his oration. Read his words to Cassius at theirfirst interview:    That you do love me, I am nothing jealous;    What you would work me to, I have some aim;    How I have thought of this and of these times,    I shall recount hereafter; for this present,    I would not, so with love I might entreat you,    Be any further moved. What you have said    I will consider: what you have to say    I will with patience hear, and find a time    Both meet to hear and answer such high things.                                        (I. ii. 161. )Nothing could be more neat, accurate and artificial than thisEuphuistic arrangement of phrases. It at once suggests the academicstudious quality of Brutus’ expression whenever he gives thought toit. But it is a style unsuitable to, one might almost say incompatiblewith, genuine passion. So it is noteworthy that when he lets himself goin answer to Cassius and introduces the personal accent, he abandonshis mannerisms. And could the symmetrical clauses of his oration movethe popular heart? It has a noble ring about it, because it is sincere,with the reticence and sobriety which the sincere man is careful toobserve when he is advocating his own case. But that is not the sort ofthing that the Saviour of his Country, as Brutus thought himself to be,will find fit to sway a mob. Nevertheless his eloquence was notorious. Plutarch states that when his mind “was moved to followe any matter, heused a kind of forcible and vehement perswasion that calmed not till hehad obteyned his desire. ” There is a rush of emotion in his words whenhe is denouncing the conventional pledge or wanton bloodshed, but ifany personal interest is involved, the springs are dry. In the Forumit is characteristic that he speaks with far more warmth—a transitionindicated not only by the change of style, but, after Shakespeare’swont, by the substitution of verse for prose—when he no longer pleadsfor himself but tries to get a hearing for Mark Antony. And this is the man with his formal dialectic and professorial oratory,impassioned only on behalf of his enemy, who thinks that by a temperatestatement of the course which he has seduced his reason to approve,he can prevent the perils of a speech by Caesar’s friend. He does noteven wait to hear it: but if he did, what could he effect againstthe sophistries and rhetorical tricks, the fervour and regret, thegesticulation and tears of Antony’s headlong improvisation? CHAPTER VTHE DISILLUSIONMENT OF BRUTUS. PORTIABrutus had been doubly duped, by his own subtlety and his ownsimplicity in league with his conscientiousness; for in this way hewas led to idealise his deed as enjoined both by the inward moral codeand the demands of his country, and such self-deception avenges itselfas surely as any intentional crime. He is soon disabused in regard tothe wishes of Rome and its view of the alleged wrongs it has sufferedfrom Caesar. His imagination had dwelt on the time when his ancestorsdrove out the Tarquin; now he himself must ride “like a madman” throughthe gates. It is not only the first of his reverses but a step towardshis enlightenment, for it helps to show that he has been mistaken inthe people. Still, the momentary mood of the populace may not alwaysrecognise its best interests and real needs, and may not coincide withthe true _volonté générale_. There is harder than this in store forBrutus. By the time we meet him again at Sardis a worse punishment hasovertaken him, and his education in disappointment has advanced, thoughhe does his utmost to treat the punishment as fate and not to learn thelessons it enforces. This scene has won the applause of the most dissimilar minds andgenerations. We have seen how Leonard Digges singles it out asthe grand attraction of the play, by which, above all others, ittranscends the laboured excellences of _Catiline_ or _Sejanus_. Itexcited the admiration and rivalry of the greatest genius of theRestoration period. Scott says of the dispute between Antony andVentidius in _All for Love_: “Dryden when writing this scene hadunquestionably in his recollection the quarrel between Brutus andCassius, which was so justly a favourite in his time, and to which hehad referred as inimitable in his prologue to _Aureng-Zebe_.    But spite of all his pride, a secret shame    Invades his breast at Shakespeare’s sacred name:    Awed, when he hears his godlike Romans rage,    He in a just despair would quit the stage;    And to an age less polished, more unskilled,    Does with disdain the foremost honours yield. ”In the eighteenth century Dr. Johnson, though he finds _JuliusCaesar_ as a whole “somewhat cold and unaffecting,” perhaps becauseShakespeare’s “adherence to the real story and to Roman manners” has“impeded the natural vigour of his genius,” excepts particular passagesand cites “the contention and reconciliation of Brutus and Cassius”as universally celebrated. And Coleridge goes beyond himself in hispraise: “I know no part of Shakespeare that more impresses on me thebelief of his being superhuman, than this scene between Brutus andCassius. In the Gnostic heresy it might have been credited with lessabsurdity than most of their dogmas, that the Supreme had employed himto create, previously to his function of representing characters. ”Yet it is not merely in the revelation of character that the scene isunique. More than any other single episode, more than all the resttogether, it lays bare the significance of the story in its tragicpathos and its tragic irony. And the wonder of it is increased ratherthan lessened when we take note that it is a creation not out ofnothing but out of chaos. For there is hardly a suggestion, hardly adetail, that Shakespeare did not find in Plutarch, but here in confusedmixture, there in inert isolation, and nowhere with more than thepossibilities of being organised. It is Shakespeare, who, to borrowfrom Milton’s description of the beginning of his Universe, “foundedand conglobed like things to like, and vital virtue infused and vitalwarmth. ”The nucleus of this passage is found just after the account of Brutus’exploits in Lycia.    About that tyme, Brutus sent to pray Cassius to come to the    citye of Sardis, and so he did. Brutus understanding of    his comming, went out to meete him with all his frendes.    There both their armies being armed, they called them both    Emperors. Nowe, as it commonly hapneth in great affayres    betwene two persons, both of them having many friends,    and so many Captaines under them; there ranne tales and    complaints betwixt them. Therefore, before they fell in    hand with any other matter, they went into a little chamber    together, and bad every man avoyde, and did shut the dores    to them. Then they beganne to powre out their complaints one    to the other, and grew hot and lowde, earnestly accusing one    another, and at length fell both a weeping. Their friends    that were without the chamber hearing them lowde within, and    angry betwene them selves, they were both amased and affrayd    also lest it would grow to further matter: but yet they were    commaunded that no man should come to them. Notwithstanding,    one Marcus Phaonius, that had bene a friend and follower    of Cato while he lived, and tooke upon him to counterfeate    a Philosopher, not with wisedom and discretion, but with a    certaine bedlem and frantick motion: he would needes come    into the chamber, though the men offered to keepe him out.    But it was no boote to let Phaonius, when a mad moode or    toy tooke him in the head: for he was a hot hasty man, and    sodaine in all his doings, and cared for never a Senator of    them all. Now, though he used this bold manner of speeche    after the profession of the Cynick Philosophers (as who    would say, doggs), yet this boldnes did no hurt many times,    bicause they did but laugh at him to see him so mad. This    Phaonius at that time, in despite of the doore keepers, came    into the chamber, and with a certain scoffing and mocking    gesture which he counterfeated of purpose, he rehearsed the    verses which old Nestor sayd in Homer:        My lords, I pray you harken both to mee,        For I have seene moe yeares than suchye three.    Cassius fell a-laughing at him: but Brutus thrust him out of    the chamber, and called him dogge, and counterfeate Cynick.    Howbeit his comming in brake their strife at that time, and    so they left eche other. Here there seems little enough to tempt the dramatist; the two generalsquarrel, Phaonius bursts in, Cassius laughs at him, Brutus turns himout, but the interruption temporarily patches up a truce between them. And this petty incident is made the most pregnant in Shakespeare’swhole play; and that by apparently such simple means. To get themeaning out of it, or to read the meaning into it, he does little more,so far as the mechanical aspects of his treatment are concerned, thancollect a few other notices scattered up and down the pages of hisauthority. He had found in an earlier digression Cassius described as    a hot cholerick and cruell man, that would often tymes be    caried away from justice for gayne: it was certainly thought    that he made warre, and put him selfe into sundry daungers,    more to have absolute power and authoritie, than to defend    the liberty of his contrie. Again after describing Brutus’ success with the Patareians, Plutarchproceeds:    Cassius, about the selfe same tyme, after he had compelled    the Rhodians every man to deliver all the ready money they    had in gold and silver in their houses, the which being    brought together, amounted to the summe of eyght thousande    talents: yet he condemned the citie besides, to paye the    summe of five hundred talents more. When Brutus in contrary    manner, after he had leavyed of all the contrye of Lycia but    a hundred and fiftye talents onely: he departed thence into    the contrye of Ionia, and did them no more hurt. Previously with reference to the first meeting of the fugitives afterthey collected their armies and before they came to Sardis at all,Plutarch narrates:    Whilst Brutus and Cassius were together in the citie of    Smyrna: Brutus prayed Cassius to let him have some part    of his money whereof he had great store, bicause all that    he could rappe and rend of his side, he had bestowed it    in making so great a number of shippes, that by meanes of    them they should keepe all the sea at their commaundement.    Cassius’ friendes hindered this request, and earnestly    disswaded him from it: perswading him, that it was no reason    that Brutus should have the money which Cassius had gotten    together by sparing, and leavied with great evil will of    the people their subjects, for him to bestowe liberally    uppon his souldiers, and by this meanes to winne their good    willes, by Cassius charge. This notwithstanding, Cassius    gave him the third part of his totall summe. Then at Sardis, but not on occasion of the dispute interrupted byPhaonius, mention is made of the affair with Pella:    The next daye after, Brutus, upon complaynt of the Sardians    did condemne and noted Lucius Pella for a defamed person,    that had been a Praetor of the Romanes, and whome Brutus had    given charge unto: for that he was accused and convicted of    robberie, and pilferie in his office. This judgement much    misliked Cassius; bicause he him selfe had secretly (not    many dayes before) warned two of his friends, attainted    and convicted of the like offences, and openly had cleered    them: but yet he did not therefore leave to employ them in    any manner of service as he did before. And therefore he    greatly reproved Brutus, for that he would shew him selfe    so straight and seveare in such a tyme, as was meeter to    beare a little, then to take thinges at the worst. Brutus in    contrary manner aunswered, that he should remember the Ides    of Marche, at which tyme they slue Julius Caesar: who nether    pilled nor polled the contrye, but onely was a favorer and    suborner of all them that did robbe and spoyle, by his    countenaunce and authoritie. And if there were any occasion    whereby they might honestly sette aside justice and equitie:    they should have had more reason to have suffered Caesar’s    friendes, to have robbed and done what wronge and injurie    they had would, then to beare with their owne men. For then,    sayde he, they could but have sayde they had bene cowards:    “and now they may accuse us of injustice, beside the paynes    we take, and the daunger we put our selves into. ”Lastly at the end of the _Life of Brutus_, Shakespeare would find ashort notice of the death of Portia. No indication is given of the dateat which this took place, except that Plutarch seems on the whole todiscredit the idea that she survived her husband.    And for Porcia, Brutus’ wife: Nicolaus the Philosopher, and    Valerius Maximus doe wryte, that she determining to kill    her selfe (her parents and frendes carefullie looking to    her to kepe her from it) tooke hot burning coles, and cast    them into her mouth, and kept her mouth so close, that she    choked her selfe. There was a letter of Brutus found wrytten    to his frendes, complayning of their negligence, that his    wife being sicke, they would not helpe her, but suffered her    to kill her selfe, choosing to dye rather than to languish    in paine. Thus it appeareth, that Nicolaus knewe not well    that time, sith the letter (at the least if it were Brutus    letter) doth plainly declare the disease and love of this    Lady, as also the maner of her death. Now in Shakespeare’s scene all these detached jottings find theirpredestined place, and together have an accumulated import of whichPlutarch has only the remotest guess. They are so combined as tobring out at once the ideal aspect of Brutus’ deed, and its folly anddisastrousness in view of the facts. He maintains his manhood under themost terrible ordeal, which is well; he clings to his illusion in theface of the clearest proof, which is not so well. He is gathering evilfruit where he looked for good, but he refuses to admit that the treewas corrupt; and of the prestige that his clear conscience confers, hestill makes baneful use. He is raised to the heroic by his persistencein regarding the murder as an act of pure and disinterested justice,but for that very reason he makes his blunders, and puts himself andothers in the wrong. Perhaps indeed his loss of temper is to be ascribed to another cause. He is in a tense, over-wrought state, when the slightest thing willprovoke an outbreak. In Cassius’ view his private and personal sorrow,the only one Cassius could understand, might quite well, apart from allthe rest, have driven him to greater violence:    How ’scaped I killing when I cross’d you so?                                 (IV. iii. 150. )No wonder he uses stinging words to his friend, taxes him most unfairlywith the boast of being a better soldier, and flings aside Cassius’temperate correction of “elder,” with the contemptuous, “If you did,I care not. ” No wonder he drives out the poet, while Cassius merelylaughs at him. Yet even here, though he is undoubtedly the angrier andmore unreasonable in the quarrel, his moral dignity just before hassaved him from an indiscretion into which Cassius falls. When the otherbegins to complain before the soldiers, Brutus checks him:                          Cassius, be content;    Speak your griefs softly; I do know you well.    Before the eyes of both our armies here,    Which should perceive nothing but love from us,    Let us not wrangle: Bid them move away;    Then in my tent, Cassius, enlarge your griefs,    And I will give you audience.                                        (IV. ii. 41. )In the onset of misfortune Brutus does not forget his weightierresponsibilities, though the strain of resisting it may impair hissuavity. The fine balance of his nature that was overthrown bysuspense, may well be shaken by his afflictions. For they are morenumerous than Cassius knew and more poignant than he could understand. Portia’s suicide with all its terrible accessories Brutus brings intorelation with himself. It is absence from him, and, as his love tellshim, distress at the growing power of his enemies that caused hermadness. The ruin of that home life which was his native element, theagony and death of the wife he worshipped, are the direct consequencesof his own act. And with this private there has come also the public news. Theproscription has already swept away seventy senators; Cicero, despitehis “silver hairs,” his “judgment,” and his “gravity” being one; andthe number given, according to Messala, is an understatement. Brutushad talked of each man’s dropping by lottery under Caesar’s rule, buthowever much Caesar had degenerated, would he have decreed a morewholesale and indiscriminate slaughter than this? Was there anythingin his career as described by Brutus himself, that foreshadowed acallousness like that of the Triumvirs in pricking down and damningtheir victims, among them the most illustrious members of Brutus’ ownclass? And the perpetrators, far from injuring their cause by theseatrocities, are in a position to take the field with a “mighty power. ”So the civil war with all its horrors and miseries will run its fullcourse. But even that is not the worst. Brutus has to realise that hisassociates were not the men he supposed them. Their hands are notclean, their hearts are not pure, even his brother Cassius connivesat corruption and has “an itching palm” himself. Even when the _soidisant_ deliverers wield the power, what are things better than theywould have been under Caesar who was at least personally free from suchreproach and whose greatness entitled him to his place in front? Surelythere are few more pathetic passages even in Shakespeare than theconfession of disillusionment wrung from Brutus by the force of events,a confession none the less significant that he admits disillusion onlyas to the results and still clings to his estimate of the deed itself.    Remember March, the ides of March remember:    Did not great Julius bleed for justice’ sake?    What villain touch’d his body, that did stab,    And not for justice? What, shall one of us,    That struck the foremost man of all this world    But for supporting robbers, shall we now    Contaminate our fingers with base bribes,    And sell the mighty space of our large honours    For so much trash as may be grasped thus?    I had rather be a dog, and bay the moon,    Than such a Roman.                                        (IV. iii. 18. )It has come to this. In anticipating the effects of Caesar’s rule, hehad said he “had rather be a villager than to repute himself a sonof Rome” in the probable conditions. But his attempt at remedy hasresulted in a situation even more intolerable. He would rather be a dogthan such Romans as the confederates whom he sought to put in Caesar’splace are disclosing themselves to be. It says much for his intrinsic force, that when all these things riseup in judgment against him, he can still maintain to himself and othersthe essential nobility of the deed that has brought about all the woeand wrong; and without any faint-hearted penitence, continue to insistthat their doings must conform to his conception of what has been done:that if that conception conflicts with the facts, it is the facts thatmust give way. Yet on that very account he is quite impracticable andperverse, as every enthusiast for abstract justice must be, who letshimself be seduced into crime on the plea of duty, and yet shapes hiscourse as though he were not a criminal. Brutus has brought about an upturn of society by assassinating the oneman who could organize that society. His own motives were honourable,though not so unimpeachable as he assumed, but they could not changewrong into right and they could not be taken for granted in others thanhimself. Now in the confusions that ensue he finds, to his horror,that revolutions are not made with rose water, that even champions ofvirtue have to reckon with base and dirty tools. So he condemns Pellafor bribery. Cassius judges the case better. He sees that Pella is anefficient and useful officer of whose services he does not wish to bedeprived. He sees that in domestic broils the leaders must not be tooparticular about their instruments, that, according to the old proverb,you must go into the water to catch fish. But Brutus will not go intothe water. He thinks that an assassin should only have Galahads in histroops. And sometimes his offended virtue becomes even a little absurd. He is angry with Cassius for not giving him money, but listen to hisspeech:                              I did send to you    For certain sums of gold, which you denied me:    For I can raise no money by vile means:    By heaven, I had rather coin my heart,    And drop my blood for drachmas, than to wring    From the hard hands of peasants their vile trash    By any indirection: I did send    To you for gold to pay my legions,    Which you denied me: was that done like Cassius?    Should I have answer’d Caius Cassius so?    When Marcus Brutus grows so covetous    To lock such rascal counters from his friends,    Be ready, gods, with all your thunderbolts;    Dash him to pieces!                                        (IV. iii. 69. )What does all this come to?

That the superfine Brutus will not beguilty of extortion, but that Cassius may: and then Brutus will demandto share in the proceeds. All this distress and oppression are hisdoing, or at least the consequences of his deed, and he would wash hishands of these inevitable accompaniments. He would do this by usingCassius as his _âme damnée_ while yet interfering in Cassius’ necessarymeasures with his moral rebukes. [179][179] It will be noticed that in this episode Shakespeare has alteredPlutarch’s narrative in two respects. In the first place Cassius didgive money to the amount of “the thirde part of his totall summe. ”This is not very important, as in the play he disclaims having everrefused it. But in the second place Brutus was neither so scrupulousnor so unsuccessful in raising supplies, but had used them in aquite practical way, that Captain Mahan would thoroughly approve, indeveloping his sea power: “all that he could rappe and rend . . . he hadbestowed it in making so great a number of shippes that by meanes ofthem they should keepe all the sea at their commaundement. ”This of course is between Cassius and himself, and if Cassius choosesto submit, it is his own concern. But Brutus plays the Infallible tosuch purpose, that, what with his loftiness of view, his earnestness,and his marvellous fortitude, he obtains an authority over Cassius’mind that has disastrous results. Though Cassius is both the betterand the elder soldier, he must needs intermeddle with Cassius’ plan ofcampaign. Here, as so often, Shakespeare has no warrant for his mostsignificant touch. Plutarch had said that Cassius, against his will,was overruled by Brutus to hazard their fortunes in a single battle. But that was afterwards, at Philippi. There is no hint that Cassiuswas opposed to the movement from Sardis to Philippi, and it is on thisinvented circumstance that Shakespeare lays most stress. In the playBrutus, in the teeth of his fellow generals’ disapproval, insists ontheir leaving their vantage ground on the hills, chiefly as it appearsbecause he dislikes the impositions they are compelled to lay on thepeople round about:    They have grudged us contribution;                       (IV. iii. 206. )and because he has a vague belief that this is the nick of time;    There is a tide in the affairs of men,    Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;    Omitted, all the voyage of their lives    Is bound in shallows and in miseries.                                    (IV. ii. 218. )These are the arguments which he opposes to Cassius’ skilled strategy. He will not even listen to Cassius’ rejoinder:    _Cassius. _          Hear me, good brother—    _Brutus. _ Under your pardon:                                    (IV. iii. 212. )and he runs on. The spiritual dictator carries his point, as he alwaysdoes, and as here especially he is bound to do, when their recent trialof strength has ratified his powers afresh. Cassius is hypnotised intocompliance, “Then, with your will, go on. ” But Brutus is wrong. He isdoing the very thing that the Triumvirs would have him do and dare nothope he will do. Octavius, when he hears of the movement, exclaims:    Now, Antony, our hopes are answered:    You said the enemy would not come down,    But keep the hills and upper regions:    It proves not so.                                    (V. i. 1. )The adoption of Brutus’ plan, which he secured in part through theadvantage he had gained in the quarrel, leads directly to the finalcatastrophe. Here then we have the gist of the whole story. The tribulations ofBrutus that ensue on his grand mistake, the wreck of his dearestaffections, the butchery at Rome, the oppression of the provinces,the appalling discovery that his party is animated by selfish greedand not by righteous zeal, and that Caesar bore away the palm incharacter as well as ability; the dauntless resolution with whichdespite his vibrant sensibility he bears up against the rudest blows;the sustaining consciousness that he himself acted for the best, andthe pathetic imagination even now that the rest must live up to hisstandard; the warrant this gives him to complete the outward ruin ofthe cause that already is rotten within—all this is brought home to usin a passage of little more than two hundred lines. It is not merely amasterpiece in characterisation; it at once garners the harvest of thepast and sows the seeds of the future. Nor is the execution inferiorto the conception; the passion of the verse, the fluctuation of thedialogue, provide the fit medium for the pregnancy and wealth of thematter. [180][180] Two objections have been made to this scene, or, rather to thewhole act. The first, in Mr. Bradley’s words that it has a “tendency todrag” (_Shakespearian Tragedy_), is put more uncompromisingly by Mr. Baker (_Development of Shakespeare as a Dramatist_); “[Shakespeare]produced in _Julius Caesar_ a fourth act probably not entirelysuccessful even in his own day”; and afterwards he refers to it as“ineffective to-day. ” In view of Digges’ testimony, it is difficultto see how Mr. Baker can say that it was not entirely successful inShakespeare’s day. As to the impression it makes now, one must largelydepend on one’s own feeling and experience. Certainly I myself havenever been conscious that it dragged or was ineffective, nor have Inoted that it failed to stir the audience. I have never been present ata first-rate performance, but I have seen it creditably presented inGermany, England and Australia; and on every occasion it seemed to methat the quarrel scene was the most popularly successful in the play. This statement is, I believe, strictly accurate, for having Digges’lines in my mind I was on the watch to see whether the taste of theElizabethan coincided with the taste of a later generation. The second criticism is that in the economy of the piece it leads tonothing, “unless,” as Mr. Bradley says, “we may hold that but for thequarrel and reconciliation, Cassius would not have allowed Brutusto overcome his objection to the fatal policy of offering battle atPhilippi. ” This is quite true, though the proviso is a most importantone. But it does very manifestly connect with what has gone before,and gives the essence and net result of the story. We could soonerdispense with the Fifth Act than the Fourth, for the Fifth may withless injustice be described as an appendix than the Fourth as anepisode. Not only is it less unique in kind, but for the most part itworks out issues that can easily be foreseen and that to some extentare clearly indicated here. Of course this is not to say that it couldbe rejected without mutilating the play, for it works them out farmore impressively than we could do in our own imaginations, even withPlutarch to help us. But the scene is not yet at an end. Even now we are not for a momentallowed to forget Brutus, the considerate gentleman and culturedstudent, in Brutus, the political pedant and the incompetent commander. We have a momentary glimpse of him with Lucius, unassuming and gentle,claiming the indulgence, consulting the comfort, tending the needs ofhis slave. This moving little passage is, as we have seen, entirelydue to Shakespeare, and it seems to be introduced for the sake partlyof the dramatic contrast with the prevailing trouble and gloom, partlyof the indication it gives that Brutus is still unchanged at heart. Inthe stress of his suffering he may be irritable and overbearing withCassius, but he has more than a woman’s tenderness for the boy. His habit of reading at night is mentioned by Plutarch, but when weconsider the circumstances, has it not a deeper meaning here? His lovefor Portia we know, but after his brief references to her death, heseems to banish her from his mind, and never, not even in his dyingwords, does her name cross his lips again. Is this an inadvertenceon Shakespeare’s part, or an omission due to the kinship of _JuliusCaesar_ with the Chronicle History? Is it not rather that he conceivesBrutus as one of those who are so bound up in their affections thatthey fear to face a thought of their bereavement lest they shouldutterly collapse? Is it fanciful to interpret that search for his bookwith the leaf turned down, in the light of Macaulay’s confession onthe death of his sister: “Literature has saved my life and my reason;even now I dare not in the intervals of business remain alone a minutewithout a book”? But this little interlude, which sets Brutus before us with all hiswinsome and pathetic charm, leads back to the leading _motif_, thedestruction he has brought on himself by his own error, though he mayface it like a man and keep the beauty of his soul unsoiled. Here, too,Plutarch points the way, but Shakespeare advances further in it. Whathe found was the following bit of hearsay:    One night very late (when all the campe tooke quiet rest) as    he was in his tent with a little light, thinking of waighty    matters, he thought he heard one come in to him, and casting    his eye towards the doore of his tent, that he saw a    wonderfull straunge and monstruous shape of a body comming    towards him, and sayd never a word. So Brutus boldly asked    what he was, a god, or a man, and what cause brought him    thither. The spirit aunswered him, “I am thy evill spirit,    Brutus, and thou shalt see me by the citie of Philippes. ”    Brutus beeing no otherwise affrayd, replyed again unto it:    “Well, then, I shall see thee agayne. ” The spirit presently    vanished away: and Brutus called his men unto him, who tolde    him that they heard no noyse, nor sawe any thinge at all. Shakespeare’s Brutus is not at the outset so unconcerned as Plutarch’s. Instead of “being no otherwise affrayd,” his blood runs cold and hishair “stares. ” On the other hand, he is free from the perturbation thatseizes Plutarch’s Brutus when he reflects, and that drives him to tellhis experience to Cassius, who “did somewhat comfort and quiet him. ”The Brutus of the play breathes no word of the visitation, though itis repeated at Philippi, till a few minutes before his death, and thenin all composure as a proof that the end is near, not as a horror fromwhich he seeks deliverance. He needs not the support of another, andeven in the moment of physical panic he has moral courage enough: hesummons up his resolution, and when he has “taken heart” the spectrevanishes. This means, too, that it has a closer connection with hisnerves, with his subjective fears and misgivings, than the “monstruousshape” in Plutarch, and similarly, though he alleges that Lucius andhis attendants have cried out in their sleep, they are unaware of anyfeeling or cause of fright. And the significance of this is markedby the greatest change of all. Shakespeare gives a personality toPlutarch’s nameless phantom: it is individualised as the ghost ofCaesar, and thus Caesar’s spirit has become Brutus’ evil genius, asBrutus had been Caesar’s angel. The symbolism explains itself, butis saved from the tameness of allegory by the superstitious dreadwith which it is enwrapped. The regrets and forebodings of Brutusappear before him in outward form. All day the mischievousness of hisintervention has been present to his mind: now his accusing thoughtstake shape in the vision of his murdered friend, and his vaguepresentiments of retribution at Philippi leap to consciousness in itsprophetic words. But all this does not abash his soul or shake hispurpose. He only hastens the morning march. Thus he moves to his doom, and never was he so great. He is strippedof all adventitious aids. His private affections are wrecked, and thethought of his wife has become a torture. Facts have given the lie tohis belief that his country has chosen him as her champion. He can nolonger cherish the dream that his course has been of benefit to theRoman world. He even seems at last to recognise his own guilt, fornot only does he admit the might of Caesar’s spirit in the suicide ofCassius, but when his own turn comes, his dying words sound like aproffer of expiation:                      Caesar, now be still;    I kill’d not thee with half so good a will.                                    (V. v. 50. )The philosophic harness in which he felt so secure, he has alreadyfound useless in the hour of need, and fit only to be cast aside. So hestands naked to the blows of fate, bereft of his love, his illusions,his self-confidence, his creed. He has to rely solely on himself, onhis own nature and his own character. Moreover his nature, in so far asit means temperament, is too delicate and fine for the rough practicaldemands on it. Suspense is intolerable to his sensitive and eager soul. Ere the battle begins, he can hardly endure the uncertainty:                      O that a man might know    The end of this day’s business ere it come!    But it sufficeth that the day will end,    And then the end is known.                                   (V. i. 123. )The patience in which he tries to school himself cannot protect himfrom a last blunder. He gives the word too soon and his impetuosityruins all. No doubt he is not so unsuccessful as Titinius thinks, buthe has committed the unpardonable fault of fighting for his own handwithout considering his partner. Thus his imprudence gives the finalblow to the cause that all through he has thwarted and ennobled. But in inward and essential matters his character victoriously standsthe test, and meets all the calls that are made upon it. Even when hislife-failure stares him in the face, he does not allow it a wider scopethan its due, or let it disturb his faith in the purity of his motives.    I am Brutus, Marcus Brutus, I:    Brutus, my country’s friend.                      (V. iv. 7. )Even now he can see himself aright, and be sure of the truth of hispatriotism. Even now he can prefer the glory of this “losing day” tothe “vile conquest” of such men as the authors of the proscription. And he is not without more personal consolations. When none of hisfriends will consent to kill him, their very refusal, since it springsfrom love, fills his soul with triumph. It is characteristic that thissatisfaction to his private affections ranks with him as supreme at theend of all.                        Countrymen,    My heart doth joy that yet in all my life    I found no man but he was true to me.                                (V. v. 33. )We need not bemoan his fate: he is happy in it: indeed there is nothingthat he could live for in the world of the Triumvirs, and this is whathe himself desires:                  My bones would rest,    That have but labour’d to attain this hour.                                (V. v. 41. )At the side of this rare and lofty nature, we see the kindred figureof his wife, similar in her noble traits, similar in her experiences,the true mate of his soul. Their relations are sketched in the merestoutline, or, to be more correct, are implied rather than sketched. Onlyin some eighty lines of one scene do we see them together and hear themexchange words. In only one other scene does Portia appear, when wewitness her tremors on the morning of the assassination. And in a thirdwe hear of her death in detached notices, which, with the comments theycall forth, barely amount to twenty lines. Yet the impression madeis indelible and overpowering, not only of the lady’s own character,but of the perfect union in which she and Brutus lived. There is noobtrusion of their love: it does not exhale in direct professions. On her part, the claim to share his troubles, the solicitude for hissuccess, the distraction because of his absence and danger; on his,the acceptance of her claim, two brief outbursts of adoration—and hisreticence at her death. For he is not the man to wear his heart on hissleeve; and the more his feelings are stirred the less inclined is heto prate of them. Just as after slaying Caesar though “he loved himwell,” he never alludes to the anguish he must have endured, so afterhis “Farewell, Portia,” he turns to the claims of life (“Well, to ourwork alive! ”), and never even in soliloquy refers to her again. Evenin the first pang of bereavement, the one hint of grief it can extortfrom him is the curt retort, “No man bears sorrow better. ” We mightfail to recognise all that it meant for him if we did not see hismisery reflected in the sympathy and consternation of other men; in thehesitating reluctance of Messala, to break, as he thinks, the news; inthe dismay of Cassius and his wonder at Brutus’ self-control. Cassiusindeed cannot but recur to it despite the prohibition, “Speak no moreof her. ” When they have sat down to business his thoughts hark back tothe great loss: “Portia, art thou gone? ” “No more, I pray you,” repeatsBrutus, who cannot brook the mention of her, and he plunges into thebusiness of the hour. And this woman, of whom Brutus felt that he was unworthy, and prayedto be made worthy, noble and devoted as himself, is involved too inhis misfortunes. On her also a greater load is laid than she can bear. He is drawn by his political, and she by her domestic ideal into aposition that overstrains the strength of each. She demands, as inPlutarch, though perhaps with father less of the dignity of the Romanmatron and rather more of the yearning of the affectionate wife, toshare in her husband’s secrets. She does this from no curiosity,intrusiveness or jealousy, but from her unbounded love and her exaltedconception of the marriage tie. And she is confident that she can bearher part in her husband’s cares. She has a great spirit, but it is lodged in a fragile and nervousframe. Does she make her words good? She gains her point, but hersuccess is almost too much for her. She can endure pain but notsuspense: like Brutus she is martyr to her sense of what is right. Wepresently find her all but ruining the conspiracy by her uncontrollableagitation. The scene where she waits in the street serves the functionin the main story of heightening our excitement by means of hers, inexpectation of what will presently be enacted at the Capitol; but it iseven more important for the light it throws on her character. She maywell confess: “I have a man’s heart, but a woman’s might. ” Her feverishanxiety quite overmasters her throughout, and makes her do and saythings which do not disclose the plot only because the bystanders arefaithful or unobservant. She sends the boy to the senate house withouttelling him his errand. She meaningly bids him                            take good note    What Caesar doth, what suitors press about him.                                        (II. iv. 15. )She interrupts herself with the fancy that the revolt has begun. Sheplies the soothsayer with suspicious questions that culminate in themost indiscreet one on his wish to help Caesar:    Why, know’st thou any harm’s intended towards him?                                        (II. iv. 31. )Then she almost commits herself, and has to extemporise a subterfuge,before, unable to hold out any longer, she retires on the point offainting, though even now her love gives her strength to send acheering message to her lord. For her as for Brutus the burden of a duty, which she assumes by herown choice, but which one of her nature must assume, is too heavy. Andin the after consequences, for which she is not directly responsible,but which none the less flow from the deed that she has encouraged andapproved, it is the same inability to bear suspense, along with hercraving for her husband’s presence and success, that drives her throughmadness to death. CHAPTER VITHE REMAINING CHARACTERSFar beneath this pair are the other conspirators who rise up againstthe supremacy of Caesar. Among these lower natures, Cassius is undoubtedly the most imposing andmost interesting. The main lines of his character are given in Caesar’s masterlydelineation, which follows Plutarch in regard to his spareness, but inthe other particulars freely elaborates the impression that Plutarch’swhole narrative produces.    Yond Cassius has a lean and hungry look:    He thinks too much: such men are dangerous. . . .                              He reads much;    He is a great observer, and he looks    Quite through the deeds of men; he loves no plays,    As thou dost, Antony; he hears no music;    Seldom he smiles, and smiles in such a sort    As if he mock’d himself and scorn’d his spirit    That could be moved to smile at anything.    Such men as he be never at heart’s ease    Whiles they behold a greater than themselves,    And therefore are they very dangerous.                                (I. ii. 194 and 201. )Lean, gaunt, hungry, disinclined to sports and revelry, spending histime in reading, observation, and reflection—these are the first traitsthat we notice in him. He too, like Brutus, has learned the lessons ofphilosophy, and he finds in it the rule of life. He chides his friendfor seeming to fail in the practice of it:    Of your philosophy you make no use,    If you give place to accidental evils.                           (IV. iii. 145. )And even when he admits and admires Brutus’ self-mastery, he attributesit to nature, and claims as good a philosophic discipline for himself. There is, however, a difference between them even in this point. Brutus is a Platonist with a Stoic tinge; Cassius is an Epicurean. That strikes us at first as strange, that the theory which identifiedpleasure with virtue should be the creed of this splenetic solitary:but it is quite in character. Epicureanism appealed to some of thenoblest minds of Rome, not as a cult of enjoyment, but as a doctrinethat freed them from the bonds of superstition and the degrading fearof death. This was the spirit of Lucretius, the poet of the sect:                                  Artis    Religionum animum nodis exsolvere pergo:and one grand _motif_ of his poem is the thought that this death,the dread of which makes the meanness of life, is the end of allconsciousness, a refuge rather than an evil: “What ails thee so, Omortal, to let thyself loose in too feeble grievings? Why weep and wailat death? . . . Why not rather make an end of life and labour? ” And theseare the reasons that Cassius is an Epicurean. At the end, when hisphilosophy breaks down, he says:    You know that I held Epicurus strong    And his opinion: now I change my mind,    And partly credit things that do presage.                                  (V. i. 77. )He has hitherto discredited them. And we seem to hear Lucretius in hisnoble utterance:    Nor stony tower, nor walls of beaten brass,    Nor airless dungeon, nor strong links of iron,    Can be retentive to the strength of spirit:    But life, being weary of these worldly bars,    Never lacks power to dismiss itself.                                    (I. iii. 93. )Free from all superstitious scruples and all thought of superhumaninterference in the affairs of men, he stands out bold and self-reliant,confiding in his own powers, his own will, his own management:    Men at some time are masters of their fates:    The fault, dear Brutus, is not in our stars    But in ourselves, that we are underlings.                                    (I. ii. 139. )And the same attitude of mind implies that he is rid of all illusions. He is not deceived by shows. He looks quite through the deeds of men. He is not taken in by Casca’s affectation of rudeness. He is not misledby Antony’s apparent frivolity. He is not even dazzled by the glamourof Brutus’ virtue, but notes its weak side and does not hesitate toplay on it. Still less does Caesar’s prestige subdue his criticism. Onthe contrary, with malicious contempt he recalls his want of endurancein swimming and the complaints of his sick-bed, and he keenly noteshis superstitious lapses. He seldom smiles and when he does it is inscorn. We only once hear of his laughing. It is at the interpositionof the poet, which rouses Brutus to indignation; but the presumptuousabsurdity of it tickles Cassius’ sardonic humour. For there is no doubt that he takes pleasure in detecting theweaknesses of his fellows. He has obvious relish in the thought thatif he were Brutus he would not be thus cajoled, and he finds food forsatisfaction in Caesar’s merely physical defects. Yet there is aslittle of self-complacency as of hero-worship in the man. He turns hisremorseless scrutiny on his own nature and his own cause, and neithermaintains that the one is noble or the other honourable, nor denies thepersonal alloy in his motives. This is the purport of that strangesoliloquy that at first sight seems to place Cassius in the ranks ofShakespeare’s villains along with his Iagos and Richards, rather thanof the mixed characters, compact of good and evil, to whom neverthelesswe feel that he is akin.    Well, Brutus, thou art noble: yet, I see,    Thy honourable metal may be wrought    From that it is disposed: therefore it is meet    That noble minds keep ever with their likes:    For who so firm that cannot be seduced?    Caesar doth bear me hard: but he loves Brutus:    If I were Brutus now and he were Cassius,    He should not humour me.                                   (I. ii. 312. )It frequently happens that cynics view themselves as well as others intheir meaner aspects. Probably Cassius is making the worst of his owncase and is indulging that vein of self-mockery and scorn that Caesarobserved in him. [181] But at any rate the lurking sense of unworthinessin himself and his purpose will be apt to increase in such a man hisnatural impatience of alleged superiority in his fellows. He is jealousof excellence, seeks to minimise it and will not tolerate it. It ison this characteristic that Shakespeare lays stress. Plutarch reportsthe saying “that Brutus could evill away with the tyrannie and thatCassius hated the tyranne, making many complayntes for the injurieshe had done him”; and instances Caesar’s appropriation of some lionsthat Cassius had intended for the sports, as well as the affair ofthe city praetorship. But in the play these specific grievances arealmost effaced in the vague statement, “Caesar doth bear me hard”;which implies little more than general ill-will. It is now resentmentof pre-eminence that makes Cassius a malcontent. Caesar finds him“very dangerous” just because of his grudge at greatness; and hisown avowal that he “would as lief not be as live to be in awe” of athing like himself, merely puts a fairer colour on the same unamiabletrait. He may represent republican liberty and equality, at least inthe aristocratic acceptation, but it is on their less admirable side. His disposition is to level down, by repudiating the leader, not tolevel up, by learning from him. In the final results this would meanthe triumph of the second best, a dull and uniform mediocrity in art,thought and politics, unbroken by the predominance of the man of geniusand king of men. And it may be feared that this ideal, translated intothe terms of democracy, is too frequent in our modern communities. Buttrue freedom is not incompatible with the most loyal acknowledgment ofthe master-mind; witness the utterance of Browning’s Pisan republican:                      The mass remains—    Keep but the model safe, new men will rise    To take its mould. [181] This explanation is offered with great diffidence, but it is theonly one I can suggest for what is perhaps the most perplexing passagein the play, not even excepting the soliloquy of Brutus. Yet notwithstanding this taint of enviousness and spite, Cassius isfar from being a despicable or even an unattractive character. He mayplay the Devil’s Advocate in regard to individuals, but he is capableof a high enthusiasm for his cause, such as it is. We must share hiscalenture of excitement, as he strides about the streets in the tempestthat fills Casca with superstitious dread and Cicero with discomfortat the nasty weather. His republicanism may be a narrow creed, but atleast he is willing to be a martyr to it; when he hears that Caesar isto wear the crown, his resolution is prompt and Roman-like:    I know where I will wear this dagger then:    Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius.                                  (I. iii. 89. )And surely at the moment of achievement, whatever was mean and sordidin the man is consumed in his prophetic rapture that fires the soul ofBrutus and prolongs itself in his response.      _Cassius. _       How many ages hence    Shall this our lofty scene be acted over    In states unborn and accents yet unknown!      _Brutus. _ How many times shall Caesar bleed in sport    That now on Pompey’s basis lies along    No worthier than the dust! [182]                                       (III. i. 111. )[182] What a strange effect these words are apt to produce on auditorand reader! “How true! ” we say, “The prophecy is fulfilled. This ishappening now. ” And then the reflection comes that just because thatis the case there is no prophecy and no truth in the scene; the wholeis being enacted, in sport. We experience a kind of vertigo, in whichwe cannot distinguish the real and the illusory and yet are consciousof both in their highest potence. And this is a characteristic of allpoetry, though it is not always brought so clearly before the mind. InShakespeare something of the kind is frequent: compare the reference tothe “squeaking Cleopatra” in _Antony and Cleopatra_, which is almostexactly parallel; compare too his favourite device of the play withinthe play, when we see the actors of a few minutes ago, sitting likeourselves as auditors; and thus, on the one hand their own performanceseems comparatively real, but on the other there is the constantreminder that we are in their position, and the whole is merelyspectacular. Dr. Brandes has some excellent remarks in this connectionon Tieck’s Dramas in his _Romantic School in Germany_. And even to individuals if they stand the test of his mordantcriticism, he can pay homage and admiration. The perception that Brutusmay be worked upon is the toll he pays to his self-love, but, thatsettled, he can feel deep reverence and affection for Brutus’ moreideal virtue. Perhaps the best instance of it is the scene of theirdispute. Brutus, as we have seen, is practically, if not theoretically,in the wrong, and certainly he is much the more violent and bitter; butCassius submits to receive his forgiveness and to welcome his assurancethat he will bear with him in future. This implies no little deferenceand magnanimity in one who so ill brooks a secondary role. But he doesgive the lead to Brutus, and in all things, even against his betterjudgment, yields him the primacy. And then it is impossible not to respect his thorough efficiency. Inwhatsoever concerns the management of affairs and of men, he knows theright thing to do, and, when left to himself, he does it. He sees howneedful Brutus is to the cause and gains him—gains him, in part by atrickery, which Shakespeare without historical warrant ascribes to him;but the trickery succeeds because he has gauged Brutus’ nature aright. He takes the correct measure of the danger from Antony, of his love forCaesar and his talents, which Brutus so contemptuously underrates. So,too, after the assassination, when Brutus says,    I know that we shall have him well to friend;he answers,    I wish we may: but yet I have a mind    That fears him much; and my misgiving still    Falls shrewdly to the purpose.                                  (III. i. 144. )Brutus seeks to win Antony with general considerations of right andjustice, Cassius employs a more effective argument:    Your voice shall be as strong as any man’s    In the disposing of new dignities.                                 (III. i. 177. )He altogether disapproves of the permission granted to Antony topronounce the funeral oration. He grasps the situation when the civilwar breaks out much better than Brutus:    In such a time as this it is not meet    That every nice offence should bear his comment.                                        (IV. iii. 7. )His plans of the campaign are better, and he has a much better notionof conducting the battle. All such shrewd sagacity is entitled to our respect. Yet even in thisdepartment Cassius is outdone by the unpractical Brutus, so soon ashigher moral qualities are required, and the wisdom of the fox yieldsto the wisdom of the man. We have seen that however passionate andwrong-headed Brutus may be in their contention, he has too much senseof the becoming to wrangle in public, as Cassius begins to do. Anothermore conspicuous example is furnished by the way in which they bearanxiety. Shakespeare found an illustration of this in Plutarch, whichhe has merely dramatised.    When Caesar came out of his litter: Popilius Laena, that    had talked before with Brutus and Cassius, and had prayed    the goddes they might bring this enterprise to passe, went    into Caesar and kept him a long time with a talke. Caesar    gave good eare unto him. Wherefore the conspirators (if so    they should be called) not hearing what he sayd to Caesar,    but conjecturing by that he had told them a little before,    that his talke was none other but the verie discoverie of    their conspiracie: they were affrayed everie man of them,    and one looking in an others face, it was easie to see that    they all were of a minde, that it was no tarying for them    till they were apprehended, but rather that they should kill    them selves with their owne handes. And when Cassius and    certaine other clapped their handes on their swordes under    their gownes to draw them: Brutus marking the countenaunce    and gesture of Laena, and considering that he did use him    selfe rather like an humble and earnest suter, then like    an accuser: he sayd nothing to his companions (bicause    there were amongest them that were not of the conspiracie)    but with a pleasaunt countenaunce encouraged Cassius. And    immediatlie after, Laena went from Caesar, and kissed his    hande; which shewed plainlie that it was for some matter    concerning him selfe, that he had held him so long in talke. Shakespeare, by rejecting the reason for the dumb show, is able topresent this scene in dialogue, and thus bring out the contrast morevividly. Cassius believes the worst, loses his head, now hurries onCasca, now prepares for suicide. But Brutus, the disinterested man, isless swayed by personal hopes and fears, keeps his composure, urges hisfriend to be constant, and can calmly judge of the situation. It isthe same defect of endurance that brings about Cassius’ death. Reallythings are shaping well for them, but he misconstrues the signs justas he has misconstrued the words of Lena, and kills himself owing to amistake; as Messala points out:    Mistrust of good success hath done this deed.                                    (V. iii. 66. )This want of inward strength explains the ascendancy which Brutus withhis more dutiful and therefore more steadfast nature exercises overhim, though Cassius is in many ways the more capable man of the two. They both have schooled themselves in the discipline of fortitude,Brutus in Stoic renunciation, Cassius in Epicurean independence; butin the great crises where nature asserts herself, Brutus is strong andCassius is weak. And as often happens with men, in the supreme trialtheir professed creeds no longer satisfy them, and they consciouslyabandon them. But while Cassius in his evil fortune falls back on thesuperstitions[183] which he had ridiculed Caesar for adopting on hisgood fortune, Brutus falls back on his feeling of moral dignity, andgives himself the death which theoretically he disapproves. [183] The trait is taken from Plutarch who, after enumerating thesinister omens before Philippi, adds: “the which beganne somewhat toalter Cassius minde from Epicurus opinions. ”Yet, when all is said and done, what a fine figure Cassius is, and howmuch both of love and respect he can inspire. Plutarch’s story of hisdeath already bears witness to this, but Shakespeare with a few deeperstrokes marks his own esteem.    Cassius thinking in deede that Titinius was taken of the    enemies, he then spake these wordes: “Desiring too much to    live, I have lived to see one of my best frendes taken,    for my sake, before my face. ” After that, he gote into a    tent where no bodie was, and tooke Pyndarus with him, one    of his freed bondmen, whom he reserved ever for suche a    pinche, since the cursed battell of the Parthians, when    Crassus was slaine, though he notwithstanding scaped from    that overthrow; but then casting his cloke over his head,    and holding out his bare neck unto Pindarus, he gave him his    head to be striken of. So the head was found severed from    the bodie: but after that time Pindarus was never seene    more. Whereupon some tooke occasion to say that he had    slaine his master without his commaundement. By and by they    knew the horsemen that came towards them, and might see    Titinius crowned with a garland of triumphe, who came before    with great speede unto Cassius. But when he perceived by the    cries and teares of his frends which tormented them selves    the misfortune that had chaunced to his Captaine Cassius    by mistaking; he drew out his sword, cursing him selfe a    thousand times that he had taried so long, and so slue him    selfe presentlie in the fielde. Brutus in the meane time    came forward still, and understoode also that Cassius had    bene over throwen: but he knew nothing of his death, till he    came verie neere to his campe. So when he was come thither,    after he had lamented the death of Cassius, calling him the    last of all the Romanes, being impossible that Rome should    ever breede againe so noble and valliant man as he: he    caused his bodie to be buried, and sent it to the citie of    Thassos, fearing least his funerals within the campe should    cause great disorder. In the play Pindarus is not yet enfranchised, and though he gains hisfreedom by the fatal stroke, would rather remain a slave than return tohis native wilds at such a price. Titinius places his garland on thedead man’s brow, and in fond regret slays himself, not with his own butwith Cassius’ sword. Brutus, with hardly a verbal change, repeats theeulogy that Plutarch puts in his mouth,    The last of all the Romans, fare thee well!    It is impossible that ever Rome    Should breed thy fellow. But he does not stop here. Flushed with his initial success, he expectsto triumph and to live, and the years to come seem darkened with grieffor his “brother”:                  Friends, I owe more tears    To this dead man than you shall see me pay.    I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time.                                     (V. iii. 99. )The minor conspirators, with the adherents of the cause and the humblerdependents, are of course sketched very slightly, as proportionrequires, but they have all something to individualise them in gaitor pose. Even in the crowded final act, where, as in the chroniclehistories which Shakespeare was leaving behind him, a number of personsare introduced with whom we are almost or entirely unacquainted, thereis no monotony in the subordinate figures. They are distinguished fromor contrasted with each other in their circumstances, sentiments orfate. Thus Pindarus and Strato are both described as servants, they areboth attached to their masters, they are both reluctantly compelledto assist in their masters’ death. Should we have thought it possibleto differentiate them in the compass of the score or so of lines atthe dramatist’s disposal? But Cassius’ slave, who, since his capture,has been kept like a dog to do whatever his owner might bid him, willnot abide the issue and uses his new liberty to flee beyond the Romanworld. Strato, to whom Brutus characteristically turns because heis “a fellow of a good respect” with “some snatch of honour” in hislife, claims Brutus’ hand like an equal before he will hold the sword,confronts the victors with praise of the dead, hints to Messala thatBrutus’ course is the one to follow, and has too much self-respectto accept employment with Octavius till Messala “prefers,” that is,recommends him. So too with the three captains, all on the losing side, all devoted totheir leaders. Titinius, who seems to feel that his love for Cassiusexceeds that of Brutus                        (Brutus, come apace,    And see how I regarded Caius Cassius)will not outlive him. Lucilius is quite ready to die for his general,but spared by the generosity of Antony, survives to exult that Brutushas fulfilled his prophecy and been “like himself. ” Messala, whobrought word of Portia’s death, must now tell the same tale of Cassiuswith the same keen sympathy for Brutus’ grief; and though Stratoseems to censure him for consenting to live “in bondage,” he shows nobondman’s mind when he grounds his preferment of Strato to Octavius onthe fact of Strato’s having done “the latest service to my master. ”More prominent, but still in the background, are the subaltern membersof the faction in Rome. Ligarius, the best of them, with his fieryenthusiasm and personal fealty to Brutus, is an excellent counterpartto the ingratiating and plausible Decius, the least erected spirit ofthe group. Between them comes Casca, the only one who may claim a wordor two of comment, partly because he is sketched in some detail, partlybecause he is practically an original creation. Plutarch has only twoparticulars about him, the one that he was the first to strike Caesarand struck him from behind; the other that when Caesar cried out andgripped his hand, he shouted to his brother in Greek. Shakespeare, aswe have seen, summarily rejects his acquaintance with Greek, but thestab in the back sets his fancy to work, and he constructs for him acharacter and life-history to match. Casca is a man who shares with Cassius the jealousy of greatness—“theenvious Casca,” Antony described him—but is vastly inferior to Cassiusin consistency and manhood. He seems to be one of those alert,precocious natures, clever at the uptake in their youth and full ofa promise that is not always fulfilled: Brutus recalls that “he wasquick mettle when we went to school” (I. ii. 300). Such sprightlyyoungsters, when they fail, often do so from a certain lack of moralfibre. And so with Casca. He appears before us at first as the mostobsequious henchman of Caesar. When Caesar calls for Calpurnia,Casca is at his elbow: “Peace, ho! Caesar speaks. ” When Caesar,hearing the soothsayer’s shout, cries, “Ha! who calls? ” Casca is againready: “Bid every noise be still: peace yet again! ” Cassius wouldnever have condescended to that. For Casca resents the supremacy ofCaesar as much as the proudest aristocrat of them all: he is onlywaiting an opportunity to throw off the mask. But meanwhile in hisangry bitterness with himself and others he affects a cross-grainedbluntness of speech, “puts on a tardy form,” as Cassius says, plays thesatirist and misanthrope, as many others conscious of double dealinghave done, and treats friend and foe with caustic brutality. But itis characteristic that he is panic-stricken with the terrors of thetempestuous night, which he ekes out with superstitious fancies. Itillustrates his want both of inward robustness and of enlightenedculture. We remember that Cicero’s remark in Greek was Greek to him,and that Greek was as much the language of rationalists then, aswas French of the eighteenth century _Philosophes_. Nor is it lesscharacteristic that even at the assassination he apparently does notdare to face his victim. Antony describes his procedure    Damned Casca, like a cur, behind    Struck Caesar on the neck.                          (V. i. 43. )Yet even Casca is not without redeeming qualities. His humour, in theaccount he gives of the coronation fiasco, has an undeniable flavour:its very tartness, as Cassius says, is a “sauce to his good wit. ” Andthere is a touch of nobility in his avowal:    You speak to Casca, and to such a man    That is no fleering tell-tale. Hold, my hand:    Be factious for redress of all these griefs,    And I will set this foot of mine as far    As who goes farthest.                                   (I. iii. 116. )But among those little vignettes, that of Cicero is decidedly themasterpiece. For this Shakespeare got no assistance from any of thethree Lives on which he drew for the rest of the play. Indeed the onelittle hint they contained he did not see fit to adopt. In the _MarcusBrutus_ Plutarch says of the conspirators:    For this cause they durst not acquaint Cicero with their    conspiracie, although he was a man whome they loved dearlie    and trusted best: for they were affrayed that he being a    coward by nature, and age also having increased his feare,    he would quite turne and alter all their purpose. In the play their reason for leaving him out is very different:    He will never follow anything    That other men begin.                    (II. i. 151. )It seems to me, however, highly probable that Shakespeare had readthe _Life of Cicero_ and obtained his general impression from it,though he invents the particular traits. The irritable vanity andself-consciousness of the man, which Brutus’ objection implies, are,for example, prominent features in Plutarch’s portrait. So too is hisaversion for Caesar and Caesarism, which makes him view the offer ofthe crown, abortive though it has been, as a personal offence: Brutusobserves that he    Looks with such ferret and such fiery eyes    As we have seen him in the Capitol    Being cross’d in conference with some senators.                                      (I. ii. 186. )But he is very cautious, and even when venting his vexation in oneof those biting gibes to which, by Plutarch’s statement, he was tooprone, he takes care to veil it in the safe obscurity of a foreignlanguage. “He spoke Greek . . . but those that understood him smiled atone another and shook their heads” (I. ii. 282). This has sometimesbeen misinterpreted. Shakespeare has been taxed with the absurdity ofmaking Cicero deliver a Greek speech in a popular assemblage. Surelyhe does nothing of the kind. It is a sally that he intends for hisfriends, and he takes the fit means for keeping it to them; much asSt. John might talk French, if he wished to be intelligible only tothose who had made the Grand Tour and so were in a manner of his ownset. Plutarch lays stress on his familiarity with Greek, as also onhis study of the Greek Philosophers. This may have left some trace inthe description of his bearing in contrast to Casca’s, when they meetin the storm. Cool and sceptical, he cannot guess the cause of Casca’salarm. Even when the horrors of earthquake, wind and lightning, aredescribed in detail, he asks unmoved:    Why, saw you anything more wonderful?                            (I. iii. 14. )And after the enumeration of the portents, he critically replies:    Indeed, it is a strange-disposed time:    But men may construe things after their fashion,    Clean from the purpose of the things themselves.                                       (I. iii. 32. )And then after a passing reference[184] to current affairs, he bidsCasca good night. To him the moral of the whole tempest is: “Thisdisturbed sky is not to walk in. ” Opinions may differ as to this beingthe real Cicero; none will deny that it is a living type. [184] Trivial to him, to us full of tragic meaning. Apart from the main group of personages, more or less antagonistic toCaesar, stands the brilliant figure of his friend and avenger, theeloquent Mark Antony. Shakespeare conceives him as a man of genius andfeeling but not of principle, resourceful and daring, ambitious ofhonour and power, but unscrupulous in his methods and a voluptuary inhis life. Caesar tells him that he is “fond of plays” and “revels longo’ nights. ” Cassius calls him a “masker and a reveller. ” Brutus saysthat he is given “to sports, to wildness and much company. ”He makes his first appearance as the tool of Caesar. With Asiaticflattery, as though in the eastern formula, to hear were to obey, hetells his master:    When Caesar says “do this,” it is perform’d.                                    (I. ii. 10. )He perceives his unspoken desires, his innermost wishes, and offers himthe crown. It is no wonder that Brutus should regard him but as a “limbof Caesar,” or that Trebonius, considering him a mere time-server,should prophesy that he will “live and laugh” hereafter at Caesar’sdeath. But they are wrong. They do not recognise either the genuinenessof the affection that underlies his ingratiating ways, or the realgenius that underlies his frivolity. Here, as everywhere, Cassius’estimate is the correct one. He fears Antony’s “ingrafted love” forCaesar, and predicts that they will find in him “a shrewd contriver. ”Of the love indeed there can be no question. It is proved not only byhis public utterances, which might be factitious, nor by his deeds,which might serve his private purposes, but by his words, when he isalone with his patron’s corpse.    O, pardon me, thou bleeding piece of earth,    That I am meek and gentle with these butchers!    Thou art the ruins of the noblest man    That ever lived in the tide of times.    Woe to the hand that shed this costly blood!                                     (III. i. 254. )It is worth noting the grounds that Antony in this solitary outburstalleges for his love of Caesar. He is moved not by gratitude forfavours past or the expectation of favours to come, but solely by thesupreme nobility of the dead. To the claims of nobility, in truth,Antony is always responsive and he is ready to acknowledge it inBrutus too. “This was the noblest Roman of them all”; so he begins hisheartfelt tribute to his vanquished foe. This generous sympatheticstrain in his nature is one of the things that make him dangerous. Heis far from acting a part in his laments for Caesar. He feels the griefthat he proclaims and the greatness he extols. His emotions are easilystirred, especially by worthy objects, and he has only to give themfree rein to impress other people. But along with this he has a subtle, scheming intellect; he is as mucha man of policy as a man of sentiment. After the flight of Brutusand Cassius, we see him planning how he and his colleagues may cutdown Caesar’s bequests, of which in his speech he had made so much;how he may shift some of the odium of his proceedings on to Lepidus’back; how they may best arrange to meet the opposition. This mixtureof feeling and diplomacy is especially shown in his words and deedsafter the assassination. He does not shrink from any base compliance. His servant appears before the murderers, and at his bidding “kneels,”“falls down,” lies “prostrate” in token of submission, promising thathis master will follow Brutus’ fortunes. But even here it is on theunderstanding that Caesar’s death shall be justified; and when hehimself enters he gives his love and grief free scope.    O mighty Caesar, dost thou lie so low?    Are all thy conquests, glories, triumphs, spoils,    Shrunk to this little measure? Fare thee well.    I know not, gentlemen, what you intend,    Who else must be let blood, who else is rank:    If I myself, there is no hour so fit    As Caesar’s death’s hour, nor no instrument    Of half that worth as those your swords, made rich    With the most noble blood of all this world.    I do beseech ye, if you bear me hard,    Now, whilst your purpled hands do reek and smoke,    Fulfil your pleasure. Live a thousand years,    I shall not find myself so apt to die;    No place will please me so, no mean of death,    As here by Caesar, and by you cut off,    The choice and master spirits of this age.                                     (III. i. 148. )What could be more loyal on the one hand, or more discreet on theother? For, as he is well aware, if he comes to terms with theassassins at all, he is liable to an alternative accusation. Eitherhis love for Caesar was genuine, and then his reconciliation with themurderers implies craven fear; or, if he can freely take their part,his previous homage to Caesar was mere pretence. As he himself says:    My credit now stands on such slippery ground,    That one of two bad ways you must conceit me,    Either a coward or a flatterer.                                   (III. i. 191. )And what more dexterous course could he adopt than to assert hisdevotion to Caesar without restraint, with undiminished emphasis: andat the same time to profess his respect for the conspirators, “thechoice and master spirits of this age,” and his readiness to jointhem _if_ they prove that Caesar deserved to die. This honourableand reasonable attitude, which honour and reason would in realityprescribe, must especially impress Brutus, to whom Antony is carefulchiefly to address himself. He enters a doubtful suppliant; at the endof the scene not only are his life and credit safe, but he has won fromBrutus’ magnanimity the means to overthrow him. It is characteristic of Antony that he has no scruple about using thevantage ground he has thus acquired. He immediately determines toemploy the liberty of speech accorded him against the men who havegranted it. To Octavius’ servant, who enters ere he has well ended hissoliloquy, he says:    Thou shalt not back till I have borne this corse    Into the market place: there shall I try,    In my oration, how the people take    The cruel issue of these bloody men.                                        (III. i. 291. )He does not hesitate, though this course will involve in ruin thosewho have generously spared him and given him the weapons againstthemselves. Not even for his country’s sake will he pause, though,with his prescient imagination, he sees in all their lurid details thehorrors of the    Domestic fury and fierce civil strife                           (I. iii. 263. )that must inevitably ensue. And he effects his purpose, without any other help, by his wonderfuladdress to the citizens. Perhaps nowhere else in History or Literaturedo we find the procedure of the demagogue of Genius set forth with suchmasterly insight. For Antony shows himself a demagogue of the mostprofligate description, but as undeniably the very genius of the art ofmoving men. Consider the enormous difficulties of his position. He isspeaking under limitation and by permission before a hostile audiencethat will barely give him a hearing, and his task is to turn them quiteround, and make them adore what they hated and hate what they adored. How does he set about it? He begins with an acknowledgment and compliment to Brutus: “For Brutus’sake I am beholding to you. ” He disclaims the intention of evenpraising the dead. He cites the charge of ambition, but not to replyto it, merely to point out that any ambition has been expiated. Butthen he insinuates arguments on the other side: Caesar’s faithfulnessand justice in friendship, the additions not to his private but tothe public wealth that his victories secured, his pitifulness to thepoor, his refusal of the crown. Really these things are no argumentsat all. They have either nothing to do with the case, or are perfectlycompatible with ambition, or may have been its very means or may havebeen meant to cloak it. Such indeed we know that in part at leastthey were. But that does not signify so far as Antony’s purpose isconcerned. They were all matters well known to the public, fit to callforth proud and grateful and pleasing reminiscences of Caesar’s career. The orator has managed to praise Caesar while not professing to doso: if he does not disprove what Brutus said, yet in speaking what hedoes know, he manages to discredit Brutus’ authority. And now theseregretful associations stirred, he can at any rate ask their tears fortheir former favourite. Have they lost their reason that they do notat least mourn for him they once loved? And here with a rhetoricaltrick, which, to his facile, emotional nature, may have also been thesuggestion of real feeling, his utterance fails him; he must pause, forhis “heart is in the coffin there with Caesar. ”We may be sure that whatever had happened to his heart his ear wasintent to catch the murmurs of the crowd. They would satisfy him. Though he has not advanced one real argument, but has only played as itwere on their sensations, their mood has changed. Some think Caesar hashad wrong, some are convinced that he was not ambitious, all are nowthoroughly favourable to Antony. He begins again. And now he strikes the note of contrast betweenCaesar’s greatness yesterday and his impotence to-day. It is such atragic fall as in itself might move all hearts to terror and pity. But what if the catastrophe were undeserved? Antony could prove thatit was, but he will keep faith with the conspirators and refrain. Nevertheless he has the testament, though he will not read it, which,read, would show them that Caesar was their best friend. Compassion, curiosity, selfishness are now enlisted on his side. Criesof “The will! The will! ” arise. He is quick to take advantage ofthese. Just as he would not praise Caesar, yet did so all the same; sohe refuses to read the will, for they would rise in mutiny—this is alittle preliminary hint to them—if they heard that Caesar had made themhis heirs. Renewed insistence on the part of the mob, renewed coyness on the partof Antony; till at last he steps down from the pulpit, taking care tohave a wide circle round him that as many as possible may see. But hedoes not read the will immediately. Partly with his incomparable eyeto effect, partly out of the fullness of his heart (for the substanceof his words is the same as in his private soliloquy), he stands raptabove the body. Caesar’s mantle recalls proud memories of the gloryof Caesar and of Rome, the victory over the Barbarian. [185] And thismantle is pierced by the stabs of assassins, of Cassius, of Casca, ofBrutus himself. He has now advanced so far that he can attack the manwho was the idol of the mob but a few minutes before. And he makeshis attack well. The very superiority of Brutus to personal claims,the very patriotism which none could appreciate better than Antony,and to which he does large justice when Brutus is no more, this verydisinterestedness he turns against Brutus, and despite all he owes him,accuses him of black ingratitude. There is so much speciousness in thecharge that it would be hard to rebut before a tribunal of sages: andwhen Antony makes his _coup_, withdrawing the mantle and displaying themutilated corpse,    Kind souls, what, weep you when you but behold    Our Caesar’s vesture wounded? Look you here,    Here is himself, marr’d, as you see, with traitors:                                        (III. ii. 199. )the cause of Brutus is doomed. Antony has a right to exult, and he doesso. There is the triumphant pride of the artist in his art, when, onresuming, he represents Brutus as the rhetorician and himself as theunpractised speaker. He is no orator as Brutus is, and—with sublimeeffrontery—that was probably the reason he was permitted to addressthem. But                              Were I Brutus    And Brutus Antony, there were an Antony    Would ruffle up your spirits and put a tongue    In every wound of Caesar, that should move    The stones of Rome to rise and mutiny.                                   (III. ii. 230. )Note the last words: for though Antony feels entitled to indulge inthis farcing and enjoys it thoroughly, he does not forget the seriousbusiness. He keeps recurring more and more distinctly to the suggestionof mutiny, and for mutiny the citizens are now more than fully primed. All this, moreover, he has achieved without ever playing his trumpcard. They have quite forgotten about the will, and indeed it is notrequired. But Antony thinks it well to have them beside themselves, sohe calls them back for this last maddening draught. [185] Plutarch’s account of Caesar’s personal prowess in the battlewith the Nervii, and of the honours decreed him by the Senate, showswhy Shakespeare chose this exploit for special mention: “Had notCaesar selfe taken his shield on his arme, and flying in amongest thebarbarous people, made a lane through them that fought before him; andthe tenth legion also seeing him in daunger, ronne unto him from thetoppe of the hill, where they stoode in battell,{note} and broken theranckes of their enemies; there had not a Romane escaped a live thatday. But taking example of Caesar’s valliantnes, they fought desperatlybeyond their power, and yet could not make the Nervians flie, but theyfought it out to the death, till they were all in manner slaine inthe field. . . . The Senate understanding it at Rome, ordained that theyshoulde doe sacrifice unto the goddes, and keepe feasts and solemneprocessions fifteene dayes together without intermission, havingnever made the like ordinaunce at Rome, for any victorie that everwas obteined. Bicause they saw the daunger had bene marvelous great,so many nations rising as they did in armes together against him: andfurther the love of the people unto him made his victorie much morefamous. ”{note} battle orderAnd all the while, it will be observed, he has never answered Brutus’charge on which he rested his whole case, that Caesar was ambitious. Yet such is the headlong flight of his eloquence, winged by genius, bypassion, by craft, that his audience never perceive this. No wonder: itis apt to escape even deliberate readers. Such a man will go fast and far. We next see him practically the rulerof Rome, swaying the triumvirate, treating Octavius as an admiringpupil whom he will tutor in the trade, ordering about or ridiculing theinsignificant and imitative Lepidus. [186][186] In Plutarch Antony treats Lepidus with studied deference. But he has the _hybris_ of genius, unaccompanied by character andundermined by licence. It would be an anomaly if such an one were tobe permanently successful. Shakespeare was by and by, though probablyas yet he knew it not, to devote a whole play to the story of hisdownfall; here he contents himself with indicating his impendingdeposition and the agent who shall accomplish it. There is somethingominous about the reticence, assurance, and calm self-assertion of the“stripling or springall of twenty years” as Plutarch calls Octavius. At the proscription Lepidus and even Antony are represented asconsenting to the death of their kinsfolk: Octavius makes demands butno concessions.

When Lepidus is ordered off on his errand, and Antony,secure in his superiority, explains his methods, Octavius listenssilent with just a hint of dissent, but we feel that he is learninghis lessons and will apply them in due time at his teacher’s expense. Already he appropriates the leadership. Before Philippi, Antony assignsto him the left wing and he calmly answers:    Upon the right hand I, keep thou the left.      _Antony. _ Why do you cross me in this exigent?      _Octavius. _ I do not cross you: but I will do so.                                            (V. i. 18. )All these touches are contributed by Shakespeare, but the last isespecially noticeable, because, though the words and the particularturn are his own, the incident itself is narrated not of Antony andOctavius but of their opponents.    Then Brutus prayed Cassius he might have the leading of the    right winge, the whiche men thought was farre meeter for    Cassius: both bicause he was the elder man, and also for that    he had the better experience. But yet Cassius gave it him. Octavius too has a higher conception of the dignity of his position. In that strange scene, another of Shakespeare’s additions, when theadversaries exchange _gabs_, like the heroes of the old Teutonic laysor the _Chansons de Gestes_, it is Antony who suggests the somewhatunseemly proceeding and it is Octavius who breaks it off. And atthe close he, as it were, constitutes himself the heir of Brutus’reputation, and assumes as a matter of course that he has the rightand duty to provide for Brutus’ followers and take order for Brutus’funeral.    All that served Brutus, I will entertain them . . .    According to his virtue let us use him    With all respect and rites of burial    Within my tent his bones to-night shall lie.                                   (V. v. 60 and 76. )For the first of these statements there is no warrant in Plutarch, andthe second contradicts the impression his narrative produces; for inall the mention he makes of the final honours paid to Brutus, he givesthe credit to Antony.    Antonius, having found Brutus bodie, he caused it to be    wrapped up in one of the richest cote armors he had.    Afterwards also, Antonius understanding that this cote armor    was stollen, he put the theefe to death that had stollen    it, and sent the ashes of his bodie to Servilia his mother.                                             _Marcus Brutus. _And more explicitly in the _Marcus Antonius_:    (Antony) cast his coate armor (which was wonderfull rich    and sumptuous) upon Brutus bodie, and gave commaundement to    one of his slaves infranchised to defray the charge of his    buriall. By means of these additions and displacements Shakespeare shows theyoung Octavius with his tenacity and self-control already supersedinghis older and more brilliant colleague. We see in them the beginning aswell as the prophecy of the end. _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_CHAPTER IPOSITION OF THE PLAY AFTER THE GREAT TRAGEDIES. SHAKESPEARE’S INTERESTIN THE SUBJECTIt may be taken as certain that Shakespeare did not at once set aboutcontinuing the story which he had brought to the end of one of itsstages in _Julius Caesar_ and of the future progress of which he had inthat play given the partial programme. _Antony and Cleopatra_ belongsto a different phase of his development. Though not published, so far as we know, till it appeared in theFolio Edition of 1623, there is not much difficulty in finding itsapproximate date; and that, despite its close connection with _JuliusCaesar_ in the general march of events and in the re-employment of someof the characters, was some half-dozen years after the compositionof its predecessor. The main grounds for this opinion, now almostuniversally accepted, are the following:1. We learn from the _Stationers’ Register_ that the publisher,Edward Blount, had entered a “booke called _Antony and Cleopatra_” onMay 20th, 1608. Some critics have maintained that this could not beShakespeare’s in view of the fact that in November, 1623, license wasgranted to the same Blount and the younger Jaggard, with whom he wasnow co-operating, to include in the collected edition the Shakespearianpiece among sixteen plays of which the copies were “not formerlyentered to other men. ” But the objection hardly applies, as theprevious entry was in Blount’s favour, and, though he is now associatedwith Jaggard, he may not have thought it necessary, because of achange of firm as it were, to describe himself as “another man. ” Even,however, if the authorship of the 1608 play be considered doubtful, itspublication is significant. For, as has often been pointed out, it wascustomary when a piece was successful at one theatre to produce one ona similar subject at another. The mere existence, then, of an _Antonyand Cleopatra_ in the early months of 1608, is in so far an argumentthat about that time the great _Antony and Cleopatra_ was attractingattention. 2. There is evidence that in the preceding years Shakespeare wasoccupied with and impressed by the _Life of Antony_. (_a_) Plutarch tells how sorely Antony took to heart what he consideredthe disloyalty of his followers after Actium.    He forsooke the citie and companie of his frendes, and built    him a house in the sea, by the Ile of Pharos, upon certaine    forced mountes which he caused to be cast into the sea, and    dwelt there, as a man that banished him selfe from all mens    companie; saying he would live Timons life, bicause he had    the like wrong offered him, that was affore offered unto    Timon: and that for the unthankefulnes of those he had done    good unto, and whom he tooke to be his frendes he was angry    with all men, and would trust no man. In reference to this withdrawal of Antony’s to the Timoneon, as hecalled his solitary house, Plutarch inserts the story of Timon ofAthens, and there is reason to believe that Shakespeare made hiscontributions to the play of that name just before he wrote _Macbeth_,about the year 1606. [187][187] See Bradley, _Shakespearian Tragedy_. (_b_) In _Macbeth_ itself he has utilised the _Marcus Antonius_probably for one passage and certainly for another. In describing thescarcity of food among the Roman army in Parthia, Plutarch says:    In the ende they were compelled to live of erbes and rootes,    but they found few of them that men doe commonly eate of,    and were enforced to tast of them that were never eaten    before: among the which there was one that killed them, and    _made them out of their witts_. For he that had once eaten    of it, his memorye was gone from him, and he knewe no manner    of thing. Shakespeare is most likely thinking of this when after thedisappearance of the witches, he makes Banquo exclaim in bewilderment:    Were such things here as we do speak about?    Or have we eaten on the insane _root_    That _takes the reason prisoner_.                                 (I. iii. 83. )In any case _Macbeth_ contains an unmistakable reminiscence of thesoothsayer’s warning to Antony.    He . . . told Antonius plainly, that his fortune (which of it    selfe was excellent good, and very great) was altogether    bleamished, and obscured by Caesars fortune: and therefore    he counselled him utterly to leave his company, and to get    him as farre from him as he could. “For thy Demon,” said    he (that is to say, the good angell and spirit that kepeth    thee), “is affraied of his, and being coragious and high    when he is alone, becometh fearefull and timerous when he    commeth neere unto the other. ”Shakespeare was to make use of this in detail when he drew on the_Life_ for an independent play.            O Antony, stay not by his side:    Thy demon, that’s thy spirit which keeps thee, is    Noble, courageous, high, unmatchable    Where Caesar’s is not; but, near him, thy angel    Becomes a fear, as being o’erpower’d: therefore    Make space enough between you.                                        (II. iii. 18. )But already in _Macbeth_ it suggests a simile, when the King giveswords to his mistrust of Banquo:                There is none but he    Whose being I do fear: and, under him,    My Genius is rebuked; as, it is said,    Mark Antony’s was by Caesar. [188]                             (III. i. 54. )More interesting and convincing is a coincidence that Malone pointedout in Chapman’s _Bussy d’Ambois_, which was printed in 1607, but wasprobably written much earlier. Bussy says to Tamyra of the terrors ofSin:    So our ignorance tames us, that we let    His[189] shadows fright us: and like _empty clouds_    In which our faulty apprehensions forge    The forms of _dragons_, _lions_, elephants,    When they _hold no proportion_, the sly charms    Of the Witch Policy makes him like a monster.                                        (III. i. 22. )[188] I have said nothing of other possible references and loansbecause they seem to me irrelevant or doubtful. Thus Malone drewattention to the words of Morose in Ben Jonson’s _Epicoene_: “Nay,I would sit out a play that were nothing but fights at sea, drum,trumpet and target. ” He thought that this remark might contain ironicalallusion to the battle scenes in _Antony and Cleopatra_, for instancethe stage direction at the head of Act III. , Scene 10: “Canidiusmarcheth with his land army one way over the stage: and Taurus, thelieutenant of Caesar the other way. After their going in is heardthe noise of a sea-fight. ” But even were this more certain than itis, it would only prove that _Antony and Cleopatra_ had made so muchimpression as to give points to the satirist some time after itsperformance: it would not help us to the date. For _Epicoene_ belongsto 1610, and no one would place _Antony and Cleopatra_ so late. [189] _i. e. _ Sin’s. Compare Antony’s words:    Sometime we see a _cloud that’s dragonish_:    A vapour sometimes like a bear or lion . . .    . . . .                Here I am Antony:    Yet _cannot hold this visible shape_.                            (IV. xiv. 2 and 13. )It is hard to believe that there is no connection between thesepassages, and if there is Shakespeare must have been the debtor; butas _Bussy d’Ambois_ was acted before 1600, this loan is without muchvalue as a chronological indication. 3. Internal evidence likewise points to a date shortly after thecomposition of _Macbeth_. (_a_) In versification especially valuable indications are furnished bythe proportion of what Professor Ingram has called the light and theweak endings. By these terms he denotes the conclusion of the versewith a syllable that cannot easily or that cannot fully bear the stresswhich the normal scansion would lay upon it. In either case the effectis to break down the independence of the separate line as unit, andto vest the rhythm in the couplet or sequence, by forcing us on tillwe find an adequate resting-place. It thus has some analogy in formalprosody to enjambement, or the discrepancy between the metrical andthe grammatical pause in prosody when viewed in connection with thesense. Now the employment of light and weak endings, on the one hand,and of enjambement on the other, is, generally speaking, much morefrequent in the plays that are considered to be late than in those thatare considered to be early. The tendency to enjambement indeed may betraced farther back and proceeds less regularly. But the laxity inregard to the endings comes with a rush and seems steadily to advance. It is first conspicuous in _Antony and Cleopatra_ and reaches itsmaximum in _Henry VIII. _ In this progress however there is one notablepeculiarity. While it is unmistakable if the percentage be taken fromthe light and weak endings combined, or from the weak endings alone,it breaks down if the light endings be considered by themselves. Ofthem there is a decidedly higher proportion in _Antony and Cleopatra_than in _Coriolanus_, which nevertheless is almost universally held tobe the later play. The reason probably is that the light endings meana less revolutionary departure from the more rigid system and wouldtherefore be the first to be attempted. When the ear had accustomeditself to them, it would be ready to accept the greater innovation. Thus the sudden outcrop of light and weak endings in _Antony andCleopatra_, the preponderance of the light over the weak in that play,the increase in the total percentage of such endings and especially inthe relative percentage of weak endings in the dramas that for variousreasons are believed to be later, all confirm its position after_Macbeth_ and before _Coriolanus_. (_b_) The diction tells the same tale. Whether we admire it or no,we must admit that it is very concise, bold and difficult. Gervinuscensures it as “forced, abrupt and obscure”; and it certainly makesdemands on the reader. But Englishmen will rather agree with thewell-known eulogy of Coleridge: “_Feliciter audax_ is the motto forits style comparatively with that of Shakspere’s other works, evenas it is the general motto of all his works compared with those ofother poets. Be it remembered, too, that this happy valiancy of styleis but the representative and result of all the material excellencesso expressed. ” But in any case, whether to be praised or blamed, itis a typical example of Shakespeare’s final manner, the manner thatcharacterises _Coriolanus_ and the Romances, and that shows itself onlyoccasionally or incompletely in his preceding works. 4. A consideration of the tone of the tragedy yields similar results. It has been pointed out[190] that there is a gradual lighteningin the atmosphere of Shakespeare’s plays after the composition of_Othello_ and _Lear_. In them, and especially in the latter, we movein the deepest gloom. It is to them that critics point who read inShakespeare a message of pessimism and despair. And though there arenot wanting, for those who will see them, glimpses of comfort and hopeeven in their horror of thick darkness, it must be owned that themisery and murder of Desdemona, the torture and remorse of Othello,the persecution of Lear, the hanging of Cordelia, are more harrowingand appalling than the heart can well endure. But we are conscious ofa difference in the others of the group. Though Macbeth retains oursympathy to the last, his story does not rouse our questionings asdo the stories of these earlier victims. We are well content that heshould expiate his crimes, and that a cleaner hand should inherit thesceptre: we recognise the justice of the retribution and hail the dawnof better times. In _Coriolanus_ the feeling is not only of assent butof exultation. True, the tragedy ends with the hero’s death, but thatis no unmitigated evil. He has won back something of his lost nobilityand risen to the greatest height his nature could attain, in renouncinghis revenge: after that what was there that he could live for either inCorioli or Rome? [190] Bradley, _Shakespearian Tragedy_. _Antony and Cleopatra_ has points of contact with both these plays, andshows like them that the night is on the wane. Of course in one way theview of life is still disconsolate enough. The lust of the flesh andthe lust of the eye and the pride of life: ambitious egoism, uninspiredcraft and conventional propriety; these are the forces that clash inthis gorgeous mêlée of the West and the East. At the outset passionholds the lists, then self-interest takes the lead, but principle neverhas a chance. We think of Lucifera’s palace in the _Faerie Queene_,with the seven deadly sins passing in arrogant gala before the marblefront, and with the shifting foundations beneath, the dungeons andruins at the rear. The superb shows of life are displayed in alltheir superbness and in all their vanity. In the end their worshippersare exposed as their dupes. Antony is a cloud and a dream, Cleopatrano better than “a maid that milks and does the meanest chares”: yetshe sees that it is “paltry to be Caesar,” and hears Antony mock atCaesar’s luck. Whatever the goal, it is a futile one, and the objectsof human desire are shown on their seamy side. We seem to lose sight ofideals, and idealism would be out of place. Even the passing referenceto Shakespeare’s own art shows a dissipation of the glamour. In _JuliusCaesar_ Brutus and Cassius had looked forward to an immortality ofglory on the stage and evidently regard the theatre as equal to thehighest demands, but now to Cleopatra it is only an affair of vulgarmakeshifts that parodies what it presents.                              I shall see    Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness    I’ the posture of a whore.                               (V. ii. 219. )In so far the impression produced is a cheerless one, and Gervinushas gone so far as to say: “There is no great or noble characteramong the personages, no really elevated feature in the action ofthis drama whether in its politics or its love affairs. ” This isexcessive: but it is true that, as in _Timon_, the suggestion forwhich came from the same source and the composition of which may bedated a short time before, no very spiritual note is struck and novery dutiful figure is to the fore. And the background is a lurid one. “A world-catastrophe! ” says Dr. Brandes, “(Shakespeare) has no mindnow to write of anything else. What is sounding in his ears, what isfilling his thoughts, is the crash of a world falling in ruins. . . . Themight of Rome, stern and austere, shivered at the touch of Easternvoluptuousness. Everything sank, everything fell,—character and will,dominions and principalities, men and women. Everything was worm-eaten,serpent-bitten, poisoned by sensuality—everything tottered andcollapsed. ”Yet though the sultry splendours of the scenes seem to blast ratherthan foster, though the air is laden with pestilence, and none of theprotagonists has escaped the infection, the total effect is anythingbut depressing. As in _Macbeth_ we accept without demur the penaltyexacted for the offence. As in _Coriolanus_ we welcome the magnanimitythat the offenders recover or achieve at the close. If there is less ofacquiescence in vindicated justice than in the first, if there is lessof elation at the triumph of the nobler self than in the second, thereis yet something of both. In this respect too it seems to stand betweenthem and we cannot be far wrong if we place it shortly after the oneand shortly before the other, near the end of 1607. And that means too that it comes near the end of Shakespeare’s tragicperiod, when his four chief tragedies were already composed and whenhe was well aware of all the requirements of the tragic art. In hisquartet of masterpieces he was free to fulfil these requirementswithout let or hindrance, for he was elaborating material that claimedno particular reverence from him. But now he turns once more toauthorised history and in doing so once more submits to the limitationsthat in his practice authorised history imposed. Why he did so it isof course impossible to say. It was a famous story, accessible to theEnglish public in some form or other from the days of Chaucer’s _Legendof Good Women_, and at an early age Shakespeare was attracted by it,or at least was conversant with Cleopatra’s reputation as one of theworld’s paragons of beauty. In _Romeo and Juliet_ Mercutio includesher in his list of those, Dido, Hero, Thisbe and the rest, who inRomeo’s eyes are nothing to his Rosaline; compared with that lady hefinds “Cleopatra a gipsy. ”[191] And so indeed she was, for gipsy atfirst meant nothing else than Egyptian, and Skelton, in his _Garland ofLaurel_, swearing by St. Mary of Egypt, exclaims:    By Mary gipcy,    Quod scripsi scripsi. But in current belief the black-haired, tawny vagrants, who, fromthe commencement of the sixteenth century, despite cruel enactmentscruelly enforced, began to swarm into England, were of Egyptian stock. And precisely in this there lay a paradox and riddle, for accordingto conventional ideas they were anything but comely, and yet it was amatter of common fame that a great Roman had thrown away rule, honourand duty in reckless adoration of the queen of the race. PerhapsShakespeare had this typical instance in his mind when in _MidsummerNight’s Dream_ he talks of the madness of the lover who    Sees Helen’s beauty in a brow of Egypt.                              (V. i. 11. )For to the end the poet ignores the purity of Cleopatra’s Greekdescent, and seems by many touches to imagine her as of the same typeas those undesirable immigrants against whom the penal laws were of solittle avail. Nevertheless he accepts the fact of her charm, and, in_As You Like It_, among the contributions which the “Heavenly Synod”levied on the supreme examples of womankind for the equipment ofRosalind, specifies “Cleopatra’s majesty. ”[192] It is not the qualityon which he was afterwards to lay stress, it is not the quality thatPlutarch accentuates, nor is it likely to have been suggested by thegipsies he had seen. But there was another source on which he may havedrawn. Next to the story of Julius Caesar, the story of Antony andCleopatra was perhaps the prerogative Roman theme among the dramatistsof the sixteenth century[193] and was associated with such illustriouspersonages as Jodelle and Garnier in France, and the Countess ofPembroke and Daniel in England. It is, as we have seen, highly probablethat Shakespeare had read the versions of his compatriots at any rate,and their dignified harangues are just of the kind to produce theimpression of loftiness and state. [191] II. iv. 44. [192] III. ii. 154. [193] Besides the plays discussed in the Introduction as having apossible place in the lineage of Shakespeare’s, others were producedon the Continent, which in that respect are quite negligible but whichserve to prove the widespread interest in the subject. Thus in 1560Hans Sachs in Germany composed, in seven acts, one of his homespun,well-meant dramas that were intended to edify spectator or reader. Thus in 1583 Cinthio in Italy treated the same theme, and it has beenconjectured, by Klein, that his _Cleopatra_ was known to Shakespeare. Certainly Shakespeare makes use of Cinthio’s novels, but theparticulars signalised by Klein, that are common to the English and tothe Italian tragedy, which latter I have not been able to procure, are,to use Klein’s own term, merely “external,” and are to be explained,in so far as they are valid at all, which Moeller (_Kleopatra in derTragödien-Literatur_) disputes, by reference to Plutarch. An additionalone which Moeller suggests without attaching much weight to it, iseven less plausible than he supposes. He points out that Octavius’emissary, who in Plutarch is called Thyrsus, in Cinthio becomes Tireo,as in Shakespeare he similarly becomes Thyreus; but he notes that thisis also the name that Shakespeare would get from North. As a matterof fact, however, in the 1623 folio of _Antony and Cleopatra_ and insubsequent editions till the time of Theobald, this personage, forsome reason or other as yet undiscovered, is styled Thidias; so thealleged coincidence is not so much unimportant as fallacious. A thirdtragedy, Montreuil’s _Cléopatre_, which like Cinthio’s is inaccessibleto me, was published in France in 1595; but to judge from Moeller’sanalysis and the list of _dramatis personae_, it has no contact withShakespeare’s. Be that as it may, Cleopatra was a familiar name to Shakespeare when hebegan seriously to immerse himself in her history. We can understandhow it would stir his heart as it filled in and corrected his previousvague surmises. What a revelation of her witchcraft would be thatglowing picture of her progress when, careless and calculating, shecondescended to obey the summons of the Roman conqueror and answer thecharge that she had helped Brutus in his campaign.    When she was sent unto by divers letters, both from Antonius    him selfe and also from his frendes, she made so light of    it, and mocked Antonius so much, that she disdained to set    forward otherwise, but to take her barge in the river of    Cydnus, the poope whereof was of gold, the sailes of purple,    and the owers of silver, which kept stroke in rowing after    the sounde of the musicke of flutes, howboyes, citherns,    violls, and such other instruments as they played upon    in the barge. And now for the person of her selfe: she    was layed under a pavillion of cloth-of-gold of tissue,    apparelled and attired like the goddesse Venus, commonly    drawen in picture: and hard by her, on either hand of her,    pretie faire boyes apparelled as painters doe set forth god    Cupide, with little fannes in their hands, with which they    fanned wind upon her. Her ladies and gentlewomen also, the    fairest of them were apparelled like the nymphes Nereides    (which are the mermaides of the waters) and like the Graces,    some stearing the helme, others tending the tackle and ropes    of the barge, out of which there came a wonderfull passing    sweete savor of perfumes, that perfumed the wharfes side    pestered[194] with innumerable multitudes of people. Some    of them followed the barge all alongest the rivers side:    others also ranne out of the citie to see her comming in.    So that in the end, there ranne such multitudes of people    one after an other to see her, that Antonius was left post    alone in the market place, in his Imperiall seate to geve    audience: and there went a rumor in the peoples mouthes that    the goddesse Venus was come to play with the god Bacchus,[195]    for the generall good of all Asia. When Cleopatra landed,    Antonius sent to invite her to supper with him. But she    sent him word againe, he should doe better rather to come    and suppe with her. Antonius therefore to shew him selfe    curteous unto her at her arrivall, was contented to obey    her, and went to supper to her: where he found such passing    sumptuous fare that no tongue can expresse it. [194] obstructed. [195] Antony had already been worshipped as that deity. Only by a few touches has Shakespeare excelled his copy in the words ofEnobarbus: but he has merely heightened and nowhere altered the effect.    The barge she sat in, like a _burnished throne,    Burn’d_ on the water: the poop was beaten gold:    Purple the sails and so perfumed that    The winds _were love-sick_ with them: the oars were silver,    Which to the tune of flutes kept stroke and made    _The water which they beat to follow faster,    As amorous of their strokes_. For her own person,    _It beggar’d all description_: she did lie    In her pavilion—cloth-of-gold of tissue—    _O’er picturing_ that Venus where we see    _The fancy outwork nature_: on each side her    Stood pretty dimpled boys, like smiling Cupids    With divers-colour’d fans, whose wind did seem    _To glow the delicate cheeks which they did cool,    And what they undid did_    Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides    So many mermaids, _tended her i’ the eyes_    And made their bends adornings: at the helm    A seeming mermaid steers: the _silken_ tackle    _Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands_    That _yarely_ frame the office. From the barge    A _strange invisible_ perfume hits the sense    Of the adjacent wharfs: and Antony,    Enthroned i’ the market-place, did sit alone,    _Whistling the air: which, but for vacancy,    Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,    And made a gap in nature_. . . .    Upon her landing, Antony sent to her,    Invited her to supper: she replied    It should be better he became her guest;    Which she entreated: our courteous Antony,    _Whom ne’er the word of “No” woman heard speak,    Being barber’d ten times o’er_, goes to the feast    _And for his ordinary pays his heart    For what his eyes eat only_.                                        (II. ii. 196. )And the impression of all this magnificence had not faded fromShakespeare’s mind when in after years he wrote his _Cymbeline_. Imogen’s chamber                                  is hang’d    With tapestry of silk and silver; the story    Proud Cleopatra, when she met her Roman,    And Cydnus swell’d above the banks, or for    The press of boats or pride. [196]                                        (II. iv. 68. )[196] It is rather strange that Shakespeare, whose “accessories” areusually relevant, should choose such a subject for the decoration ofImogen’s room. Mr. Bradley, in a note to his essay on _Antony andCleopatra_ says: “Of the ‘good’ heroines, Imogen is the one who hasmost of [Cleopatra’s] spirit of fire and air. ” This is one of thethings one sees to be true as soon as one reads it: can it be thattheir creator has brought them into association through some feeling,conscious or unconscious, of their kinship in this important respect? I regret that Mr. Bradley’s admirable study, which appeared when I wastravelling in the Far East, escaped my notice till a few days ago, whenit was too late to use it for my discussion. But it was not only the prodigality of charm that would enthral thepoet. In the relation of the lovers, in the character of Cleopatra, inthe nature of her ascendancy, there is something that reminds us of thestory of passion enshrined in the _Sonnets_. No doubt it is uncertainwhether these in detail are to be regarded as biographical, butbiographical they are at the core, at least in the sense that they areauthentic utterance of feelings actually experienced. No doubt, too,the balance of evidence points to their composition, at least in theparts that deal with his unknown leman, early in Shakespeare’s career;but for that very reason the memories would be fitter to help him ininterpreting the poetry of the historical record, for as Wordsworthsays: “Poetry is emotion recollected in tranquillity. ” So once moreShakespeare may have been moved to “make old offences of affectionsnew,” that is, to infuse the passion of his own youth into this tale of“old unhappy far-off things. ” His bygone sorrows of the _Sonnets_ comeback to him when he is writing the drama, mirror themselves in someof the situations and sentiments, and echo in the wording of a few ofthe lines. It is of course easy to exaggerate the importance of thesereminiscences. The Dark Lady has been described as the original ofCleopatra, but the original of Cleopatra is the Cleopatra of Plutarch,and in many ways she is unlike the temptress of the poet. She isdowered with a marvellous beauty which all from Enobarbus to Octaviusacknowledge, while the other is “foul” in all eyes save those of herlover; her face “hath not the power to make love groan”; and in herthere is no hint of Cleopatra’s royalty of soul. Nor is the devotionof Antony the devotion of the sonneteer; it is far more absolute andunquestioning, it is also far more comrade-like and sympathetic; atfirst he exults in it without shame, and never till the last distracteddays does suspicion or contempt enter his heart. Still less is hispassing spasm of jealousy at the close like the chronic jealousy ofthe poet. It is a vengeful frenzy that must find other outlets as wellas the self-accusing remonstrances and impotent rebukes of the lyricalcomplaints. The resemblance between sonnets and play is confined to thesingle feature that they both tell the story of an unlawful passionfor a dark woman—for this was Shakespeare’s fixed idea in regard toCleopatra—whose character and reputation were stained, whose influencewas pernicious, and whose fatal spells depended largely on her artsand intellect. But this was enough to give Shakespeare, as it were,a personal insight into the case, and a personal interest in it, tofurnish him with the key of the situation and place him at the centre. And there was another point of contact between the author and the heroof the tragedy. It is stated in Plutarch’s account of Antony: “Somesay that he lived three and fiftie yeares: and others say six andfiftie. ” But the action begins a decade, or (for, as we shall see,there is a jumbling of dates in the opening scenes like that which wehave noted in the corresponding ones of _Julius Caesar_) more than adecade before the final catastrophe. Thus Shakespeare would imagineAntony at the outset as between forty-two and forty-six, practically onthe same _niveau_ of life as himself, for in 1607-1608 he was in hisforty-fourth year. They had reached the same stadium in their career,had the same general outlook on the future, had their great triumphsbehind them, and yet with powers hardly impaired they both could say,                          Though grey    Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha’ we    A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can    Get goal for goal of youth.                                        (IV. viii. 19. )There would be a general sympathy of attitude, and it even extendsto something in the poet himself analogous to the headlong ardour ofAntony. In the years that had elapsed since Shakespeare gave the firstinstalment of his story in _Julius Caesar_, a certain change had beenproceeding in his art. The present drama belongs to a different epochof his authorship, an epoch not of less force but of less restrainedforce, an epoch when he works perhaps with less austerity of stroke andless intellectualism, but—strange that it should be so in advancingyears—with more abandonment to the suggestions of imagination andpassion. In all these respects the fortunes of Antony and Cleopatrawould offer him a fit material. In the second as compared with thefirst Roman play, there is certainly no decline. The subject isdifferent, the point of view is different, the treatment is different,but subject, point of view and treatment all harmonise with each other,and the whole in its kind is as great as could be. Perhaps some such considerations may explain why Shakespeare, afterhe had been for seven years expatiating on the heights of free tragicinvention, yet returned for a time to a theme which, with his ideasof loyalty to recorded fact, dragged him back in some measure to theembarrassments of the chronicle history. It was all so congenial, thathe was willing to face the disadvantages of an action that straggledover years and continents, of a multiplicity of short scenes that inthe third act rise to a total of thirteen and in the fourth to a totalof fifteen, of a number of episodic personages who appear withoutpreparation and vanish almost without note. He had to lay his accountwith this if he dramatised these transactions at all, for to him theywere serious matters that his fancy must not be allowed to distort. Indeed he accepts the conditions so unreservedly, and makes so littleeffort to evade them, that his mind seems to have taken the ply, andhe resorts to the meagre, episodical scene, not only when Plutarch’snarrative suggests it, but when he is making additions of his own andwhen no very obvious advantage is to be secured. This is the onlyexplanation that readily presents itself for the fourth scene ofthe second act, which in ten lines describes Lepidus’ leave-takingof Mecaenas and Agrippa. [197] There is for this no authority in the_Life_; and what object does it serve? It may indicate on the onehand the punctilious deference that Octavius’ ministers deem fit toshow as yet to the incompetent Triumvir, and on the other his lack ofefficient energy in allowing his private purposes to make him two dayslate at the _rendezvous_ which he himself has advocated as urgent. Butthese hints could quite well have been conveyed in some other way, andthis invented scene seems theatrically and dramatically quite otiose. Nevertheless, and this is the point to observe, it so fits into thepattern of the chronicle play that it does not force itself on one’snotice as superfluous. [197] Of course the division into scenes is not indicated in the Folio,but a new “place” is obviously required for this conversation. Ofcourse, too, change of scene did not mean so much on the Elizabethanas on the modern stage, but it must always have counted for something. Every allowance made, the above criticism seems to me valid. It is partly for this reason that _Antony and Cleopatra_ holds itsdistinctive place among Shakespeare’s masterpieces. On the one handthere is no play that springs more spontaneously out of the heartof its author, and into which he has breathed a larger portion ofhis inspiration; and on the other there is none that is more purelyhistorical, so that in this respect it is comparable among the Romandramas to _Richard II. _ in the English series. This was the doublecharacteristic that Coleridge emphasised in his _Notes on Shakespeare’sPlays_: “There is not one in which he has followed history so minutely,and yet there are few in which he impresses the notion of angelicstrength so much—perhaps none in which he impresses it more strongly. This is greatly owing to the manner in which the fiery force issustained throughout, and to the numerous momentary flashes of naturecounteracting the historical abstraction. ” The angelic strength, thefiery force, the flashes of nature are due to his complete sympathywith the facts, but that makes his close adherence to his authority allthe more remarkable. CHAPTER II_ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_, A HISTORY, TRAGEDY, AND LOVE POEM; AS SHOWN BYITS RELATIONS WITH PLUTARCHThe obligations to Plutarch, though very great, are of a somewhatpeculiar kind. Shakespeare does not borrow so largely or so repeatedlyfrom the diction of North as in _Coriolanus_ or even in _JuliusCaesar_. His literal indebtedness is for the most part confined tothe exploitation here and there of a few short phrases or sentences,generally of a not very distinctive character. Thus Octavia isdescribed as “having an excellent grace, wisedom and honestie, joinedunto so rare a beawtie”; which suggests her “beauty, wisdom, modesty,”in the play (II. ii. 246). Thus, after the scourging of Thyreus, Antonysends Caesar the message:    “If this mislike thee,” said he, “thou hast Hipparchus[198]    one of my infranchised bondmen with thee: hang him if thou    wilt, or whippe him at thy pleasure, that we may cry quittaunce. ”[198] The irony of the proposal, which Plutarch indicates but does notstress, is entirely lost in Shakespeare. We have already been told thatHipparchus “was the first of all his (_i. e. _ Antony’s) infranchisedbondmen that revolted from him and yelded unto Caesar”; so Caesar isinvited to retaliate on one of his own adherents. This becomes:                                  If he mislike    My speech and what is done, tell him he has    Hipparchus, my enfranchised bondman, whom    He may at pleasure whip, or hang, or torture,    As he shall like, to quit me.                                 (III. xiii. 147. )So, too, Plutarch says of Dolabella’s disclosure to Cleopatra:    He sent her word secretly as she had requested him, that    Caesar determined to take his journey through Suria, and    that within three dayes he would sende her away before with    her children. The words are closely copied in Dolabella’s statement:                        Caesar through Syria    Intends his journey, and within three days    You with your children will he send before:    Make your best use of this: I have perform’d    Your pleasure and my promise.                                        (V. ii. 200. )It is only now and then that such small loans stand out as examplesof the “happy valiancy of style” that characterises the drama as awhole. For instance, at the end when Cleopatra is dead and Charmian hasapplied the asp, the brief interchange of question and answer whichPlutarch reports could not be bettered even by Shakespeare.    One of the souldiers seeing her, angrily sayd unto her: “Is    that well done, Charmion? ” “Verie well,” sayd she againe,    “and meete for a Princes discended from a race of so many    noble Kings. ”Shakespeare knows when he is well off and accepts the goods the godsprovide.      _1st Guard. _          Charmian, is this well done?      _Charmian. _ It is well done and fitting for a princess    Descended from so many royal kings.                                        (V. ii. 238. )Perhaps the noblest and one of the closest of these paraphrases is inthe scene of Antony’s death. With his last breath he persuades her    that she should not lament nor sorowe for the miserable    chaunge of his fortune at the end of his dayes: but rather    that she should thinke him the more fortunate, for the    former triumphes and honors he had received, considering    that while he lived he was the noblest and greatest Prince    of the world, and that now he was overcome, not cowardly but    valiantly, a Romane by an other Romane. Shakespeare’s Antony says:    The miserable change now at my end    Lament nor sorrow at: but please your thoughts    In feeding them with those my former fortunes    Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o’ the world,    The noblest: and do now not basely die,    Not cowardly put off my helmet to    My countryman,—a Roman by a Roman    Valiantly vanquish’d.                                        (IV. xv. 51. )As a rule, however, even these short reproductions are not transcripts. Shakespeare’s usual method is illustrated in his recast of Antony’spathetic protest to Caesar that    he made him angrie with him, bicause he shewed him selfe    prowde and disdainfull towards him, and now specially when    he was easie to be angered, by reason of his present miserie. Shakespeare gives a more bitter poignancy to the confession.                                Look, thou say    He makes me angry with him, for he seems    Proud and disdainful, _harping on what I am,    Not what he knew I was: he makes me angry_;    And at this time most easy ’tis to do ’t,    _When my good stars, that were my former guides,    Have empty left their orbs, and shot their fires    Into the abysm of hell_.                                        (III. xiii. 140. )Much the same estimate holds good of the longer passages derived fromNorth, which for the rest are but few. The most literal are as a rulecomparatively unimportant. A typical specimen is the list of complaintsmade by Antony against Octavius, and Octavius’ rejoinder:    And the chiefest poyntes of his accusations he charged    him with, were these: First, that having spoyled Sextus    Pompeius in Sicile, he did not give him his parte of the    Ile. Secondly, that he did deteyne in his handes the shippes    he lent him to make that warre. Thirdly, that having put    Lepidus their companion and triumvirate out of his part    of the Empire, and having deprived him of all honors: he    retayned for him selfe the lands and revenues thereof, which    had been assigned to him for his part. . . . Octavius Caesar    aunswered him againe: that for Lepidus, he had in deede    deposed him, and taken his part of the Empire from him,    bicause he did overcruelly use his authoritie. And secondly,    for the conquests he had made by force of armes, he was    contented Antonius should have his part of them, so that he    would likewise let him have his part of Armenia. Shakespeare copies even Caesar’s convenient reticence as to theborrowed vessels.      _Agrippa. _             Who does he accuse?      _Caesar. _ Caesar: and that, having in Sicily    Sextus Pompeius spoil’d, we have not rated him    His part o’ the isle: then does he say, he lent me    Some shipping unrestored: lastly, he frets    That Lepidus of the triumvirate    Should be deposed; and, being, that we detain    All his revenue.      _Agrippa. _       Sir, this should be answer’d.      _Caesar. _ ’Tis done already, and the messenger gone.    I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel:    That he his high authority abused,    And did deserve his change: for what I have conquer’d    I grant him part: but then, in his Armenia,    And other of his conquer’d kingdoms, I    Demand the like.                                        (III. vi. 23. )Less matter-of-fact, because more vibrant with its fanfare of names,but still somewhat of the nature of an official schedule, is the listof tributaries in Antony’s host.    (He) had with him to ayde him these kinges and subjects    following: Bocchus king of Lybia, Tarcondemus king of high    Cilicia, Archelaus king of Cappadocia, Philadelphus king    of Paphlagonia, Mithridates king of Comagena, and Adallas    king of Thracia. All the which were there every man in    person. The residue that were absent sent their armies, as    Polemon king of Pont, Manchus king of Arabia, Herodes king    of Iury; and furthermore, Amyntas king of Lycaonia, and of    the Galatians: and besides all these he had all the ayde the    king of Medes sent unto him. The long bead-roll of shadowy potentates evidently delightsShakespeare’s ear as it would have delighted the ear of Milton orVictor Hugo[199]:                            He hath assembled    Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus    Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos king    Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas;    King Malchus of Arabia; king of Pont;    Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king    Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas,    The kings of Mede and Lycaonia,    With a more larger list of sceptres.                                   (III. vi. 68. )[199] It is interesting to note that it had already caught the fancy ofJodelle, though being more faithful to the text in enumerating only thekings who were actually present and taking no liberties with the namesand titles, he failed to get all the possible points out of it. Agrippasays to Octavian:    Le Roy Bocchus, le Roy Cilicien    Archelaus, Roy Capadocien,    Et Philadelphe, et Adalle de Thrace,    Et Mithridate, usoyent-ils de menace    Moindre sus nous que de porter en joye    Nostre despouille et leur guerriere proye,    Pour a leurs Dieux joyeusement les pendre    Et maint et maint sacrifice leur rendre?                              Acte II. Still, of the longer passages that show throughout a real approximationto North’s language, the two already quoted, the soothsayer’s warningto Antony, and the description of Cleopatra on the Cydnus are the mostimpressive: and even they, and especially the latter, have been touchedup and revised. Shakespeare’s general procedure in the cases where heborrows at all is a good deal freer, and may be better illustrated fromthe passage in which Octavius recalls the bygone fortitude of Antony.    These two Consuls (Hircius and Pansa) together with Caesar,    who also had an armye, went against Antonius that beseeged    the citie of Modena, and there overthrew him in battell: but    both the Consuls were slaine there. Antonius flying upon    this overthrowe, fell into great miserie all at once: but    the chiefest want of all other, and that pinched him most,    was famine. Howbeit he was of such a strong nature, that    by pacience he would overcome any adversitie, and the    heavier fortune lay upon him, the more constant shewed he    him selfe. . . . It was a wonderfull example to the souldiers,    to see Antonius that was brought up in all finenes and    superfluitie, so easily to drink puddle water, and to eate    wild frutes and rootes: and moreover it is reported, that    even as they passed the Alpes, they did eate the barcks of    trees, and such beasts, as never man tasted of their flesh    before. This is good, but Shakespeare’s version visualises as well as heightensAntony’s straits and endurance, and brings them into contrast with hislater effeminacy.                        When thou once    Wast beaten from Modena, where thou slew’st    Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel    Did famine follow: whom thou fought’st against,    Though daintily brought up, with patience more    Than savages could suffer: thou didst drink    The stale of horses, and the gilded puddle    Which beasts would cough at: thy palate then did deign    The roughest berry on the rudest hedge:    Yea, like the stag, when snow the pasture sheets,    The barks of trees thou browsed’st; on the Alps    It is reported thou didst eat strange flesh,    Which some did die to look on: and all this—    It wounds thine honour that I speak it now—    Was borne so like a soldier, that thy cheek    So much as lank’d not.                                        (I. iv. 56. )But including such elaborations, the number of passages repeated orrecast from North is not considerable. In the whole of the first actthis description of the retreat from Modena is the only one of anyconsequence, and though the percentage increases as the play proceeds,and they are much more frequent in the second half, even in the fifthact, the proportion of easily traceable lines is fifty-seven to fourhundred and forty-six, or barely more than an eighth. Much more numerous and generally much more noteworthy than thestrictly verbal suggestions are those that, conveyed altogether inShakespeare’s phrase, give such immediate life to the play, whetherthey supply episodes for acting or merely material for the dialogue. Sometimes a whole paragraph is distilled into a sentence, like thatfamous bit of domestic chit-chat that must have impressed Plutarch whena boy.    I have heard my grandfather Lampryas report, that one    Philotas a Physition, born in the citie of Amphissa, told    him that he was at the present time in Alexandria, and    studied physicke: and that having acquaintance with one of    Antonius cookes, he tooke him with him to Antonius house,    (being a young man desirous to see things) to shew him the    wonderfull sumptuous charge and preparation of one only    supper. When he was in the kitchin, and saw a world of    diversities of meates, and amongst others eight wilde boares    rosted whole: he began to wonder at it, and sayd, “Sure    you have a great number of ghestes to supper. ” The cooke    fell a-laughing, and answered him: “No,” (quoth he), “not    many ghestes, nor above twelve in all: but yet all that is    boyled or roasted must be served in whole, or else it would    be marred straight. For Antonius peradventure will suppe    presently, or it may be in a pretie while hence, or likely    enough he will deferre it longer, for that he hath dronke    well to-day, or else hath had some other great matters in    hand: and therefore we doe not dresse one supper only, but    many suppers, bicause we are uncerteine of the houre he will    suppe in. ”In what strange ways has the gossip of the inquisitive medical studentbeen transmitted through Lampryas and his grandchild to furnishan arabesque for Shakespeare’s tapestry! And, when we know itshistory, what a realistic touch does this anecdote lend to Mecaenas’badinage, though Shakespeare has raised the profuse to the sublime bytransferring the banquet from the evening to the morning, suppressingthe fact of the relays, and insinuating that this was nothing out ofthe common!      _Mecaenas. _ Eight wild boars roasted whole at a breakfast,    and but twelve persons there: is this true?      _Enobarbus. _ This was but as a fly by an eagle: we had    much more monstrous matter of feast, which worthily    deserved noting.                                              (II. ii. 183. )Or again we are told of Cleopatra’s precautions after Actium.    Now to make proofe of those poysons which made men dye with    least paine, she tried it upon condemned men in prison. For    when she saw the poysons that were sodaine and vehement, and    brought speedy death with grievous torments: and in contrary    manner, that suche as were more milde and gentle, had not    that quicke speede and force to make one dye sodainly: she    afterwardes went about to prove the stinging of snakes and    adders, and made some to be applied unto men in her sight,    some in one sorte, and some in an other. So when she had    dayly made divers and sundrie proofes, she found none of all    them she had proved so fit as the biting of an Aspicke, the    which only causeth a heavines of the head, without swounding    or complaining, and bringeth a great desire also to sleepe,    with a little swet on the face, and so by little and little    taketh away the sences and vitall powers, no living creature    perceiving that the pacientes feele any paine. For they are    so sorie when any bodie waketh them, and taketh them up; as    those that being taken out of a sound sleepe, are very heavy    and desirous to sleepe. This leaves a trace only in three lines of Caesar’s reply when theguard detects the aspic’s trail; but these lines gain in significanceif we remember the fuller statement.                          Most probable    That so she died: for her physician tells me    She hath pursued conclusions infinite    Of easy ways to die.                                   (V. ii. 356. )Apart from the great pivots and levers of the action Plutarch hassupplied numbers of these minor fittings. Including with them the moreliteral loans, from which they cannot always be discriminated, we findin addition to the instances already cited the following unmistakablereminiscences: in Act I. , Antony’s proposal to roam the streets withCleopatra; in Act II. , the motive assigned for Fulvia’s rising,Antony’s ambiguous position as widower, Sextus Pompeius’ courtesyto Antony’s mother, Charmian’s description of the fishing, theconditions of peace offered to Pompey, Pompey’s flout at the seizureof his father’s house, the bantering of Antony in regard to Cleopatra,the banquet on the galley, Menas’ suggestion and Pompey’s reply; inAct III. , Ventidius’ halt in his career of victory and its reason,Octavia’s distraction between the claims of husband and brother, theoverthrow of Pompey and deposition of Lepidus, the account of thecoronation of Cleopatra and her children, Enobarbus’ remonstranceagainst Cleopatra’s presence in the armament, the allusion to the warbeing managed by her eunuch and her maids, the comparison of Octavius’and Antony’s navies, the name Antoniad given to Cleopatra’s admiral,Antony’s challenge to Octavius, the soldier’s appeal to fight on land,many particulars about the battle of Actium, Antony’s dismissal ofhis friends with treasure, the embassage of Euphronius and Octavius’reply, Thyreus’ commission, Antony’s renewed challenge, the birthdaycelebration; in Act IV. , Octavius’ answer to the challenge, Antony’sdisquieting speech at the banquet, the supposed departure of his divinepatron, the defection of Enobarbus, the reference to the treason ofAlexas and others, Antony’s successful sally, his return in triumph andembrace of Cleopatra ere he doffs his armour, her gift to the valiantsoldier, the death of Enobarbus, the posting of the footmen on thehills before the final catastrophe, the presage of swallows buildingon Antony’s ship, the fraternization of the fleets, Antony’s rage atCleopatra, her flight to the tomb, the message of her death, Antony’srevulsion of feeling at the news, Eros’ plighted obligation and hissuicide, the mortal wound Antony gives himself, the second message fromCleopatra, his conveyance to the monument, Cleopatra’s refusal to undothe locks and her expedient of drawing him up, several particulars inthe last interview, such as the commendation of Proculeius; in ActV. , Dercetas’ announcement to Octavius of Antony’s death, Octavius’reception of the tidings and his reference to their correspondence,his plans for Cleopatra, the interview of Proculeius with Cleopatraat the Monument, his unobserved entrance, the exclamation of thewaiting-woman, Cleopatra’s attempted suicide, the visit of Octavius,his threats concerning Cleopatra’s children, her concealment of hertreasure, the disclosure of Seleucus, her indignation at him andapology to Octavius, Octavius’ reception of it, Dolabella’s sympathywith the captive queen, the arrival of the countryman with the figs,the dressing in state, the death of Cleopatra and Iras before thesoldiers enter, Charmian’s last service in adjusting the diadem,Octavius’ appreciation of Cleopatra’s courage and command for herburial beside Antony. This enumeration shows how largely Shakespeare is indebted to Plutarch,and also how his obligations are greatest in the later portion of theplay. They become conspicuous a little before the middle of the thirdact, and the proportion is maintained till the close; for though thereare not so many in the fifth act, it is considerably shorter than thefourth or than the last eight scenes of the third. Shakespeare however obtains from Plutarch not merely a large numberof his details, but the general programme of the story and thepresuppositions of the portraiture, as will appear from a short summaryof Plutarch’s narrative, into which, for clearness’ sake, I insert theprincipal dates. After Philippi, Antony gave himself up to a life of ostentation andluxury, interrupted by flashes of his nobler mood, first in Greeceand subsequently in Asia. Then came his meeting with Cleopatra onthe Cydnus, and in his passion for her all that was worthiest in hisnature was smothered. Despite pressing public duties he accompanied heron her return to Alexandria, where he wasted his time in “childishsports and idle pastimes. ” In the midst of his dalliance the tidingsarrive with which the play opens, in 41 B. C. , of the contest of hisbrother Lucius and his wife Fulvia, first with each other and then withOctavius, of their defeat and expulsion from Italy; as well as of theinroad of the Parthians under Labienus as far as Lydia and Ionia.    Then began Antonius with much a doe to rouse him selfe as if    he had been wakened out of a deepe sleepe, and as a man may    say comming out of a great dronkennes. He sets out for Parthia, but in obedience to the urgent summons ofFulvia, changes his course for Italy. On the way he falls in withfugitives of his party who tell him that his wife was sole cause ofthe war and had begun it only to withdraw him from Cleopatra. Soonafterwards Fulvia, who was “going to meete with Antonius” fell sickand died at Sicyon in 40 B. C. —“by good fortune” comments Plutarch, asnow the colleagues could be more easily reconciled. The friends ofboth were indisposed to “unrippe any olde matters” and a compositionwas come to whereby Antony obtained the East, Octavius the West, andLepidus Africa. This agreement, since Antony was now a widower and“denied not that he kept Cleopatra, but so did he not confesse that hehad her as his wife,” was confirmed by Antony’s marriage, which everyone approved, with Octavius’ dearly loved half-sister Octavia, andit was hoped that “she should be a good meane to keepe good love andamitie betwext her brother and him. ”Meanwhile Sextus Pompeius in Sicily had been making himself troublesomewith his pirate allies, and as he had showed great courtesy to Antony’smother, it seemed good to make peace with him. An interview accordinglytook place at Misenum in 39 B. C. as a result of which he was grantedSicily and Sardinia on the conditions mentioned in the play. Antony was now able to resume his plans for punishing the Parthians andsent Ventidius against them while he still remained in Rome. But movedby the predominance of Octavius and the warning of the soothsayer,he resolved to take up his own jurisdiction, and with Octavia andtheir infant daughter set out for Greece, where he heard the news ofVentidius’ success in 38 B. C. In 37 B. C. , offended at some reports, he returned to Italy withOctavia, who had now a second daughter and was again with child. By herintercession good relations were restored between the brothers-in-law,each lending the other the forces of which he most stood in need. Octavius employed the borrowed ships against Sextus Pompeius, Antonywas to employ the borrowed soldiers against the Parthians. Leaving his wife and children in Octavius’ care, Antony proceededdirectly to Asia.    Then beganne this pestilent plague and mischiefe of    Cleopatraes love (which had slept a longe tyme and seemed    to have bene utterlie forgotten and that Antonius had geven    place to better counsell) againe to kindle and to be in    force, so soone as Antonius came neere unto Syria. He sends for her and to the scandal of the Romans pays her extravaganthonours, showers kingdoms upon her, and designates their twin childrenthe Sun and the Moon. He does not, however, in seeming, neglect his expedition to Parthia,but gathers a huge and well appointed host wherewith to invade it. Nevertheless    this so great and puisant army which made the Indians quake    for feare, dwelling about the contry of the Bactrians and    all Asia also to tremble: served him to no purpose, and all    for the love he bore to Cleopatra. For the earnest great    desire he had to lye all winter with her, made him begin his    warre out of due time, and for hast to put all in hazard,    being so ravished and enchaunted with the sweete poyson of    her love, that he had no other thought but of her, and how    he might quickly returne againe: more then how he might    overcome his enemies. Not only did Antony choose the wrong season, but in his hurry he leftall his heavy engines behind him and thus threw away his chancesin advance. The campaign was a series of disasters and ended in aninglorious retreat. The only credit that can be given to him frombeginning to end is for efficiency in misfortune and sympathy with hissoldiers. Yet even these were impaired by his fatal passion.    The greate haste he made to returne unto Cleopatra, caused    him to put his men to great paines, forcing them to lye in    the field all winter long when it snew unreasonably, that by    the way he lost eight thowsand of his men. Arrived at the Syrian coast he awaits her coming.    And bicause she taried longer then he would have had her,    he pined away for love and sorrow. So that he was at such    a straight, that he wist not what to doe, and therefore to    weare it out, he gave him selfe to quaffing and feasting.    But he was so drowned with the love of her, that he could    not abide to sit at the table till the feast were ended: but    many times while others banketted, he came to the sea side    to see if she were comming. Meanwhile, in 36 B. C. , during the Parthian expedition, Sextus Pompeiushad been defeated, his death, not mentioned by Plutarch, following inthe ensuing year, and Lepidus had been deposed by Octavius, who gave noaccount of the spoils. On the other hand, in 34 B. C. , Antony, who hadoverrun and seized Armenia, celebrated his triumph not in Rome but inAlexandria. Grievances were thus accumulating on both sides, and Octavia once moreseeking to mediate, took ship to join her husband with the approval ofOctavius, who foresaw the upshot, and regarded it as likely to put hisbrother-in-law in the wrong. Antony bade her stop at Athens, promising to come to her, butafterwards, fearing lest Cleopatra should kill herself for grief,he broke tryst, and Octavia returned to Rome where she watched overhis interests as best she might. Antony in the meantime accompaniedCleopatra to Egypt and gave the Romans new offence by paying her divinehonours and parcelling out the East among her and her children. Then came the interchange of uncompromising messages in 33 B. C. , andAntony bade Octavia leave his house. The appeal to arms was inevitable,and as the taxation to which Octavius was compelled to resort in viewof his rival’s great preparation roused general discontent, it wasAntony’s cue to invade Italy. But he continued to squander his time infeasts and revels, and in such and other ways further alienated hisfriends in Rome. In 32 B. C. Octavius declared war against Cleopatra, and had Antonydeprived of his authority. The battle of Actium followed on the 2ndSeptember, 31 B. C. But Antony, after his retirement to Egypt, in somemeasure recovered from his first despondency at the defeat, and evenwhen he found himself forsaken by allies and troops, continued to livea life of desperate gaiety. After an ignominious attempt at negotiationand a flicker of futile success, the final desertion of his fleet, forwhich he blamed Cleopatra, put an end to his resistance, and he killedhimself in 30 B. C. , less, however, in despair at his overthrow than forgrief at Cleopatra’s alleged death.    (He) said unto him selfe: “What doest thou looke for    further, Antonius, sith spitefull fortune hath taken from    thee the only joy thou haddest, for whom thou yet reservedst    thy life. ”After mentioning how Antony’s son, Antyllus, and Cleopatra’s son,Caesarion, were betrayed to death by their governors, Plutarchdescribes how Cleopatra for a while is deterred from suicide chieflyby fears for her other children. Hearing, however, Octavius’ definiteplans for her, she obtains leave to offer a last oblation at Antony’stomb, and thereafter takes her own life. The biography concludes with anotice of Octavia’s care for all Antony’s children, not only Fulvia’sand her own, but those of whom Cleopatra was mother. It will be seen from this sketch that no incidents of politicalimportance are added, few are altered, and very few omitted byShakespeare. Of course the dramatic form necessitates a certainconcentration, and this of itself, even were there no farther motive,would account for the occasional synchronising of separate episodes. Thus the news of Fulvia’s death and Sextus Pompeius’ aggression isrun together with the news of the wars of Fulvia and Lucius and theadvance of the Parthians. Thus between the second marriage and thefinal breach it was convenient to condense matters, and, in doingthis, to omit Antony’s flying visit to Italy, blend Octavia’s firstand second attempts at mediation, and represent her as taking leave ofher husband at Athens. In the same way the months between the battleof Actium and the death of Antony, and the days between the death ofAntony and that of Cleopatra might easily be compressed without anyhurt to the sentiment of the story. But even of this artistic licenseShakespeare avails himself far less systematically than in _JuliusCaesar_. There, as we saw, the action is crowded into five days, thoughwith considerable intervals between some of them. There is no sucharrangement in _Antony and Cleopatra_. Superficially this play is oneof the most invertebrate in structure that Shakespeare ever wrote. It gives one the impression of an anxious desire to avoid tamperingwith the facts and their relations even when history does not furnishready-made the material that bests fits the drama. And in the main this impression is correct. Shakespeare supplies apanorama of some ten eventful years in which he can not only cite hischapter and verse for most of the official _data_, but reproduces, withamazing fidelity, the general contour of the historical landscape,in so far as it was visible from his point of view. And yet hisallegiance to the letter has often been exaggerated and is to a greatextent illusory. This does not mean merely that his picture failsto approve itself as the truth, the whole truth and nothing but thetruth, when tested by the investigations of modern scholars. Hisposition and circumstances were not theirs. He took Plutarch’s _MarcusAntonius_ as his chief and almost sole authority, resorting possiblyfor suggestions of situation and phrase to the Senecan tragedies onthe same theme, probably for the descriptions of Egypt to Holland’stranslation of Pliny or Cory’s translation of Leo, and almost certainlyfor many details about Sextus Pompeius[200] to the 1578 version ofAppian; but always treating the _Life_ not only as his inexhaustiblestorehouse, but as sufficient guarantee for any statement that itcontained. In short he could give the history of the time, not as itwas but as Plutarch represented it, and as Plutarch’s representationexplained itself to an Elizabethan. It is hardly to his discredit if heunderestimates Cleopatra’s political astuteness, and has no guess ofthe political projects that recent criticism has ascribed to Antony,for of these things his author has little to say. It is hardly to hiscredit, if, on Appian’s hint, he realises the importance of SextusPompeius’ insular position and naval power, for he lived in the days ofHawkins and Drake. [200] See Appendix D. But he is not slavishly literal even in his adherence to Plutarch. He adopts his essential and many of his subsidiary facts: he followshis lead in the broad course of events; he does not alter the mainlines of the story. But it is surprising to find how persistently herearranges and regroups the minor details, and how by this means hegives them a new significance. The portions of the play where he hasmade the narrative more compact are also, roughly speaking, thosein which he has taken most liberties in dislocating the sequence,and the result is not merely greater conciseness but an originalinterpretation. Yet on the other hand we must not either misconstruethe meaning or overstate the importance of this procedure. In the firstplace it affects not so much the history of events as the portraitureof the persons. In the second place, even in the characterisation itgenerally adds vividness and depth to the presentation rather thanalters the fundamental traits. Thus in Plutarch the soothsayer’swarning to Antony follows, in Shakespeare it precedes, the compositionwith Pompey. From the chronicler’s point of view this transposition isabundantly unimportant, but it does make a difference in our estimateof Antony: his consequent decision shows more levity and rashness inthe play than in the biography. Yet in both his whole behaviour at thisjuncture is distinctly fickle and indiscreet; so the net result of thedisplacement is to sharpen the lines that Plutarch has already drawn. And this is true in a greater or less degree of most of the cases inwhich Shakespeare reshuffles Plutarch’s notes. On the whole, despitedramatic parallax and changed perspective, _Antony and Cleopatra_is astonishingly faithful to the facts as they were supposed to be. Shakespeare could hardly have done more in getting to the heart ofPlutarch’s account, and in reconstructing it with all its vital andessential characteristics disentangled and combined afresh in theirrational connection. And since after all Plutarch “meant right” thisimplies that Shakespeare is not only true to Plutarch, but virtuallytrue to what is still considered the spirit of his subject. [201][201] This may be said even if we accept Professor Ferrero’s argumentsthat Antony’s infatuation for Cleopatra was invented or exaggerated byopponents, and that their relation was to a great extent invented orprescribed by their ambitions. Antony would still be the profligate manof genius, captivated by Asiatic ideals and careless of the interestsof Rome. His policy at the close would still, by Professor Ferrero’sown admission, be traceable to the ascendancy which Cleopatra hadestablished over him. And the picture of contemporary conditions wouldstill retain a large measure of truth. Indeed his most far-reaching modifications concern in the main themanner in which the persons appeal to our sympathies, and in which hewishes us to envisage their story; and these perhaps in a preliminaryview can better be indicated by what he has suppressed than by what hehas added or recast. There is one conspicuous omission that shows howhe deals with character; there are several minor ones that in their sumshow how he prescribes the outlook. To begin with the former, it is impossible not to be struck by thecomplete deletion of the Parthian fiasco, which in Plutarch occupiesnearly a fifth of the whole _Life_, or a fourth of the part with whichShakespeare deals in this play. It thus bulks large in Antony’s career,and though in the main it may be unsuitable for dramatic purposes, itis nevertheless connected in its beginning, conduct and close, withthe story of his love for Cleopatra. Yet we have only one far off andeuphemistic reference to it in the words of Eros, when Antony bids himstrike.                        The gods withhold me!    Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts,    Though enemy, lost aim, and could not?                                   (IV. xiv. 69. )Why this reticence in regard to one of the most ambitious enterpriseswith which the name of Antony was associated? The truth is that thewhole management of the campaign detracts grievously from the glamourof “absolute soldiership” with which the dramatist surrounds his heroand through which he wishes us to view him. His silence in regard to itis thus a hint of one far-reaching and momentous change Shakespeare hasmade in the impression the story conveys, and that is in the characterof Antony himself. In the biography he is by no means so grandiosea figure, so opulent and magnificent a nature, as he appears in theplay. Gervinus sums up the salient features of Plutarch’s Antony in thefollowing sentence:    A man who had grown up in the wild companionship of a Curio    and a Clodius, who had gone through the high school of    debauchery in Greece and Asia, who had shocked everybody in    Rome during Caesar’s dictatorship by his vulgar excesses,    who had made himself popular among the soldiers by drinking    with them and encouraging their low amours, a man upon    whom the odium of the proscriptions under the rule of the    triumvirate especially fell, who displayed a cannibal    pleasure over Cicero’s bloody head and hand, who afterwards    renewed in the East the wanton life of his youth, and robbed    in grand style to maintain the vilest gang of parasites and    jugglers, such a man depicted finally as the prey of an    elderly and artful courtesan, could not possibly have been    made the object of dramatic interest. It is wonderful how    Shakespeare on the one hand preserved the historic features    of Antony’s character, so as not to make him unrecognisable,    and yet how he contrived on the other to render him an    attractive personage. The array of charges Gervinus compiles from Plutarch is notexaggerated. Indeed it could be enlarged and emphasised. Dishonestyin money matters, jealousy of his subordinates, an occasional lackof generalship that almost becomes inefficiency, might be addedto the list. But Plutarch’s picture contains other traits that hedoes not seek to reconcile with those that repel us, but drops incasually and by the way: and in Shakespeare these are brought to thefront. Valour, endurance, generosity, versatility, resourcefulness,self-knowledge, frankness, simplicity after a fashion, width ofoutlook, power of self-recovery, are all attributed to Antony even byhis first biographer, though these qualities are overweighted by themass of his delinquencies. Shakespeare shows them in relief; while themore offensive characteristics, like his youthful licentiousness, arerelegated to his bygone past, or, like his jealousy and vindictiveness,are merely suggested by subordinate strokes, such as the break inVentidius’ triumphant campaign, or the merciless scourging of Thyreus. It is sometimes said that Shakespeare’s Brutus is historically correctand that his Mark Antony is a new creation. The opposite statementwould be nearer the truth. We feel that both the biographer and thedramatist have given a portrait of Cleopatra’s lover, and that bothportraits are like; but the one painter has been content with acollection of vivid traits which in their general effect are ignobleand repulsive: the other in a sense has idealised his model, but itis by reading the soul of greatness through the sordid details, andexplaining them by the conception of Antony, not perhaps at his bestbut at his grandest. He is still, though fallen, the Antony who atCaesar’s death could alter the course of history; a dissolute intriguerno doubt, but a man of genius, a man of enthusiasms, one who is equalor all but equal to the highest occasion the world can present,and who, if he fails owing to the lack of steadfast principle andvirile will that results from voluptuous indulgence and unscrupulouspractisings, yet remains fascinating and magnificent even in his ruin. And by means of this transfiguration, Shakespeare is able to lendabsorbing interest to his delineation of this gifted, complex, andfaulty soul, and to rouse the deepest sympathy for his fate. Despitehis loyalty to the historical record he lifts his argument above thelevel of the Chronicle History, and makes it a true tragedy. In itsdeference for facts, _Antony and Cleopatra_ is to be ranked with suchpieces as _Richard II. _ and _Henry VIII. _, but in its real essence itclaims another position. “The highest praise, or rather the highestform of praise, of this play,” says Coleridge, “is the doubt whichthe perusal always occasions in me, whether _Antony and Cleopatra_ isnot, in all exhibitions of a giant power in its strength and vigourof maturity, a formidable rival of _Macbeth_, _Lear_, _Hamlet_, and_Othello_. ”In another aspect the more obvious of the minor omissions are in theirgeneral tendency not less typical of the way in which Shakespeare dealswith his subject. For what are those that strike us at first sight? To begin with, many instances of Octavia’s devotion, constancy andprinciple are passed over, and she is placed very much in the shade. Then there is no reference to the children that sprang from her unionwith Antony, indeed their existence is by implication denied, and sheseems to be introduced as another Iseult of the White Hands. Antonycries to Cleopatra,    Have I my pillow left unpress’d in Rome,    Forborne the getting of a lawful race,    And by a gem of women, to be abused    By one that looks on feeders?                           (III. xiii. 106. )Further, the tragic stories of Antony’s son Antyllus and of Cleopatra’sson Caesarion are left unused, Antyllus not being mentioned at all,Caesarion only by the way; though Daniel does not scruple to includeboth accessories within the narrower limits of a Senecan tragedy. Morenoticeable still, however, is the indifference with which the childrenof Antony and Cleopatra are dismissed. They are barely alluded to,though the Queen’s anxiety for their preservation, which suppliesacceptable matter not only to Daniel but to Jodelle and Garnier, isavouched by Plutarch’s statement and driven home by North’s vigorousphrase. Plutarch describes her distress of body and mind after Antony’sdeath and her own capture.    She fell into a fever withal: whereof she was very glad,    hoping thereby to have good colour to absteine from    meate, and that so she might have dyed easely without any    trouble. . . . But Caesar mistrusted the matter, by many    conjectures he had, and therefore did put her in feare, and    threatned her to put her children to shameful death. With    these threats Cleopatra for feare yelded straight, _as she    would have yelded unto strokes_; and afterwards suffred    her selfe to be cured and dieted as they listed. Shakespeare makes no use of this save in the warning of Octavius:                                If you seek    To lay on me a cruelty, by taking    Antony’s course, you shall bereave yourself    Of my good purposes, and put your children    To that destruction which I’ll guard them from,    If thereon you rely.                                   (V. ii. 128. )But here the threat is significant of Octavius’ character, notof Cleopatra’s, who makes no reply to it, and remains absolutelyunaffected by it. Indeed she shows more sense of motherhood in herdying reference to the asp as “her baby at her breast,” than in all theprevious play. It cannot be doubted that the effect of all these omissions is toconcentrate the attention on the purely personal relations of thelovers. And the prominence assigned to them also appears if we comparethe _Life_ and the drama as a whole. It will be noted that in direct quotation, in incident and allusion,in general structure, Shakespeare owes far more to his authority inthe last half of the play than in the first: for the closer observanceof, and the larger loans from, the biography begin with the centralscenes of the third act. But it is at this stage of the narrativethat Cleopatra, for a while in the background, once more becomesthe paramount person; and few are the allusions to her from theperiod of Actium that Shakespeare suffers to escape him. Moreoversuch independent additions as there are in the latter portion of theplay, have mostly to do with her; and in six of the invented scenesin the earlier acts she has the chief or at least a leading role. Clearly, when she is in evidence, Shakespeare feels least need tosupplement, and when she is absent he has to fill in the gap. And thisis significant of his whole conception.

Gervinus tries to express thecontrast between the Antony of Plutarch and the Antony of Shakespeareby means of a comparison. “We are inclined,” he writes, “to designatethe ennobling transformation which the poet undertook by one word:he refined the crude features of Mark Antony into the character ofan Alcibiades. ” In a way that is not ill said, so far as it goes;but it omits perhaps the most essential point. The great thing aboutShakespeare’s Antony is his capacity for a grand passion. We cannottalk of Alcibiades as a typical lover in the literature of the world,but Antony has a good right to his place in the “Seintes Legende ofCupyde. ” When three-quarters of a century after Shakespeare Drydenventured to rehandle the theme in the noble play that almost justifiesthe audacity of his attempt, he called his version, _All for Love orthe World well lost_. We have something of the same feeling in readingShakespeare, and we do not have it in reading Plutarch. Plutarch hasno eyes for the glory of Antony’s madness. He gives the facts ortraditions that Shakespeare reproduced, but he regards the whole affairas a pitiable dotage, or, at best, as a calamitous visitation—regardsit in short much as the Anti-Shakesperians do now. After describingthe dangerous tendencies in Antony’s mixed nature, he introduces hisaccount of the meeting at the Cydnus, with the deliberate statementwhich the rest of his story merely works out in detail:    Antonius being thus inclined, the last and extreamest    mischiefe of all other (to wit, the love of Cleopatra)    lighted on him, who did waken and stirre up many vices    yet hidden in him, and were never seene to any; and if    any sparke of goodnesse or hope of rising were left him,    Cleopatra quenched it straight and made it worse than before. Similarly his final verdict in the _Comparison of Demetrius and MarcusAntonius_ is unrelenting:    Cleopatra oftentimes unarmed Antonius, and intised him to    her, making him lose matters of importaunce, and verie    needeful jorneys, to come and be dandled with her about    the rivers of Canobus and Taphosiris. In the ende as Paris    fledde from battell and went to hide him selfe in Helens    armes; even so did he in Cleopatras armes, or to speak    more properlie, Paris hidde him selfe in Helens closet,    but Antonius to followe Cleopatra, fledde and lost the    victorie. . . . He slue him selfe (to confesse a troth)    cowardly and miserably. Shakespeare by no means neglects this aspect of the case, as Drydentends to do, and he could never have taken Dryden’s title for his play. Nevertheless, while agreeing with Plutarch, he agrees with Dryden too. To him Antony’s devotion to Cleopatra is the grand fact in his career,which bears witness to his greatness as well as to his littleness, andis at once his perdition and his apotheosis. And so in the third placethis is a love tragedy, and has its relations with _Romeo and Juliet_and _Troilus and Cressida_, the only other attempts that Shakespearemade in this kind: as is indicated even in their designations. Forthese are the only plays that are named after two persons, and thereason is that in a true love story both the lovers have equal rights. The symbol for it is an ellipse with two foci not a circle with asingle centre. [202][202] Even in _Othello_ the conspicuous place is reserved for the Moor,and in him it is jealousy as much as love that is depicted. It has sometimes been pointed out that what is generally consideredthe chief tragic theme and what was an almost indispensable ingredientin the classic drama of France, is very seldom the _Leit-motif_ of aGreek or a Shakespearian masterpiece. In this triad however Shakespearehas made use of it, and it is interesting to note the differences oftreatment in the various members of the group. In _Romeo and Juliet_ heidealises youthful love with its raptures, its wonders, its overthrowin collision with the harsh facts of life. _Troilus and Cressida_ showsthe inward dissolution of such love when it is unworthily bestowed, andsuffers from want of reverence and loftiness. In _Antony and Cleopatra_love is not a revelation as in the first, nor an illusion as in thesecond, but an infatuation. There is nothing youthful about it, whetheras adoration or inexperience. It is the love that seizes the elderlyman of the world, the trained mistress of arts, and does this, as itwould seem, to cajole and destroy them both. It is in one aspect thelove that Bacon describes in his essay with that title.    He that preferred Helena, quitted the gifts of Juno and    Pallas. For whosoever esteemeth too much of Amorous    Affection quitteth both Riches and Wisedom. This Passion    hath his Flouds in the very times of Weaknesse, which are    great Prosperitie and great Adversitie, though this latter    hath beene lesse observed. Both which times kindle Love, and    make it more fervent, and therefore shew it to be the Childe    of Folly. They doe best, who, if they cannot but admit Love,    yet make it keepe Quarter, And sever it wholly from their    serious Affaires and Actions of life; For if it checke once    with Businesse, it troubleth Men’s Fortunes, and maketh    Men that they can no wayes be true to their owne Ends. . . .    In Life it doth much mischiefe, Sometimes like a Syren,    Sometimes like a Fury. You may observe that amongst all the    great and worthy Persons (whereof the memory remaineth,    either Ancient or Recent), there is not One that hath beene    transported to the mad degree of Love; which shewes that    great Spirits and great Businesse doe keepe out this weake    Passion. You must except, never the lesse, Marcus Antonius    the halfe partner of the Empire of Rome. Part Siren, part Fury, that in truth is precisely how Plutarch wouldpersonify the love of Antony: and yet it is just this love that makeshim memorable. Seductive and destructive in its obvious manifestations,nevertheless for the great reason that it was so engrossing andsincere, it reveals and unfolds a nobility and depth in his character,of which we should otherwise never have believed him capable. These three aspects of this strange play, as a chronicle history,as a personal tragedy and as a love poem, merge and pass into eachother, but in a certain way they successively become prominent in thefollowing discussion. CHAPTER IIITHE ASSOCIATES OF ANTONYThe political setting of _Julius Caesar_ had been the struggle betweenthe Old Order and the New. The Old goes out with a final and temporaryflare of success; the New asserts itself as the necessary solution forthe problem of the time, but is deprived of its guiding genius whomight best have elicited its possibilities for good and neutralisedits possibilities for evil. In _Antony and Cleopatra_ we see how itsmastery is established and confirmed despite the faults and limitationsof the smaller men who now represent it. But in the process verymuch has been lost. The old principle of freedom, which, even whenmoribund, serve to lend both the masses and the classes activity andself-consciousness, has quite disappeared. The populace has beendismissed from the scene, and, whenever casually mentioned, it is onlywith contempt. Octavius describes it:                      This common body,    Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,    Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,    To rot itself with motion.                                   (I. iv. 44. )Antony has passed so far from the sphere of his oratorical triumph,that he thinks of his late supporters only as “the shouting plebeians,”who cheapen their sight-seeing “for poor’st diminutives, for doits”(IV. xiii. 33). His foreign Queen has been taught his scorn of theImperial people, and pictures them as “mechanic slaves, with greasyaprons, rules, and hammers,” and with “their thick breaths, rank ofgross diet” (V. ii. 208). Beyond these insults there is no reference tothe plebs, except that, as we learn from Octavius, he and Antony haveboth notified it of their respective grievances against each other;but this is a mere formality that has not the slightest effect on theprogress of events, and no citizen or group of citizens has part in theplay. Even the idea of the State is in abeyance. The sense of the majestyof Rome, which inspired both the conspirators and their opponents,seems extinct. No enterprise, whether right or wrong, is undertakenin the name of patriotism. On the very outposts of the Empire, where,in conflict with the national foe, the love of country is apt to burnmore clearly than amidst the security and altercation of the capital,we see a general, in the moment of victory, swayed in part by affectionfor his patron, in part by care for his own interest, but not in theslightest degree by civic or even chivalrous considerations. WhenVentidius is urged by Silius to pursue his advantage against theParthians, he replies that he has done enough:    Who does i’ the wars more than his captain can    Becomes his captain’s captain: and ambition,    The soldier’s virtue, rather makes choice of loss,    Than gain which darkens him.    I could do more to do Antonius good,    But ’twould offend him; and in his offence    Should my performance perish.                                       (III. i. 21. )And not only is Silius convinced; he gives his full approval toVentidius’ policy:                      Thou hast, Ventidius, that    Without the which a soldier, and his sword,    Grants scarce distinction.                                       (III. i. 27. )Are things better with Octavius’ understrappers? They serve him welland astutely, but there is no hint that their service is promptedby any large public aim, and its very efficacy is due in greatmeasure to its unscrupulousness. Agrippa and Mecaenas are ready forpolitic reasons to suggest or support the marriage of the chaste andgentle Octavia with a voluptuary like Mark Antony, whose record theyknow perfectly well, and pay decorous attentions to Lepidus whilemocking him behind his back: Thyreus and Proculeius make love to theemployment, when Octavius commissions them to cajole and deceiveCleopatra; Dolabella produces the pleasantest impression, just because,owing to a little natural manly feeling, he palters with his prescribedobligations to his master. But in none of them all is there a trace ofany liberal or generous conception of duty; they are human instruments,more or less efficient, more or less trustworthy, who make their careerby serving the purposes of Octavius’ personal ambition. Or turn to the court of Alexandria with its effeminacy, wine-bibbing,and gluttony. Sextus Pompeius talks of its “field of feasts,” its“epicurean cooks,” its “cloyless sauce” (II. i. 22, _et seq. _). Antonypalliates his neglect of the message from Rome with the excuse that,having newly feasted three kings, he did “want of what he was i’ themorning” (II. ii. 76). But even in the morning, as Cleopatra recalls,he can be drunk to bed ere the ninth hour, and then let himself be cladin female garb (II. v. 21). It is not indeed to Egypt that this intemperance is confined. Thecontagion has spread to the West, as we see from the picture of theorgy on board the galley at Misenum; a picture we may take in a specialway to convey Shakespeare’s idea of the conditions, since he had noauthority for it, but freely worked it up from Plutarch’s innocentstatement that Pompey gave the first of the series of banquets on boardhis admiral galley, “and there he welcomed them and made them greatcheere. ” But in the play all the boon companions, and not merely thehome-comers from the East, cup each other till the world goes round;save only the sober Octavius, and even he admits that his tongue“splits what it speaks. ” “This is not yet an Alexandrian feast,” saysPompey. “It ripens towards it,” answers Antony (II. vii. 102). Itripens towards it indeed; but more in the way of crude excess thanof curious corruption. In that the palace of the Ptolemies with itseunuchs and fortune-tellers, its male and female time-servers andhangers-on, is still inimitable and unchallenged. It is interestingto note how Shakespeare fills in the previous history of Iras andCharmian, whom Plutarch barely mentions till he tells of their heroicdeath. In the drama they are introduced at first as the products ofa life from which all modesty is banished by reckless luxury andsmart frivolity. Their conversation in the second scene serves toshow the unabashed _protervitas_ that has infected souls capable ofhigh loyalty and devotion. [203] And their intimate is the absolutelycontemptible Lord Alexas, with his lubricity, officiousness andflatteries, who, when evil days come, will persuade Herod of Jewry toforsake the cause of his patrons and will earn his due reward (IV. vi. 12). For there is no moral cement to hold together this ruinous world. After Actium the deserters are so numerous that Octavius can say:                      Within our files there are,    Of those that served Mark Antony but late,    Enough to fetch him in.                                   (IV. i. 12. )[203] If the ideas were in Shakespeare’s mind that Professor Zielinskiof St. Petersburg attributes to him (_Marginalien Philologus_, 1905),the gracelessness of Charmian passes all bounds. “(Die) muntre Zofewünscht sich vom Wahrsager allerhand schöne Sachen: ’lass mich an einemNachmittag drei Könige heiraten, und sie alle als Wittwe überleben;lass mich mit fünfzig Jahren ein Kind haben, dem Herodes von Judaeahuldigen soll: lass mich Octavius Caesar heiraten, etc. ’ Das ‘Püppchen’dachte sich Shakespeare jünger als ihre Herrin: fünfzig würde siealso—um Christi Geburt. Ist es nun klar, was das für ein Kind ist,dem Herodes von Judaea huldigen soll. ’ Ἐπὰν εὕρητε, ἀπαγγείλατέ μοι,ὅπως κᾀγὼ ἐλθῶν προσκυνήσω αὐτῷ, sagt er selber, Matth. ii. 18. Undwem sagt er es? Den Heiligen drei Königen. Sollten es nicht dieselbensein, die auch in Charmian’s Wunschzettel stehen? Der Einfall ist einerMysterie würdig: Gattin der heiligen drei Könige, Mutter Gottes, undrömische Kaiserin dazu. ” Worthy of a mystery, perhaps! but more worthyof a scurrilous lampoon. It might perhaps be pointed out, that, iffifty years old at the beginning of the Christian era, Charmian couldonly be ten at the opening of the play: but this is a small point, andI think it very likely that Shakespeare intended to rouse some suchassociations in the mind of the reader as Professor Zielinski suggests. Mr. Furness is rather scandalised at the “frivolous irreverence,” butit fits the part, and where is the harm? One remembers Byron’s defenceof the audacities in _Cain_ and objection to making “Lucifer talk likethe Bishop of London, _which would not be in the character of theformer_. ”There is not even decent delay in their apostasy. The battle is hardlyover when six tributary kings show “the way of yielding” to Canidius,who at once renders his legions and his horse to Caesar (III. x. 33). Shakespeare heightens Plutarch’s statement in regard to this,for in point of fact Canidius waited seven days on the chance thatAntony might rejoin them, and then, according to Plutarch, merely fledwithout changing sides: but the object is to set forth the universaldemoralisation and instability, and petty qualifications like thatimplied in the week’s delay or abandonment of the post instead ofdesertion to the enemy are dismissed as of no account. In anotheraddition, for which he has likewise no warrant, Shakespeare clothes theprevalent temper in words. When Pompey rejects the unscrupulous deviceto obtain the empire, Menas is made to exclaim:                                  For this,    I’ll never follow thy pall’d fortunes more.                                   (II. vii. 87. )Menas is a pirate, but he speaks the thought of the time; for it isonly to fortune that the whole generation is faithful. Everywhere thecult of material good prevails, whether in the way of acquisition orenjoyment; and that can give no sanction to payment of service apartfrom the results. The corroding influence of the _Zeitgeist_ even on natures naturallyhonest and sound is vividly illustrated in the story of Enobarbus: andthe study of his character is peculiarly interesting and instructive,because he is the only one of the more prominent personages whois practically a new creation in the drama, the only one in whosedelineation Shakespeare has gone quite beyond the limits supplied byPlutarch, even while making use of them. Lepidus and Pompey, with whomhe proceeds in a somewhat similar fashion, are mere subordinates. Octavius and even Cleopatra are only interpreted with new vividnessand insight. Antony himself is exhibited only with the threads of hisnature transposed, as, for example, when a fabric is held up with itsright side instead of its seamy side outwards. But for Enobarbus,who often occupies the front of the stage, the dramatist found onlya few detached sentences that suggested a few isolated traits, andwhile preserving these intact, he introduces them merely as componentelements in an entirely original and complex personality. It istherefore fair to suppose that the character of Enobarbus will be ofpeculiar importance in the economy of the piece. Plutarch refers to him thrice. The first mention is not verynoticeable. Antony, during his campaign in Parthia, had on one occasionto announce to his army a rather disgraceful composition with theenemy, according to which he received permission to retreat in peace.    But though he had an excellent tongue at will, and very    gallant to enterteine his souldiers and men of warre, and    that he could passingly well do it, as well, or better then    any Captaine in his time, yet being ashamed for respects,    he would not speake unto them at his removing, but willed    Domitius Ænobarbus to do it. Thus we see Enobarbus designated for a somewhat invidious and tryingtask, and this implies Antony’s confidence in him, and his ownefficiency. Then we are told that when the rupture with Caesar came,    Antonius, through the perswasions of Domitius, commaunded    Cleopatra to returne againe into Ægypt, and there to    understand[204] the successe of this warre,[204] Observe or await. a command, which, however, she managed to overrule. Here again inEnobarbus’ counsel we see the hard-headed and honest officer, whowishes things to be done in the right way, and risks ill-will to havethem so done. It is on this passage that Shakespeare bases the outburstof Cleopatra and the downright and sensible remonstrance of Enobarbus.      _Cle. _ I will be even with thee, doubt it not.      _Eno. _ But why, why, why?      _Cle. _ Thou hast forespoke my being in these wars,    And say’st it is not fit.      _Eno. _ Well, is it, is it?                                        (III. vii. 1. )More remotely too this gave Shakespeare the hint for Enobarbus’ othercensures on Antony’s conduct of the campaign. Thirdly, in the account of the various misfortunes that befell Antonybefore Actium, and the varying moods in which he confronted them,Shakespeare read:    Furthermore, he dealt very friendely and courteously with    Domitius, and against Cleopatraes mynde. For, he being sicke    of an agewe when he went and tooke a little boate to goe    to Caesars campe, Antonius was very sory for it, but yet    he sent after him all his caryage, trayne and men: and the    same Domitius, as though he gave him to understand that he    repented his open treason, he died immediately after. This, of course, supplied Shakespeare with the episodes of Enobarbus’desertion and death, though he altered the date of the first, delayingit till the last flicker of Antony’s fortune; and the manner of thesecond, making it the consequence, which the penitent deliberatelydesires, of a broken heart. But this is all that Plutarch has to say about the soldier. He iscapable; he is honest and bold in recommending the right course; whenAntony wilfully follows the wrong one, he forsakes him; but, touchedperhaps by his magnanimity, dies, it may be, in remorse. Now see how Shakespeare fills in and adds to this general outline. Practical intelligence, outspoken honesty, real capacity for feeling,are still the fundamental traits, and we have evidence of them all fromthe outset. But, in the first place, they have received a peculiarturn from the habits of the camp. Antony, rebuking and excusing hisbluntness, says:    Thou art a soldier only, speak no more.                             (II. ii. 109. )Indeed he is a soldier, if not only, at any rate chiefly andessentially; and a soldier of the adventurer type, carrying with himan initial suggestion of the more modern gentlemen of fortune like LeBalafré or Dugald Dalgetty, who would fight for any cause, and offeredtheir services for the highest reward to the leader most likely tosecure it for them. He has also their ideas of a soldier’s pleasures,and has no fancy for playing the ascetic. In Alexandria he has hada good time, in his own sphere and in his own way indulging in thefeasts and carouses and gallantries of his master. He tells Mecaenas,thoroughly associating himself with the exploits of Antony:    We did sleep day out of countenance, and made the night    light with drinking.                                   (II. ii. 181. )He speaks with authority of the immortal breakfast at which the eightwild boars were served, but makes little of it as by no means out ofthe way. Similarly he identifies himself with Antony in their loveaffairs when Antony announces his intention of setting out at once:    Why, then, we kill all our women: we see how mortal an    unkindness is to them: if they suffer our departure, death’s    the word.                                        (I. ii. 137. )And after the banquet on the galley, when the exalted personages,“these great fellows,” as Menas calls them, have retired more than alittle disguised in liquor, he, fresh from the Egyptian Bacchanals,stays behind to finish up the night in Menas’ cabin. Yet he has a certain contempt for the very vices in which he himselfshares, at least if their practitioners are overcome by them and cannotretain their self-command even in their indulgence. When Lepidussuccumbs, this more seasoned vessel jeers at him:       There’s a strong fellow, Menas!         [_pointing to the attendant who carries off Lepidus. _]    _Men. _ Why?    _Eno. _ A’ bears the third part of the world, man: see’st not?                                               (II. vii. 95. )Nor does he suffer love to interfere with business:    Under a compelling occasion, let women die: it were pity to    cast them away for nothing: though, between them and a great    cause, they should be esteemed nothing.                                               (I. ii. 141. )His practical shrewdness enables him, though of a very differentnature from Cassius, to look, like Cassius, quite through the deedsof men. He always lays his finger on the inmost nerve of a situationor complication. Thus when Mecaenas urges the need of amity on theTriumvirs, Enobarbus’ disconcerting frankness goes straight to thepoint that the smooth propriety of the other evades:    If you borrow one another’s love for the instant, you may,    when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again: you    shall have time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to do.                                               (II. ii. 103. )Antony silences him, saying he wrongs this presence; but Octavius seeshe has hit the nail on the head though in a somewhat indecorous way:    I do not much dislike the matter, but    The manner of his speech.                              (II. ii. 113. )Just in the same way he takes the measure of the arts and wiles andaffectations of Cleopatra and her ladies, and admits no cant into theconsolations which he offers Antony on Fulvia’s death:    Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. . . . Your old    smock brings forth a new petticoat; and indeed the tears    live in an onion that should water this sorrow.                                               (I. ii. 167. )Yet he is by no means indifferent to real charm, to the spell ofrefinement, grace and beauty. Like many who profess cynicism, andeven in a way are really cynical, he is all the more susceptible towhat in any kind will stand his exacting tests, especially if itcontrast with his own rough jostling life of the barracks and of thefield. It is in his mouth that Shakespeare places that incomparabledescription of Cleopatra on the Cydnus, and there could be no morefitting celebrant of her witchery. Of course the poetry of the passageis supposed in part to be due to the theme, and is a tribute toCleopatra’s fascinations; but Enobarbus has the soul to feel them andthe imagination to portray them. Indeed she has no such enrapturedeulogist as he. He may object to her presence in the camp and to herinterference in the counsels of war; but that is only because, likeBacon, he believes that “they do best, who if they cannot but admitlove, make it keep quarter, and sever it wholly from their seriousaffairs and actions of life”; it is not because he underrates herenchantment or would advise Antony to forego it. On the contrary, heseems to reproach his general when, in a passing movement of remorse,Antony regrets having ever seen her:    O, sir, you then had left unseen a wonderful piece of work;    which not to have been blest withal would have discredited    your travel.                                               (I. ii. 159. )And he not only sees that Antony, despite the most sacred of ties, themost urgent of interests, will inevitably return to her: the enthusiasmof his words shows that their predestinate union has his full sympathyand approval.      _Mec. _ Now Antony must leave her utterly.      _Eno. _ Never; he will not;    Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale    Her infinite variety: other women cloy    The appetites they feed: but she makes hungry    Where most she satisfies.                                   (II. ii. 238. )And this responsiveness to what is gracious, has its complement in hisresponsiveness to what is magnificent. He has an ardent admiration forhis “Emperor. ” He is exceeding jealous for his honour, and has no ideaof the mighty Antony stooping his crest to any power on earth. WhenLepidus begs him to entreat his captain “to soft and gentle speech”towards Octavius, he retorts with hot pride and zeal, like a clansman’sfor his chief:                              I shall entreat him    To answer like himself: if Caesar move him,    Let Antony look over Caesar’s head    And speak as loud as Mars. By Jupiter,    Were I the wearer of Antonius’ beard,    I would not shave’t to-day.                                   (II. ii. 3. )He glories even in Antony’s more doubtful qualities, his lavishness,his luxury, his conviviality, his success in love, for in all thesehis master shows a sort of royal exuberance; and they serve in theeyes of this practical but splendour-loving veteran to set off hismore technical excellences, the “absolute soldiership,” the “renownedknowledge” on which he also dwells (III. vii. 43 and 46). But with allhis enthusiasm for Antony, he is from the first critical of what heconsiders his weaknesses and mistakes, just as with all his enthusiasmfor Cleopatra he has a keen eye for her affectations and interferences. Knowing Antony’s real bent, he sees the inexpedience of the Romanmarriage, and foretells the result:      _Men. _ Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.      _Eno. _ If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not    prophesy so.      _Men. _ I think the policy of that purpose made more in the    marriage than the love of the parties.      _Eno. _ I think so too. But you shall find, the band that    seems to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler    of their amity.                                               (II. vi. 122. )He is as contemptuous of Antony’s easy emotionalism as of Octavius’politic family affection. At the parting of brother and sister,Enobarbus and Agrippa exchange the asides:      _Eno. _ Will Caesar weep?      _Agr. _ He has a cloud in’s face.      _Eno. _ He were the worse for that, were he a horse;    So is he, being a man.      _Agr. _                 Why, Enobarbus,    When Antony found Julius Caesar dead,    He cried almost to roaring: and he wept    When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.      _Eno. _ That year, indeed, he was troubled with a rheum;    What willingly he did confound he wail’d,    Believe’t, till I wept too.                                               (III. ii. 51. )It is therefore not hard to understand how, when Antony wilfullysacrifices his advantages and rushes on his ruin, his henchman’sfeelings should be outraged and his fidelity should receive a shock. After the flight at Actium, Cleopatra asks him: “Is Antony or we infault for this? ” And Enobarbus, though he had opposed the presence andplans of the Queen, is inexorable in laying the blame on the rightshoulders:    Antony only, that would make his will    Lord of his reason.                              (III. xiii. 3. )He is raised above the common run of the legionaries by his devotionto his master; but his devotion is half instinctive, half critical;and, as a rational man, he can suppress in his nature the faithful dog. For the tragedy of Enobarbus’ position lies in this: that in that eviltime his reason can furnish him with no motive for his loyalty exceptself-interest and confidence in his leader’s capacity; or, failingthese, the unsubstantial recompense of fame. He is not Antony’s manfrom principle, in order to uphold a great cause,—no one in the playhas chosen his side on such a ground; and fidelity at all costs to aperson is a forgotten phrase among the cosmopolitan materialists whoare competing for the spoils of the Roman world. So what is he to do? His instincts pull him one way, his reason another, and in such an oneinstincts unjustified by reason lose half their strength. At first hefights valiantly on behalf of his inarticulate natural feeling. WhenCanidius deserts, he still refuses in the face of evidence to acceptthe example:                            I’ll yet follow    The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason    Sits in the wind against me.                                   (III. x. 35. )But Antony’s behaviour in defeat, his alternations between the supineand the outrageous, shake him still more; and only the allurement offuture applause, not a very cogent one to such a man in such an age,wards off for a while the negative decision:    Mine honesty and I begin to square.    The loyalty well held to fools does make    Our faith mere folly: yet he that can endure    To follow with allegiance a fall’n lord    Does conquer him that did his master conquer,    And earns a place i’ the story.                                   (III. xiii. 41. )The paltering of Cleopatra however is a further object lesson:                          Sir, sir, thou art so leaky,    That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for    Thy dearest quit thee.                                   (III. xiii. 63. )Then the observation of Antony’s frenzy of wrath and frenzy of couragefinally convinces him that the man is doomed, and he forms hisresolution:    Now he’ll outstare the lightning. To be furious    Is to be frighted out of fear: and in that mood    The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still    A diminution in our captain’s brain    Restores his heart: when valour preys on reason,    It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek    Some way to leave him.                                   (III. xiii. 195. )There is something inevitable in his recreancy, for the principle thatMenas puts in words is the presupposition on which everybody acts; andAntony himself can understand exactly what has taken place:                        O, my fortunes have    Corrupted honest men!                                (IV. v. 16. )Enobarbus’ heart is right, but in the long run it has no chance againstthe convincing arguments of the situation. And yet his heart has shownhim the worthy way, and, in his despair and remorse, it recovershold of the truth that his head had made him doubt. Observe howeverthat even his revulsion of feeling is brought about by the appealto his worldly wisdom; it is not by their unassisted power that thediscredited whispers of conscience make themselves heard and regaintheir authority. Enobarbus’ penitence, though sudden, is all rationallyexplained, and is quite different from the miraculous conversions ofsome wrong-doers in fiction, who in an instant are awakened to gracefor no conceivable cause and by no intelligible means. He is madeto realise that he has taken wrong measures in his own interest, byOctavius’ treatment of the other deserters.    Alexas did revolt; and went to Jewry on    Affairs of Antony; there did persuade    Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar    And leave his master Antony: for this pains    Caesar hath hang’d him. Canidius and the rest    That fell away have entertainment, but    No honourable trust. I have done ill:    Of which I do accuse myself so sorely,    That I will joy no more.                              (IV. vi. 11. )Then the transmission to him of his treasure with increase, makeshim feel that after all loyalty might have been a more profitableinvestment:                                O Antony,    Thou mine of bounty, how would’st thou have paid    My better service, when my turpitude    Thou dost so crown with gold!                                      (IV. vi. 31. )But he does not stop here. It is only in this way that his judgment,trained by the time to test all things by material advantage, can beconvinced. But when it is convinced, his deeper and nobler nature findsfree vent in self-recrimination and self-reproach. He goes on:                                This blows my heart:    If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean    Shall outstrike thought: but thought will do’t, I feel.    I fight against thee! No: I will go seek    Some ditch wherein to die; the foul’st best fits    My latter part of life.                                           (IV. vi. 35. )And this too is most natural. Antony’s generosity restores to him hisold impression of Antony’s magnificence which he had lost in these lastsorry days. With that returns his old enthusiasm, and with that awakesthe sense of his own transgression against such greatness. He is readynow in expiation to sacrifice the one thing that in the end made himstill shrink from treason. He had tried to steady himself, as we haveseen, with the thought that the glory of loyalty would be his, if heremained faithful to the last. Now he demands the brand of treacheryfor his name, though he fain would have Antony’s pardon for himself:                                  O Antony,    Nobler than my revolt is infamous,    Forgive me in thine own particular:    But let the world rank me in register    A master-leaver and a fugitive.                              (IV. ix. 18. )Thus he dies heart-broken and in despair. Personal attachment toan individual, the one ethical motive that lingers in a world ofself-seekers to give existence some dignity and worth, is theinspiration of his soul. But even this he cannot preserve unspoiled: onaccepted assumptions he is forced to deny and desecrate it. He succumbsless through his own fault than through the fault of the age; and thisis his grand failure. When he realises what it means, there is no needof suicide: he is killed by “swift thought,” by the consciousness thathis life with this on his record is loathsome and alien, a “very rebelto his will,” that only “hangs on him” (IV. ix. 14). Among the struggling and contentious throng of worldlings and egoistswho to succeed must tread their nobler instincts underfoot, and even sodo not always succeed, are there any honest and sterling characters atall? There are a few, in the background, barely sketched, half hid fromsight. But we can perceive their presence, and even distinguish theirgait and bearing, though the artist’s purpose forbade their portrayalin detail. First of these is Scarus, the simple and valiant fightingman,who resents the infatuation of Antony and the ruinous influenceof Cleopatra as deeply as Enobarbus, but whose unsophisticatedsoldier-nature keeps him to his colours with a troth that the lessnaïf Enobarbus could admire but could not observe. It is from hismouth that the most opprobrious epithets are hurled on the abscondingpair, the “ribaudred nag of Egypt, whom leprosy o’ertake,” and “thedoting mallard,” “the noble ruin of her magic” who has kissed awaykingdoms and provinces. But as soon as he hears they have fled towardPeloponnesus, he cries:    ’Tis easy to’t; and there will I attend    What further comes.                              (III. x. 32. )He attends to good purpose, and is the hero of the last skirmish; whenAntony’s prowess rouses him to applause, from which he is too honest toexclude reproach:    O my brave emperor, this is fought indeed!    Had we done so at first, we had droven them home    With clouts about their heads.                                      (IV. vii. 4. )Then halting-bleeding, with a wound that from a T has been made an H,he still follows the chase. It is a little touch of irony, apt to beoverlooked, that he, who has cursed Cleopatra’s magic and raged becausekingdoms were kissed away, should now as grand reward have his meritscommended to “this great fairy,” and as highest honour have leave toraise her hand—the hand that cost Thyreus so dear—to his own lips. Doubtless, despite his late outbreak, he appreciates these favours asmuch as the golden armour that Cleopatra adds. Says Antony,    He has deserved it, were it carbuncled    Like holy Phoebus car.                             (IV. viii. 28. )He has: for he is of other temper than his nameless and featurelessoriginal in Plutarch, who is merely a subaltern who had fought well inthe sally.    Cleopatra to reward his manlines, gave him an armor and head    peece of cleene gold: howbeit the man at armes when he had    received this rich gift, stale away by night and went to Caesar. Not so Scarus. He is still at his master’s side on the disastrousmorrow and takes from him the last orders that Antony as commander evergave. In this Roman legionary the spirit of military obligation still assertsits power; and the spirit of domestic obligation is as strong in theRoman matron Octavia. Shakespeare has been accused of travestyingthis noble and dutiful lady. He certainly does not do that, and thestrange misstatement has arisen from treating seriously Cleopatra’sdistortion of the messenger’s report, or from taking that report, whenthe messenger follows Cleopatra’s lead, as Shakespeare’s deliberateverdict. If the messenger says that she is low-voiced and not so tallas her rival, is that equivalent to the “dull of tongue, and dwarfish”into which it is translated? And finding it so translated, is itwonderful that the browbeaten informant should henceforth adopt thesame style himself, and exaggerate her deliberate motion to creeping,her statuesque dignity to torpor, the roundness of her face todeformity—which Cleopatra at once interprets as foolishness—the lownessof her forehead to as much as you please, or, in his phrase, “as shewould wish it. ” Agrippa, on the other hand speaks of her as one,                    whose beauty claims    No worse a husband than the best of men:    Whose virtue and whose general graces speak    That which none else can utter.                                  (II. ii. 130. )Mecaenas, too, pays his tribute to her “beauty, wisdom, modesty” (II. ii. 246). And if the praises of the courtiers are suspect, they arenot more so than the censures with which Cleopatra flatters herself oris flattered. But if we dismiss, or at least discount, both sets ofoverstatements, and with them Antony’s own phrase, “a gem of women,”uttered in the heat of jealous contrast, there are other conclusiveevidences of the opinion in which she is held. Enobarbus speaks of her“holy, cold, and still conversation” (II. vi. 131). Antony thinks ofher as patient, even when he threatens Cleopatra with her vengeance bypersonal assault (IV. xii. 38). Cleopatra, with her finer intuition,even when recalling Antony’s threat, conjectures more justly what thatvengeance would be:    Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes    And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour    Demuring upon me.                                  (IV. xv. 27. )And elsewhere she asserts that she will not          once be chastised with the sober eye    Of dull Octavia.                                  (V. ii. 54. )It is easy to construct her picture from these hints. Calm, pure,devout, submissive; quite without vivacity or initiative, shepresents the old-fashioned ideal of womanhood, that finds a spheresubordinate though august, by the domestic hearth. And this is in themain Plutarch’s conception of her too. But there are differences. Thesacrifices of the lady to the exigencies of statecraft is emphasisedby the historian: “She was maryed unto him as it were of necessitie,bicause her brother Caesars affayres so required it,” and that even inher year of mourning, so that a dispensation had to be obtained; sinceit was “against the law that a widow should be maried within tennemonethes after her husbandes death. ” Nevertheless her association withAntony is far more intimate in Plutarch than in Shakespeare; she is themother of his children, feels bound to him, and definitely takes hisside. When relations first become strained between the brothers-in-law,and not, as in the drama, just before the final breach, she plays thepeace maker, but successfully and on Antony’s behalf. She seeks outher brother; tells him she is now the happiest woman in the world; ifwar should break out between them, “it is uncertaine to which of themthe goddes have assigned the victorie or overthrowe. But for me, onwhich side soever victorie fall, my state can be but most miserablestill. ” In Shakespeare this petition, eked out with reminiscences ofthe appeal of Blanch in _King John_, and with anticipations of theappeal of Volumnia in _Coriolanus_, is addressed to Antony, and theeven balance of her sympathies is accented and reiterated in a way forwhich Plutarch gives no warrant. In the _Life_ again, even when Antony has rejoined Cleopatra, hasshowered provinces on her and his illegitimate children, and, after theParthian campaign, is living with her once more, Octavia insists onseeking him out and brings him    great store of apparell for souldiers, a great number of    horse, summe of money, and gifts, to bestow on his friendes    and Captaines he had about him: and besides all those, she    had two thowsand souldiers chosen men, all well armed, like    unto the Praetors bands. She has to return from Athens without seeing Antony, but, despiteCaesar’s command, she still lives in her husband’s house, still triesto heal the division, looks after his children and promotes thebusiness of all whom he sends to Rome.    Howbeit thereby, thinking no hurt, she did Antonius great    hurt. For her honest love and regard to her husband, made    every man hate him, when they sawe he did so unkindly use so    noble a Lady. And finally, when Antony sent her word to leave his house, she tookwith her all his children save Fulvia’s eldest son who was with hisfather, and instead of showing resentment, only bewailed and lamented“her cursed hap that had brought her to this, that she was accomptedone of the chiefest causes of this civill warre. ”Her even more magnanimous care for all Antony’s offspring withoutdistinction, when Antony is no more, belongs of course to a later date;but all the previous instances of her devotion to his interest fallwell within the limits of the play, and yet Shakespeare makes no use ofthem. It does not suit him to suggest that Antony ever deviated from hispassion for Cleopatra or bestowed his affection elsewhere: indeed, onthe eve of his marriage, he reveals his heart and intentions clearlyenough. But Shakespeare also knows that without affection to bring itout, there will be no answering affection in a woman like Octavia. Shewill be true to all her obligations, so long as they are obligations,but no love will be roused to make her do more than is in her bond. And of love there is in the play as little trace on her part as onAntony’s. It is brother and sister, not husband and wife, that exchangethe most endearing terms: “Sweet Octavia,” “My dearest sister,” and “mynoble brother,” “most dear Caesar”; while to Antony she is “Octavia,”“gentle Octavia,” or at most “Dear Lady,” and to her he is “Good mylord. ” At the parting in Rome Caesar has a cloud in his face and hereyes drop tears like April showers. At the parting in Athens there isonly the formal permission to leave, on the one hand, and the formalacknowledgment on the other. Evidently, if, as she says, she has her          heart parted betwixt two friends    That do afflict each other,                              (III. vi. 77. )or if Antony describes her equipoise of feeling as                    the swan’s down-feather,    That stands upon the swell at full of tide,    And neither way inclines,                              (III. ii. 48. )it is not because she regards them both with equal tenderness. Herbrother has her love; her husband, so long as he deserves it, has herduty. But when he forfeits his claim, she has done with him, unlikePlutarch’s Octavia, who pursues him to the end, and beyond the end,with a self-forgetfulness that her mere covenant could never callforth. Of all this there is nothing in the play. Her appeal to Antonyin defence of Caesar is far warmer than her appeal to Caesar on behalfof Antony, and when she definitely hears that Antony has not onlyjoined Cleopatra against her brother but has installed Cleopatra in herown place, she merely says, “Is it so? ” and falls silent. No wonder. She is following Antony’s instructions to the letter:    Let your best love draw to that point, which seeks    Best to preserve it.                                       (III. iv. 21. )And again:    When it appears to you where this begins,    Turn your displeasure that way; for our faults    Can never be so equal that your love    Can equally move with them.                                    (III. iv. 33. )But this tacit assumption, fully borne out by her previous words, thatthe claims of husband and brother are equal in her eyes, and that theprecedence is to be determined merely by a comparison of faults, showshow little of wifely affection Octavia felt, though doubtless she wouldbe willing to fulfil her responsibilities to the smallest jot andtittle. The hurried, loveless and transitory union, into which Antony hasentered only to suit his convenience, for as Enobarbus says, “hemarried but his occasion here,” and into which Octavia has enteredonly out of deference to her brother who “uses his power unto her,”has thus merely a political and moral but no emotional significance. This Roman marriage lies further apart from the love story of Antonythan the marriage in Brittany does from the love story of Tristram. This diplomatic alliance interferes as little with Octavia’s sisterlydevotion to Octavius as the political alliances of Marguerited’Angoulême interfered with her sisterly devotion to Francis I. Andmuch is gained by this for the play. In the first place the hero nolonger, as in the biography, offends us by fickleness in his grandidolatry and infidelity to a second attachment, on the one hand, orby ingratitude to a longsuffering and loving wife on the other. Butjust for that reason Octavia does not really enter into his life,and claims no full delineation. She is hardly visible, and does notdisturb our sympathies with the lovers or force on us moral regards bydemuring on them and chastising them with her sober eyes. Neverthelessvisible at intervals she is, and then she seems to tell of another lifethan that of Alexandrian indulgence, a narrower life of obligationsand pieties beside which the carnival of impulse is both glorifiedand condemned. And she does this not less effectually, but a greatdeal less obtrusively, that in her shadowy form as she flits from themourning-chamber to the altar at the bidding of her brother, and fromAthens to Rome to preserve the peace, we see rather the self-devotedsister than the devoted wife. For in the play she is sister first andessentially, and wife only in the second place because her sisterlyfeeling is so strong. Still more slightly sketched than the domestic loyalty of Octavia oreven than the military loyalty of Scarus, is the loyalty of Eros theservant; but it is the most affecting of all, for it is to the death. Characteristically, he who obtains the highest spiritual honours thatare awarded to any person in the play, is one of a class to which inthe prime of ancient civilisation the possibility of any moral lifewould in theory have been denied. Morality was for the free citizen ofa free state: the slave was not really capable of it. And indeed itis clear that often for the slave, who might be only one of the goodsand chattels of his owner, the sole chance of escape from a conditionof spiritual as well as physical servitude would lie in personalenthusiasm for the master, in willing self-absorption in him. But in aworld like that of _Antony and Cleopatra_ such personal enthusiasm, aswe have seen, is almost the highest thing that remains. So it is thequondam slave, Eros the freedman, bred in the cult of it, who bearsaway the palm. Antony commands him to slay him:    When I did make thee free, sworest thou not then    To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once;    Or thy precedent services are all    But accidents unpurposed. Draw, and come.                                   (IV. xiv. 81. )But Eros by breaking his oath and slaying himself, does his mastera better service. He cheers him in his dark hour by this proof ofmeasureless attachment:                    Thus do I escape the sorrow    Of Antony’s death.                                   (IV. xiv. 94. )CHAPTER IVTHE POLITICAL LEADERSSo much for the freedman whom Antony hails as his master, thrice noblerthan himself. But what about his betters, the “great fellows” as Menascalls them, his rivals and associates in Empire? Let us run through the series of them; and despite his pride of placewe cannot begin lower than with the third Triumvir. Lepidus, the “slight unmeritable man, meet to be sent on errands,” ashe is described in _Julius Caesar_, maintains the same character here,and is hardly to be talked of “but as a property. ” In the first scenewhere he appears, when he and Octavius are discussing Antony’s absence,he is a mere cypher. Even in this hour of need, Octavius unconsciouslyand as a matter of course treats Antony’s negligence as a wrong not tothem both but only to himself. The messenger never addresses Lepidusand assumes that the question is between Caesar and Pompey alone. Atthe close this titular partner “beseeches” to be informed of what takesplace, and Octavius acknowledges that it is his “bond,” but clearly itis not his choice. No doubt on the surface he pleases by his moderate and conciliatoryattitude. When Octavius is indicting his absent colleague, Lepidus isfrank in his excuse:                            I must not think there are    Evils enow to darken all his goodness:    His faults in him seem as the spots of heaven,    More fiery by night’s blackness.                                        (I. iv. 10. )Knowing the zeal and influence of Enobarbus, he recommends hismediation as a becoming and worthy deed, and tries to mitigate hisvehemence:                            Your speech is passion:    But, pray you, stir no embers up.                                        (II. ii. 12. )And when the Triumvirs meet, the counsels of forbearance, whichShakespeare assigns to him and which in Plutarch are not associatedwith his name, are just in the right tone:                            Noble friends,    That which combined us was most great, and let not    A leaner action rend us. What’s amiss    May it be gently heard: when we debate    Our trivial difference loud, we do commit    Murder in healing wounds: then, noble partners,    The rather, for I earnestly beseech,    Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,    Nor curstness grow to the matter.                                        (II. ii. 17. )But all this springs from no real kindliness or public spirit. Pompeyunderstands the position:                          Lepidus flatters both,    Of both is flatter’d: but he neither loves,    Nor either cares for him.                                    (II. i. 14. )It is mere indolence and flaccidity of temper that makes him readyto play the peace-maker, and his efforts are proof of incompetencerather than of nobility. He is so anxious to agree with everybody andingratiate himself with both parties, that he excites the ridicule notonly of the downright Enobarbus, but of the reticent and diplomaticAgrippa:    _Eno. _                      O, how he loves Caesar!    _Agr. _ Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!    _Eno. _ Caesar? Why, he’s the Jupiter of men.    _Agr. _ What’s Antony? The god of Jupiter.    _Eno. _ Spake you of Caesar? How! the nonpareil!    _Agr. _ O Antony! O thou Arabian bird!    _Eno. _ Would you praise Caesar, say “Caesar”: go no further.    _Agr. _ Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.                                                  (III. ii. 7. )He will be all things to all men that he himself may be saved; and hislove of peace runs parallel with his readiness for good cheer. He likesto enjoy himself and soon drinks himself drunk. The very servants seethrough his infirmity:    _Sec. Serv. _ As they pinch one another by the disposition,    he cries out “no more”; reconciles them to his entreaty and    himself to the drink. [205]                                             (II. vii. 6. )[205] I take this much discussed passage to refer to the frictionthat inevitably arises in such a gathering. The guests are of suchdifferent disposition or temperament, that especially after theirlate misunderstandings they are bound to chafe each other. We have anexample of it. Pompey plays the cordial and tactful host to perfection,but even he involuntarily harks back to his grievance:                              O, Antony,    You have my father’s house,—But, what? we are friends. I think the meaning of the second servant’s remark is that when suchlittle _contretemps_ occur, as they could not but do in so ill-assorteda company, Lepidus in his role of peace-maker interferes to check them,and drowns the difference in a carouse. But the result is that hebefuddles himself. And they proceed to draw the moral of the whole situation. Lepidus’ineptitude is due to the same circumstance that brings Costard’scriticism on Sir Nathaniel when the curate breaks down in the pageant. “A foolish mild man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed. He isa marvellous good neighbour, faith, . . . but, for Alexander,—alas,you see how ’tis,—a little o’erparted. ” Lepidus too is a marvellousgood neighbour, but for a Triumvir,—alas, you see how ’tis,—a littleo’erparted. He is attempting a part or role that is too big for him. He is in a position and company where his nominal influence goes fornothing and his want of perception puts him to the blush.      _Sec. Serv. _ Why, this it is to have a name in great    men’s fellowship: I had as lief have a reed that will do me    no service as a partizan I could not heave.      _First Serv. _ To be called into a huge sphere, and not    to be seen to move in’t, are the holes where eyes should be,    which pitifully disaster the cheeks.                                        (II. vii. 12. )In his efforts at _bonhomie_, he becomes so bemused that even Antony,generally so affable and courteous, does not trouble to be decentlycivil, and flouts him to his wine-sodden face, with impertinentschool-boy jests about the crocodile that is shaped like itself, andis as broad as it has breadth, and weeps tears that are wet. Caesar,ever on the guard, asks in cautious admonition: “Will this descriptionsatisfy him? ” But Antony is scornfully aware that he may dismisspunctilios:    With the health that Pompey gives him; else he is a very epicure.                                                      (II. vii. 56. )His deposition, which must come in the natural course of things, ismentioned only casually and contemptuously:    Caesar, having made use of him in the wars ’gainst Pompey,    presently denied him rivality: would not let him partake    in the glory of the action: and not resting here, accuses    him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey: upon his    own appeal, seizes him: so the poor third is up, till death    enlarge his confine.                                                   (III. v. 7. )Accused of letters written to Pompey! So he had been at his oldwork, buttering his bread on both sides. His suppression is one ofthe grievances Antony has against Caesar, who has appropriated hiscolleague’s revenue; and it is interesting to note the defence thatCaesar, who never chooses his grounds at random, gives for his apparentarbitrariness:    I have told him, Lepidus was grown too cruel;    That he his high authority abused,    And did deserve his change.                                        (III. vi.

32. )So this friend of all the world may be accused of inhumanity andmisrule. The charge is plausible. Shakespeare could not here forgetthat at the proscription, Lepidus is represented as acquiescing in thedeath of his own brother-in-law to secure the death of Antony’s nephew. Still his alleged cruelty may only have been a specious pretext onOctavius’ part to screen his own designs, and even to transfer his ownoffences to another man’s shoulders. Pompey says, in estimating thechances of his venture,                Caesar gets money where    He loses hearts.                              (II. i. 13. )Appian refers to these exactions, but in Plutarch there is as yet nomention of Octavius making himself unpopular by exorbitant imposts,and only at a later time is he said to have done so in preparing forhis war with Antony. The subsequent passage, which Shakespeare doesnot use, or hardly uses, in its proper place, may have suggested thepresent statement:    The great and grievous exactions of money did sorely    oppresse the people. . . . Hereuppon there arose a wonderfull    exclamation and great uprore all Italy over: so that    among the greatest faults that ever Antonius committed. ,    they blamed him most for that he delayed to give Caesar    battell. . . . When such a great summe of money was demaunded    of them, they grudged at it, and grewe to mutinie upon it. Does Shakespeare, by antedating Caesar’s oppressive measures, mean toinsinuate his own gloss on the charge of cruelty against Lepidus thathe found in Plutarch? At any rate in that case Octavius would be merelyfollowing the course that Antony had already laid down:    Though we lay these honours on this man,    To ease ourselves of divers slanderous loads,    He shall but bear them as the ass bears gold,    To groan and sweat under the business,    Either led or driven, as we point the way:    And having brought our treasure where we will,    Then take we down his load, and turn him off,    Like to the empty ass, to shake his ears,    And graze in commons.                              (_J. C. _ IV. i. 19. )Octavius certainly carries out Antony’s programme in the result, andit would add to the irony of the situation if he had also done so inthe process, and, while exploiting Lepidus’ resources, had incidentallyeased himself of a slanderous load. No wonder that Antony is annoyed. But if he frets at his colleague’s undoing, we may be sure that apartfrom personal chagrin, it is only because Octavius’ influence has beenincreased and his own share of the spoils withheld. Of personal regretthere is nothing in his reported reception of the news. Lepidus theman, Antony dismisses with an angry gesture and exclamation: he                                          spurns    The rush that lies before him; cries, “Fool, Lepidus! ”                                             (III. v. 17. )Sextus Pompeius who at one time had a fair chance of entering into aposition equal or superior to that of Lepidus, comes higher in thescale than he. He has a certain feeling for righteousness:    If the great gods be just, they shall assist    The deeds of justest men.                                     (II. i. 1. )He has a certain nobility of sentiment that enables him to rise to theoccasion. When to his surprise he learns that he will have to reckonwith the one man he dreads, he cries:                                But let us rear    The higher our opinion, that our stirring    Can from the lap of Egypt’s widow pluck    The ne’er-lust-wearied Antony.                                   (II. i. 35. )So, when told that he looks older, his reply is magnanimous:                                Well, I know not    What counts harsh Fortune casts upon my face;    But in my bosom shall she never come,    To make my heart her vassal.                                   (II. vi. 55. )Antony confesses that he owes him thanks for generous treatment:    He hath laid strange courtesies and great    Of late upon me.                                (II. ii. 157. )We presently get to hear what these were, and must admit that he actedlike a gentleman:                              Though I lose    The praise of it by telling, you must know,    When Caesar and your brother were at blows,    Your mother came to Sicily, and did find    Her welcome friendly.                                 (II. vi. 43. )He has moreover a certain filial piety for the memory of his father,and a certain afterglow of free republican sentiment:                                  What was’t    That moved pale Cassius to conspire; and what    Made the all-honour’d, honest Roman, Brutus,    With the arm’d rest, courtiers of beauteous freedom,    To drench the Capitol: but that they would    Have one man but one man? And that is it    Hath made me rig my navy: at whose burthen    The anger’d ocean foams; with which I meant    To scourge the ingratitude that despiteful Rome    Cast on my noble father.                                   (II. vi. 14. )But even if all this were quite genuine, it would not suffice to forma really distinguished character. In the first place Sextus neverpenetrates to the core of things but lingers over the shows. Thus hehas no grip of his present strength or of the insignificance to whichhe relegates himself by his composition. For Shakespeare differs fromPlutarch, and follows Appian, in making his rising a very seriousmatter. [206] It is this that in the play, and in complete contradictionof the _Life_, is the chief motive for Antony’s return to Italy: andhe gives his reasons. He says that Pompey “commands the empire of thesea” (I. ii. 191),—a great exaggeration of Plutarch’s statement thathe “so scoored[207] all the sea thereabouts (_i. e. _, near Sicily) thatnone durst peepe out with a sayle. ” He continues, that “the slipperypeople” begin to throw all the dignities of Pompey the Great upon hisson (I. ii. 193), though there is no hint of this popular support inthe history. And he concludes that Pompey’s                           . . . quality, going on,    The sides o’ the world may danger.                                    (I. ii. 198. )[206] See Appendix D. [207] Scoured. In Plutarch it is not prudence but courtesy that moves the Triumvirsto negociate with him. His hospitality to Antony’s mother is expresslymentioned as the cause of their leniency; “_therefore_ they thoughtgood to make peace with him. ” Similarly Shakespeare may have warrantfrom Appian, but he certainly has not warrant from Plutarch, torepresent Octavius as listening in dismay to reports of malcontents“that only have fear’d Caesar” (I. iv. 38) crowding to Pompey’s bannersfrom love of him; or as harassed by Antony’s absence, when thisoccasion “drums him from his sport” (I. iv. 29); or as driven by fearof Pompey to “cement their divisions and bind up the petty difference”(II. i. 48). In all these ways Shakespeare treats the triflingdisturbance of Plutarch’s account as a civil war waged by not unequalforces. And even after the tension has been somewhat relieved byAntony’s arrival, Octavius bears witness in regard to Pompey’s strengthby land that it is    Great and increasing: but by sea    He is an absolute master.                      (II. ii. 165. )Obviously then Shakespeare conceives Pompey as having much to hopefor, and much to lose. But Pompey does not realise his own power. By the treaty he throws away his advantages. In the division of theworld he only gets Sicily and Sardinia, which were his already; and inreturn he must rid all the sea of pirates, and send wheat to Rome. By the first provision he deprives himself of recruits like Menas andMenecrates; by the second, he caters for his scarce atoned enemies. Surely there is justification for Menas’ aside: “Thy father, Pompey,would ne’er have made this treaty” (II. vi. 84), and his like remark toEnobarbus: “Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune” (II. vi. 109). He practically gives over the contest which he has a fair prospect ofwinning, and allows himself to be cajoled of the means by which hemight at least gain security and power. But the most that he obtains isa paper guarantee for a fraction of the spoils; though he ought to haveknown that such guarantees are rotten bands with rivals like Octavius,who will only wait the opportunity, that must now inevitably come, toset them aside. But besides, this magnanimity, which he is so fond of parading, is notonly insufficient, even were it quite sterling coin; in his case itrings counterfeit. We cannot forget that his noble sentiments aboutjustice are uttered to Menas and Menecrates, “great thieves by sea. ” IsPompeius Magnus to be avenged, is freedom to be restored by the helpof buccaneers who find it expedient to “deny” what they have done bywater? Surely all this is not very dexterous make-believe, intendedto impose on others or himself. Even his rejection of Menas’ schemefor doing away with the Triumvirs, though it shows his regard forappearances, does not imply any honourable feeling of the highest kind. For listen to his words:              Ah, this thou should’st have done,    And not have spoke on’t! In me, ’tis villany;    In thee ’t had been good service. Thou must know,    ’Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour;    Mine honour, it. Repent that e’er thy tongue    Hath so betray’d thine act: being done unknown,    I should have found it afterwards well done;    But must condemn it now.                                    (II. vii. 79. )Here he shows no moral scruple, but only anxiety about his reputation. He would have no objection to reap the reward of crime, and wouldeven after a decorous interval approve it; but he will not commit orauthorise it, because he wishes to pose in his own eyes and the eyesof others as the man of justice, principle and chivalry. He is one ofthe people who “would not play false and yet would wrongly win,” andwho often excite more contempt than the resolute malefactor. And thereason is that their abstention from guilt arises not from tendernessof conscience but from perplexity of intellect. They confound shadowand substance; for by as much as genuine virtue is superior to materialsuccess, by so much is material success superior to the illusion ofvirtue. In the case of Pompey, the treachery of Octavius is almostexcused by the ostentation, obtuseness, and half-heartedness of thevictim. It is fitting that after being despoiled of Italy he shouldowe his death to a mistake. This at least is the story, not found inPlutarch, which Shakespeare in all probability adopts at the suggestionof Appian. It is not given as certain even by Appian, who leaves itopen to question whether he was killed by Antony’s command or not. But perhaps Shakespeare considers that his futile career should endfutilely through the overzeal of an agent who misunderstands hismaster’s wishes; so he makes Eros tell how Antony    Threats the throat of that his officer    That murder’d Pompey.                              (III. v. 19. )It suits the dramatist too to free his hero from complicity in such adeed, and exhibit him as receiving the news with generous indignationand regret. Yet such regret is very skin-deep. Even Antony’s chiefcomplaint in regard to Pompey’s overthrow is that he gets none of theunearned increment; or, as Octavius says,                        that, having in Sicily    Sextus Pompeius spoil’d, we had not rated him    His part o’ the isle.                                   (III. vi. 24. )Higher still in our respect, if not in our affection, but even inour respect not very high, is Octavius at the head of his statesmen,politicians, men of the world, his Mecaenases, Agrippas and therest, with their _savoir faire_ and _savoir vivre_. They never letthemselves go in thought or in deed; all their words and behaviour aredisciplined, reserved, premeditated. Antony’s description of theirprincipal is no doubt true, and it breathes the contempt of the bornsoldier, who has drunk delight of battle with his peers, for the meredeviser of calculations and combinations:                        He at Philippi kept    His sword e’en like a dancer; while I struck    The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and ’twas I    That the mad Brutus ended: he alone    Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had    In the brave squares of war.                                 (III. xi. 35. )Nor is there any prestige of genius or glamour of charm to conciliateadmiration for such men. Theirs are the practical, rather uninterestingnatures, that generally rise to the top in this workaday world. Theyknow what they wish to get; they know what they must do to get it; andthe light from heaven never shines on their eyes either to glorifytheir path or to lead them astray. The most obvious trait, as Kreyssig remarks, in the somewhat bourgeoispersonality of Octavius is his sobriety, in every sense of the word: aself-contained sobriety, which, though supposed to be a middle-classvirtue, is in him pushed so far as to become almost aristocratic. Forit fosters and cherishes his self-esteem; and his self-esteem rises toan enormous and inflexible pride, which finds expression alike in hisdignity and in his punctiliousness. In both respects it is outraged bythe levity of Antony, which he resents as compromising himself. Hiscolleague must    No way excuse his soils, when we do bear    So great weight in his lightness.                              (I. iv. 24. )A man like this, fast centred in himself, cannot but despise theimpulse-driven populace; he could never have courted it to sway it tohis purposes, as Antony did of old; to him it is a rotting water-weed. This temper, lofty and imposing in some respects, is apt to attachundue importance to form and etiquette, as when the “manner” ofEnobarbus’ interruption, not its really objectionable because all tooincontrovertible matter, arouses his disapproval: but it is a difficulttemper to take liberties with. None of his counsellors dreams ofventuring with him on the familiarity which Enobarbus, Canidius, andeven the common soldier, employ as a matter of course with Antony. And this is partly due to his lack of sympathy, to his deficientsocial feeling. Such an one plumes himself on being different fromand superior to his fellows. He is like the Prince of Arragon in the_Merchant of Venice_:    I will not choose what many men desire,    Because I will not jump with common spirits    And rank me with the barbarous multitudes.                        (_M. of V. _ II. ix. 3. )It is because Antony’s vices are those of the common spirits and thebarbarous multitudes that Octavius despises him:                  You shall find there    A man who is the abstract of all faults    That all men follow.                              (I. iv. 8. )His own failings do not lie in the direction of vulgar indulgence. Heis a foe to all excess. When the feasters pledge him, he objects to thecompulsory carouse:                      I could well forbear ’t.    It’s monstrous labour, when I wash my brain,    And it grows fouler. . . .        I had rather fast from all four days    Than drink so much in one.                              (II. vii. 105. )And he can address a dignified remonstrance and rebuke to his lesstemperate associates:    What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother,    Let me request you off: our graver business    Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let’s part:    You see we have burnt our cheeks. . . .                The wild disguise hath almost    Antick’d us all.                                     (II. vii. 126. )A man of this kind will be externally faultless in all the domesticrequirements, a good husband and a good brother, in so far as rigidfidelity to the nuptial tie and scrupulous care for his sister’sprovision are concerned. He is honestly shocked at Antony’s violationof his marriage bond. We feel that if Cleopatra did really entertainthe idea of subduing him by her charms, it was nothing but an undevoutimagination. One might as well think to set on fire “a dish of skimmilk,” as Hotspur calls men of this sort. But the better side of this is his genuine family feeling. His lovefor his sister may be limited and alloyed, but it is unfeigned. It hassometimes been pointed out that his indignation at Octavia’s scantyconvoy when she returns from Athens to Rome, is stirred quite as muchon his own behalf as on hers:    Why have you stolen upon us thus? You come not    Like Caesar’s sister. . . . You are come    A market maid to Rome; and have prevented    The ostentation of our love, which, left unshown,    Is often left unlov’d.                                      (III. vi. 42. )It is quite true that he thinks of what is due to himself, but hedoes not altogether forget her claims; and even when he regrets thedefective “ostentation” of love—a term that is apt to rouse suspicion,no doubt, but less so in Elizabethan than in modern ears—he baseshis regret on the just and valid ground that without expression loveitself is apt to die. That behind his own “ostentation” of fondness(which of course he is careful not to neglect, for it is a becoming andcreditable thing), there is some reality of feeling, is proved by theparting scene. His affectionate farewell and even his gathering tearsmight be pretence; but he promises to send her regular letters:                    Sweet Octavia,    You shall hear from me still.                     (III. ii. 58. )It really means something when a man like Octavius, busy with theaffairs of the whole world, spares time for frequent domesticcorrespondence. And yet this admirable brother has not hesitated to arrange for hissister a “mariage de convenance” with Antony, a man whom he disapprovesand dislikes. From the worldly point of view it is certainly the mostbrilliant match she could make; and this perhaps to one of Octavius’arid nature, with its total lack of sympathy, imagination and generousideals, may have seemed the main consideration. All the same we cannothelp feeling that he was thinking mainly of himself, and, though withsome regrets, has sacrificed her to the exigencies of statecraft. Menasand Enobarbus, shrewd and unsentimental observers, agree that policyhas made more in the marriage than love. So much indeed is obvious,even if its purpose is what on the face of it it professes to be, thereconcilement of the men it makes brothers-in-law. But, as we shallsee, Octavius may have a more tortuous device in it than this. Treating it meanwhile, however, as an expedient for knitting thealliance with his rival, what inference does it suggest? If for thesake of his own interests, Octavius shows himself far from scrupulousin regard to the sister whom he loves and whose material well-beingis his care, what may we expect of him in the case of those who areindifferent or dangerous or hostile? He has no hesitation about ousting his colleague Lepidus, or ruiningthe reconciled rebel Pompeius, despite his compacts with both. Thenit is Antony’s turn; and Antony is a far more formidable antagonist,with all his superiority in material resources, fertility of genius,proven soldiership and strategic skill. It is not because Octavius isthe greater man that he succeeds. It is, in the first place, because heconcentrates all his narrow nature to a single issue, while Antony withhis greater width of outlook disperses his interest on many things atonce. How typical of each are the asides with which respectively theyenter their momentous conference. Antony is already contemplating othercontingencies:    If we compose well here, to Parthia:    Hark, Ventidius.                           (II. ii. 15. )Octavius will not be diverted from the immediate business:                    I do not know,    Mecaenas; ask Agrippa.                     (II. ii. 16. )So, too, when the composition has taken place, Antony squanders hisstrength in the invasion of Parthia, the conquest of Armenia andother annexations, not to mention his grand distraction in Egypt. ButOctavius pursues his one purpose with the dogged tenacity of a sleuthhound, removes Pompey who might be troublesome, seizes the resources ofLepidus, and is able to oppose the solid mass of the West to Antony’sloose congeries of Asiatic allies and underlings, whose disunited crowdseems to typify his own unreconciled ambitions. But even so it is not so much that Octavius wins, as that Antony loses. In another sense than he means, the words of the latter are true:    Not Caesar’s valour hath o’erthrown Antony,    But Antony’s hath triumph’d on itself.                                  (IV. xv. 14. )It is his extraordinary series of blunders, perversities, and folliesthat play into his antagonist’s hands and give him the trick, thoughthat antagonist holds worse cards and is less expert in many points ofthe game. But in so far as Octavius can claim credit for playing it, it is due tocunning and chicane rather than to any wisdom or ability of the higherkind. At the outset he prepares a snare for Antony, into which Antonyfalls, and by the fall is permanently crippled. It seems more thanprobable that the marriage with Octavia was suggested, not to confirmthe alliance, but to provoke a breach at a more convenient season. Thebiographer expressly assigns the same sort of ulterior motive to alater act of apparent kindliness, when Octavia was again used as theunconscious pawn. When she, just before the final breach, insists onsetting out to join her husband, Plutarch explains:    Her brother Octavius was willing unto it, not for his    (_i. e. _ Antony’s) respect at all (as most authors doe report)    as for that he might have an honest culler to make warre with    Antonius if he did misuse her, and not esteeme of her as she    ought to be. This was quite enough to suggest to Shakespeare a similarinterpretation of the marriage project from the first. He does notindeed expressly state but he virtually implies it, as appears if werealise the characters and circumstances of those concerned. At thetime the match is being arranged, Enobarbus quite clearly foresees andopenly predicts the upshot to Mecaenas and Agrippa. Will they, andespecially Agrippa, who is nominal author of the plan and announces itas “a studied not a present thought,” have overlooked so probable anissue? Will it never have occurred to the circumspect and calculatingOctavius, who evidently leads up to Agrippa’s intervention andproposal? Or if through some incredible inadvertence it has hithertoescaped them all, will not the vigilant pair of henchmen hasten toinform their master of the unexpected turn that things seem likely totake? Not at all. Despite the convinced and convincing confidence ofEnobarbus’ prophecy, they waive it aside. Mecaenas merely replies withdiplomatic decorum:    If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle    The heart of Antony, Octavia is    A blessed lottery to him.                              (II. ii. 247. )No doubt. But though Touchstone says, “Your If is your onlypeace-maker,” it can also be a very good peace-breaker on occasion. InEnobarbus’ opinion (and in his own way Octavius is just as shrewd),Octavia with her “holy, cold and still conversation” is no dish forAntony. But though this is now expressly pointed out to Octavius’confidants, the marriage goes on as though nothing could be urgedagainst it. The reason is that nothing can, from the point of view ofthe contrivers. If it turns out well, so far good; if it turns out ill,so much the better. Only when it is an accomplished fact, does Caesargive a glimpse of what it involves in the sinister exhortation:    Let not the piece of virtue which is set    Betwixt us, as the cement of our love,    To keep it builded, be the ram to batter    The fortress of it.                              (III. ii. 28. )Thus when Antony returns to Cleopatra, as he was bound to do, Octaviusmanages to represent himself as the aggrieved party, as champion ofthe sanctity of the hearth, the vindicator of old Roman pieties; andin this way gains a good deal of credit at the outset of the quarrel. And for the fortunate conduct of it, he is indebted, apart fromAntony’s demoralisation, to his adroitness in playing on the weaknessof others, rather than to any nobler strength in himself. Thus heirritates Antony’s reckless chivalry, both vain and grandiose, bydefying him to give battle by sea at Actium. Antony is not bound evenby any punctilio of honour to consent, for Octavius has twice declineda similar challenge.      _Ant. _                  Canidius, we    Will fight with him by sea.      _Cle. _                      By sea! What else?      _Can. _ Why will my lord do so?      _Ant. _                         For that he dares us to’t.      _Eno. _ So hath my lord dared him to single fight.      _Can. _ Ay, and to wage this battle at Pharsalia,    Where Caesar fought with Pompey; but these offers,    Which serve not for his vantage, he shakes off;    And so should you.                                        (III. vii. 28. )But Octavius knows his man, and this appeal to his audacity,enforced by the command of Cleopatra, determines Antony like a trueknight-errant to the fatal course. This passage is of great significance in Shakespeare’s delineation ofOctavius, because, though suggested by Plutarch, it completely altersthe complexion and some of the facts of Plutarch’s story. That recordsthe two-fold challenge of Antony, but represents it as answering, notpreceding the message of Octavius. Moreover that message contains noreference to a naval combat and has nothing in common with the shape itassumes in the play.    Octavius Caesar sent unto Antonius, to will him to delay no    more time, but to come on with his army into Italy: and that    for his owne part he would give him safe harber, to lande    without any trouble, and that he would withdraw his armie    from the sea, as farre as one horse could runne, until he    had put his army ashore, and had lodged his men. That is, in the original Octavius takes the lead in dare-devilry, andseems voluntarily to suggest such terms as even Byrhtnoth at the Battleof Maldon conceded only by request. Shakespeare could not fit this inwith his conception of the cold-blooded politician, and substitutes forit a proposal that will put the enemy at a disadvantage; while at thesame time he accentuates Octavius’ unblushing knavery, by making himapply this provocation after he has twice rejected offers that do notsuit himself. Again, having won his first victory through Cleopatra’s flight, Caesarcynically reckons for new success on her corruptibility:    From Antony win Cleopatra: promise,    And in our name, what she requires; add more,    From thine invention, offers: women are not    In their best fortunes strong; but want will perjure    The ne’er-touch’d vestal: try thy cunning, Thyreus.                                        (III. xii. 24. )This scheme indeed miscarries owing to Antony’s intervention, butmeanwhile it has become unnecessary owing to the torrent of deserters. So Octavius is sure of his case, and can dismiss with ridicule the ideaof a single fight. In Plutarch he does so too, but with the impliedbrag that he would certainly be victor: “Caesar answered him that hehad many other wayes to dye then so;” when the _he_ stands for Antony:but owing to North’s fortunate ambiguity Shakespeare takes it asreferring to the speaker:                        Let the old ruffian know    I have many other ways to die; mean time    Laugh at his challenge.                                     (IV. i. 4. )A more subtle contumely; for it implies that Caesar with scornfulimpartiality acknowledges Antony’s superiority as a _sabreur_, but canafford to dismiss that as of no moment. His response has already beenannotated in advance by Enobarbus, when Antony was inditing his cartel:    Yes, like enough, high-battled Caesar will    Unstate his happiness, and be staged to the show,    Against a sworder! . . . That he should dream,    Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will    Answer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdued    His judgement too.                                     (III. xiii. 29. )Octavius has by this time the ball at his feet, and can even cast thecontemptuous alms of his pity on “poor Antony,” as he calls him (IV. i. 16). Nor are his expectations deceived, for he reckons out everything:                          Go, charge Agrippa.    Plant those that have revolted in the van,    That Antony may seem to spend his fury    Upon himself.                                   (IV. vi. 8. )And though he suffers a momentary check, he presently achieves thefinal triumph through the treason and baseness of Antony’s Egyptianfollowers, on which he rightly felt he might rely. And when he has won the match he makes use of his advantage with moreappearance than reality of nobleness. He wishes to have not only thesubstantial rewards of victory, but the shows and trappings of it aswell. He seeks to preserve Cleopatra alive,                        for her life in Rome    Would be eternal in our triumph.                                   (V. i. 65. )This is the secret of his clemency and generosity, that he wouldhave her “grace in captive bonds his chariot wheels. ” And if he hasanother reason for sparing her, it is not for the sake of clemency andgenerosity in themselves, but for the parade of these qualities: asindeed Proculeius unconsciously lets out in the naïf advice he givesher:    Do not abuse my master’s bounty by    The undoing of yourself: let the world see    His nobleness well acted, which your death    Will never let come forth.                                   (V. ii. 44. )And ably does Octavius play his role: he “extenuates rather thanenforces,” gilds his covert threats with promises, and dismisses theepisode of the unscheduled treasure with Olympian serenity. His onlyfault is that he rather overacts the part. His excess of magnanimity,when by nature he is far from magnanimous, tells Cleopatra all sheneeds to know, and leaves little for the definite disclosures ofDolabella:    He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not    Be noble to myself.                                        (V. ii. 191. )But, though not magnanimous, he is intelligent: and his intelligenceenables and enjoins him to recognise greatness when it is no longeropposed to his own interest, and when the recognition redounds tohis own credit, by implying that the conqueror is greater still. Hispanegyrics on Antony, and afterwards on Cleopatra, are very nearly theright things to say and are very nearly said in the right way. When hehears of his rival’s suicide, his first exclamation does not ill befitthe occasion:    The breaking of so great a thing should make    A greater crack: . . . the death of Antony    Is not a single doom; in the name lay    A moiety of the world.                                      (V. i. 14. )But this disinterested emotion does not last long. The awe at fallengreatness soon leads to comparisons with the living greatness that hasproved its match. The obsequious bystanders find this quite natural andpoint it out without a hint of sarcasm:      _Agr. _                     Caesar is touch’d.      _Mec. _ When such a spacious mirror’s set before him,    He needs must see himself. So Octavius proceeds to a recital of Antony’s merits in which hebespeaks a double portion of the praise he seems to dispense:                          O Antony!    I have follow’d thee to this; but we do lance    Diseases in our bodies: I must perforce    Have shown to thee such a declining day,    Or look on thine: we could not stall together    In the whole world: but yet let me lament,    With tears as sovereign as the blood of hearts,    That thou, my brother, my competitor,    In top of all design, my mate in empire,    Friend and companion in the front of war,    The arm of mine own body, and the heart    Where mine his thoughts did kindle,—that our stars,    Unreconciliable, should divide    Our equalness to this.                                            (V. i. 35. )And here, as business calls, he breaks off and postpones the rest to“some meeter season. ” Similarly when he finds Cleopatra dead he has theinsight to do her justice:                                  Bravest at the last,    She levell’d at our purposes, and, being royal,    Took her own way.                                        (V. ii. 238. )Then follows the official valediction:    She shall be buried by her Antony:    No grave upon the earth shall clip in it    A pair so famous. High events as these    _Strike those that make them_; and their story is    No less in pity than _his glory which    Brought them to be lamented_.                                        (V. ii. 361. )So the last word is a testimonial to himself. These are eulogies of the understanding, not of the heart. They arevery different in tone from the tributes of Antony to his patron Juliusor his opponent Brutus. The tears and emotion, genuine though facile,of the latter are vouched for even by the sarcasms of Agrippa andEnobarbus. Octavius’ utterance, when he pronounces his farewell, isbroken, we may be sure, by no sob and choked by no passion. His _éloge_has been compared to a funeral sermon, and will not interfere with thevictor’s appetite for the fruits of victory. But though his feeling isnot stirred to the depths, he is fairly just and fairly acute. He is nocontemptible character, this man who carries off the palm from one ofinfinitely richer endowment. The contrast between the two rivals, andthe justification of the success of the less gifted, is summed up ina couple of sentences they exchange at the banquet off Misenum. WhenOctavius shrinks from the carouse, Antony bids him: “Be a child o’ thetime” (II. vii. 106). “Possess it, I’ll make answer,” is Octavius’reply and reproof. CHAPTER VMARK ANTONY“Be a child o’ the time,” says Antony, and he carries out his maximto the letter. Only that time could bring forth such a devotee of thejoys of life and lavish on him such wealth of enjoyment. But the timewas one that devoured its own children. Those who chose to be merelyits products, must accept its ordinances, and it was cruel as well asindulgent. It was the manlier as well as the safer course for the childto possess the time, to repudiate its stock, and, if might be, to usurpthe heritage. We must bear the counter admonition of Octavius in mind when weapproach the personage to whom it was addressed. All who have awide range of interests, and with these warmth of imagination andspontaneity of impulse, must feel that their judgment is apt to bebribed by the attractions of Mark Antony. He is so many-sided, somany-ways endowed, so full of vitality and vigour, potentially soaffluent and bright, that we look to find his life a clear and abundantstream, and disbelieve our senses when we see a turbid pool that losesitself in the sands. If we listen to the promptings of our blood, wehail him as demi-god, but the verdict of our reason is that he is onlya futility. And both estimates base on Shakespeare who inspires andreconciles them both. Of course we are apt to carry with us to the present play theimpression we have received from the sketch of Antony in _JuliusCaesar_. And not without grounds. He is still a masquer and a reveller,he is still a shrewd contriver. But we gradually become aware of adifference. First, the precedence that these characteristics takes isreversed. In _Julius Caesar_ it is the contriving side of his naturethat is prominent, and the other is only indicated by the remarks ofacquaintances: in _Antony and Cleopatra_, it is his love of pleasurethat is emphasised, while of his contrivance we have only casualglimpses. And the contrast is not merely an alteration in the pointof view, it corresponds to an alteration in himself; in the earlierdrama he subordinates his luxury to his schemes, and in the latter hesubordinates his schemes to his luxury. But this is not all. In thesecond place, his two main interests have changed in the degree of whatmay be called their organisation. In _Julius Caesar_ he concentratesall his machinations on the one object of overthrowing the tyrannicidesand establishing his power; his pleasures, however notorious, arerandom and disconnected dissipations without the coherence of a singleaim. In _Antony and Cleopatra_, however manifold they may be, theyare all subdued to the service of his master passion, they are allfocussed in his love for Cleopatra; while his strategy is broken up tomere shifts and expedients that answer the demand of the hour. Passionhas become not only the regulative but the constitutive force in hischaracter. When the action begins, he is indemnifying himself with a round ofindulgence for the strenuous life between the fall of Julius and thevictories at Philippi, some of the toils and privations of which,passed over in the earlier play, Octavius now recalls in amazementat the contrast. It is not so strange. One remembers Professor vonKarsteg’s indictment of the English that they spare no pains becausethey live for pleasure. “You are all in one mass, struggling in thestream to get out and lie and wallow and belch on the banks. Youwork so hard that you have all but one aim, and that is fatness andease! ”[208] Something similar strikes us in Antony. It is naturalthat action should be followed by reaction and that abstinence shouldlead to surfeit. It is doubly natural, when effort and disciplineare not prized for themselves or associated with the public good,but have only been accepted as the means to a selfish aim. By themhe has acquired more than mortal power: why should he not use it inhis own behoof, oblivious of every call save the prompting of desire? A vulgar attitude, we may say; but it is lifted above vulgarity bythe vastness of the orbit through which his desire revolves. It isgrandiose, and almost divine; in so far at least as it is a circlewhose centre is everywhere and whose circumference is nowhere. He hasa gust for everything and for everything in the highest degree, foreach several pleasure and its exact antithesis. In what does he notfeel zest? Luxury, banqueting, drunkenness, appeal to him, so thatPompey prays they “may keep his brain fuming” (II. i. 24). Or he actsthe god, and with Cleopatra as Isis, dispenses sovereignty from the“tribunal silver’d,” as they sit on their “chairs of gold” (III. vi. 3). Or he finds a relish in vulgar pleasures, and with the queen onhis arm, mingles incognito in the crowd, wandering through the streets“to note the qualities of people” (I. i. 52). Or he goes a-fishing, inwhich art he is a novice and presently becomes a dupe, when he pullsup the salt-fish “with fervency” (II. v. 18). And a willing dupe,the conscious humorous dupe of love to his tricksy enchantress, he ispleased to be in many other ways:                          That time,—O times! —    I laugh’d him out of patience; and that night    I laugh’d him into patience; and next morn,    Ere the ninth hour, I drunk him to his bed:    Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst    I wore his sword Philippian.                                   (II. v. 18. )[208] _The Adventures of Harry Richmond. _In short his breathless pursuit of all sorts of experiences more thanjustifies the scandalised summary of Octavius:                    He fishes, drinks, and wastes    The lamps of night in revel; is not more manlike    Than Cleopatra; nor the queen of Ptolemy    More womanly than he.                                       (I. iv. 4. )And he goes on to describe how Antony has been so indiscriminate as                to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy;    To give a kingdom for a mirth; to sit    And keep the turn of tippling with a slave;    To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet    With knaves that smell of sweat.                                       (I. iv. 17. )Yet, however he may seem to sink in his pleasures, he is neversubmerged; such is his joyousness and strength that they seem to bearhim up and carry him along rather than drag him down. As Cleopatraperceives:                              His delights    Were dolphin-like; they show’d his back above    The element they lived in.                                     (V. ii. 88. )It is this demand to share in all the _Erdgeist_ has to offer,that raises Antony above the level of the average sensualist. Hisdissipations impose by their catholicity and heartiness. His blitheeagerness never flags and nothing mundane leaves him unmoved:    There’s not a minute of our lives should stretch    Without some pleasure now.                                         (I. i. 46. )This is his ideal, an infinity of pastimes under the presidency of hislove; and any ideal, no matter what, always dignifies those whom itinspires. But it also demands its sacrifice; and in the present caseAntony with a sort of inverse sublimity offers up to it all that theambitious, the honourable or the virtuous man counts good. For a life like his is hardly compatible even in theory with thearduous functions of the commander, the governor, the administrator;and in practice it inevitably leads to their neglect. In the openingscene we see him leave unheard the momentous tidings from Rome, andturn aside to embrace his royal paramour. His followers are filled withangry disgust:    Nay, but this dotage of our general’s    O’erflows the measure: those his goodly eyes    That o’er the files and musters of the war    Have glow’d like plated Mars, now bend, now turn,    The office and devotion of their view    Upon a tawny front.                                          (I. i. 1. )The general voice cries out against him at home, where his faults aretaunted    With such full licence as both truth and malice    Have power to utter.                                      (I. ii. 112. )His newly arrived friends find the worst libels verified, as Demetriusadmits:                            I am full sorry    That he approves the common liar, who    Thus speaks of him at Rome.                               (I. i. 59. )Octavius is not unduly severe in his condemnation:                        To confound such time,    That drums him from his sport, and speaks as loud    As his own state and ours,—’tis to be chid    As we rate boys, who, being mature in knowledge,    Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,    And so rebel to judgement.                                        (I. iv. 28. )Nor is he without qualms himself. Sudden revulsions of feeling disturbhis riots when “a Roman thought hath struck him” (I. ii. 87). He feelsthat stopping short in his labours and relaxing his energy, he giveshis baser tendencies the sway, and cries:                O, then we bring forth weeds,    When our quick minds lie still.                                (I. ii. 113. )This, however, makes things worse rather than better. It does not rousehim to any constant course, it only perplexes his purpose. He does notwish to give up anything: the life at Rome and the life at Alexandriaboth tug at his heart-strings; and he cannot see that the Eastern andthe Western career are not to be reconciled. It is still nominallyopen to him to make a choice, but at any rate the choice must be made. It must often have occurred to him to throw aside his civil ties, andto set up as independent Emperor with his Egyptian Queen. And apartfrom old associations there were only two reasons why he should not:lingering respect for his marriage with Fulvia, whom in a way he stillloved, and dread of the avenging might of Rome directed by all thecraft of Octavius. These impediments are suddenly removed; and theirremoval belongs to Shakespeare’s conception. It may be traced in partto his own invention, in part perhaps to the suggestion of Appian, butin any case it is of far-reaching significance. In the biography the situation is fundamentally different, thoughsuperficially alike. There Antony is threatened at once in the Westand the East. Octavius has driven his wife and brother out of Italy;Labienus, the old foe of Caesarism, has led the Parthians into theprovinces. It is to meet these dangers that Antony leaves Egypt, andto the Parthian as the more pressing he addresses himself first. Onlyat Fulvia’s entreaty does he alter his plan and sail for home with twohundred ships; but her opportune death facilitates a composition withOctavius. Then the alliance between them having been confirmed, and thepetty trouble with Sextus Pompeius having been easily settled, Antonyis able with ampler resources to turn against the troublesome Parthians. These are the facts as Caesar narrates them; and according to themAntony had no option but to break off his love affair and set outto face one or both of the perils that menaced him; the peril fromOctavius who has defeated him in his representatives, the peril fromLabienus who has overrun the Near East. These items are not wanting inShakespeare, and as the news of them arrives, his Antony exclaims asPlutarch’s might have done:    These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,    Or lose myself in dotage.                                   (I. ii. 120. )But even as he speaks a second messenger arrives who supplementsthe tidings of the first with new circumstances that are really ofmuch later date and quite different significance in Plutarch, andthat entirely alter the complexion of affairs. He hears by word ofmouth that Fulvia is dead, and, apparently by letter, that SextusPompeius stands up against Caesar and commands the empire of the sea. In Plutarch he is called to Rome by the fact not of Fulvia’s beingdead but of her being alive; and her death only prepares the way fora reconciliation when he is already nearing home. Still less is hisreturn connected with the enterprise of Pompey which is mentioned onlyafter the reconciliation is accomplished, and, as we have seen, istreated quite as a detail. But Shakespeare, inserting these mattershere and viewing them as he does, dismisses altogether or in part themotive which Plutarch implies for Antony’s behaviour. Indeed theyshould rather be reasons for his continuing and proceeding further inhis present course. One main objection to his connection with Cleopatrais removed, and the way is smoothed to marriage with his beloved. Alldanger from Rome is for the time at an end; and the opportunity isoffered for establishing himself in Egypt while Pompey and Octaviuswaste each other’s strength, or for making common cause with Pompey,who, as we know, is well inclined to him and takes occasion to pay himcourt. But in Shakespeare’s Antony, the very removal of external hindrancesgives new force to those within his own heart. Regrets and compunctionsare stirred. The memory of his wife rises up with new authority, theentreaties of his friends and the call of Rome sound with louder appealin his ears:                            Not alone    The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,    Do strongly speak to us: but the letters too    Of many our contriving friends in Rome    Petition us at home.                                   (I. ii. 186. )With a man of his emotional nature, precisely the opportunity soprocured to carry out one set of his wishes, gives the other set themastery. Of his wife’s death he exclaims:    There’s a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it:    What our contempt doth often hurl from us,    We wish it ours again; the present pleasure,    By revolution lowering, does become    The opposite of itself: she’s good, being gone;    The hand could pluck her back that shoved her on.    I must from this enchanting queen break off.                                         (I. ii. 126. )It is no doubt the nobler and more befitting course that he proposesto himself, but it is so only on the condition that he follows it outwith his whole heart. If he takes it up to let it go; if one half ormore than one half of his soul lingers with the flesh-pots of Egypt,then nothing could be more foolish and calamitous. He merely throwsaway the grand chance of realising his more alluring ambition, andadvances no step to the sterner and loftier heights. For he will patchup the Roman Triumvirate and rehabilitate the power of Octavius to hisown hurt, unless he resolves henceforth to act as a Roman Triumvir andas the dominant partner with Octavius; and he will never again haveso good an occasion for legitimising and thus excusing his relationwith Cleopatra. This latter step was so obviously the natural one thatOctavius almost assumes he must have taken it. On making his proposalfor the match with Octavia, Agrippa says: “Great Antony is now awidower,” but Octavius interrupts:                            Say not so, Agrippa:    If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof    Were well deserved of rashness.                                   (II. ii. 122. )But though he thus shrinks from the irrevocable choice, we see clearlyenough at his departure from Egypt that the impulse towards Rome mustsoon be spent, and that therefore his refusal to commit himself,and his whole enterprise, show rather weakness and indecision thanresolution and strength. To soothe Cleopatra he tells her:                      Be prepared to know    The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,    As you shall give the advice. By the fire    That quickens Nilus’ slime, I go from thence    Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war    As thou affect’st.                                   (I. iii. 66. )He is speaking too true when he says:    Our separation so abides, and flies,    That thou, residing here, go’st yet with me,    And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.                                   (I. iii. 102. )And his last message runs:    Say, the firm Roman to great Egypt sends    This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,    To mend the petty present, I will piece    Her opulent throne with kingdoms: all the east,    Say thou, shall call her mistress.                                   (I. v. 44. )And with these pledges like so many mill-stones round his neck, he setsoff to swim in the dangerous cross-currents of Roman politics. It istrue that pledges do not weigh over heavily with him, but in this casetheir weight is increased by his inner inclinations. So the reconciliation with Octavius is hollow from the first, and beinghollow it is a blunder. Antony of course is able to blind himself toits hollowness and to conduct the negociations with great adroitness. His dignified and frank apology is just what he ought to say, supposingthat the particular end were to be sought at all, and it has an air ofcandour that could not well be consciously assumed:                        As nearly as I may,    I’ll play the penitent to you: but mine honesty    Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power    Work without it. Truth is, that Fulvia,    To have me out of Egypt, made wars here;    For which myself, the ignorant motive, do    So far ask pardon as befits mine honour    To stoop in such a case.                                   (II. ii. 91. )But this is only another instance of the born orator’s faculty forthrowing himself into a situation, and feeling for the time what it isexpedient to express. It is a fatal gift, which betrays him oftenerthan it helps. If it prompts his moving utterances over the bodiesof Caesar and Brutus, and in so far directly or indirectly assistshis cause, it nevertheless even then to some cynical observers likeEnobarbus suggests a spice of hypocrisy. Hypocrisy it is not, but itcomes almost to the same thing; for the easily aroused emotion soonsubsides after it has done its work and yields to some quite contraryimpulsion. But meanwhile the worst of it is, that it carries away theeloquent speaker, and hurries him in directions and to distances thatare not for his good. With Antony’s real and permanent bias, even atemporary reconcilement with Octavius is a mistake; but what shall wesay of his marriage with Octavia? Yet he jumps at it at once; and withthat convincing air of sincerity that can only be explained by hisreally liking it for the moment, exclaims:                            May I never    To this good purpose, that so fairly shows,    Dream of impediment! Let me have thy hand:    Further this act of grace: and from this hour    The heart of brothers govern in our loves    And sway our great designs.                                   (II. ii. 146. )And again he realises just what is proper to feel and say to hisbetrothed, and says it so that we are sure he feels it so long as he isspeaking:                        My Octavia,    Read not my blemishes in the world’s report:    I have not kept my square: but that to come    Shall all be done by the rule.                                   (II. iii. 4. )Yet she has barely left him, when, at the warning of the soothsayer,and the thought of Octavius’ success in games of chance and sport, heresolves to outrage the still uncompleted marriage and return to hisEgyptian bondage:                          I will to Egypt:    For though I make this marriage for my peace,    I’ the East my pleasure lies.                                   (II. iii.

38. )But when this is his fixed determination, why make the marriage at all? Does he fail to see that it will bring not peace but a sword? Yet heis so hood-winked by immediate opportunism that he bears his share inmaking Pompey harmless to the mighty brother-in-law he is just aboutto offend. And knowing his own heart as he does, he can neverthelessassume an air of resentment at the veiled menace in Octavius’ partingadmonition: “Make me not offended in your mistrust” (III. ii. 33). He has truly with all diligence digged a pit for himself. Already he isthe wreck of the shrewd contriver whose machinations Cassius so justlyfeared. And this collapse of faculty, this access of presumption andhebetude belong to Shakespeare’s conception of the case. In Plutarchthe renewed agreement of the Triumvirs is expedient and even necessary;the marriage scheme is adopted in good faith and for a period servesits purpose; the granting of terms to Pompey is an unimportant act ofgrace. Nevertheless some powers of contrivance Shakespeare’s Antony stillretains. He despatches the capable Ventidius on the Parthian campaign,and he has the credit and _éclat_, when        with his banners and his well-paid ranks,    The ne’er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia    (Are) jaded out o’ the field.                                   (III. i. 32. )He himself over-runs and conquers Armenia, and other Asiatic kingdoms,and with his new prestige and resources is able to secure the supportof a formidable band of subject kings. When Octavia has returned toRome and he to Egypt, and war breaks out, he is still, thanks to theseallies and to his own veteran legionaries whom he has so often led tovictory and spoil, the master of a power that should more than sufficeto make the fortune his. But in his infatuation he throws all his advantages away. He pronounceson himself the verdict which his whole story confirms:      When we in our viciousness grow hard—    O misery on’t! —the wise gods seel our eyes;    In our own filth drop our clear judgements; make us    Adore our errors; laugh at’s, while we strut    To our confusion.                                   (III. xiii. 111. )Of the preliminary blunder, which Plutarch signalises as “among thegreatest faults that ever Antonius committed,” viz. , his failure togive Octavius battle, when universal discontent was excited at homeby Octavius’ exactions, there is no mention, or only a very slightand doubtful one in the play. When Eros has told the news of Pompey’soverthrow and Lepidus’ deposition, Enobarbus at once foresees thesequel:    Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps, no more:    And throw between them all the food thou hast,    They’ll grind the one the other.                                   (III. v. 14. )And presently he continues:                       Our great navy’s rigg’d.      _Eros. _ For Italy and Caesar. More, Domitius,    My lord desires you presently; my news    I might have told hereafter.      _Eno. _             ’Twill be nought:    But let it be. Bring me to Antony.                                   (III. v. 20. )Here we seem to have a faint reminiscence of Plutarch’s statement. Erostakes for granted as the obvious course, that the great navy readyto start will make an immediate descent on the enemy’s stronghold. Enobarbus, who understands Antony, knows that nothing will come of it,and that their destination is Egypt. In point of fact we learn in thenext scene that Antony has arrived in Alexandria and there kept hisstate with Cleopatra. But if Shakespeare glides over this episode, he dwells with all thegreater detail on the array of imbecilities with which Antony followsit up. First, despite the advice of Enobarbus, he lets Cleopatrabe present in the war. Then to please her caprice, and gratify hisown fantastic chivalry, he sets aside the well-based objections ofEnobarbus, of Canidius, of the common soldiers; and accepts Octavius’challenge to fight at sea, though his ships are heavy, his marinersinexpert, and he himself and his veterans are more used to the dryland. Even so the inspiration of his soldiership and generalship isgiving him a slight superiority, when the panic of Cleopatra withdrawsher contingent of sixty ships:                      Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt,—    Whom leprosy o’ertake! —i’ the midst o’ the fight,    When vantage like a pair of twins appear’d,    Both as the same, or rather ours the elder,    The breese upon her, like a cow in June,    Hoists sail and flies.                                   (III. x. 10. )Not all is lost even then. But Antony follows the fugitive, when,if he were true to himself, the day might still be retrieved. Thisis the view that Shakespeare assigns to Canidius; and while all theprevious items he derived from Plutarch, only distributing them amonghis persons, and adding to their picturesqueness and force, this is anaddition of his own to heighten the ignominy of Antony’s desertion:                        Had our general    Been what he knew himself, it had gone well.                                   (III. x. 25. )And the explanation of his “most unnoble swerving,” if in one way anexcuse, in another is an extra shame to his manhood, and too welljustifies Enobarbus’ dread of Cleopatra’s influence:    Your presence needs must puzzle Antony;    Take from his heart, take from his brain, from’s time,    What should not then be spared.                                   (III. vii. 11. )The authority for the idea that Antony was in a manner hypnotised byher love, Shakespeare found, like so much else, in the _Life_, buthe enhances the effect immeasurably, first by putting the avowal inAntony’s own lips, and again by the more poignant and pitiful turn hegives it. Plutarch says:    There Antonius shewed plainely, that he had not onely lost    the corage and hart of an Emperor, but also of a valliant    man, and that he was not his owne man: (proving that true    which an old man spake in myrth that the soule of a lover    lived in another body, and not in his owne) he was so caried    away with the vaine love of this woman, as if he had bene    glued into her, and that she could not have removed without    moving of him also. Antony cries in the play:    O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? . . .                            Thou knew’st too well    My heart was to thy rudder tied by the strings,    And thou shouldst tow me after: o’er my spirit    Thy full supremacy thou knew’st, and that    Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods    Command me. . . .                          You did know    How much you were my conqueror: and that    My sword, made weak by my affection, would    Obey it on all cause.                                   (III. x. 51. )But in Shakespeare’s view the final decision was not reached evenat the battle of Actium. Despite that disaster and the subsequentdesertions, Antony is still able to offer no inconsiderable resistancein Egypt. In direct contradiction of Plutarch’s statement, he says,after the reply to Euphronius and the scourging of Thyreus:                                Our force by land    Hath nobly held; our sever’d navy too    Have knit again, and fleet, threatening most sea-like.                                   (III. xiii. 169. )Whether this be fact or illusion, it shows that in his own eyes atleast some hope remains: but in the hour of defeat he was quiteunmanned and seemed to give up all thought of prolonging the struggle. When for the first time after his reverse we meet him in Alexandria,he prays his followers to “take the hint which his despair proclaims”(III. xi. 18), and to leave him, with his treasure for their reward. This circumstance Shakespeare obtained from Plutarch, but in Plutarchit is not quite the same. There the dismissal takes place at Taenarusin the Peloponnesus, the first stopping-place at which Antony touchesin his flight, and apparently is dictated by the difficulty of all thefugitives effecting their escape. At any rate he was very far even thenfrom despairing of his cause, for in the previous sentence we readthat he “sent unto Canidius, to returne with his army into Asia, byMacedon”; and some time later we find him, still ignorant of the facts,continuing to act on the belief “that his armie by lande, which he leftat Actium, was yet whole. ”[209] Here on the other hand he has succeededin reaching his lair, and it is as foolish as it is generous to throwaway adherents and resources that might be of help to him at the last. But he is too despondent to think even of standing at bay. He tells hisfriends:    I have myself resolved upon a course    Which has no need of you.                           (III. xi. 9. )[209] He learns the truth however before he sends Euphronius asdelegate. That course was to beseech Octavius by his schoolmaster,    To let him breathe between the heavens and earth,    A private man in Athens.                                     (III. xii. 14. )Here he touches the bottom mud of degradation and almost sinksto the level of Lepidus who did obtain permission to live undersurveillance at Circeii “till death enlarged his confine. ” And heretoo Shakespeare follows Plutarch, but here too with a difference. Forin the biography this incident comes after some time has elapsed, andnew disappointments and new indulgences have made deeper inroads inAntony’s spirit. In one aspect no doubt he is less pitiable in thusbeing brought to mortification by degrees. In Shakespeare he adoptsthis course before ever he has seen the Queen, and in so far showsgreater weakness of character. Like Richard II. he bows his head atonce, and without an effort takes “the sweet way to despair. ” Yet justfor that reason he is from another point of view less ignoble. It isthe sudden sense of disgrace, the amazement, the consternation at hisown poltroonery that turns his knees to water. But the very immediacyand poignancy of his self-disgust is a guarantee of surviving nobilitythat needs only an occasion to call it forth. The occasion comes inthe refusal of his own petition and the conditional compliance withCleopatra’s. Antony’s answer to this slighting treatment is his secondchallenge. This too Shakespeare obtained from Plutarch, but of thistoo he altered the significance and the date. In Plutarch it is sentafter Antony’s victorious sally, apparently in elation at that triflingsuccess, and is recorded without other remark than Octavius’ rejoinder. In Shakespeare it is the retort of Antony’s self-consciousness tothe depreciation of his rival, and it is the first rebound of hisrelaxed valour. When the victor counts him as nought he is stung tocomparisons, and feels that apart from success and external advantageshe is still of greater worth:                          Tell him he wears the rose    Of youth upon him; from which the world should note    Something particular: his coin, ships, legions,    May be a coward’s; whose ministers would prevail    Under the service of a child as soon    As i’ the command of Caesar: I dare him, therefore,    To lay his gay comparisons apart,    And answer me declined, sword against sword,    Ourselves alone.                                   (III. xiii. 20. )Of course it is absurd and mad; and the madness and absurdity arebrought out, in the play, not in the _Life_, by the comments ofEnobarbus, Octavius and Mecaenas. Indeed at this juncture Antony’svalour, or rather his desperation, does not cease to prey on hisreason. His insult to Caesar in the scourging of his messenger is lessan excess of audacity than the gnash of the teeth in the last agony: asEnobarbus remarks:    ’Tis better playing with a lion’s whelp    Than with an old one dying.                            (III. xiii. 94. )Octavius may treat these transports of a great spirit in the throesas mere bluster and brutality, and find in them a warrant for hisruthless phrase, “the old ruffian. ” There is a touch of the ruffian inAntony’s wild outbursts. Even the mettlesome vein in which he commandsanother gaudy night on Cleopatra’s birthday is open to Enobarbus’disparagement: that a diminution of his captain’s brain restores hisheart. Truly the last shreds of prudence are whirled away in his stormof recklessness and anguish and love. At the defiant anniversary feasthis soul is so wrung with gratitude to his true servants and grief atthe near farewell, that he must give his feelings words though theywill discourage rather than hearten the company. Cleopatra does notunderstand it, for her own nature has not the depth of Antony’s, anddeep can only call to deep. “What means this? ” she asks.    _Eno. _ ’Tis one of those odd tricks which sorrow shoots    Out of the mind.                                              (IV. ii. 14. )Again, in amazement at his tearful pathos, she exclaims: “What doeshe mean? ” And with an effort at cynicism, Enobarbus, who has scoffedat Antony’s emotion over the bodies of Caesar and Brutus, replies:“To make his followers weep”; for Enobarbus tries to think that it ismerely the orator’s eloquence that runs away with him in his meltingmood. Nevertheless his own sympathies are touched for the moment: “I,an ass, am onion-eyed. ” In truth none can mistake the genuine feelingof Antony’s words, though at the hint he can at once change their toneand give them an heroic and even a sanguine turn. [210]                            Know, my hearts,    I hope well of to-morrow; and will lead you    Where rather I’ll expect victorious life    Than death and honour.                                   (IV. ii. 41. )[210] Which latter for the rest may be found in North but not inPlutarch. “To salve that he had spoken he added this more unto it, thathe would not leade them to battell, where he thought not rather safelyto returne with victorie, then valliantly to dye with honor. ” _Cf. _ μὴπροάξειν ἐπὶ τὴν μάχην, ἐξ ἧς αὑτῷ θάνατον εὐκλεᾶ μᾶλλον ἢ σωτηρίανζητεῖν καὶ νίκην. But whatever deductions be made, Antony’s last days in Alexandria bringback a St. Martin’s summer of genial power and genial nobility that aredoubly captivating when set off against the foil of Caesar’s coldness. The grand proportions of his nature, that are obscured in the vintagetime of success and indulgence, show forth again when the branches arebare. No doubt he again and again does the wrong things, or at leastthe things that lead to no useful result. His patron god deserts him asin Plutarch, but that god in Shakespeare is not Bacchus but Hercules,and he departs earlier than in the story and not on the last nightbefore the end; for the withdrawal of the divine friend is now less thepresage of death than the symbol of inefficacy. Antony’s insight andjudgment may be failing; his flashes of power may be like his flashesof jealousy, and indicate the dissolution of his being. Still when allis said and done, he seems to become bolder, grander, more magnanimous,as the fuel is cut off from his inward fire and it burns and wastesin its own heat. His reflux of heroism cannot save him against thematerial superiority and concentrated ambition of Octavius, for it isnot the consequent energy that commands success and that implies aconsequent purpose in life: but all the more impressive and affectingis this gallant fronting of fate. As Cleopatra arms him for his lastlittle victory, he cries with his old self-consciousness:                                        O love,    That thou couldst see my wars to-day, and knew’st    The royal occupation! thou shouldst see    A workman in ’t.                                        (IV. iv. 15. )He welcomes the time for battle:    This morning, like the spirit of a youth,    That means to be of note, begins betimes.                                (IV. iv. 26. )Cleopatra recognises his greatness and his doom:    He goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar might    Determine this great war in single fight!    Then, Antony,—but now—well, on.                                       (IV. iv. 36. )That day he does well indeed. He pursues the recreant Enobarbus withhis generosity and the vanquished Romans with his valour. He returnsvictorious and jubilant to claim his last welcoming embrace.                        O thou day o’ the world,    Chain mine arm’d neck; leap thou, attire and all,    Through proof of harness to my heart, and there    Ride on the pants triumphing.                                   (IV. viii. 13. )Then the morrow brings the end. His fleet deserts, and for the momenthe suspects Cleopatra as the cause, and overwhelms her with curses andthreats. The suspicion is natural, and his nature is on edge at thefiasco, which this time is no fault of his.    The soul and body rive not more in parting    Than greatness going off. [211]                                 (IV. xiii. 5. )[211] A familiar thought with Shakespeare. Compare Anne’s reference toKatherine in _Henry VIII. _:                            O, God’s will! much better    She ne’er had known pomp: though’t be temporal,    Yet, if that quarrel, fortune, do divorce    It from the bearer, ’tis a sufferance panging    As soul and body’s severing.                                      (II. iii. 12. )This scene is almost certainly Shakespeare’s. But his mood changes. Even before he hears Cleopatra’s disclaimer andthe news of her alleged death, he has become calm, and only feels thefutility of it all; he is to himself “indistinct, as water is in water”(IV. xiv. 10). Then comes the message that his beloved is no more, andhis resolution is fixed:    Unarm me, Eros; the long day’s task is done,    And we must sleep.                                  (IV. xiv. 36. )His thoughts are with his Queen in the Elysian fields where he willask her pardon,[212] and he only stays for Eros’ help. But whenEros chooses his own rather than his master’s death, Antony in hislarge-hearted way gives him the praise, and finds in his act a lesson.                        Thrice-nobler than myself!    Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what    I should, and thou couldst not.                                   (IV. xiv. 95. )The wound he deals himself is not at once fatal. He lives long enoughto comfort his followers in the heroic words:    Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate    To grace it with your sorrows: bid that welcome    Which comes to punish us, and we punish it    Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up:    I have led you oft: carry me now, good friends,    And have my thanks for all. [213][212]    Dido and her Æneas shall want troops,    And all the haunt be ours.                           (IV. xiv. 52. )We have not got much further in explaining Shakespeare’s allusion thanwhen Warburton made the Warburtonian emendation of Sichaeus for Æneas. Shakespeare had probably quite forgotten Virgil’s    Illa solo fixos oculos aversa tenebat:     . . . atque inimica refugit    In nemus umbriferum.                            (_Æ. _ vi. 469. )Perhaps he remembered only that Æneas, ancestor and representative ofthe Romans, between his two authorised marriages with ladies of the“superior” races, intercalated the love-adventure, which alone seizedthe popular imagination and which of all the deities Venus aloneapproved, with ran African queen. [213] No word of this in Plutarch. He has heard the truth about Cleopatra, and only importunes deaththat he may snatch that one last interview sacred to his love of her,his care for her, and to that serene, lofty dignity which now he hasattained. The world seems a blank when this full life is out; andlooking at the race that is left, we feel inclined to echo Cleopatra’swords above the corpse:    O, wither’d is the garland of the war,    The soldier’s pole is fall’n: young boys and girls    Are level now with men; the odds is gone,    And there is nothing left remarkable    Beneath the visiting moon.                                      (IV. xv. 64. )CHAPTER VICLEOPATRATo Cleopatra, the lodestar, the temptress, the predestined mateof Antony, we now turn: and perhaps even Shakespeare has no moremarvellous creation than she, or one in which the nature that inspiresand the genius that reveals, are so fused in the ideal truth. Campbellsays: “He paints her as if the gipsy herself had cast her spell overhim, and given her own witchcraft to his pencil. ” The witchcrafteverybody feels. It is almost impossible to look at her steadily, orkeep one’s head to estimate her aright. She is the incarnate poetryof life without duty, glorified by beauty and grace; of impulsewithout principle, ennobled by culture and intellect. But howeverit may be with the reader, Shakespeare does not lose his head. Heis not the adept mesmerised, the sorcerer ensorcelled. Such avatarsas the Egyptian Queen have often been described by other poets, butgenerally from the point of view either of the servile devotee or ofthe unsympathetic censor. Here the artist is a man, experienced andcritical, yet with the fires of his imagination still ready to leapand glow. He stands in right relation to the laws of life; and hisdelineation is all the more impressive and all the more aesthetic, themore remorselessly he sacrifices the one-sided claims of the conceptionin which he delights to the laws of tragic necessity. Cleopatra is introduced to us as a beauty of a somewhat dusky Africantype in the full maturity, or perhaps a little past the maturity, ofher bloom. The first trait is for certain historically wrong. [214] Theline of the Ptolemies was of the purest Grecian breed, with a purityof which they were proud, and which they sought to preserve by closeintermarriage within their house. But Shakespeare has so impressed hisown idea of Cleopatra on the world that later painters and poets havefollowed suit ever since. Tennyson, in the _Dream of Fair Women_ tellshow she summons him:    I, turning, saw throned on a flowery rise    One sitting on a crimson scarf unroll’d,    A Queen with swarthy cheeks and bold black eyes,    Brow-bound with burning gold. [214] Wrong; even if on numismatic evidence her features be consideredto fall short of and deviate from the Greek ideal. Professor Ferrerodescribes her face as “bouffie. ”Hawthorne in his _Transformation_, describing Story’s statue ofCleopatra, which here he attributes to Kenyon, goes further:    The face was a marvellous success. The sculptor had    not shunned to give the full Nubian lips and the other    characteristics of the Egyptian physiognomy. His courage    and integrity had been abundantly rewarded: for Cleopatra’s    beauty shone out richer, warmer, more triumphantly beyond    comparison, than if, shrinking timidly from the truth, he    had chosen the tame Grecian type. Hawthorne goes astray through taking Shakespeare’s picture, or ratheranother picture which Shakespeare’s suggested to his own fancy, as aliteral portrait; but his very mistake shows how incongruous a fairCleopatra would now seem to us. Not often or obtrusively, but of set purpose and beyond thepossibility of neglect, does Shakespeare refer to her racialpeculiarities. Philo talks of her “tawny front” (I. i. 6), and both heand Antony call her a gipsy with reference not merely to the wily andvagabond character with which these landlopers in Shakespeare’s daywere stigmatised, but surely to the darkness of her complexion as well. But the most explicit and the most significant statement is her own:                                Think on me,    That am with Phoebus’ amorous pinches black.                                     (I. v. 27. )This is one of her ironical exaggerations; but does it not suggestsomething torrid and tropical, something of the fervours of the Eastand South, that burn in the volcanic fires of Othello and the impulsivesplendours of Morocco? Does it not recall the glowing plea of thelatter,    Mislike me not for my complexion,    The shadow’d livery of the burnish’d sun,    To whom I am a neighbour and near bred.                       (_M. of V. _, II. i. 1. )The sun has indeed shone on her and into her. She has known the loveand adoration of the greatest.                      Broad-fronted Caesar,    When thou wast here above the ground, I was    A morsel for a monarch: and great Pompey    Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;    There would he anchor his aspect and die    With looking on his life.                                   (I. v. 29. )Shakespeare magnifies the glories of her conquests, for it was notPompey the Great but his son who had been her lover of old. But theseexperiences were only the preparation for the grand passion of herlife. She has outgrown them; and if the first freshness is gone, theintoxication of fragrance, the flavour and lusciousness are enhanced. However much she believed herself engrossed by these early fancies, nowthat she is under the spell of her Antony, her “man of men,” she looksback on them as of her                                  salad days    When (she) was green in judgement, cold in blood.                                          (I. v. 73. )Talking of her preparations to meet Antony, Plutarch says:    Gessing by the former accesse and credit she had with Julius    Caesar and Cneus Pompey (the sonne of Pompey the Great)    only for her beawtie; she began to have good hope that she    might more easily win Antonius. For Caesar and Pompey knew    her when she was but a young thing, and knew not then what    the world ment: but now she went to Antonius, at the age    when a womans beawtie is at the prime, and she also of best    judgement. “At the prime” are Plutarch’s words; for in point of fact she was thentwenty-eight years of age. In this Shakespeare follows and goes beyondhis authority; he gives us the impression of her being somewhat older. Pompey talks of her contemptuously as “Egypt’s widow,” and prays:                        All the charms of love,    Salt Cleopatra, soften thy waned lip.                                   (II. i. 20. )She herself in ironical self-disparagement avows that she is “wrinkleddeep in time” (I. v. 29) and exclaims:    Though age from folly could not give me freedom,    It does from childishness.                                   (I. iii. 57. )But what then? Like Helen and Gudrun and the ladies of romance, orlike Ninon de Lenclos in actual life, she never grows old. As eventhe cynical Enobarbus proclaims, “age cannot wither her. ” She hasonly gained skill and experience in the use and embellishment of herphysical charms, and with these the added charms of grace, culture,expressiveness. She knows how to set off her attractions with all theaids of art, wealth and effect, as we see from the _mise-en-scène_ atthe Cydnus: and her mobility and address, her wit, her surprises, herrange of interest do the rest. Again Shakespeare has got the clue fromPlutarch:    Now her beawtie (as it is reported) was not so passing,    as unmatchable of other women,[215] nor yet suche, as upon    present viewe did enamor men with her; but so sweete was her    companie and conversacion, that a man could not possiblie    but be taken. And besides her beawtie, the good grace    she had to talke and discourse, her curteous nature that    tempered her words and dedes, was a spurre that pricked    to the quick. Furthermore, besides all these, her voyce    and words were marvelous pleasant; for her tongue was an    instrument of musicke to divers sports and pastimes, the    which she easely turned to any language that pleased her. In one respect Shakespeare differs from Plutarch; he bestows on hersurpassing and unmatchable beauty, so that she transcends the artist’sideal as much as that transcends mortal womanhood; she o’er-pictures                        that Venus where we see    The fancy outwork nature. [216]                              (II. ii. 205. )[215] The sense is: “Her beauty was not so surpassing as to be beyondcomparison with other women’s,” etc. Compare the Greek: “καὶ γὰρ ἦν, ὡςλέγουσιν, αὐτὸ μὲν καθ’ αὑτὸ, τὸ κάλλος αὐτῆς οὐ πάνυ δυσπαράβλητον,οὐδ’ οἶον ἐκπλῆξαι τοῦς ἰδόντας. ”[216] Plutarch in the corresponding passage merely says that she was“apparelled and attired like the goddesse Venus commonly drawen inpicture. ”But he agrees with Plutarch in making her beauty the least part ofher spell. Generally speaking it is taken for granted rather thanpointed out; and of its great triumph on the Cydnus we hear only inthe enraptured reminiscences of Enobarbus. Thus it is removed from thesphere of sense to the sphere of imagination, and is idealised in thefervour of his delight; but, though this we never forget, it is of herother charms that we think most when she is present on the scene. She is all life and movement, and never the same, so that we aredazzled and bewildered, and too dizzy to measure her by any fixedstandard. Her versatility of intellect, her variety of mood, areinexhaustible; and she can pass from gravity to gaiety, from fondnessto banter, with a suddenness that baffles conjecture. We can forecastnothing of her except that any forecast will be vain. At her very firstentrance the languishing gives place in a moment to the exasperatingvein:    If it be love indeed, tell me how much.                              (I. i. 14. )    Fulvia perchance is angry; or, who knows    If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent    His powerful mandate to you.                              (I. i. 20. )For she turns to account even the gibe and the jeer, stings her loverwith her venomous punctures, and pursues a policy of pin-pricks not torepel but to allure. The hint comes from Plutarch.    When Cleopatra found Antonius jeasts and slents to be but    grosse and souldier-like, in plaine manner; she gave it him    finely and without feare taunted him throughly. And on the other hand she can faint at will, weep and sob beyondmeasure.    We cannot call her winds and waters sighs and tears: they    are greater storms and tempests than almanacs can report.                                                (I. ii. 152. )Here, too, the hint is given by Plutarch, but in a later passage, whenshe fears Antony may return to Octavia:    When he went from her, she fell a weeping and blubbering,    looked rufully of the matter, and still found the meanes    that Antonius should often tymes finde her weeping. In the play, when he announces his departure, she is ready to fall;her lace must be cut; she plays the seduced innocent; but she mingleswormwood with her pathos and overwhelms him with all sorts of oppositereproaches. Since he does not bewail Fulvia, that is proof ofinfidelity:                            O most false love!    Where be the sacred vials thou shouldst fill    With sorrowful water? Now I see, I see,    In Fulvia’s death, how mine received shall be.                                   (I. iii. 62. )When his distress is not to be confined, she taxes him with mourningfor his wife:    I prithee, turn aside and weep for her;    Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears    Belong to Egypt.                                   (I. iii. 76. )When he loses patience, she mocks at him:      _Ant. _ You’ll heat my blood: no more.      _Cle. _ You can do better yet; but this is meetly.      _Ant. _ Now, by my sword,—      _Cle. _                     And target. Still he mends;    But this is not the best. Look, prithee, Charmian,    How this Herculean Roman does become    The carriage of his chafe.                                              (I. iii. 80. )But at the word of his leaving she is at once all wistful tenderness:                  Courteous lord, one word.    Sir, you and I must part, but that’s not it:    Sir, you and I have loved, but there’s not it;    That you know well: something it is I would,—    O, my oblivion is a very Antony,    And I am all forgotten. [217]                                   (I. iii. 86. )[217] See Appendix E. But thence again she passes on the instant to grave and quiet dignity:          All the gods go with you! upon your sword    Sit laurel victory! and smooth success    Be strew’d before your feet!                                   (I. iii. 99. )It is the unexpectedness of her transitions, the impossibility offoreseeing what she will say or do, the certainty that whatever shesays or does will be a surprise, that keeps Antony and everyone elsein perpetual agitation. [218] Tranquillity and dullness fly at thesound of her name. Her love relies on provocation in both senses ofthe word, and to a far greater extent in Shakespeare than in Plutarch. Thus Plutarch tells how Octavius’ expedition in occupying Toryne causeddismay among Antony’s troops: “But Cleopatra making light of it: ‘Andwhat daunger, I pray you,’ said she, ‘if Caesar keepe at Toryne? ’” Onwhich North has the long marginal note:    The grace of this tawnt can not properly be expressed in    any other tongue, bicause of the equivocation of this word    Toryne, which signifieth a citie of Albania, and also, a    ladell to scoome the pot with: as if she ment, Caesar sat by    the fire side, scomming of the pot. Shakespeare makes no attempt to find an equivalent for theuntranslatable jest, but substitutes one of those bitter mocks beforewhich Antony has so often to wince. When he expresses wonder at hisrival’s dispatch, she strikes in:    Celerity is never more admired    Than by the negligent.                    (III. vii. 25. )[218] The love she inspires and feels is of the kind described by LaRochefoucauld: “L’amour, aussi bien que le feu, ne peut subsister, sansun mouvement continuel; et il cesse de vivre dès qu’il cesse d’espérerou de craindre. ” He has another passage that suggests an explanationof the secret of Cleopatra’s permanent attraction for the volatileAntony: “La constance en amour est une inconstance perpétuelle, quifait que notre coeur s’attache successivement à toutes les qualitésde la personne que nous aimons, donnant tantôt la préférence à l’une,tantôt à l’autre; de sorte que cette constance n’est qu’une inconstancearrêtée et renfermée dans un même sujet. ” It is curious how often anEnglish reader of La Rochefoucauld feels impelled to illustrate theReflections on Love and Women by reference to Shakespeare’s Cleopatra,but it is very natural. His friend the Duchess of Longueville andthe other great ladies of the Fronde resembled her in their charm,their wit, their impulsiveness; and when they engaged in the game ofpolitics, subordinated it like her to their passions and caprices. Sohis own experience would familiarise La Rochefoucauld with the type,which he has merely generalised, and labelled as the only authenticone. And she does this sort of thing on principle. She tells Alexas:    See where he is, who’s with him, what he does:    I did not send you: if you find him sad,    Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report    That I am sudden sick.                                     (I. iii. 2. )Is it then all artifice? Are all her eddying whims and contradictionsmere stratagems to secure her sway? For a moment Antony seems tothink so. “She is cunning past man’s thought,” he says in referenceto her swooning: and perhaps it is because of her cunning as well asher sinuous grace that his endearing name for her is his “Serpent ofold Nile” (I. v. 25). Enobarbus’ reply is in effect that her displaysof emotion are too vehement to be the results of art; they are thequintessence of feeling: “her passions are made of nothing but thefinest part of pure love” (I. ii. 151). And both these views are correct. It is her deliberate programme tokeep satiety afar by the swiftness and diversity of the changes sheassumes; but it is a programme easy to carry out, for it corresponds toher own nature. She is a creature of moods. Excitement, restlessness,curiosity pulse in her life-blood. In Antony’s absence she is asflighty with herself as ever she was with him. She feeds on memoriesand thoughts of him, but they plague rather than soothe her. In littlemore than a breathing-space she turns to music, billiards, and fishing;and abandons them all to revel once in her day-dreams. When the messenger arrives after Antony’s marriage, she in herungovernable eagerness interrupts him and will not let him disclose thetidings for which she longs. When she hears what they are, she losesall restraint; she stuns him with threats, curses, blows; she haleshim by the hair and draws a knife upon him. Then, sinking down in afaint, she suddenly recovers herself with that irrepressible vitalityand inquisitiveness of hers, that are bone of her bone and flesh of herflesh:    Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him    Report the feature of Octavia, her years,    Her inclination, let him not leave out    The colour of her hair.                              (II. v. 111. )And while we are still smiling at the last little touch, comes thatmoving outburst of a sensitive and sorely stricken soul:                          Pity me, Charmian,    But do not speak to me.                              (iI. v. 118. )Not long, however, is she in despair. Her knowledge of Antony’scharacter, her knowledge of her own charms, even her vanity andself-illusion combine to give her assurance of final triumph; and whenwe next meet her, she is once more hopeful and alert. “Why, methinks,”she sums up at the close of her not very scientific investigation,“this creature’s no such thing” (III. iii. 43); and she concludes, “Allmay be well enough” (III. iii. 50). The charm and piquancy of this nimble changefulness are obvious, and itis not without its value as a weapon in the warfare of life. But it isequally true that such shifting gusts will produce unreliability, andeven shiftiness. It is quite natural that Cleopatra, a queen and thedaughter of kings, should, in her presumptuous mood, insist on beingpresent in the campaign and on leading to battle her own sixty ships. It is no less natural that amid the actual horrors of the conflict, theluxuriously bred lady should be seized with panic and take to flight. Indeed it is precisely what we might expect. For despite the royaltyof soul she often displays, there is in Cleopatra a strain of physicaltimidity, for which Shakespeare has already prepared us. When themessenger of woe is to give his tidings to Antony, he hesitates andsays:    The nature of bad news infects the teller,and Antony answers nobly and truly:    When it concerns the fool or coward.                              (I. ii. 99. )We cannot help remembering Antony’s words when Cleopatra visits on thebearer the fault of the bad news to her:    Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me    Thou wouldst appear most ugly.                              (II. v. 96. )Such a reception according to Antony stamps the fool or the coward. Cleopatra is no fool, but there is a touch of cowardice in her, thatappears over and over again. Thus it is perhaps fear, fear blended with worldliness, that gainsa hearing for Thyreus. There is absolutely no indication that sheis playing a part and temporising, out of faithfulness to Antony. She had already sent her own private petition to Caesar, confessinghis greatness, submitting to his might, and requesting “the circleof the Ptolemies” for her heirs. This, otherwise than in Plutarch,she had done without Antony’s knowledge, who tells her, as thoughfor her information, that he had sent his schoolmaster to bear histerms; with which Cleopatra’s were not associated. Her whole behaviourshows that she dreads Octavius’ power, and dreads the loss of her ownwealth and dignities. But, in the scene with Thyreus, is she reallyprepared to desert and betray her lover? Antony suspects that she is,and appearances are indeed against her. Enobarbus believes that sheis, and Enobarbus generally hits on the truth. Yet we have always toremember the temptation she would feel to try her spells on Thyreusand his master: and even after Enobarbus’ desertion she remains withAntony, clings to him, encourages him, arms him, is proud of him. Inany case it would not be cold-blooded perfidy, but one of those flawsof weakness, of fear, of self-pity, of self-interest, that take herunawares. [219] For the final treason of the fleet at any rate, ofwhich Antony imagines her guilty, she seems in no way responsible. Plutarch mentions Antony’s infuriated suspicion but adds no word inconfirmation, and Shakespeare, who would surely not have left uswithout direction on so important a matter, is equally reticent. Suchhints as he gives, point the other way. We may indeed discount thedisclaimers of Mardian and Diomedes who would probably say anythingthey were told to say. But when Antony greets Cleopatra, “Ah, thouspell! avaunt! ” her exclamation,    Why is my lord enraged against his love?                              (IV. xii. 31. )[219] “L’on fait plus souvent des trahisons par foiblesse que par undessein formé de trahir. ”—_La Rochefoucauld. _seems to express genuine amazement rather than assumed innocence. Andin her conversation with her attendants her words, to all appearance,imply that she cannot understand his rage: to her it is merelyinexplicable frenzy:    Help me, my women! O, he is more mad    Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly    Was never so emboss’d.                                       (IV. xiii. 1. )Moreover, if she had packed cards with Caesar, it is difficult to seewhy she should not claim a price for her treachery, instead of lockingherself up in the Monument as she does, and trying to keep the Romansout. All the negociations and interviews after Antony’s death seem toimply that she had no previous understanding with Octavius. But she recoils from her lover’s desperation, as she always does whenhe is deeply moved. She has ever the tact to feel the point at whichher blandishments and vexations are out of place and will no longerserve her turn. Just as after the disaster of Actium she only sobs:                          O my lord, my lord,    Forgive my fearful sails!                              (III. xi. 54. )and then can urge no plea but “pardon”; just as after her interviewwith Thyreus, with no hint of levity, she solemnly imprecates curses onherself and her offspring if she were false; so now she bows before hiswrath and flees to the monument. Then follows the fiction of her death,a fiction in which the actress does not forget the _finesses_ of herart.    Say, that the last I spoke was “Antony,”    And word it, prithee, piteously.                              (IV. xiii. 8. )It is not the most candid nor dignified expedient, but probably itis the most effective one; for violent ills need violent cures; andperhaps there was nothing that could allay Antony’s storm of distrustbut as fierce a storm of regret. At any rate it has the result at whichCleopatra aims; but she knows him well, and presently foresees that theantidote may have a further working than she intends. Diomedes seems tostate the mere truth when he says that her prophesying fear dispatchedhim to proclaim the truth. But it is too late; and there only remains the lofty parting scene,when if she still fears to open the gates lest Caesar should enter, shedraws her lover up to the monument, and lightens his last moments noless with her queenliness than with her love. She feels the fitness andthe pathos in his ending, that none but Antony should conquer Antony:she not obscurely hints that she will take the same path. When he bidsher:    Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety;                                   (IV. xv. 47. )she answers well, “They do not go together. ” Her passionate ejaculationere she faints above his corpse, her appeal to her frightened women,                    what’s brave, what’s noble,    Let’s do it after the high Roman fashion,                                   (V. xv. 87. )have a whole-heartedness and intensity that first reveal the greatnessof her nature. And yet even now she seems to veer from the prouder course on which shehas set out. We soon find her in appearance paltering with her Romandecision. She sends submissive messages to Caesar; she delays her deathso long that Proculeius can surprise her in her asylum; she acceptsher conqueror’s condescension; she stoops to hold back and conceal thegreater part of her jewels. It is a strange riddle that Shakespeare has here offered to thestudent, and perhaps no certain solution of it is to be found. In thisplay, even more than in most, he resorts to what has been called hisshorthand, to the briefest and most hurried notation of his meaning,and often it is next to impossible to explain or extend his symbols. The usual interpretation, which has much to commend it, accepts allthese apparent compliances of Cleopatra for what on the face theyare. They are taken as instances of Shakespeare’s veracious art thatabstains from sophisticating fact for the sake of effect, and attains ahigher effect through this very conscientiousness and self-restraint. Just as he makes the enthusiastic fidelity of Enobarbus fail to standthe supreme test, so he detects a flaw in the resolute yearningof Cleopatra. The body of her dead past weighs her down, and shecannot advance steadily in the higher altitudes. She wavers in herdetermination to die, as is implied by her retention of her treasure,and “the courtesan’s instincts of venality and falsehood”[220] stillassert their sway. She has too easily taken to heart Antony’s advice,and is but too ready, despite all her brave words, to grasp at hersafety along with her honour, or what she is pleased to consider herhonour to be. And, just as in the case of Enobarbus, an externalstimulus is needed to urge her to the nobler course. The gods intheir unkindness are kind to her. Dolabella’s disclosures and her ownobservations convince her that Caesar spares her only for his own gloryand for her shame; that, as she foreboded, her safety and her honour donot go together. Then, at the thought of the indignity, all her royaland aristocratic nature rises in revolt, and she at last chooses as sheought. [220] Boas, _Shakespeare and his Predecessors_. On the other hand it is possible to maintain that all these apparentlapses are mere subterfuges forced on Cleopatra to ensure the successof her scheme; and this interpretation receives some support not onlyfrom the text of the play, but from the comparison of it with North,and a consideration of what in the original narrative Shakespeare takesfor granted, of what he alters, and of what he adds. [221]After her more or less explicit statements in Antony’s death scene,her suppliant message from the monument is an interpolation of thedramatist’s; but so is the very different declaration which shesubsequently makes to her confidantes and in which her purpose ofsuicide seems unchanged:    My desolation does begin to make    A better life. ’Tis paltry to be Caesar;    Not being Fortune, he’s but Fortune’s knave,    A minister of her will: and it is great    To do the thing that ends all other deeds;    Which shackles accidents and bolts up change;    Which sleeps, and never palates more the dung,[222]    The beggar’s nurse and Caesar’s.                                        (V. ii. 1. )[221] This was first suggested in A. Stahr’s _Cleopatra_. I prefer togive the arguments in my own way. [222] So in folio: some modern editions alter unnecessarily to “dug. ”Which of these two utterances gives the true Cleopatra, the onetransmitted at second hand for Octavius’ consumption, or the onebreaking from her in private to her two women who will be true toher till death? Quite apart from the circumstances in which, and thepersons to whom, they are spoken, there is a marked difference intone between the ceremonious official character of the first, and thespontaneous sincerity of the second. Then just at this moment Proculeius arrives and engages her in talk. Itis not wonderful that she should look for a moment to the man Antonyhad recommended to her; but, though she is deferential to Octavius, herone request is not for herself but for her son. And when the surpriseis effected, there is no question of the genuineness of her attemptat self-destruction. Even when she is disarmed, she persists, as withPlutarch, in her resolution to kill herself if need be by starvation. In Plutarch she is dissuaded from this by threats against her children;in Shakespeare events proceed more rapidly, and she has no time to putsuch a plan in practice; nor is any serious use made of the maternal“motif. ” From first to last it is, along with grief for Antony,resentment at the Roman triumph that moves her. And these feelings arein full activity when immediately afterwards she is left in charge ofDolabella. This passage also is an addition, and it is noteworthy thatit begins with her deification of Antony, and ends with Dolabella’sassurance, which in Plutarch only follows later where the play repeatsit, of her future fate.    _Cle. _ He’ll lead me, then, in triumph?    _Dol. _ Madam, he will; I know’t.                              (V. ii. 109. )It is just then that Caesar is announced; and it is hard to believethat Cleopatra, with her two master passions excited to the height,should really contemplate embezzling treasure as provision for a lifewhich surely, in view of the facts, she could not care to prolong. Moreover, in Plutarch’s narrative there is a contradiction or ambiguitywhich North’s marginal note brings into relief, and which would bequite enough to set a duller man than Shakespeare thinking about whatit all meant.    At length, she gave him a breefe and memoriall of all the    readie money and treasure she had. But by chaunce there    stoode Seleucus by, one of her Treasorers, who to seeme a    good servant, came straight to Caesar to disprove Cleopatra,    that she had not set in al, but kept many things back of    purpose. Cleopatra was in such a rage with him, that she    flew upon him and tooke him by the heare of the head, and    boxed him wellfavoredly. Caesar fell a-laughing, and parted    the fray. “Alas,” said she, “O Caesar: is not this a great    shame and reproche, that thou having vouchsaved to take the    peines to come unto me, and hast done me this honor, poore    wretche, and caitife creature, brought into this pitiefull    and miserable estate: and that mine owne servaunts should    come now to accuse me, though it may be I have reserved some    juells and trifles meete for women, but not for me (poore    soule) to set out my selfe withall, but meaning to geve some    pretie presents and gifts unto Octavia and Livia, that they    making meanes and intercession for me to thee, thou mightest    yet extend thy favor and mercie upon me? ” Caesar was glad    to heare her say so, _perswading him selfe thereby that    she had yet a desire to save her life_. So he made her    answere, that he did not only geve her that to dispose of at    her pleasure, which she had kept backe, but further promised    to use her more honorably and bountifully then she would    thinke for: and so he tooke his leave of her, _supposing    he had deceived her, but in deede he was deceived him    selfe_. And North underlines the suggestive clauses with his comment:    Cleopatra finely deceiveth Octavius Caesar, as though she    desired to live. It is not hard therefore to see how the whole episode may be takenas contrived on her part. It would be a device of the serpent of oldNile, one of her triumphs of play-acting, by means of which she getsthe better of her conqueror and makes him indeed an ass unpolicied. And though the suggestion would come from Plutarch, whom Shakespearefollows in the main very closely throughout this passage, it is pointedout that some of Shakespeare’s modifications in detail seem to favourthis view. And to begin with it should be noticed that in all this episodehe passes over what is abject or hysterical or both in Plutarch’sCleopatra, and gives her a large measure of royal self-respect andself-command. This is how Octavius finds her in the original story:    Cleopatra being layed upon a little low bed in poore estate,    when she sawe Caesar come in to her chamber, she sodainly    rose up, naked in her smocke, and fell downe at his feete    marvelously disfigured: both for that she had plucked her    heare from her head, as also for that she had martired all    her face with her nailes, and besides, her voyce was small    and trembling, her eyes sonke into her heade with continuall    blubbering. Thus, and with other traits that we omit, Plutarch describes her “ouglyand pitiefull state,” when Caesar comes to see and comfort her. Wecannot imagine Shakespeare’s Cleopatra ever so forgetting what was dueto her beauty, her rank, and herself. Then the narrative proceeds:    When Caesar had made her lye downe againe, and sate by her    beddes side; Cleopatra began to cleere and excuse her selfe    for that she had done, laying all to the feare she had of    Antonius. Caesar, in contrarie maner, reproved[223] her in    every poynt. [223] _i. e. _ confuted. In the play this suggestion is put back to the interview with Thyreus;and is made, not refuted, on the authority of Octavius.      _Thy. _ He knows that you embrace not Antony    As you did love, but as you fear’d him.      _Cle. _                         O!      _Thy. _ The scars upon your honour, therefore, he    Does pity as constrained blemishes,    Not as deserved.      _Cle. _           He is a god, and knows    What is most right: mine honour was not yielded,    But conquer’d merely.                                   (III. xiii. 56. )But this was before the supreme sorrow had come to quicken in her, hernobler instincts. Now she has no thought of incriminating Antony andexculpating herself. She says with quiet dignity:                      Sole sir o’ the world,    I cannot project mine own cause so well    To make it clear: but do confess I have    Been laden with like frailties, which before    Have often shamed our sex.                                  (V. ii. 120. )Even her wrath at Seleucus is less outrageous than in Plutarch. Shethreatens his eyes, but does not proceed to physical violence. Shedoes not fly upon him and seize him by the hair of the head and boxhim well-favouredly. These vivacities Shakespeare had remarked, buthe transfers them to the much earlier scene when she receives newsof Antony’s marriage and strikes the messenger to the ground, andstrikes him again, and drags him up and down. Now she has somewhat moreself-control, and is no longer carried beyond all limits of decency byher ungovernable moods.

Shakespeare, therefore, gives her a new dignityand strength even in this most equivocal scene; and how could these bereconciled with a craven hankering for life and a base desire to retainby swindling a share of its gewgaws? But a further alteration, we are told, gives a definite thoughunobtrusive hint that all the while she is in collusion with Seleucus,and that the whole affair is a comedy arranged between them to keepopen the door of death. Not only does the treasurer escape unpunishedafter his disclosure, but he is invited to make it. In Plutarch hemerely happens to stand by, and intervenes “to seeme a good servant. ”Here Cleopatra calls for him; bids Caesar let him speak on his peril;and herself orders him, “Speak the truth, Seleucus. ”Moreover his statement and her excuse point to a much more seriousembezzlement than Plutarch suggests, and just in so far would giveOctavius a stronger impression of her desire to live. In the biographySeleucus confines himself to saying that “she had not set in al,but kept many things back of purpose”: and she confesses only to“some juells and trifles meete for women . . . meaning to geve somepretie presents and gifts unto Octavia and Livia. ” In the play to herquestion: “What have I kept back? ” Seleucus answers:    Enough to purchase what you have made known:                                   (V. ii. 148. )and she, after the express proviso she makes in advance, that she hasnot admitted petty things in the schedule, now acknowledges that shehas reserved not only “lady trifles, immoment toys“—these were alreadyaccounted for—but some “nobler token” for Octavius’ sister and wife. If these clues are unduly faint, we are reminded that such ellipticaltreatment is not without parallel in other incidents of the drama. Octavius’ policy in regard to Octavia’s marriage, for example, has, injust the same way, to be gathered from the general drift of events andthe general probabilities of the case, from an unimportant suggestionin Plutarch, from the opportunity furnished to Agrippa, and his agencyin that transaction, which are not more explicit than the opportunityfurnished to Seleucus, and his agency in this. These arguments are ingenious and not without their cogency, but theyleave one unconvinced. The difficulties in accepting them are fargreater than in the analogous question of Antony’s marriage. For inthe latter the theory of Octavius’ duplicity does not contradict theimpression of the scene. Nor does it contradict but only supplementsthe statement of the historian: the utmost we can say is that it is notmade sufficiently prominent. And, lastly, the doubt that is thus leftpossible does not concern a protagonist of the drama, but at most thechief or one of the chief of the minor characters. But in the presentcase the impression produced on the unsophisticated reader is certainlythat Cleopatra is convicted of fraud: and however that impression maybe weakened by a review of the circumstances as a whole, there is nosingle phrase or detail that brings the opposite theory home to theimagination. Besides, the complicity of Seleucus would be a much bolderfabrication than the complicity of Agrippa: the latter is not recorded,but the opposite of the former is recorded, and was accepted by allwho dealt with this episode from Jodelle to Daniel, and probably byall who read Plutarch: the treasurer was present by accident and usedthe opportunity to ingratiate himself. So Shakespeare, without givingadequate guidance himself, would leave people to the presuppositionsthey had formed under the guidance of his author. Surely this is a verysevere criticism on his art. But this is not all. The misconstructionwhich he did nothing to prevent and everything to produce, wouldconcern the heroine of the piece, an even more important personage thanthe hero, as is shown by her receiving the fifth act to herself, whileAntony is dismissed in the fourth. These objections, however, only apply to the view that the suppressionand discovery of the treasure were parts of a deliberate stratagem. They do not affect the arguments that Cleopatra has virtually accepteddeath as the only practical solution, and that the rest of herbehaviour at this stage accords ill with mercenary imposture. In a word both these antagonistic theories approve themselves in sofar as they take into account the facts alleged and the impressionsproduced by the drama. If we credit our feelings, it is quite truethat Cleopatra is taken by surprise and put out of countenance, thatshe seeks to excuse herself and passionately resents the disloyalty ofSeleucus. And again, if we credit our feelings, it is quite true thatfrom the time the mortally wounded Antony is brought before her, shehas made up her mind to kill herself, and that she is nobler and morequeenly for her decision than she was before or than Plutarch makes her. Of course, buoyant and versatile, feeling her life in every limb, andquick to catch each passing chance, she may even now without reallyknowing it, without really believing it, have hoped against hope thatshe might still obtain terms she could accept undisgraced. And the hopeof life would bring with it the frailties of life, for clearly it isonly the resolve to die that lifts her above herself. So here we shouldonly have another instance of the complexity of her strange nature thatcan consciously elect the higher path, and yet all the while in itssecret councils provide, if it may be, for following the lower. But is there not another interpretation possible? What are these “ladytrifles” and “nobler tokens” that together would purchase all thewealth of money, plate and jewels she has declared. Plutarch, talkingof her magnificence when she obeyed Antony’s first summons, evidentlydoes not expect to be believed, and adds that it was such “as iscredible enough she might bring from so great a house, and from sowealthie a realme as Ægypt was. ” And now she is “again for Cydnus,”and needs her “crown and all. ” Already to all intents and purposes shehas resolved on her death, as is shown by her frequent assurances. Shehas also resolved on the means of it; for scarcely has Caesar left,than she tells Charmian:    I have spoke already, and it is provided.                                (V. ii. 195. )Will she not also have resolved on the manner of it; and both in theself-consciousness of her beauty and in memory of her first meetingwith Antony, does she not desire to depart life for the next meetingwith due pomp and state? If we imagine she was keeping back her regaliafor this last display, we can understand why Shakespeare inserted the“nobler token” in addition to the unconsidered trifles which she wasquite ready to own she had reserved, and of which indeed in Shakespearethough not in Plutarch she had already made express mention asuninventoried. [224] We can understand her consternation and resentmentat the disclosure; for just as in regard to the “nobler token” shecould not explain her real motives without ruining her plan. And we canadmire her “cunning past man’s thought” in turning the whole incidentto account as proof that she was willing to live on sufferance as_protégée_ of Caesar. [224] It is a rather striking coincidence that Jodelle, too, heightensPlutarch’s account of the treasures she has retained, and includesamong them the crown jewels and royal robes. Seleucus finishes apanegyric on her wealth:    Croy, Cesar, croy qu’elle a de tout son or    Et autres biens tout le meilleur caché. And she says in her defence:    Hé! si j’avois retenu les joyaux    Et quelque part de mes habits royaux,    L’aurois-je fait pour moy, las! malheureuse! No doubt this suggestion is open to the criticism that it is nowhereestablished by a direct statement; but that also applies to the mostprobable explanation of some other matters in the play. And meanwhileI think that it, better than the two previous theories we havediscussed, satisfies the conditions, by conforming with the _data_ ofthe play, the treatment of the sources, and the feelings of the reader. On the one hand it fully admits the reality of Cleopatra’s fraud and ofher indignation at Seleucus. On the other it removes the discrepancybetween her dissimulation, and the loftiness of temper and readinessfor death, which she now generally and but for the usual interpretationof this incident invariably displays. It tallies with what we maysurmise from Shakespeare’s other omissions and interpolations; and ifit goes beyond Plutarch’s account of Caesar’s deception by Cleopatra,it does not contradict it, and therefore would not demand so fulland definite a statement as a new story entirely different from theoriginal. Be that as it may, there is at least no trace of hesitation orcompliance in the Queen from the moment when she perceives thatOctavius is merely “wording” her. Her self-respect is a stronger or,at any rate, a more conspicuous motive than her love. Antony, when hebelieved her false had said to her:    Vanish, or I shall give thee thy deserving,    And blemish Caesar’s triumph. Let him take thee,    And hoist thee up to the shouting plebeians:    Follow his chariot, like the greatest spot    Of all thy sex; most monster-like be shown    For poor’st diminutives, for doits: and let    Patient Octavia plough thy visage up    With her prepared nails.                                  (IV. xii. 32. )These words of wrath have lingered in her memory and she echoes them inhis dying ears:                          Not the imperious show    Of the full-fortuned Caesar ever shall    Be brooch’d with me; if knife, drugs, serpents have    Edge, sting, or operation, I am safe:    Your wife Octavia, with her modest eyes    And still conclusion, shall acquire no honour    Demuring upon me.                                     (IV. xv. 23. )The loathsomeness of the prospect grows in her imagination, andcompared with it the most loathsome fate is desirable. She tellsProculeius:                            Know, sir, that I    Will not wait pinion’d at your master’s court;    Nor once be chastised with the sober eye    Of dull Octavia. Shall they hoist me up    And show me to the shouting varletry    Of censuring Rome? Rather a ditch in Egypt    Be gentle grave unto me! rather on Nilus’ mud    Lay me stark naked, and let the water-flies    Blow me into abhorring! rather make    My country’s high pyramides my gibbet,    And hang me up in chains.                                    (V. ii. 52. )And now in the full realisation of the scene, she brings it home to herwomen:      _Cle. _      Now, Iras, what think’st thou?    Thou, an Egyptian puppet, shalt be shown    In Rome, as well as I: mechanic slaves    With greasy aprons, rules and hammers, shall    Uplift us to the view; in their thick breaths,    Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,    And forced to drink their vapour.      _Iras. _                    The gods forbid!    _Cle. _ Nay, ’tis most certain, Iras: saucy lictors    Will catch at us, like strumpets; and scald rhymers    Ballad us out of tune.                                          (V. ii. 207. )Such thoughts expel once for all her mutability and flightiness:    My resolution’s placed and I have nothing    Of woman in me: now from head to foot    I am marble constant; now the fleeting moon    No planet is of mine.                                  (V. ii. 238. )And the scene that follows with the banalities and trivialities ofthe clown who supplies the aspics among the figs, brings into reliefthe loneliness of a queenly nature and a great sorrow. Yet not merelythe loneliness, but the potency as well. Who would have given thefrivolous waiting-women of the earlier scenes credit for devotion andheroism? Yet inspired by her example they learn their lesson and areready to die as nobly as she. Iras has spoken for them all:    Finish, good lady; the bright day is done,    And we are for the dark.                                (V. ii. 193. )Now she brings the robe and crown Cleopatra wore at Cydnus, and then,like Eros, ushers the way. Charmian stays but to close the eyes andarrange the diadem of her dead mistress:                    Downy windows, close;    And golden Phoebus never be beheld    Of eyes again so royal. Your crown’s awry;    I’ll mend it, and then play.                                 (V. ii. 319. )Thereupon she too applies the asp and provokes its fang.    O, come apace, dispatch.               (V. ii. 325. )Even in the last solemn moment there is vanity, artifice, andvoluptuousness in Cleopatra. She is careful of her looks, of her state,of her splendour, even in death; and doubtless would have smiled if shecould have heard Caesar’s tardy praise:                        She looks like sleep,    As she would catch another Antony    In her strong toil of grace.                              (V. ii. 349. )And she does not depart quite in the high Roman fashion. She hasstudied to make her passage easy, and has taken all measures that mayenable her to liken the stroke of death to a lover’s pinch and thebiting of the asp to the suckling of a babe, and to say:    As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle.                                   (V. ii. 314. )None the less her exit in its serene grace and dignity is imperial, anddeserves the praise of the dying Charmian and the reluctant Octavius. CHAPTER VIIANTONY AND CLEOPATRAHitherto this discussion of _Antony and Cleopatra_ has so far aspossible passed over the most distinctive thing in the history of thehero and heroine, the fatal passion that binds them together, givessignificance to their lives, and makes their memories famous. Knowingtheir environment and their nature we are in a better position to seein some measure what it meant. We have noted how in that generation all ties of customary moralityare loosed, how the individual is a law to himself, and howselfishness runs riot in its quest of gratification, acquisition,material ambition. Among the children of that day those make themost sympathetic impression who import into the somewhat casualand indefinite personal relations that remain—the relation of thelegionary to his commander, of the freedman to his patron, of thewaiting-woman to her mistress—something of universal validity andworth. But obviously no connection in a period like this at once arisesso naturally from the conditions, and has the possibilities of suchabiding authority, as the love of the sexes. On the one hand it isthe most personal bond of all. Love is free and not to be compelled. It results from the spontaneous motion of the individual. Were we toconceive the whole social fabric dissolved, men and women would stillbe drawn together by mutual inclination in more or less permanentunions of pairs. And yet this attraction that seems to be and that isso completely dictated by choice, that is certainly quite beyond thedomain of external compulsion, is in another aspect quite independentof the will of the persons concerned, and sways them like a resistlessnatural force. It has been said that the highest compliment the lovercan pay the beloved is to say, “I cannot help loving you. ” Necessity islaid upon him, and he is but its instrument. If then the inclinationis so pervasive and imperious that it becomes a master passion,clearly it will supply the grand effective bond when other socialbonds fail. When nothing else can, it will enable a man and woman tooverleap a few at least of the barriers of their selfishness, and insome measure to merge their egoism in sympathy. This is what justifiesAntony’s idolatry of Cleopatra to our feelings. The passion isenthusiastic, and in a way is self-forgetful; and passion, enthusiasm,self-forgetfulness, whatever their aberrations, always command respect. They especially do so in this world of greeds and cravings andcalculating self-interest. This infinite devotion that shrinks from nosacrifice, is at once the greatest thing within Antony’s reach, andwitness to his own greatness in recognising its worth. The greatestthing within his reach: when we remember what the ambitions of hisfellows and his rivals were, there is truth in the words with which hepostpones all such ambitions to the bliss of the mutual caress:    Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch    Of the ranged empire fall! Here is my space.    Kingdoms are clay; our dungy earth alike    Feeds beast as man: the nobleness of life    Is to do thus: when such a mutual pair (_embracing_)    And such a twain can do’t, in which I bind,    On pain of punishment, the world to weet    We stand up peerless.                                    (I. i. 33. )And only one of grand general outlook could feel like this, when he hadtasted the sweets of conquest and power, and when all the kingdoms ofthe world were reached to his hand as the alternative for the kingdomof his love. It takes a hero, with such experiences behind him andsuch opportunities before, to make the disastrous choice. Heine tellsus how he read Plutarch at school and how the master “impressed on usthat Antony for this woman spoiled his public career, involved himselfin domestic unpleasantnesses, and at last plunged himself in ruin. In truth my old master was right, and it is extremely dangerous toestablish intimate relations with a person like Cleopatra. It may bethe destruction of a hero; but only of a hero. Here as everywhere thereis no danger for worthy mediocrity. ”But despite the sympathy with which Shakespeare regards Antony’spassion both as an object of pursuit and as an indication of nobility,he is quite aware that it is pernicious and criminal. Relatively it maybe extolled: absolutely it must be condemned. It is rooted in breachof troth and duty, and it bears within itself the seeds of infidelityand wrong. It has none of the inviolability and security of a lawfullove. After all, Cleopatra’s gibes about Antony’s relations with “themarried woman” and herself, despite their affectation of petulance,are only too much to the point, so far as he is concerned; and whenshe has yielded to Julius, Pompey, and Antony in turn, what guaranteehas the last favourite that she will not do so again to some latersupplanter? In point of fact each is untrue to the other, Antony by hismarriage with Octavia, Cleopatra by her traffickings with Octavius andThyreus. [225] She forfeits in the sequel her right to be angry at histruancy; he has forfeited in advance the right to be angry at hers. Butit is their penalty that these resentments should come between them;and at the very time when they most need each other’s support, theirrelation, being far from the perfect kind that casts out mistrust, isvitiated by jealousy on the one side and fear on the other. She fleesto the Monument, shuts herself up from his blind rage in craven panic,and seeks to save her life by lies. At the sight of the liberties shehas allowed Thyreus to take, he loses himself in mad outbursts whichhave but a partial foundation in the facts. Then he jumps to theconclusion that she has arranged for the desertion of the sailors, anddooms her to death, when in reality she seems to know nothing about it.                                Betray’d I am:    O this false soul of Egypt! this grave charm,—    Whose eye beck’d forth my wars and call’d them home;    Whose bosom was my crownet, my chief end,—    Like a right gipsy, hath, at fast and loose,    Beguiled me to the very heart of loss.                                     (IV. xii. 24. )These terrors and suspicions are inevitable in such love as theirs. [225] I take it as certain that with Thyreus she is for the moment atleast “a boggler,” and then she has already sent her private message toCaesar. Or is their feeling for each other to be called love at all? Thequestion has been asked even in regard to Antony. From first to last heis aware not only of her harmfulness but of her pravity. He is under noillusions about her cunning, her boggling, her falsity. And can thisinsight co-exist with devotion? Much more frequently it has been asked in regard to Cleopatra. Shefrankly avows even in retrospect her policy of making him her prey. Thus does she mimic fact in her pastime:    Give me mine angle: we’ll to the river; there,    My music playing far off, I will betray    Tawny-finn’d fishes; my bended hook shall pierce    Their slimy jaws; and, as I draw them up,    I’ll think them every one an Antony,    And say, “Ah, ha! you’re caught. ”                                    (II. v. 10. )Moreover, her first capture of him at that banquet where he paidhis heart as ordinary, was a mere business speculation. He has beenuseful to her since, for he is the man to piece her opulent thronewith kingdoms. When he seems lost to her, she realises that she can nolonger gratify her caprices as once she did.      _Alex. _ Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you    But when you are well pleased.      _Cle. _               That Herod’s head    I’ll have: but how, when Antony is gone    Through whom I might command it?                                  (III. iii. 4. )Or, if other motives supervene, they belong to wanton whim and splendidcoquetry. Her deliberate allurements, her conscious wiles, hercalculated tenderness, are all employed merely to retain her commandof the serviceable instrument, and at the same time minister to hervanity, since Antony would accept such a rôle only from her. If both or either of these theories were adopted, the whole interestand dignity of the theme would be gone. If Antony were not genuinelyin love, his follies and delinquencies would cast him beyond the paleof our tolerance. If Cleopatra were not genuinely in love, she wouldat best deserve the description of Ten Brink, “a courtesan of genius. ”If the love were not mutual, Antony would be merely the toy of thecourtesan, Cleopatra merely the toy of the sensualist. But in point of fact, it is mutual and sincere. Antony’s feeling has todo with much more than the senses. It goes deeper and higher; and evenwhen he doubts Cleopatra’s affection, he never doubts his own:    (Her) heart I thought I had, for she had mine.                                   (IV. xiv. 16. )Cleopatra’s feeling may have originated in self-interest and may makeuse of craft. But in catching Antony she has been caught herself; andthough interest and vanity are not expelled, they are swallowed up invehement admiration for the man she has ensnared. Her artifices aresuccessful, because they are the means made use of by a heart that isdeeply engaged; and it is no paradox to say that they are evidence ofher sincerity. So often as she refers to her lover seriously, it iswith something like adoration. After the first separation, he is her“man of men. ” In her first bitterness at his marriage, she cannot lethim go, for    Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,    The other way’s a Mars.                                   (II. v. 116. )Even when he is fallen and worsted, she has no doubt how things wouldgo were it a merely personal contest between him and his rival. Whenhe returns from his last victory, she greets him: “Lord of lords! Oinfinite virtue! ” (IV. viii. 16). When he dies, the world seems to her“no better than a sty” (IV. xv. 62). When she recalls his splendour,his bounty, his joyousness, it seems not a reality, but a dream, whichyet must be more than a dream.    If there be, nor ever were, one such,    It’s past the size of dreaming: nature wants stuff    To vie strange forms with fancy; yet, to imagine    An Antony, were nature’s piece ’gainst fancy,    Condemning shadows quite.                                   (V. ii. 96. )Various interpretations have been given of these lines, but on anypossible interpretation they exalt Antony alike above fact andfancy. [226] And when we run through the whole gamut of the words anddeeds of the pair, from their squabbles to their death, it seems tome possible to doubt their love only by isolating some details andconsidering them to the exclusion of the rest. [226] To me the sense seems to be: Supposing the Antony I have depictednever existed, still the conception is too great to be merely my own. It must be an imagination of Nature herself, which she may be unable toembody, but which shames our puny ideals. In other words, Antony is the“form” or “type” which Nature aims at even if she does not attain. Isee no reason for changing the “nor” of the first line as it is in thefolio to “or. ”But the truth is that the love of Antony and Cleopatra is genuine andintense; and if it leads to shame as well as to glory, this is to beexplained, apart from the circumstances of the time, apart from thecharacters of the lovers, in the nature of the variety to which itbelongs. Plutarch, whose thoughts when he is discussing such subjects are neverfar from Plato’s, has a passage in which he characterises Antony’spassion by reference to the famous metaphor in the _Phaedrus_.    In the ende, the horse of the minde, as Plato termeth it,    that is so hard of rayne (I meane the unreyned lust of    concupiscence), did put out of Antonius’ heade all honest    and commendable thoughts. Certainly it is not the milder and more docile steed that takes thelead in Antony’s affection. But it is perhaps a little surprisingthat Plutarch did not rather go for his Platonic illustration to the_Symposium_, where the disquisitions of Aristophanes and Diotimaexplain respectively what Antony’s love is and is not. Aristophanes,with his myth that men, once four-legged and four-armed, were splitin two because they were too happy, and now are pining to find theircounterparts, gives the exact description of what the love of Antonyand Cleopatra is.    Each of us when separated is but the indenture of a man,    having one side only like a flat-fish, and he is always    looking for his other half. . . . When one of them finds his    other half, . . . the pair are lost in an amazement of love    and friendship and intimacy, and one will not be out of the    other’s sight, as I may say, even for a moment. [227]And, on the other hand, Diotima’s opposite theory does not apply tothis particular case, at least, to begin with or superficially:    You hear people say that lovers are seeking for their other    half; but I say that they are seeking neither for the half    of themselves, nor for the whole, unless the half or the    whole be also a good. And they will cut off their own hands    and feet and cast them away, if they are evil. . . . For there    is nothing which men love but the good. [228][227] Jowett’s _Plato_, Vol. II. , pages 42-43. [228] _Ibid_, pages 56-57. We may put the case in a somewhat more popular and modern fashion. Alllove that really deserves the name must base more or less completelyon sympathy, on what Goethe called _Wahlverwandschaft_, or electiveaffinity. But such affinity may be of different kinds and degrees,and according to its range will tend to approximate to one of twotypes. It may mean sympathy with what is deepest and highest in us,our aspiration after the ideal, our bent towards perfection; or itmay mean sympathy with our whole nature and with all our feelings andtendencies, alike with those that are high and with those that are low. The former is the more exacting though the more beneficent. It impliesthe suppression and abnegation in us of much that is base, of much thatis harmless, of much, even, that may be good, for the sake of the best. In it we must inure ourselves to effort and sacrifice for the sake ofadvance in that supersensible realm where the union took place. The second is less austere, and, for the time being, morecomprehensive. It is founded on a correspondence in all sorts ofmatters, great and small, noble and base, of good or of bad report. Ifit lacks the exclusive loftiness of the other, it affords many morepoints of contact and a far greater wealth of daily fellowship. Andof this latter variety, the love of Antony and Cleopatra is perhapsthe typical example. At first sight it is evident that they are, aswe say, made for each other. They are both past the first bloom ofyouth. Cleopatra, whom at the outset Plutarch makes twenty-eight yearsof age, and of whose wrinkles and waned lip Shakespeare, though inirony and exaggeration, finds it possible to speak, has relativelyreached the same period of life as Antony, whom Plutarch makes at theoutset forty-three or forty-six years of age, and whom Shakespearerepresents as touched with the fall of eld. And they correspond intheir experiences. Neither is a novice in love and pleasure: Cleopatra,the woman with a history, Antony, the masquer and reveller of Clodius’set, have both seen life. They are alike in their emotionalism, theirimpressibility, their quick wits, their love of splendour, their genialpower, their intellectual scope, their zest for everything. Plutarchnarrates—and it is strange that _à propos_ of this he did not quoteAristophanes’ saying in the _Symposium_—    She, were it in sport, or in matter of earnest, still    devised sundrie new delights to have Antonius at    commaundement, never leaving him night nor day, nor once    letting him go out of her sight. For she would play at dyce    with him, drinke with him, and hunt commonly with him, and    also be with him when he went to any exercise or activity    of body. And sometime, also, when he would goe up and downe    the citie disguised like a slave in the night, and would    peere into poore men’s windowes and their shops, and scold    and brawle with them within the house: Cleopatra would be    also in a chamber-maides array, and amble up and downe the    streets with him, so that oftentimes Antonius bare away both    mockes and blowes. Here we have a picture of the completest _camaraderie_ in thingsserious and frivolous, athletic and intellectual, decorous andventuresome, with memories of which the play is saturated. We arewitnesses of Cleopatra’s impatience when he is away for a moment: wehear of her drinking him to bed before the ninth hour, and of theiroutdoor sports. Antony proposes to roam the streets with her and notethe qualities of the people. Perhaps it was some such expedition thatgave Enobarbus material for his description:                            I saw her once    Hop forty paces through the public street;    And having lost her breath, she spoke, and panted,    That she did make defect perfection,    And, breathless, power breathe forth.                                     (II. ii. 233. )It is such doings that raise the gorge of the genteel Octavius, who hasno sense for popular pleasures, whether we call them simple or vulgar. But the daughter of the Ptolemies is less fastidious, and is as readyas Antony to escape from the etiquette of the court and take her sharein these unceremonious frolics. Yet it is not only these lighter moodsand moments that draw them together. In the depth of his mistrust,Antony recalls the “grave charm” of his enchantress; and she, when heis no more, remembers that                    his voice was propertied    As all the tuned spheres.                                (V. ii. 83. )But what of serious and elevated they have in common gains warmth andcolour by their mutual delight in much that is neither one nor other. He tells her,                        But that your royalty    Holds idleness your subject, I should take you    For idleness itself.                                    (I. iii. 91. )And he pays homage to her in every mood:                      Fie, wrangling queen!    Whom everything becomes, to chide, to laugh,    To weep; whose every passion fully strives    To make itself, in thee, fair and admired!                                   (I. i. 48. )It is as genuine and catholic admiration as Florizel’s for Perdita:                               What you do    Still betters what is done. . . .                               Each your doing,    So singular in each particular,    Crowns what you are doing in the present deed,    That all your acts are queens.                              (_W. T. _ IV. iv. 135. )But apart from their sincerity and range, how different are the twotributes: Florizel’s all innocence and simplicity, Antony’s _raffiné_and sophisticated. We feel from his words that he would endorseShakespeare’s ambiguous praise of his own dark lady:    Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,    That in the very refuse of thy deeds    There is such strength and warrantise of skill,    That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds?                                     (_Sonnet_ CL. 5. )Does not Enobarbus speak in almost exactly the same way of theCleopatra that Antony adores?                              Vilest things    Become themselves in her; that the holy priests    Bless her when she is riggish.                                      (II. ii. 243. )Thus the two are alike not only in great and indifferent things,but in their want of steadfastness, their want of principle, theircompliance with baseness. Hence they encourage each other in whatdebilitates and degrades, as well as in what fortifies and exalts. Atits worst their love has something divine about it, but often it seemsa divine orgy rather than a divine inspiration. Not seldom does itlead to madness and ignominy. That Antony loses the world for it is asmall matter and even proves his grandeur of soul. But for it, besides“offending reputation,” he profanes his inward honour as well; andthat unmasks it as the Siren and Fury of their lives. Indeed, suchlove is self-destructive, and for it the lovers sacrifice the meansof securing it against the hostile power of things. Yet, just becauseit is so plenary and permeating, it becomes an inspiration too. Whenits prodigal largesse fails, at the hour when it is stripped of itsinessential charms, the lovers are thrown back on itself; and at onceit elevates them both. Antony, believing Cleopatra dead, and not yetundeceived as to the part that he fancies she played at the last,thinks only of following her to entreat and obtain a reconciliation.    I will o’ertake thee, Cleopatra, and    Weep for my pardon.                           (IV. xiv. 44. )When he learns that she still lives, no reproach crosses his lips forthe deceit; his only wish as the blood flows from his breast is to beborne “where Cleopatra bides” to take a last farewell. He wrestles withdeath till he receives the final embrace:    I am dying, Egypt, dying: only    I here importune death awhile, until    Of many thousand kisses the poor last    I lay upon thy lips.                              (IV. xv. 18. )Thereafter he has no thought of himself but only of her, counsellingher in complete self-abnegation to seek of Caesar her honour with hersafety, and recommending her to trust only Proculeius—one who, as wesoon learn, would be eager to preserve her life. And her love, too, though perhaps more fitfully, yet all the morestrikingly, is deepened and solemnised by trial. After Actium itquite loses its element of mockery and petulance. Her flout atAntony’s negligence before the battle is the last we hear her utter. Henceforth, whether she protests her faith, or speeds him to the fight,or welcomes him on his return, her words have a new seriousnessand weight. [229] Her feeling seems to become simpler and sincereras her fortunes cloud, and at her lover’s death it is nature alonethat triumphs. In the first shock of bereavement Iras, attemptingconsolation, addresses her as “Royal Egypt, Empress”; and she replies:    No more, but e’en a woman, and commanded    By such poor passion as the maid that milks    And does the meanest chares.                                  (IV. xv. 72. )[229] Le plus grand miracle de l’amour, c’est de guérir de lacoquetterie. —_La Rochefoucauld. _Her grief for her great loss, a grief, perhaps, hardly anticipated byherself, is in her own eyes her teacher, and “begins to make a betterlife. ” Even now she may falter, if the usual interpretation of herfraud with the treasure is correct. Even now, at all events, she has tobe urged by the natural and royal but not quite unimpeachable motive,the dread of external disgrace. Cleopatra is very human to the last. Her weaknesses do not disappear, but they are but as fuel to the flamesof her love by which they are bred and which they help to feed. It isstill as the “curled Antony” she pictures her dead lover, and it is in“crown and robe” that she will receive that kiss which it is her heavento have. But even in this there is a striking similarity to Antony’sexpectation of the land where “souls do couch on flowers,” and wherethey will be the cynosure of the gazing ghosts. Their oneness of heartand feeling is indeed now complete, and their love is transfigured. Itis at his call she comes, and his name is the last word she utters,before she lays the second asp on her arm. The most wonderful touch ofall is that now she feels her right to be considered his wife. This, ofcourse, is due to Shakespeare, but it is not altogether new. It occursin Daniel’s tragedy, when she calls on Antony’s spirit to pray the godson her behalf:    O if in life we could not severd be,    Shall death divide our bodies now asunder?    Must thine in Egypt, mine in Italy,    Be kept the Monuments of Fortune’s wonder?    If any powres be there whereas thou art    (Sith our country gods betray our case),    O worke they may their gracious helpe impart    To save thy wofull _wife_ from such disgrace. It also occurs twice in Plutarch, from whom Daniel probably obtainedit. In the _Comparison of Demetrius and Marcus Antonius_, hewrites:[230]    Antonius first of all married two wives together, the which    never Romane durst doe before, but him self. [230] Cleopatra was actually married to Antony, as has been proved byProfessor Ferrero. But Plutarch nowhere else mentions the circumstance,and it contradicts the whole tenor of his narrative. In the biography, when Cleopatra has lifted him to the Monument, we aretold:    Then she dryed up his blood that had berayed his face, and    called him her Lord, _her husband_, and Emperour, forgetting    her owne miserie and calamity for the pitie and compassion    she tooke of him. It is not, therefore, the invention of the idea, but the new positionin which he introduces it, that shows Shakespeare’s genius. It has nogreat significance, either in Plutarch or Daniel. In the one, Cleopatrais speaking in compassion of Antony; in the other, she is bespeakingAntony’s compassion for herself. But in Shakespeare, when she scornslife for her love, and prefers honour with the aspic’s bite to safetywith shame, she feels that now at last their union has the highestsanction, and that all the dross of her nature is purged away from thepure spirit:                      Husband, I come:    Now to that name my courage prove my title!    I am fire and air: my other elements    I give to baser life.                                 (V. ii. 290. )Truly their love, which at first seemed to justify Aristophanes againstDiotima, just because it is true love, turns out to answer Diotima’sdescription after all. Or perhaps it rather suggests the conclusionin the _Phaedrus_: “I have shown this of all inspirations to be thenoblest and the highest, and the offspring of the highest; and that hewho loves the beautiful, is called a lover, because he partakes of it. ”Antony and Cleopatra, with all their errors, are lovers and partake ofbeauty, which we cannot say of the arid respectability of Octavius. Itis well and right that they should perish as they do: but so perishingthey have made their full atonement; and we can rejoice that they haveat once triumphed over their victor, and left our admiration for themfree. _CORIOLANUS_CHAPTER IPOSITION OF THE PLAY BEFORE THE ROMANCES. ITS POLITICAL AND ARTISTICASPECTS_Coriolanus_ seems to have been first published in the folio of 1623,and is one of the sixteen plays described as not formerly “entered toother men. ” In this dearth of information there has naturally been somedebate on the date of its composition, yet the opinions of critics withfew exceptions agree as to its general position and tend more and moreto limit the period of uncertainty to a very few months. This comparative unanimity is due to the evidence of style,versification, and treatment rather than of reminiscences andallusions. Though a fair number of the latter have been discoveredor invented, some of them are vague and doubtful, some inapposite oruntenable, hardly any are of value from their inherent likelihood. Of these, one which has been considered to give the _terminus a quo_in dating the play was pointed out by Malone in the fable of Menenius. Plutarch’s account is somewhat bald:    On a time all the members of mans bodie, dyd rebell against    the bellie, complaining of it, that it only remained in the    middest of the bodie, without doing any thing, neither dyd    beare any labour to the maintenaunce of the rest: whereas    all other partes and members dyd labour paynefully, and was    very carefull to satisfie the appetites and desiers of the    bodie. And so the bellie, all this notwithstanding, laughed    at their follie, and sayed: “It is true, I first receyve all    meates that norishe mans bodie: but afterwardes I send it    againe to the norishement of other partes of the same. Even    so (quoth he) O you, my masters, and cittizens of Rome: the    reason is a like betwene the Senate, and you. For matters    being well digested, and their counsells throughly examined,    touching the benefit of the common wealth; the Senatours are    cause of the common commoditie that commeth unto every one    of you. ”This is meagre compared with Shakespeare’s full-blooded anddramatic narrative, and though in any case the chief credit for thetransformation would be due to the poet, who certainly contributes mostof the picturesque and humorous details and all of the interruptionsand rejoinders, it has been thought that he owes something to theexpanded version in Camden’s _Remaines concerning Britaine_, whichappeared in 1605.    All the members of the body conspired against the stomacke,    as against the swallowing gulfe of all their labors; for    whereas the eies beheld, the eares heard, the handes    labored, the feete traveled, the tongue spake, and all    partes performed their functions, onely the stomacke lay    idle and consumed all. Here uppon they ioyntly agreed al    to forbeare their labors, and to pine away their lasie and    publike enemy. One day passed over, the second followed very    tedious, but the third day was so grievous to them all, that    they called a common Counsel; the eyes waxed dimme, the    feete could not support the bodie, the armes waxed lasie,    the tongue faltered, and could not lay open the matter;    therefore they all with one accord desired the advise of the    Heart. Then Reason layd open before them that hee against    whome they had proclaimed warres, was the cause of all this    their misery: For he as their common steward, when his    allowances were withdrawne of necessitie withdrew theirs    fro them, as not receiving that he might allow. Therefore    it were a farre better course to supply him, than that the    limbs should faint with hunger. So by the perswasion of    Reason, the stomacke was served, the limbes comforted, and    peace re-established. Even so it fareth with the bodies of    Common weale; for albeit the Princes gather much, yet not so    much for themselves, as for others: So that if they want,    they cannot supply the want of others; therefore do not    repine at Princes heerein, but respect the common good of    the whole publike estate. It has been pointed out,[231] in criticism of Malone’s suggestion,that in some respects Shakespeare’s version agrees with Plutarch’s anddisagrees with Camden’s. Thus in Camden it is the stomach and not thebelly that is denounced, the members do not confine themselves to wordsbut proceed to deeds, it is not the belly but Reason from its seat inthe heart that sets forth the moral. This is quite true, but no onedoubted that Shakespeare got from Plutarch his general scheme; the onlyquestion is whether he fitted into it details from another source. Ithas also been objected that Shakespeare was quite capable of making theadditions for himself; and this also is quite true as the other andmore vivid additions prove, if it needed to be proved. Nevertheless,when we find Shakespeare’s expansions in the play following some of thelines laid down by Camden in the _Remaines_, occasionally with verbalcoincidence, it seems not unlikely that the _Remaines_ were known tohim. Thus he does not treat the members like Plutarch in the mass,but like Camden enumerates them and their functions; the stomach inCamden like the belly in Shakespeare is called a gulf, a term that isvery appropriate but that would not occur to everyone; the heart whereReason dwells and to which Camden’s mutineers appeal for advice, isthe counsellor heart in Shakespeare’s list. [232] Moreover, it has beenshown by[231] _E. g. _, by Delius. _Shakespeare’s Coriolanus in seinemVerhältness zum Coriolanus des Plutarch_ (_Jahrbuch der D. -Sh. Gesellschaft_, xi. 1876). [232] In some respects Shakespeare’s details remind me more of Livythan either of Plutarch or Camden; _e. g. , “Inde apparuisse ventrisquoque haud segne ministerium esse, nec magis ali quam alere eum,reddentem in omnis corporis partes hunc, quo vivimus vigemusque,divisum pariter in venas maturum confecto cibo sanguinem_. ” (II. 32. )Cf.                 I receive the general food at first,    Which you do live upon; . . .     . . . but, if you do remember,    I send it through the rivers of your blood, . . .    And through the cranks and offices of man,    The strongest nerves and small inferior veins    From me receive that natural competency    Whereby they live.                                   (I. i. 135 seq. )This certainly is liker Livy than Plutarch; and besides the chances ofShakespeare having read Livy in the original, we have to bear in mindthat in 1600 Philemon Holland published the _Romane Historie written byTitus Livius of Padua_. His version, as it is difficult to procure, maybe quoted in full:    Whilome (quoth he) when as in mans bodie, all the parts    thereof agreed not, as now they do in one, but each member    had a several interest and meaning, yea, and a speech by it    selfe; so it befel, that all other parts besides the belly,    thought much and repined that by their carefulness, labor,    and ministerie, all was gotten, and yet all little enough to    serve it: and the bellie it selfe lying still in the mids of    them, did nothing else but enjoy the delightsome pleasures    brought unto her. Wherupon they mutinied and conspired    altogether in this wise, That neither the hands should reach    and convey food to the mouth, nor the mouth receive it as    it came, ne yet the teeth grind and chew the same. In this    mood and fit, whiles they were minded to famish the poore    bellie, behold the other lims, yea and the whole bodie    besides, pined, wasted, and fel into an extreme consumption.    Then was it wel seen, that even the very belly also did no    smal service, but fed the other parts, as it received food    it selfe: seeing that by working and concocting the meat    throughlie, it digesteth and distributeth by the veines into    all parts, that fresh and perfect blood whereby we live, we    like, and have our full strength. Comparing herewith, and    making his application, to wit, how like this intestine,    and inward sedition of the bodie, was to the full stomacke    of the Commons, which they had taken and borne against the    Senatours, he turned quite the peoples hearts. Mr. Sidney Lee that there were friendly relations between the two men. So it is a conjecture no less probable than pleasing that Shakespeareowed a few hints to the great and patriotic scholar whom Ben Jonsonhailed as “most reverend head. ”It is clear, however, that if the debt to Camden was more certain thanit is, this would only give us the year before which _Coriolanus_ couldnot have been written, and it would not of itself establish a dateshortly after the publication of the _Remaines_. Such a date has beensuggested, but the reference to Camden has been made merely auxiliaryto the argument of a connection between the play and the generalcircumstances of the time. This surmise, for it can hardly be calledmore, will presently be noticed, and meanwhile it may be said that theinternal evidence is all against it. On the other hand, an excessively late date has been proposed for_Coriolanus_ on the ground of its alleged indebtedness to the fourthedition of North, of which it is sometimes maintained that Shakespearepossessed a copy. Till 1612, Volumnia says in her great appeal:    Think now with thy selfe, how much more _unfortunatly_,    then all the women livinge we are come hether;but in the fourth edition this becomes _unfortunate_, and soShakespeare has it:                      Think with thyself    How more unfortunate than all living women    Are we come hither.                                   (V. iii. 96. )But the employment of the adjectival for the adverbial form is avery insignificant change, and is, besides, suggested by the rhythm. Moreover, such importance as it might have, is neutralised by a counterargument on similar lines, which would go to prove that one of thefirst two editions was used. In them Coriolanus tells Aufidius:    If I had feared death, I would not have come hither to have    put my life in hazard: but prickt forward with _spite_ and    desire I have to be revenged of them that thus have banished    me, etc. In 1603, this suffers the curtailment, “pricked forward with desire tobe revenged, etc. ” But Shakespeare says:                                          If    I had fear’d death, of all men i’ the world    I would have ’voided thee, but in mere _spite_,    To be full quit of those my banishers,    Stand I before thee here.                                      (IV. v. 86. )This argument is no doubt of the same precarious kind as the other;still in degree it is stronger, for the persistence of _spite_ is muchmore distinctive than the disappearance of a suffix. In any case this verbal detail is a very narrow foundation to builda theory upon, which there is nothing else to support, except one ofthose alluring and hazardous guesses that would account for the play inthe conditions of the time. This, too, as in the previous case, may bereserved for future discussion. Meanwhile the dating of _Coriolanus_,subsequently to 1612, is not only opposed to internal evidences ofversification and style, but would separate it from Shakespeare’stragedies and introduce it among the romantic plays of his final period. If, however, we turn to the supposed allusions that make for theintermediate date of 1608 or 1609, we do not find them much moresatisfactory. Thus it has been argued that the severe cold in January, 1608, wheneven the Thames was frozen over, furnished the simile:                  You are no surer, no,    Than is the coal of fire upon the ice.                              (I. i. 176. )But surely there must have been many opportunities for such things topresent themselves to Shakespeare’s observation or imagination, by thetime that he was forty-four years old. Again Malone found a reference to James’s proclamation in favour ofbreeding silk-worms and the importation of young mulberry trees during1609, in the expression:    Now humble as the ripest mulberry    That will not hold the handling.                       (III. ii. 79. )But even in _Venus and Adonis_ Shakespeare had told how, in admirationof the youth’s beauty, the birds    Would bring him mulberries and ripe-red cherries; (1103. )and in _Midsummer-Night’s Dream_, Titania orders the fairies to feedBottom    With purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries.                                   (_III. _ i. 170. )A third of these surmises is even more gratuitous. Chalmers callsattention to the repeated references in the play to famine and dearth,and supposes they were suggested by the scarcity which prevailed inEngland during the years 1608 and 1609. But the lack of corn among thepeople is one of the presuppositions of the story, to which Plutarchalso recurs. There is only one allusion that has strength to stand by itself,though even it is doubtful; and it belongs to a different class, for,if authentic, it is suggested not to Shakespeare by contemporaryevents, but to a contemporary writer by Shakespeare. Malone noticed thecoincidence between the line, “He lurch’d all swords of the garland”(II. ii. 105), and a remark in _Epicoene_: “You have lurched yourfriends of the better half of the garland” (V. i. ); and consideredthat here, as not infrequently, Ben Jonson was girding at Shakespeare. Afterwards he withdrew his conjecture because he found a similarexpression in one of Nashe’s pamphlets, and concluded that it wasproverbial; but it has been pointed out in answer to this[233] thatNashe has only the _lurch_ and not the supplementary words, _of thegarland_, while it is to the phrase as a whole, not to the componentparts, that the individual character belongs. This, if not absolutelybeyond challenge, is at least very cogent, and probably few will denythat _Coriolanus_ must have been in existence before _Epicoene_ wasacted in January 1609, old style. [233] Introduction to the Clarendon Press Edition. How long before? And did it succeed or precede _Antony and Cleopatra_? Attempts have been made to find in that play immediate anticipationsof the mental attitude and of particular thoughts that appear in_Coriolanus_. Thus Octavia’s dilemma in her petition has been quoted:                          A more unhappy lady,    If this division chance, ne’er stood between,    Praying for both parts:    The good gods will mock me presently,    When I shall pray, “O, bless my lord and husband! ”    Undo that prayer, by crying out as loud,    “O, bless my brother! ” Husband win, win brother,    Prays, and destroys the prayer; no midway    ’Twixt these extremes at all.                                   (III. iv. 12. )And this has been taken as a link with Volumnia’s perplexity:                                And to poor we    Thine enmity’s most capital: thou barr’st us    Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort    That all but we enjoy: for how can we,    Alas, how can we for our country pray,    Whereto we are bound, together with thy victory,    Whereto we are bound? Alack, or we must lose    The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person,    Our comfort in the country. We must find    An evident calamity, though we had    Our wish, which side should win.                                   (V. iii. 103. )But then the same sort of conflict puzzles the Lady Blanch in _KingJohn_:    Which is the side that I must go withal?    I am with both: each army hath a hand;    And in their rage, I having hold of both,    They whirl asunder and dismember me.    Husband, I cannot pray that thou mayst win;    Uncle, I needs must pray that thou mayst lose;    Father, I may not wish the fortune thine;    Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive:    Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose    Assured loss before the match be play’d.                                   (III. i. 327. )Could not this style of argument be used to prove that _Coriolanus_ and_Antony and Cleopatra_ immediately followed _King John_? Or again the contemptuous descriptions of the people by Octavius,Cleopatra and Antony himself have been treated as preludes to themore savage vituperations in _Coriolanus_. But _Julius Caesar_ givesan equally unflattering account of mob law, and some of Casca’s gibeswould quite fit the mouth of Coriolanus or Menenius. On these lines weshould be as much entitled to make this play the direct successor ofthe first as of the second of its companions, a theory that would meetwith scant acceptance. The truth is that whenever Shakespeare dealswith the populace, he finds some one to disparage it in the mass. Still there is little doubt that _Coriolanus_ does occupy the positionthese arguments would assign to it, but the real evidence is of anotherkind. To begin with there is what Coleridge describes in _Antony andCleopatra_ as the “happy valiancy of style,” which first becomes markedin that play, which is continued in this, and which henceforth in agreater or less degree characterises all Shakespeare’s work. Theneven more conclusive are the peculiarities of metre, and especiallythe increase in the total of weak and light endings together with thedecrease of the light by themselves. Finally, there is the conduct ofthe story to a conclusion that proposes no enigma and inflicts no pang,but even more than in the case of _Macbeth_ satisfies, and even morethan in the case of _Antony and Cleopatra_ uplifts the heart, withouttroublesome questionings on the part of the reader. “As we closethe book,” says Mr. Bradley, “we feel more as we do at the close of_Cymbeline_ than as we do at the close of _Othello_. ” We cannot be farwrong in placing it in the last months of 1608 or the first months of1609. Attempts have been made to find suggestions of a personal kind forShakespeare’s choice of the subject. The extreme ease with which theyhave been discovered for the various dates proposed may well teach uscaution. Thus Professor Brandl who assigns it an earlier position thanmost critics and discusses it before _Lear_ sees in it the outcome ofevents that occurred in the first years of the century.    The material for _Coriolanus_ was perhaps put in    Shakespeare’s way by a contemporary tragedy which keenly    excited the Londoners, and especially the courtly and    literary circles, about 1603 and 1604. Sir Walter Raleigh    had been one of the most splendid gentlemen at the court    of Elizabeth, was a friend of Spenser and Ben Jonson, had    himself tried his hand at lyric poetry, and in addition as    adventurous officer had discovered Virginia and annexed    Guiana. He was the most highly considered but also the best    hated man in England: for his behaviour was domineering,    in the consciousness of his innate efficiency he showed    without disguise his contempt for the multitude, the    farm of wine-licenses granted him by the Queen had made    him objectionable to the pothouse politicians, and his    opposition in parliament to a bill for cheapening corn had    recently drawn on him new unpopularity. He, therefore,    shortly after the accession of James succumbed to the    charge, that he, the scarred veteran of the Spanish wars,    the zealous advocate of new expeditions against Spain, had    involved himself in treasonous transactions with this, the    hereditary foe of England. In November 1603 the man who had    won treasure-fleets and vast regions for his country, almost    fell a victim to popular rage as he was being transferred    from one prison to another. [234] A month later he was    condemned to death on wretched evidence: he was not yet    executed however but locked up in the Tower, so that men    were in suspense as to his fate for many years. To depict    his character his biographer Edwards involuntarily hit on    some lines of Shakespeare’s _Coriolanus_. The figure of    the Roman, who had deserved well but incurred hatred, of    the patriot whom his aristocratic convictions drive to the    enemy, was already familiar to the dramatist from North’s    translation of Plutarch; and Camden’s _Remaines concerning    Britaine_, which had newly appeared in 1605 contributed a    more detailed version of the fable of the belly and the    members, first set forth by Livy. From this mood and about    this time _Coriolanus_, for the dating of which only the    very relative evidence of metre and style is available, may    most probably have proceeded. [235][234] Strictly speaking, from the Tower to Winchester for trial. [235] _Shakespeare_, in the _Führende Geister_ Series. In this passage, Professor Brandl has brought out some of theconsiderations that would lend the case of Raleigh a peculiar interestin the eyes of men like Shakespeare, and has made the most of theparallels between his story and the story of Coriolanus. [236] It isnecessary of course to look away from almost all the points exceptthose enumerated, for when we remember Sir Walter’s robust adulationof Elizabeth, and tortuous policy at court, it is difficult to pairhim with the Roman who “would not flatter Neptune for his trident,”and of whom it was said, “his heart’s his mouth. ” Still the analogiesin career and character are there, so far as they go; but they areinsufficient to prove that the actual suggested the poetical tragedy,still less to override the internal evidence, relative though thatbe; for they could linger and germinate in the poet’s mind to bringforth fruit long afterwards: as for example the treason and executionof Biron in 1602 inspired Chapman to write _The Conspiracie_ and _TheTragedie_ which were acted in 1608. Again, in connection with what seems to be the actual date, an attempthas been made to explain one prominent characteristic of the playfrom a domestic experience through which Shakespeare had just passed. His mother died in September 1608, and her memory is supposed to beenshrined in the picture of Volumnia. As Dr. Brandes puts it:[237]    The death of a mother is always a mournfully irreparable    loss, often the saddest a man can sustain. We can realise    how deeply it would go to Shakespeare’s heart when we remember    the capacity for profound and passionate feeling with which    nature had blessed and cursed him. We know little of his    mother; but judging from that affinity which generally    exists between famous sons and their mothers, we may suppose    she was no ordinary woman. Mary Arden, who belonged to    an old and honourable family, which traced its descent    (perhaps justly) back to the days of Edward the Confessor,    represented the haughty patrician element in the Shakespeare    family. Her ancestors had borne their coat of arms for    centuries, and the son would be proud of his mother for this    among other reasons, just as the mother would be proud of    her son. In the midst of the prevailing gloom and bitterness    of his spirits,[238] this fresh blow fell upon him, and out of    his weariness of life as his surroundings and experiences    showed it to him, recalled this one mainstay to him—his    mother. He remembered all she had been to him for forty-four    years, and the thoughts of the man and the dreams of the    poet were thus led to dwell upon the significance in a    man’s life of this unique form, comparable to no other—his    mother. Thus it was that, although his genius must follow    the path it had entered upon and pursue it to the end, we    find, in the midst of all that was low and base in his next    work, this one sublime mother-form, the proudest and most    highly-wrought that he has drawn, Volumnia. [236] Rather more than the most. It is special pleading to interpretRaleigh’s arguments against the _Act for sewing Hemp_ and the _Statuteof Tillage_ in 1601, as directed against cheap corn. His point wasrather that coercive legislation in regard to agriculture hinderedproduction and was oppressive to poor men. Nor am I aware that hisspeeches on these occasions increased his unpopularity,—which, nodoubt, was already great. [237] _William Shakespeare, a critical study. _[238] In point of fact “gloom and bitterness” can be less justlyattributed to _Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_ than to any ofthe later tragedies, and less justly to _Coriolanus_ than to _Antonyand Cleopatra_; but Dr. Brandes treats _Troilus and Cressida_ as comingbetween them, and if that position could be vindicated for it, thephrase would be defensible. Thus Shakespeare, in a mood of pessimism, and in the desolation ofbereavement, turned to a subject that he treated on its seamy side,but redeemed from its meanness by exalting the idea of the mother inobedience to his own pious regrets. Even, however, if we grant theassumptions in regard to Mary Arden’s pedigree and her aristocraticfamily pride, and the unique support she gave to her son, does thisstatement give a true account of the impression the play produces? Is it the fact that, apart from the figure of Volumnia, the storyis “low and base,” and is it not rather the record of grand thoughperverted heroism? Is it the fact that Volumnia stands out as astudy of motherhood, such as the first heartache at a mother’s deathwould inspire? The most sympathetic traits in her portrait are drawnby Plutarch. Shakespeare’s many touches supply the harshness, theambition, the prejudice. If these additions are due to Shakespeare’swistful broodings on his own mother, a woman with a son of genius maywell hope that he will never brood on her. Then, especially by those who advocate a later date for the play, apolitical motive for it has been discovered. Mr. Whitelaw, who wouldassign it to 1610, when James’s first parliament was dissolved,conjectures that “in _Coriolanus_ Shakespeare intended a two-foldwarning, to the pride of James, and to the gathering resistance of theCommons. ”[239] Mr. Garnett,[240] on the other hand, maintains that“Coriolanus, to our apprehension, manifestly reflects the feelings of aconservative observer of the contests between James and his refractoryparliaments,” and placing it after the _Tempest_, would connect itwith the dissolution of the Addled Parliament in 1614. But since thefriction between King and Commons, though it intensified with theyears, was seldom entirely absent, this theory adapts itself prettywell to any date, and Dr. Brandes, while refusing to trace the spiritof the play to any “momentary political situation,” adopts the generalprinciple as quite compatible with the state of affairs in 1608. Heputs the case as follows:    Was it Shakespeare’s intention to allude to the strained    relations existing between James and his parliament? Does    Coriolanus represent an aristocratically-minded poet’s    side-glance at the political situation in England? I fancy    it does. Heaven knows there was little resemblance between    the amazingly craven and vacillating James and the haughty,    resolute hero of Roman tradition, who fought a whole    garrison single-handed. Nor was it personal resemblance    which suggested the comparison, but a general conception    of the situation as between a beneficent power on the one    hand, and the people on the other. He regarded the latter    wholly as mob, and looked upon their struggle for freedom as    mutiny, pure and simple. [239] _Coriolanus. _ Rugby Edition. [240] In the conclusion of his essay on the _Date and Occasion of theTempest_.

_Universal Review, 1889. _This theory, however, in all its varieties seems to attribute toodefinite an influence to the controversies of the hour, and toturn Shakespeare too much into the politician prepense. Certainly_Coriolanus_ is not meant to be a constitutional manifesto; probablyit does not, even at unawares, idealise a contemporary dispute; it ishardly likely that Shakespeare so much as intrudes conscious allusionsto the questions then at issue. And this on account not only of theparticular opinions attributed to him, but, much more, of his usualpractice in poetic creation. Do any of these alleged incentives inthe circumstances, public or private, of his life go far to explainhis attraction to a story and selection of it, its power over him andhis power over it? Doubtless in realising the subject that took hisfancy, he would draw on the stores of his experience as well as hisimagination. In dealing with the tragedy of a proud and unpopularhero of antiquity, very possibly he would be helped by what he knewof the tragedy of a proud and unpopular worthy of his own time. Indealing with the influence of a mother and the reverence of a son, veryprobably the memories of his own home would hover before his mind. Indealing with the plebeians and patricians of Rome, he would inevitablyfill in the details from his knowledge of the burgesses and nobles ofEngland, and he might get hints for his picture of the bygone struggle,from the struggle that he himself could watch. But it is the story ofCoriolanus that comes first and that absorbs all such material intoitself, just as the seed in its growth assimilates nourishment fromthe earth and sunshine and rain. These things are not the seed. Theexperiences are utilised in the interest of the play; the play is notutilised in the interest of the experiences. It is particularly important to emphasise this in view of thecircumstance that _Coriolanus_ has often been regarded as a drama ofprinciples rather than of character, even by those who refrain fromreading into it any particular reference. But Shakespeare’s supremepreoccupation is always with his fable, which explains, and isexplained by, human nature in action. He does not set out to commend orcensure or examine a precept or a theory or a doctrine. Of course thelife of men is concerned with such matters, and he could not excludethem without being untrue to his aim. Thus, to take the most obviousexample, it is impossible to treat of character with a total omissionof ethical considerations, since character is connected with conduct,and conduct has its ethical aspect; and, indeed, success in getting tothe truth of character depends very much on the keenness of the moralinsight. It is very largely Shakespeare’s moral insight that gives himhis unrivalled position among the interpreters of men; and we may, ifwe like, derive any number of improving lessons from his works. But heis an artist, not a moralist; and he wrote for the story, not for themoral. Just in the same way an architect seeks to design a beautiful orconvenient building, not to illustrate mechanical laws. Nevertheless,in proportion as these are neglected, the building will not rise orwill not last; and if they are obeyed, however unconsciously, theillustration of them will be provided. In Charlotte Brontë’s _Shirley_,when Caroline gives Robert Moore this very play to read, he asks, “Isit to operate like a sermon? ” And she answers: “It is to stir you; togive you new sensations. _It is to make you feel life strongly_”—(thatis the main thing, and then comes the indirect consequence)—“not onlyyour virtues but your vicious perverse points. ”Now just as in all Shakespeare’s dramas, though or rather because theyare personal, the ethical considerations cannot be excluded; so in adrama that moves through a constitutional crisis, though or ratherbecause it, too, is personal, political considerations cannot beexcluded. They are there, though it is on the second plane. And justas his general delineation of character would be unsatisfactory ifhis moral insight were at fault, so his delineation of the charactersthat play their part in this history would be unsatisfactory if hispolitical insight were at fault. He is not necessarily bound toappreciate correctly the conditions that prevailed in reality or byreport: that is required only for historical accuracy or fidelity totradition. But he is bound to appreciate the conditions as he imaginesthem, and not to violate in his treatment of them the principles thatunderlie all political society. Yet this he has been accused of doing. He has been charged with ahatred of the people that is incompatible even with a benevolenttyranny, and with a glorification of the protagonist’s ruthlessdisregard of popular claims. Thus Dr. Brandes, in the greater partof a chapter, dwells upon Shakespeare’s “physical aversion for theatmosphere of the people,” and “the absence of any humane considerationfor the oppressed condition of the poor”; and, on the other hand,upon his “hero-worship” for Marcius, whom he glorifies as a demi-god. Though admitting the dramatist’s detestation of the crime of treason,this critic sees no implicit censure of what preceded it. To himShakespeare’s impression of life as conveyed in the play is that “theremust of necessity be formed round the solitary great ones of the earth,a conspiracy of envy and hatred raised by the small and mean. ”It is no doubt true that this and many other Shakespearian playsabound in hostile or scornful vituperation of the people; and not onlyof their moral and mental demerits; their sweaty clothes, their rankbreaths, their grossness and uncleanness are held up to derision andexecration. But are we to attribute these sentiments to Shakespeare? Such utterances are _ex hypothesi_ dramatic, and show us merelythe attitude of the speakers, who are without exception men of theopposite camp or unfriendly critics. Only once does Shakespeare givehis personal, or rather, impersonal estimate. It is in the _Induction_to the second part of _Henry IV. _, when Rumour, whose words, in thisrespect at least, cannot be influenced by individual bias, speaks of        the blunt monster of uncounted heads,    The still-discordant, wavering multitude. (line 18. )That is, the populace as a whole is stupid, disunited, fickle. And this is how, apart from the exaggerations of their opponents,Shakespeare invariably treats crowds of citizens, whether in theancient or modern world. He therefore with perfect consistency regardsthem as quite unfit for rule, and when they have it or aspire to it,they cover themselves with ridicule or involve themselves in crime. But this is by no means to hate them. On the contrary he is kindlyenough to individual representatives, and he certainly believes inthe sacred obligation of governing them for their good. Where thenare the governors to be found? Shakespeare answers: in the royal andaristocratic classes. It is the privilege and duty of those born inhigh position to conduct the whole community aright. Shakespeare cando justice to the Venetian oligarchy and the English monarchy. Butwhile to him the rule of the populace is impossible, he also recognisesthat nobles and kings may be unequal to their task. The majority ofhis kings indeed are more or less failures; his nobles—and in thisplay, the patricians—often cut a rather sorry figure. In short, populargovernment must be wrong, but royal or aristocratic government need notbe right. And this was exactly what historical experience at the time seemed toprove. The Jacqueries, the Peasants’ Wars, the Wat Tyler or Jack CadeInsurrections, were not calculated to commend democratic experiments;and, on the other hand, the authority of king and nobles had often,though not always, secured the welfare of the state. Now, holding these opinions, would Shakespeare be likely to glorifyCoriolanus? Of course, in a sense he does. There is a _LuesBoswelliana_ to which the dramatist like the biographer should and mustsuccumb. He must have a fellow-feeling for his hero and understand fromwithin all that can be urged on his behalf. So Shakespeare glorifiesCoriolanus in the same way that he glorifies Hamlet or Brutus orAntony. That is, he appreciates their greatness and explains theiroffences so that we sympathise with them and do not regard them asunaccountable aberrations; but offences they remain and they are notextenuated. On the contrary they receive all due prominence and areshown to bring about the tragic catastrophe. This is even more the casewith Coriolanus than with some of the others. So much stress is laid onhis violence and asperities that to many he is antipathetic, and theantipathy is reflected on the cause that he champions. Gervinus saysvery truly:    It will be allowed that from the example of Brutus many more    would be won over to the cause of the people, than would be    won over to aristocratic principles by Coriolanus. Quite apart from the final apostasy he strikes the unprejudiced readeras an example to eschew rather than to imitate. Charlotte Brontë, not aShakespearian scholar but a woman of no less common sense than genius,gives the natural interpretation of his career in the passage I havealready referred to. After Caroline and Moore have finished the play,she makes the former ask concerning the hero:     “Was he not faulty as well as great? ”      Moore nodded.     “And what was his fault? What made him hated by the citizens?    What caused him to be banished by his countrymen? ”She answers her own question by quoting Aufidius’ estimate, andproceeds:    “And you must not be proud to your work people; you must not    neglect the chance of soothing them; and you must not be of    an inflexible nature, uttering a request as austerely as if    it were a command. ”That, so far as it goes, is a quite legitimate “moral” to draw from thestory; and it is the obvious one. How then does Shakespeare conceive the political situation? On theone side there is a despised and famished populace, driven by itsmisery to demand powers in the state that it cannot wisely use, andtrusting to leaders that are worse than itself. On the other sidethere is a prejudiced aristocracy, numbering competent men in itsranks, but disorganised and, to some extent, demoralised by plebeianencroachments, so that it can no longer act with its old efficiencyand consistency. And there is one great aristocrat, pre-eminentlyconsistent and efficient, but whose greatness becomes mischievousto himself and others, partly because it is out of harmony with thetimes, partly because it is corrupted by his inordinate pride. Andto all these persons, or groups of persons, Shakespeare’s attitude,as we shall see, is at once critical and sympathetic. Admitting theconditions, we can only agree with Coleridge’s verdict: “This playillustrates the wonderfully philosophic impartiality of Shakespeare’spolitics. [241] And there is no reason why the conditions should notbe admitted. It is easy to imagine a society in which the masses arenot yet ripe for self-government, and in which the classes are nolonger able to steer the state, while a gifted and bigoted champion oftradition only makes matters worse. Indeed, something similar has beenexemplified in history oftener than once or twice. Whether in pointof fact Shakespeare’s conception is correct for the particular set ofcircumstances he describes is quite another question, that concernsneither the excellence of _Coriolanus_ as a drama nor the fairness ofits political views, but solely its fidelity to antiquarian truth andthe accuracy of its antiquarian _data_. ”[241] _Notes on Plays of Shakespere_, 1818. Clearly it was impossible for Shakespeare to revive the spirit ofthe times in _Coriolanus_, even to the extent that he had done so in_Julius Caesar_ or _Antony and Cleopatra_, for the simple reason thatin them, with whatever trespasses into fiction on the part of himselfor his authority, he was following the record of what had actuallytaken place, while now he was dealing with a legend that seems to havethe less foundation in fact the more it is examined. The tribunate,with the establishment of which the whole action begins, the oppositionto which by Marcius is his main offence, and the occupants of whichplay so important a part in the proceedings, is now generally held tobe of much later origin than the supposed date of the story. Thereis no agreement as to the names of the chief persons; Coriolanusis Cneius or Caius, his mother is Veturia or Volumnia, his wife isVolumnia or Vergilia, the Volscian leader Tullus Aufidius or Amfidiusor Attius Tullius. Even the appellation Coriolanus rouses suspicion,for the bestowal of such titles seems to have been unknown till longafterwards, and, in the view of some, points not to conquest but toorigin; and there are contradictory accounts of the hero’s end. It hasbeen conjectured[242] that the whole story arose in connection withreligious observances and contains a large mythological admixture; andwe may remember how at the end it is associated with the erection ofthe temple to _Fortuna Muliebris_. [242] By Ettore Pais. _Storia di Roma. _ Vol. I. This much at least is beyond doubt, that the account given by Plutarch,from whom Shakespeare took his material, and even by Livy, whom he mayhave read, has much less matter-of-fact reality than characterises thelater Roman lives. There are many discrepancies and contradictions,especially in Plutarch’s description. Now he gives what we may consideran idealised picture of the plebs, attributing to it extraordinaryself-control and sagacity, and again it is to him merely the rascalvulgar. Now he seems to approve the pliancy which the Senate showed onthe advice of the older and wiser men, and again he seems to blame itas undignified. And the mixture of bravado and pusillanimity duringthe siege is almost unintelligible. Now the city sends the humblestembassages to the rebel, now it haughtily refuses to treat till he haswithdrawn from Roman soil, and again it despatches what North calls “agoodly rabble of superstition and priestes” with new supplications. From a narrative that teemed with incongruities like the above,Shakespeare was entitled to select the alternatives that would combineto a harmonious whole, and he rightly chose those that were nearestto his own comprehension and experience, though perhaps in doing sohe failed to make the most of such elements of historic truth as thetradition may contain, and certainly effaced some of the antiquecolouring. But if Plutarch’s _Coriolanus_ has less foundation in fact than someof the later Lives, it is not without compensating advantages. Thecircumstance that it is in so large measure a legend, implies thatthe popular imagination has been busy working it up, and it alreadyfalls into great scenic crises which lend themselves of their ownaccord to the dramatist’s art. It is rather remarkable in view ofthis that it had received so little attention from the tragedians ofthe time. Perhaps its two-fold remoteness, from worldwide historicalissues on the one hand, and from specifically romantic feeling on theother, may have told against it. The stories of Lucretia and Virginiahad as primitive and circumscribed a setting, and were neverthelesspopular enough: but they have an emotional interest that appeals tothe general taste. The story of Julius Caesar lacks the sentimentallure, but concerns such mighty issues that it was the best beloved ofall. And next comes the story of Antony and Cleopatra, which in a highdegree unites both attractions. But _Coriolanus_, even as treated byShakespeare, is unsympathetic to many, and the legend is of so littlehistoric significance that it is often omitted from modern handbooks ofRoman history; so, for these reasons, despite its pre-eminent fitnessfor the stage, it was generally passed over. Not universally, however. It seems already to have engaged theattention of one important dramatist in France, the prolific and giftedAlexandre Hardy. Hardy began to publish his works only in 1623, and thevolume containing his _Coriolan_ appeared only in 1625; so there ishardly any possibility of Shakespeare’s having utilised this play. And,on the other hand, it was certainly written before 1608, probably inthe last years of the sixteenth century, but in any case by 1607, sothere is even less possibility of its being influenced by Shakespeare’streatment. All the more interesting is it to observe the coincidencesthat exist between them, and that are due to their having selected agreat many of the same _motifs_ from Plutarch’s story. It shows thatin that story Plutarch met the playwright half way, and justifies thestatement of Hardy in his argument that “few subjects are to be foundin Roman history which are worthier of the stage. ”[243] The number ofsubsequent French dramas with Coriolanus as hero proves that he wasright, though in England, as so frequently, Shakespeare’s name put aveto on new experiments. Hardy’s tragedy in style and structure follows the Senecan manner ofJodelle and Garnier, but he compromised with mediaeval fashions in sofar as to adopt the peculiar modification of the “simultaneous” or“complex” decoration which is usual in his other plays. In accordancewith that, several scenes were presented at the same time on the stage,and actors made their first speeches from the area appropriated to thatone of them which the particular phase of the action required. Therewas thus considerable latitude in regard to the unity of place, andeven more in regard to the unity of time; but the freedom was not sogreat as in the Elizabethan theatre, for after all there was space onlyfor a limited number of scenes, or “mansions” as they would formerlyhave been called. Generally there were five, two at each side and oneat the back. In the _Coriolan_ there were six, and there is as well aseventh place indicated in the play without scenical decoration. [244]Even so they are few, compared with the two and twenty[245] thatShakespeare employs; and though no doubt that number might beconsiderably reduced without injury to the effect, by running togetherlocalities that approximate in character and position, one street withanother street, the forum with a public place and the like, still itwould in any case exceed what Hardy allows himself. This may accountfor some of his omissions as compared with Shakespeare. [243] See _Théâtre d’Alexandre Hardy_, ed. Stengel. [244] See M. Rigal’s admirable treatise on _Hardy_. [245] Of course these scenes are not marked in the folio, but on thewhole there are good grounds for the division that has been adopted bymodern editors. His scenarium includes the house of Coriolanus and the forum at Rome,the house of Coriolanus and the house of Amfidius at Antium, theVolscian camp near Rome, the council-hall at Antium, and in additionto these an indeterminate spot where Coriolanus soliloquises after hisexpulsion. [246] There is no room for Corioli, and this may be why Hardybegins somewhat later than Shakespeare with the collision between thehero and the people, and gets as far as the banishment by the end ofthe first act. In the second, Marcius leaves Rome, presents himselfto Amfidius, and obtains the leadership of the Volscians. The thirdportrays the panic of the Romans and the reception of their embassageby Coriolanus. In the fourth, the Roman ladies make ready to accompanyVolumnia on her mission, Amfidius schemes to use all Coriolanus’faults for his destruction, Volumnia arrives in the camp and makes herpetition, which her son at length grants though he foresees the result. The fifth is occupied with his murder in the Senate House at Antium,and concludes with his mother’s reception of the news. [246] See footnote 2 on previous page. Thus the sequence and selection of episodes are much the same in thetwo tragedies, except that Hardy, perhaps, as I have said, owing to theexigencies of his decorative system, does not begin till the exploitat Corioli is over, and adds, as he could do so by using once moreCoriolanus’ house in Rome, the final scene with Volumnia. Otherwisethe scaffolding of the plays is very similar, and it is becauseboth follow closely the excellent guidance of Plutarch. But it isinteresting also to note that some of their additions are similar, forwhen they were independently made, it shows how readily Plutarch’snarrative suggested such supplements. Thus, as in Shakespeare, but notas in Plutarch, Volumnia counsels her son to bow his pride before thepeople, and he, though in the end consenting, at first refuses.      _Volomnie. _ Voicy le jour fatal qui te donne (mon fils)    Par une humilité tes hayneurs deconfits;    Tu vaincras, endurant, la fiere ingratitude    Et le rancoeur malin de ceste multitude.    Tu charmes son courroux d’une submission;    Helas! ne vueille donc croire à ta passion.    Cede pour un moment, et la voila contente,    Et tu accoiseras une horrible tourmente,    Que Rome divisée ébranle à ton sujet:    La pieté ne peut avoir plus bel objet,    Et faire mieux paroistre à l’endroit d’une mere,    A l’endroit du païs, qu’escoutant ma priere.      _Coriolan. _ Madame, on me verroit mille morts endurer,    Plustôt que suppliant sa grace procurer,    Plustôt qu’un peuple vil à bon tiltre se vante    D’avoir en mon courage imprimé l’épouvante,    Que ceux qui me devroient recognoistre seigneur,    Se prévallent sur moy du plus petit honneur:    Moy, fléchir le genoüil devant une commune!    Non, je ne le veux faire, et ne crains sa rancune. Thus Coriolanus, again as in Shakespeare but not as in Plutarch,accepts his banishment as a calamity to those that inflict it.    Je luy obeirai, ouy ouy, je mettrai soin    De quitter ces ingrats plustost qu’ils n’ont besoin. Thus the machinations of Amfidius before the final cause of offenceare amplified far beyond the limits of Plutarch, and these are inpart excused by his previous rivalry with Coriolanus which, as inShakespeare, is made ever so much more personal and graphic.    Un esperon d’honneur cent fois nous a conduits,    Aveugles de fureur, à ces termes reduits    De sentre-deffier[247] au front de chaque armée,    Vouloir mourir, ou seul vaincre de renommée. In short, though Hardy’s drama, as compared with Shakespeare’s, is awork of talent as compared with a work of genius, it shows that the_Life_ had in it the material for a tragedy already rough-dressed,with indications, obvious to a practised playwright, of some of theprocesses that still were needed. Shakespeare, then, was now dealing with a much more tractable themethan in his previous Roman plays, and this is evident in the finishedproduct. Technically and artistically it is a more perfect achievementthan either of them. In _Julius Caesar_ the early disappearance ofthe titular hero does not indeed affect the essential unity of thepiece, but it does, when all is said and done, involve, to the feelingsof most readers, a certain break in the interest. In _Antony andCleopatra_ the scattering of the action through so many short scenesdoes not interfere with the main conception, but it does make theexecution a little spasmodic. In both instances Shakespeare had tosuit his treatment to the material. But that material in the case of_Coriolanus_ offered less difficulty. It lay ready to the dramatist’shand and took the shape that he imposed, almost of itself. The resultis a masterpiece that, as an organic work of art, has been placed onthe level of Shakespeare’s most independent tragedies. [248][247] S’entre-défier. [248] _E. g. _ by Viehoff, in his interesting essay, _Shakespeare’sCoriolan_ (_Jahrbuch der D. -Sh. Gesellschaft_, Bd. iv. 1869), which hasbeen used in the following paragraphs. Thus it is easy to see how the personality of the hero dominates thecomplex story, as the heart transmits the life-blood through the bodyand its members, and receives it back again; how his character containsin itself the seeds of his offence and its reparation; how the otherfigures are related to him in parallel and contrast; how the two grandinterests, the conflict between Coriolanus and Aufidius, the conflictbetween Coriolanus and the people, intertwine, but always so that thelatter remains the principal strand; how the language is suited to thepersons, the circumstances, and the prevailing tone. In short, whateverthe relations in which we consider the play, they seem, like the radiiof a circle, to depart from and meet in one centre. Hardly less admirable are the balance and composition of the whole,which yet in no wise impair the interest of the individual scenes. Dr. Johnson indeed makes the criticism: “There is perhaps too muchbustle in the first act and too little in the last. ” This possibly ismore noticeable when the play is acted than when it is read; but it isfitting that from the noise and hubbub of the struggle there should bea transition to the outward quietude of the close that harmonises withthe inward acquiescence in the mind of reader or spectator. Nor is theelement of tumult entirely lacking at the last. To the uproar in thestreet of Rome, where the life of Marcius is threatened, correspondsthe uproar in the public place of Antium where it is actually taken. But Dr. Johnson was probably thinking of those battle scenes beloved byElizabethan audiences and generally wearisome to modern taste. Thereare no fewer than five of them in the first act, a somewhat plentifulallowance. But they are written by no means exclusively in thedrum-and-trumpet style. On the contrary they are rich in psychologicalinterest, and bring home to us many characteristics of the hero thatwe have to realise. Not only are we witnesses of his prowess, but hispride in Rome, his contempt of baseness, his rivalry with Aufidius,his power of rousing enthusiasm in the field, are all shown in relief. Such things lift these concessions to temporary fashion above the levelof outworn crudities. And the construction is very perfect too. Perhaps the crisis,understood as the acme of Coriolanus’ success, when he is voted tothe consulship in the middle of the third scene of the second actcomes a little early. But crisis may bear another meaning. It maydenote the decisive point of the conflict, and this is only reachedin the centre of the play. To the supreme tension of the scenes thatdescribe Coriolanus’ denunciation of the Tribunes, the consultationsin his house, his final condemnation, all that goes before graduallyleads up, and from that all that follows after gradually declines. Inthe first act we are introduced to the circumstances, the oppositionbetween the Romans and the Volsces, the Senate and the Plebs, and toall the leading characters, as well as Coriolanus and his friendsand opponents, in an exposition that is not merely declaratory butis full of action and life: and we see that the situation is fraughtwith danger. In the second act we are shown more definitely how thegrand disaster will come from the collision of Coriolanus with thepeople, and the cloud gathers even in the instant of his success. Inthe third the storm breaks, and, despite a momentary lull, in the endsweeps away all wonted landmarks. The fourth presents the change thatfollows in the whole condition of things: the rival of Aufidius hasrecourse to his generosity, the champion of Rome becomes her foe, andthe people, after its heedless triumph, is plunged into dismay. In thefifth we proceed by carefully considered ways to the catastrophe: thedeliverance of Rome from material and the hero from moral perdition,the expiation of his passion in death and the fruitless triumph of hisrival. But through this symmetrical rise and fall of the excitement, there isno abatement of the interest. Attention and suspense are always kept onthe alert. They are secured partly by the diversity of the details andthe swiftness of the fluctuations. Dr. Johnson says:    The Tragedy of _Coriolanus_ is one of the most amusing    of our author’s performances. The old man’s merriment in    Menenius, the lofty lady’s dignity in Volumnia, the bridal    modesty in Virgilia, the patrician and military haughtiness    in Coriolanus, the plebeian malignity and tribunitian    insolence in Brutus and Sicinius, make a very pleasing and    interesting variety; and the various revolutions of the    hero’s fortune fill the mind with anxious curiosity. This is so because, while the agitation culminates in the third act,the emotion is neither overtaxed in the two that precede nor allowedto subside in the two that follow. For though this movement, first ofintensification, then of relaxation, is discernible in the play as awhole, it is not uniform or uninterrupted. There is throughout a throband pulse, an ebb and flow. The quieter scenes alternate with the morevehement: Coriolanus’ fortune by turns advances and retires. Only whenwe reflect do we become aware that we have risen so high out of ourdaily experience, and have returned “with new acquist” of wisdom to aspot whence we can step back to it once more. But to produce so consummate a masterpiece from the material ofhistory, no matter how dramatic that material was, Shakespeare wasbound to reshape it more freely than he was wont to do when dealingwith historical themes. We have seen from Hardy’s example what storesof half-wrought treasure Plutarch’s narrative offered to a dramatistwho knew his business. Still it was only half-wrought, and in workingit up Shakespeare consciously or unconsciously allowed himself moreliberties than in his other Roman plays. His loans indeed are nonethe fewer or the less on that account; nowhere has he borrowed morenumerous or so lengthy passages. But it almost seems as though with thetact of genius he had the feeling that he was at work, not on fact, buton legend. Though he is far from recasting the Roman tradition as herecast the pseudo-historic traditions of his own island in _Lear_ and_Macbeth_, yet he gives a new colouring to the picture as he hardlydoes to genuine histories like _Richard II. _ or _Antony and Cleopatra_. This will appear from a comparison of the play with the _Life_. CHAPTER IIPARALLELS AND CONTRASTS WITH PLUTARCHThe first impression produced by a comparison of the biography and theplay is that the latter is little more than a scenic replica of theformer. Shakespeare has indeed absorbed so many suggestions from thetranslation that it is difficult to realise how much he has modifiedthem, or to avoid reading these modifications into his authority whenwe try to distinguish what he has received from what he has supplied. And the illusion is confirmed by the frequency with which we light onfamiliar words, familiar traits, familiar incidents. For the similarityseems at first to pervade the language, the characterisation, and theaction. [249][249] A good many of the parallels and contrasts noted in this chapterare to be found in the excellent paper by Delius already cited. In the language it is most marked. Nowhere has Shakespeare borrowed somuch through so great a number of lines as in Volumnia’s appeal to thepiety of her son. This passage, even if it stood alone, would serveto make the play a notable example of Shakespeare’s indebtedness toNorth. [250] But it does not stand alone. Somewhat shorter, but stilllonger than any loan in the other plays, is Coriolanus’ announcementof himself to Aufidius, and in it Shakespeare follows North even moreclosely than in the former instance. [250] See Appendix B.    If thou knowest me not yet, Tullus, and seeing me, dost not    perhappes beleeve me to be the man I am in dede, I must of    necessitie bewraye my selfe to be that I am. I am that Caius    Martius, who hath done to thy self particularly, and to all    the Volsces generally, great hurte and mischief, which I    cannot denie for my surname of Coriolanus that I beare. For    I never had other benefit nor recompence, of all the true    and paynefull service I have done, and the extreme daungers    I have bene in, but this only surname: a good memorie and    witnes, of the malice and displeasure thou showldest beare    me. In deede the name only remaineth with me: for the rest,    the envie and crueltie of the people of Rome have taken    from me, by the sufference of the dastardlie nobilitie and    magistrates, who have forsaken me, and let me be banished    by the people. This extremitie hath now driven me to come    as a poore suter, to take thy chimney harthe, not of any    hope I have to save my life thereby. For if I had feared    death, I would not have come hither to have put my life in    hazard: but prickt forward with strife and desire I have to    be revenged of them that thus have banished me, whom now I    beginne to be avenged on, putting my persone betweene their    enemies. Wherefore, if thou hast any harte to be wrecked[251]    of the injuries thy enemies have done thee, spede thee now,    and let my miserie serve thy turne, and so use it, as my    service maye be a benefit to the Volsces: promising thee,    that I will fight with better good will for all you, then    ever I dyd when I was against you, knowing that they fight    more valliantly, who know the force of their enemie, then    such as have never proved it. And if it be so that thou    dare not, and that thou art wearye to prove fortune any    more; then am I also weary to live any lenger. And it were    no wisedome in thee, to save the life of him, who hath bene    heretofore thy mortall enemie, and whose service now can    nothing helpe nor pleasure thee. [251] wreaked, avenged. Shakespeare gives little else than a transcript, though, of course, apoetical and dramatic transcript, of this splendid piece of forthrightprose.      _Coriolanus. _ If, Tullus,    Not yet thou knowest me, and, seeing me, dost not    Think me for the man I am, necessity    Commands me name myself.      _Aufidius. _           What is thy name?      _Coriolanus. _ A name unmusical to the Volscians’ ears,    And harsh in sound to thine.      _Aufidius. _        Say, what’s thy name?    Thou hast a grim appearance, and thy face    Bears a command in’t: though thy tackle’s torn,    Thou show’st a noble vessel: what’s thy name?      _Coriolanus. _ Prepare thy brow to frown; know’st thou me yet?      _Aufidius. _ I know thee not: thy name?      _Coriolanus. _ My name is Caius Marcius, who hath done    To thee particularly, and to all the Volsces    Great hurt and mischief: thereto witness may    My surname, Coriolanus: the painful service,    The extreme dangers, and the drops of blood    Shed for my thankless country are requited    But with that surname; a good memory,    And witness of the malice and displeasure    Which thou should’st bear me: only that name remains;    The cruelty and envy of the people,    Permitted by our dastard nobles, who    Have all forsook me, hath devoured the rest:    And suffer’d me by the voice of slaves to be    Whoop’d out of Rome. Now this extremity    Hath brought me to thy hearth; not out of hope—    Mistake me not—to save my life, for if    I had fear’d death, of all men i’ the world    I would have ’voided thee, but in mere spite,    To be full quit of those my banishers,    Stand I before thee now. Then if thou hast    A heart of wreak in thee, that wilt revenge    Thine own particular wrongs and stop those maims    Of shame seen through thy country, speed thee straight,    And make my misery serve thy turn: so use it    That my revengeful services may prove    As benefits to thee, for I will fight    Against my canker’d country with the spleen    Of all the under fiends. But if so be    Thou darest not this and that to prove more fortunes    Thou’rt tired, then, in a word, I also am    Longer to live most weary, and present    My throat to thee and to thy ancient malice;    Which not to cut would show thee but a fool,    Since I have ever follow’d thee with hate,    Drawn tuns of blood out of thy country’s breast    And cannot live but to thy shame, unless    It be to do thee service.                                   (IV. v. 60. )As much material, though it is amplified and rearranged, has beenincorporated, as we shall have to point out, in Coriolanus’ invectiveagainst the tribunate and the distribution of corn. Within a narrowercompass we see the same adherence to North’s phraseology in Brutus’instructions to the people, where, very notably, Shakespeare’s fidelityto his author has made it possible to supply an omission in the textwith absolute certainty as to the sense and great probability as to thewording. The opening sentences of the _Life_ run as follows:    The house of the Martians at Rome was of the number of    the patricians, out of the which hath sprong many noble    personages: whereof Ancus Martius was one, King Numaes    daughters sonne, who was king of Rome after Tullus    Hostilius. Of the same house were Publius, and Quintus,    who brought Rome their best water they had by conducts.    Censorinus also came of that familie, that was so surnamed,    bicause the people had chosen him Censor twise. Shakespeare puts the notifications in the Tribune’s mouth:                Say we read lectures to you,    How youngly he began to serve his country,    How long continued, and what stock he springs of,    The noble house o’ the Marcians, from whence came    That Ancus Martius, Numa’s daughter’s son,    Who, after great Hostilius, here was king:    Of the same house Publius and Quintus were,    That our best water brought by conduits hither:    _And Nobly nam’d, so twice being Censor,    Was his great Ancestor_.                                     (II. iii. 242. )Many editors saw that something had dropped out, but no attempt tofill the gap was satisfactory, till Delius, having recourse to North,supplemented,    [And Censorinus, that was so surnamed]    And nobly named so, twice being censor. [252][252] This seems preferable to the reading of the Cambridge Editors    And [Censorinus,] nobly named so,    Twice being [by the people chosen] censor. In the first place it is closer to North, and agrees with Shakespeare’susual practice of keeping to North’s words so far as possible. Inthe second place, it is closer to the Folio text, involving only thedisplacement of a comma. In the third place, it is simpler to supposethat a whole single line has been missed out than that parts of twohave been amputated, and the remainders run together. These lines also show how Shakespeare reproduces Plutarch’s statementeven when they are for him not quite in keeping. Plutarch, writing inthe second century, could instance Publius, Quintus and Censorinus asornaments of the Marcian gens; but Brutus’ reference to them is ananachronism as they come after the supposed date of the play. So tooPlutarch says of the attack on the Romans before Corioli:    But Martius being there at that time, ronning out of the    campe with a fewe men with him, he slue the first enemies he    met withall, and made the rest of them staye upon a sodaine,    crying out to the Romaines that had turned their backes,    and calling them againe to fight with a lowde voyce. For he    was even such another, as Cato would have a souldier and a    captaine to be: not only terrible, and fierce to laye about    him, but to make the enemie afeard with the sounde of his    voyce, and grimnes of his countenaunce. Shakespeare makes short work of chronology by putting this allusioninto the mouth of Titus Lartius:                      Thou wast a soldier    Even to Cato’s[253] wish, not fierce and terrible    Only in strokes; but, with thy grim looks, and    The thunder-like percussion of thy sounds,    Thou madest thine enemies shake, as if the world    Were feverous and did tremble.                                         (I. iv. 56. )Occasionally even mistakes in North’s text or marginal notes, or inShakespeare’s interpretation or recollection of what he had read, havepassed into the play. Thus it has been shown[254] that North, owing toa small typographical error in the French, misunderstood the scope ofCominius’ offer to Marcius. Amyot says:[253] Here again Plutarch has furnished an emendation: Folio, _Calues_. [254] By Büttner, _Zu Coriolan und seiner Quelle_ (_Jhrbch. der D. -Sh. Gesellschaft_, Bd. xli. 1905).    “Et en fin lui dit, que de _tous les cheveaux    prisonniers_, et autres biens qui avoient esté pris et    gaignés en grande quantité, il en choisist dix de chaque    sorte à sa volonté, avant que rien en fust distribué, ni    desparti aux autres. ”There should be a comma after _cheveaux_, as appears on referenceto the Greek,[255] and Marcius is told to select ten of the horses,prisoners, and other chattels; but North took the _prisonniers_ as usedadjectivally in agreement with the preceding noun and translated:    So in the ende he willed Martius, he should choose _out    of all the horses they had taken_ of their enemies, and    of all the goodes they had wonne (whereof there was great    store) tenne of every sorte which he liked best, before any    distribution should be made to other. [255] πολλῶν χρημάτων καὶ ἵππων γεγονότων αἰχμαλώτων καὶ ἀνθρώπων,ἐκέλευσεν αὐτὸν ἐξελέσθαι δέκα πάντα πρὸ τοῦ νέμειν τοῖς πολλοῖς. Ἄνευδὲ ἐκείνων ἀριστεῖον αὐτῷ κεκοσμημένον ἵππον ἐδωρήσατο. Further there is the quite incorrect abridgment in the margin:    The tenth parte of the enemies goods offered Martius    for rewarde of his service by Cominius the Consul. Shakespeare combines these misstatements:                      Of all the horses,    Whereof we have ta’en good and good store, of all    The treasure in this field achieved and city,    We render you the tenth, to be ta’en forth,    Before the common distribution, at    Your only choice.                                     (I. ix. 31. )Of great frequency are the short sentences from North that are embeddedin Shakespeare’s dialogue. Thus, the preliminary announcement ofMarcius’ hardihood is introduced with the remark:    Now in those dayes, valliantnes was honoured in Rome    above all the other vertues. Cominius begins his panegyric:                                    It is held    That valour is the chiefest virtue, and    Most dignifies the haver.                                   (II. ii. 87. )When Marcius drives the Volscians back to Corioli and the Romanshesitate to pursue, we are told:    He dyd encorage his fellowes with wordes and deedes, crying    out to them, that fortune had opened the gates of the cittie    more for the followers, then for the flyers. Compare his exhortation:    So, now the gates are ope: now prove good seconds:    ’Tis for the followers fortune widens them,    Not for the fliers.                                   (I. iv. 43. )When the proposal to distribute the corn is being discussed, manysenators are in favour of it:    But Martius standing up on his feete, dyd somewhat sharpely    take up those, who went about to gratifie the people therein,    and called them people pleasers and traitours to the nobilitie. Brutus charges him with this in the play:    When corn was given them gratis, you repined;    Scandal’d the suppliants for the people, call’d them    Time-pleasers, flatterers, foes to nobleness.                                     (III. i. 43. )Sometimes the debt is confined to a single phrase or word and yet isunmistakable. When Coriolanus has reached Antium, Plutarch quotes Homeron Ulysses:    So dyd he enter into the enemies towne. In the play Coriolanus before the house of Aufidius soliloquises:                            My love’s upon    This enemy town. I’ll enter.                              (IV. iv. 23. )Now and then some apparently haphazard detail can be explained if wetrace it to its source. Thus, Cominius talks of the “seventeen battles”which the hero had fought since his first exploit. Why seventeen? Doubtless Shakespeare had in his mind the account of the candidature,when Marcius showed the wounds “which he had receyved in seventeeneyeres service at the warres, and in many sundrie battells. ” In Plutarchthe number of years is prescribed by his mythical chronology, for hedates the beginning of Marcius’ career from the wars with the Tarquins,which were supposed to have broken out in 245 A. U. C. , while Corioli wastaken in 262: but when transferred to the battles it becomes a meresurvival which serves at most to give apparent definiteness. But occasionally such survivals have a higher value. It is instructive,for example, to notice how Shakespeare utilises the tradition dearto Plutarch’s antiquarian tastes but not very interesting to anElizabethan audience of the acknowledgment made to the goddess,_Fortuna Muliebris_, after the withdrawal of Coriolanus from Rome.    The Senate ordeined, that the magistrates to gratifie and    honour these ladyes, should graunte them all that they would    require. And they only requested that they would build a    temple of Fortune of the women, for the building whereof    they offered them selves to defraye the whole charge of the    sacrifices, and other ceremonies belonging to the service of    the goddes. Nevertheles, the Senate commending their good    will and forwardnes, ordeined, that the temple and image    should be made at the common charge of the cittie. And the marginal note sums up: “The temple of Fortune built for thewomen. ” This seems to be the archaeological ore from which is forgedCoriolanus’ gallant hyperbole:                        Ladies, you deserve    To have a temple built you.                              (V. ii. 206. )From the worshippers they become the worshipped. Sometimes in the survival the fact is transformed to figure, the proseto poetry. After Marcius’ miracles of valour at Corioli, Cominius giveshim, “in testimonie that he had wonne that day the price of prowesabove all other, a goodly horse with a capparison, and all furniture tohim. ” This Shakespeare does not omit. Cominius declares:                              Caius Marcius    Wears this war’s garland: in token of the which    My noble steed,[256] known to the camp, I give him    With all his trim belonging.                                          (I. ix. 59. )[256] Shakespeare, following North (“Martius accepted the gift of _his_horse”) makes it, instead of _a_ horse, Cominius’ own horse, whichwould be a violation of antique usage. See Büttner as above. But the same episode furnishes Titus Lartius with his imagery as hepoints to the wounded and victorious hero:                          O general,    Here is the steed, we the caparison!                            (I. ix. 11. )This illustrates the sort of sea-change that always takes place in thelanguage of North under the hands of the magician, though it may notalways be equally perceptible. But it is never entirely lacking, evenwhere we are at first more struck by the amount that Shakespeare hasretained without alteration. The _Life_, for instance, describes whattakes place after Marcius has joined Cominius, before they hurry off tothe second fight.    Martius asked him howe the order of their enemies battell    was, and on which side they had placed their best fighting    men. The Consul made him aunswer, that he thought the bandes    which were in the voward of their battell, were those of the    Antiates, whom they esteemed to be the war-likest men, and    which for valliant corage would give no place, to any of    the hoste of their enemies. Then prayed Martius to be set    directly against them. Here is what Shakespeare makes of this:      _Mar. _ How lies their battle? Know you on which side    They have placed their men of trust?      _Com. _           As I guess, Marcius,    Their bands in the vaward are the Antiates,    Of their best trust; o’er them Aufidius,    Their very heart of hope.      _Mar. _       I do beseech you,    By all the battles wherein we have fought,    By the blood we have shed together, by the vows    We have made to endure friends, that you directly    Set me against Aufidius and his Antiates;    And that you not delay the present, but,    Filling the air with swords advanced and darts,    We prove this very hour.                                       (I. vi. 51. )Here to begin with Shakespeare hardly does more than change theindirect to the direct narrative and condense a little, but presentlyhe adds picturesqueness, passion, and, by the introduction of Aufidius,dramatic significance. And this is invariably his method. It is unfairto quote the parallel passages without the context, for, apart from thesubtle transmutation they have undergone, they are preludes to originalutterance and almost every one of them is a starting point rather thanthe goal. Shakespeare’s normal practice is illustrated in the fable ofMenenius, in which, with every allowance made for possible assistancefrom Camden, the words of his authority or authorities are only so manyspur-pricks that set his own imagination at a gallop. And what goesbefore and comes after is pure Shakespeare. And it should be noticed that his textual appropriations from North,long or short, obvious or covert, never clash with his more personalcontributions, which in bulk are far more important. They are allsubdued to the tone that the purpose of the dramatist imposes. Delius says with absolute truth: “This harmonious colouring wouldmake it impossible for us, in respect of style, to discover realor suppositious loans from Plutarch in Shakespeare’s drama, anddefinitely identify them as such, if by chance North’s translationwere inaccessible. ” Yet this harmonious colouring, that has its sourcein the author’s mind and that is required by the theme, does notprevent an individualisation in the utterance, whether wholly originalor partly borrowed, that fits it for the lips of the particularspeaker. The language, even when it is suggested by North, is not onlyspontaneous and consistent, it is dramatic as well, and apposite to thestrongly marked characters of whom the story is told. To these characters, and their development by Shakespeare, we nowturn. It may be remarked that all of them, except the quite episodicalAdrian and Nicanor, are nominally to be found in Plutarch, by whomthe hero himself is drawn at full length and in great detail. For hisdelineation then there was a great deal to borrow and Shakespearehas borrowed a great deal. In his general bearing and in many of hisfeatures the Coriolanus of the play is the Coriolanus of the _Life_,though of course imagined with far more firmness and comprehension. Only on very close scrutiny do we see that each has a physiognomy ofhis own, and that the difference in the impressions they produce is duenot merely to the execution but to the conception. This will becomeclear as the general discussion proceeds and will incidentally occupyour attention from time to time. Meanwhile it should be noticed that,Coriolanus excepted, Plutarch’s persons are very shadowy and vague. Ifwe compare this biography with those that Shakespeare had used for hisearlier Roman plays, it is obvious that it is much more of a monograph. In the others room is found for sketches of many subordinate figures inconnection with the titular subject, but Marcius stands out alone andthe remaining personages are scarcely more than names. In the tragedy,too, he is in possession of the scene, but his relatives, his friends,and his enemies are also full of interest and life; and for theirportraiture Shakespeare had to depend almost entirely on himself. Next to the hero, for example, it is his mother who is mostconspicuous in the play; and how much did Plutarch contribute to theconception of her concrete personality? He supplies only one or twohints, some of which Shakespeare disregards or contradicts. They bothattribute to her the sole training of the boy, but Plutarch impliesthat her discipline was slack and her instruction insufficient, whilein Shakespeare she incurs no such blame except in so far as we infera certain lack of judiciousness from her peculiar attitude to hergrandson and from her son’s exaggeration of some of her own traits. Butinjudiciousness is not quite the same as the laxity that Plutarch’sapologetic paragraph would insinuate:    Caius Martius, whose life we intend now to write, being left    an orphan by his father, was brought up under his mother a    widowe, who taught us by experience, that orphanage bringeth    many discommodities to a childe, but doth not hinder him    to become an honest man, and to excell in vertue above    the common sorte; as they, are meanely borne, wrongfully    doe complayne, that it is the occasion of their casting    awaye, for that no man in their youth taketh any care of    them to see them well brought up, and taught that were    meete. This man is also a good proofe to confirme some mens    opinions, that a rare and excellent witte untaught, doth    bring forth many good and evill things together; like as    a fat soile bringeth forth herbes and weedes, that lieth    unmanured. [257] For this Martius naturell wit and great harte    dyd marvelously sturre up his corage, to doe and attempt    notable actes. But on the other side for lacke of education,    he was so chollericke and impacient, that he would yeld to    no living creature; which made him churlishe, uncivill, and    altogether unfit for any mans conversation. [257] _Unworked, untilled_, from _manoeuvrer_. Again, in reference to Marcius’ strenuous career, Plutarch writes:    The only thing that made him to love honour, was the joye    he sawe his mother dyd take of him. For he thought nothing    made him so happie and honorable, as that his mother might    heare every bodie praise and commend him, that she might    allwayes see him returne with a crowne upon his head, and    that she might still embrace him with teares ronning downe    her cheekes for joye. In the play, it is not with tears of joy that Volumnia welcomes herwarrior home. Here is another instance of piety that Plutarch cites:    Martius thinking all due to his mother, that had bene also    due to his father if he had lived; dyd not only content him    selfe to rejoyce and honour her, but at her desire tooke a    wife also, by whom he had two children, and yet never left    his mothers house therefore. In Shakespeare there is no word of Marcius’ marrying at his mother’sdesire, and though she apparently lives with him, it is in his, not inher house. All these notices occur in the first pages of the _Life_. Thenceforwardtill her intervention at the close there is only a passing mention ofher affliction at her son’s banishment.    When he was come home to his house againe, and had taken    his leave of his mother and wife, finding them weeping,    and shreeking out for sorrowe, and had also comforted and    persuaded them to be content with his chaunce; he    immediately went to the gate of the cittie. Even in regard to the intercession, where Shakespeare follows Plutarchmost closely, he makes one significant omission. In the original, it isthe suggestion of Valeria “through the inspiration of some god above,”that the women should sue for peace, and she visits Marcius’ kinswomanto secure their help: by the suppression of this circumstance,the prominent place is left to Volumnia. And in the appeal itselfShakespeare, besides the various vivifying and personal touches, makesone important addition. In Plutarch her words are throughout forcibleand impassioned, but they do not burst into the wrathful indignationof the close, which alone is sufficient to break down Coriolanus’resolution. Now it is clear that the presence of Volumnia does not pervade the_Life_ as it does the play, and she has not nearly so much to do. Moreover, besides being less important, she is less masculine andmasterful. Indeed, from Plutarch’s hints it would be possible toconstruct for her a character that differed widely from that ofShakespeare’s heroine. She is like the latter in her patriotism, herlove for and delight in her son, and, at the critical moment, in herinfluence over him. But even her influence is less constant, andseems to be stronger in the way of unconscious inspiration than ofpositive direction. It would be quite legitimate to picture her as anessentially womanly woman, high-souled and dutiful, but finding herchosen sphere in the home, overflowing with sympathy and affection,and failing in her obligations as widowed mother only by a lack ofsternness. And if Shakespeare has given features to Volumnia, much more has hedone so to Virgilia and young Marcius. Both, of course, are presentedin the merest outline, but in Plutarch the wife is only once named andthe children are not named at all. Shakespeare’s Virgilia, on the otherhand, by the few words she speaks and the few words spoken to her, byher very restraint from speech and the atmosphere in which she moves,produces a very definite as well as a very pleasing impression. Ruskin,after enumerating some other of Shakespeare’s female characters,concludes that they “and last and perhaps loveliest, Virgilia, are allfaultless; conceived in the highest heroic type of humanity. ” Thisenthusiasm may be, as Ruskin’s enthusiasms sometimes were, exaggeratedand misplaced, but it could not be roused by a nonentity; and anonentity Plutarch’s Virgilia is. Young Marcius, again, is not merely one of the two children mentionedin the _Life_. As Mr. Verity remarks,[258] in this case “the half iscertainly better than the whole”; and the named half has a wholeness ofhis own that the anonymous brace can lay no claim to. He is a thoroughboy, and an attractive though boisterous one. If he is cruel to wingedthings, he is brave and circumspect withal. He has a natural objectionto be trodden on even for a patriotic cause; if the risk is too great,“he’ll run away till he’s bigger, but then he’ll fight. ”[258] _Coriolanus. _ (The Students’ Shakespeare, Cambridge UniversityPress. ) Volumnia indeed refers to “children” in her petition (V. iii. 118), but this seems merely a reminiscence of Plutarch’s language, foreverywhere else young Marcius is treated as an only child. Passing from Coriolanus’ kinsfolk to his friends, we meet withvery similar results. Titus Lartius is sketched very slightly inShakespeare, but a good deal more visually than in Plutarch, who saysof him in two sentences that he was “one of the valliantest men theRomaines had at that time,” and that, having entered Corioli withMarcius, he, “when he was gotten out, had some leysure to bring theRomaines with more safetie into the cittie. ” Cominius is hardly moredistinct. As Consul he conducts the campaign against Corioli; welcomesMarcius from his first exploit, and gives him the opportunity for hissecond, in the double engagement that then took place; thereafterofficially rewards and eulogises his gallantry, which “he commendedbeyond the moone”; and that is practically all that is said abouthim. In the play, though in it too his part was a small one, he hascharacteristics of his own which Shakespeare has created for himwithout much help from these vague suggestions. Nor has Marcius, inthe original story, any intimate association with either of his fellowsoldiers. It is stated that at first he is in Lartius’ division of thearmy, and afterwards joins Cominius and wins his praises, but it isonly in the affair of Corioli that their names are mentioned together. In the drama, however, Menenius is undoubtedly the chief of the youngman’s friends as well as one of the most prominent persons; and whathas Plutarch to say about him? He is introduced only in connectionwith the fable which he tells the seceders to the Holy Hill, and,apart from the fable, all that we hear of him is confined to thefollowing few sentences:    The Senate being afeard of their departure, dyd send unto    them certaine of the pleasauntest olde men, and the most    acceptable to the people among them. Of those, Menenius    Agrippa was he, who was sent for chief man of the message    from the Senate. He, after many good persuasions and gentle    requestes made to the people, on the behalfe of the Senate,    knit up his oration in the ende, with a notable tale. . . .    These persuasions pacified the people, conditionally, that    the Senate would graunte there should be yerely chosen five    magistrates, which they now call _Tribuni Plebis_. Even the few particulars given in this passage Shakespeare alters orneglects. It is not to the secessionists on the Mons Sacer, but to astreet mob in Rome, that the fable is told. It not merely serves tolubricate in advance the negotiations that result in the tribunate,but effectually discomfits the murmurers, and Menenius learns onlysubsequently and to his surprise that the Senate has meanwhile concededthe political innovation. There is no hint in Plutarch of his beinghimself one of the patricians, and if Shakespeare glanced at Holland’sLivy he would see that in point of fact tradition assigned to hima plebeian origin. [259] Above all he has no dealings whatever withMarcius, and, according to Livy, died a year before his banishment. Plutarch thus furnishes hardly anything for the portrait of the man,and nothing at all for his relations with the hero. [259] Placuit igitur oratorem ad plebem mitti Menenium Agrippam,facundum virum et, quod inde oriundus erat, plebi carum. (II. 32Weissenborn & Müller’s edition. )And it is the same, or nearly the same, if we turn from Marcius’friends to his enemies. The tribunes, for example, are comparatively colourless. On theinstitution of the new magistracy,    Junius Brutus, and Sicinius Vellutus were the first tribunes    of the people that were chosen, who had only bene the causes    and procurers of this sedition. Then we hear of their opposition to the colonisation of Velitraebecause it was infected with the plague, and to a new war with theVolscians, because it was in the interest only of the rich; but theyhave nothing to do with the rejection of Marcius when he is candidatefor the consulship. Only at a later time, when he inveighs againstthe relief of the people and the tribunitian power, do they stir up apopular tumult and insist that he shall answer their charges, adoptingtactics not unlike those that are attributed to them in the play.    All this was spoken to one of these two endes, either that    Martius against his nature should be constrained to humble    him selfe, and to abase his hawty and fierce minde: or els    if he continued still in his stowtnes, he should incurre the    peoples displeasure and ill-will so farre, that he should    never possibly winne them againe. Which they hoped would    rather fall out so, then otherwise; as in deede they gest    unhappely, considering Martius nature and disposition. He answers not only with his wonted boldness, but “gave him selfe inhis wordes to thunder and looke therewithall so grimly as though hemade no reckoning of the matter. ” This affords his opponents theirchance:    Whereupon Sicinius, the cruellest and stowtest of the    Tribunes, after he had whispered a little with his    companions, dyd openly pronounce in the face of all the    people, Martius as condemned by the Tribunes to dye. Matters do not end here. A formal trial is agreed to, at which theresourceful magistrates procure the sentence of banishment, partly byarranging that the votes shall be taken not by centuries but by tribes,so that “the poore needy people” and the rabble may be in the majority,partly by eking out the indictments to which they are pledged toconfine themselves, with other accusations. Then they drop out. It may be observed that Brutus is only once named, and nothing is saidof his disposition or ways. Even of Sicinius, who is more conspicuous,we only read that he was “the cruellest and stowtest” of the two. Butit is less their character than their policy that occupies Plutarch,and even their policy is presented in an ambiguous light. They aredescribed as the only authors of the rising which culminated in theexodus from the city; but with that exodus Plutarch on the whole seemsto sympathise. They are described as “seditious tribunes” when theyoppose the colonisation of Velitrae and the renewal of the war; butPlutarch shows they had good grounds for doing so. Even their actionagainst Coriolanus for opposing the grant of corn and advocating theabolition of their office, was from their own point of view, andperhaps from any point of view, perfectly legitimate. We can only saythat in the measures they took they were violent and unscrupulous. Yetwhen we consider the bitterness of party feeling and the exigenciesof public life, they seem no worse than many statesmen who have beenaccounted great. Even their overt policy then is more respectablethan that of Shakespeare’s pair of demagogues, and of course it isShakespeare who has created, or all but created, for them their vulgarbut life-like characters. Nor are things greatly different in the case of the third of Marcius’enemies, Tullus Aufidius, though Plutarch tells us somewhat more abouthim, and Shakespeare in the main fills in rather than alters Plutarch’ssketch. The first mention of him occurs when the exile determines onhis revenge.    Now in the cittie of Antium, there was one called Tullus    Aufidius, who for his riches, as also for his nobilitie    and valliantnes, was honoured emong the Volsces as a king.    Martius knewe very well that Tullus dyd more malice and    envie him, then he dyd all the Romaines besides: bicause    that many times in battells where they met, they were ever    at the encounter one against another, like lustie coragious    youthes, striving in all emulation of honour, and had    encountered many times together. In so muche, as besides the    common quarrell betweene them, there was bred a marvelous    private hate one against another. Yet notwithstanding,    considering that Tullus Aufidius was a man of a greate    minde, and that he above all other of the Volsces, most    desired revenge of the Romaines, for the injuries they had    done unto them; he dyd an act that confirmed the true wordes    of an auncient Poet, who sayed:    It is a thing full harde, mans anger to withstand. After the welcome at Antium, Tullus and Coriolanus combine to bring onthe war and are entrusted with the joint command; but Tullus choosesto remain at home to defend his country, while Coriolanus conducts theoperations abroad, in which he is wonderfully successful. A truce hegrants the Romans is however the occasion for a rift in their alliance.    This was the first matter wherewith the Volsces (that most    envied Martius glorie and authoritie) dyd charge Martius    with. Among those, Tullus was chief: who though he had    receyved no private injurie or displeasure of Martius, yet    the common faulte and imperfection of mans nature wrought    in him, and it grieved him to see his owne reputation    bleamished, through Martius great fame and honour, and so    him selfe to be lesse esteemed of the Volsces, then he was    before. We do not hear of him after this till Coriolanus has come back from thesiege of Rome.    Now when Martius was returned againe into the cittie of    Antium from his voyage, Tullus that hated him and could no    lenger abide him for the feare he had of his authoritie;    sought divers meanes to make him out of the waye, thinking    that if he let slippe that present time, he should never    recover the like and fit occasion againe. So he contrives and effects the assassination of his rival. Thus the chief features of Aufidius’ character and the story of itsdevelopment, the emulation that is dislodged by generosity, thegenerosity that is submerged in envy, were already supplied forShakespeare’s use. But the darker hues are lacking in the earlierpicture. There is neither the unscrupulous rancour in his initialrelations with Marcius that Shakespeare attributes to them, nor thehypocritical pretence at the close. Plutarch does not bring thecontrast with Coriolanus to a head. And in connection with this itshould be observed that Tullus appears late and intervenes onlyincidentally. Less than a sentence is spared to his earlier antagonismwith Coriolanus, nor is he present in the march on Rome or duringthe siege. And this is typical of Plutarch’s treatment of all thesubordinate persons. They enter for a moment, and are dismissed. Butin Shakespeare they accompany the action throughout, and do this insuch a way that they illustrate and influence the character and careerof the hero, and have their own characters and careers illustrated andinfluenced by him. They are all, even young Marcius by description,introduced in the first four scenes, with an indication of theirgeneral peculiarities and functions, and with the single exception ofTitus Lartius, they continue to reappear almost to the end. The recurrent presence of the agents of itself involves considerablemodification in the conduct of the plot, but in this respect too we areat first more struck by the resemblances than the differences betweenthe two versions; and it is possible to exhibit the story in such amanner that its main lines seem the same in both. The setting is furnished by the primitive Roman state when it hasnewly assumed its republican form. Less than a score of years before,it passed through its first great crisis in its successful rejectionof the kingship, and ever since has been engaged in a life-and-deathstruggle with representatives of the exiled dynasty and with jealousneighbours somewhat similar in power and character to itself. It hasmade good its position under the direction of a proud and valiantaristocracy, but not without paying the price. The constant wars haveresulted in widespread poverty and distress among the lower classestill they can bear it no longer and demand constitutional changes bywhich, as they think, their misery may be redressed. Rome is thusconfronted with the internal peril of revolution as well as the foreignperil of invasion, and the future mistress of the world runs therisk of being cut off at the outset of her career by tribal broilsand domestic quarrels. It is this that gives the legend a certaingrandeur of import. The Senate, finding itself and its partisans inthe minority, concedes to the commons rights which have the effect ofweakening its old authority, and for that reason are bitterly resentedby upholders of the old order. Meanwhile, however, Rome is able to takethe field against the Volscians and gains a decisive victory over them,mainly owing to the soldiership of the young patrician, Marcius, whowins for himself in the campaign the name of Coriolanus. The ability hehas shown, the glory he has achieved, the gratitude that is his due,seem to mark him out for a leading role. He almost deserves, and almostattains, the highest dignity the little state has to confer: but he hasalready given proof of his scorn for popular demands and oppositionto the recent innovations, and at the last moment he is set aside. Not only that, but the new magistrates, in dread of his influence,incite the people against him and procure his condemnation to death,which, however, is afterwards mitigated to banishment. His friends ofthe nobility dare not or cannot interpose, and he departs into exile. Then his civic virtue breaks beneath the strain, and, reconcilinghimself with the Volscians, he leads them against his country. Nothingcan stay his advance, and he is on the point of reducing the city,when, yielding to filial affection what he had refused to patrioticobligation, he relinquishes his revenge when he has it within hisgrasp. But this gives a pretext to those among his new allies who envyhis greatness, and soon afterwards he is treacherously slain. This general scheme is common to the biography and the play, and manyof the details, whether presented or recounted, are derived from theformer by the latter. Such, in addition to those already mentionedin another connection, are Marcius’ first exploit in the battle withTarquin, when he bestrides a citizen, avenges his injury, and iscrowned with the garland of oak; the dispersion of the soldiers to takespoil in Corioli, and Marcius’ consequent indignation; the response tohis call for volunteers; his petition on behalf of his former host;the initial approval of his candidature by the plebs from a feeling ofshame; the custom of candidates wearing the humble gown and showingtheir old wounds at an election; the popular joy at his banishment;the muster of nobles to see him to the gates; his popularity withthe Volscian soldiery and their eagerness to serve under him; theperturbation and mutual recriminations in Rome at his approach; hisreception of former friends when they petition him for mercy; thedevice of interrupting his speech in Antium lest his words shouldsecure his acquittal. To this extent Shakespeare and Plutarch agree, and the agreement isimportant and far-reaching. Has the dramatist, then, been contentto embellish and supplement the diction of the story, and give newlife to the characters, while leaving the fable unchanged except inso far as these other modifications may indirectly affect it? On thecontrary we shall see that the design is thoroughly recast, that eachof the borrowed details receives a new interpretation or a heightenedcolouring, that significant insertions and no less significantomissions concur to alter the effect of the whole. Sometimes Shakespeare’s innovations followed almost necessarily andwithout any remoter result from the greater fullness and concretenessof his picture, and the care with which he grouped the persons roundhis hero. Such are many of the conversations and subordinate scenes,by means of which the story is conveyed to us in all its reality andmovement; the episode of Valeria’s call, the description and words ofMarcius’ little son, Aufidius’ self-disclosure to his soldiers and hislieutenant, even the interview between the Volscian scout and the Romaninformer. Still in this class, but more important, are the inventions that haveno authority in Plutarch, but that are not opposed to and may even havebeen suggested by some of his hints. Thus in the _Life_, Volumnia’sinterposition is not required to make Marcius submit himself to thejudgment of the people, and in this connection she is not mentionedat all; but at any rate her action in Shakespeare does not belie theinfluence that Plutarch ascribes to her. Occasionally, again, the deviation from and observance of thebiographer’s statements follow each other so fast, and are both sodominated by truth to his spirit, that it needs some vigilance to noteall the points where the routes diverge or coincide. Take, for example,the account of the candidature:    Shortely after this, Martius stoode for the Consulshippe;    and the common people favored his sute, thinking it would    be a shame to denie, and refuse, the chiefest noble man of    bloude, and most worthie persone of Rome, and specially    him that had done so great service and good to the common    wealth. For the custome of Rome was at that time, that such    as dyd sue for any office, should for certen dayes before    be in the market place, only with a poore gowne on their    backes, and without any coate underneath, to praye the    cittizens to remember them at the daye of election: which    was thus devised, either to move the people the more, by    requesting them in suche meane apparell, or els bicause they    might shewe them their woundes they had gotten in the warres    in the service of the common wealth, as manifest markes and    testimonie of their valliantnes. . . . Now Martius following    this custome, shewed many woundes and cuttes upon his bodie,    which he had receyved in seventeene yeres service at the    warres, and in many sundrie battells, being ever the formest    man that dyd set out feete to fight. So that there was not    a man emong the people, but was ashamed of him selfe, to    refuse so valliant a man: and one of them sayed to another,    “We must needes chuse him Consul, there is no remedie. ” But    when the daye of election was come, and that Martius came    to the market place with great pompe, accompanied with all    the Senate, and the whole Nobilitie of the cittie about him,    who sought to make him Consul, with the greatest instance    and intreatie they could, or ever attempted for any man or    matter: then the love and good will of the common people,    turned straight to an hate and envie toward him, fearing to    put this office of soveraine authoritie into his handes,    being a man somewhat partiall toward the nobilitie, and of    great credit and authoritie amongest the Patricians, and    as one they might doubt would take away alltogether the    libertie from the people. Now Shakespeare borrows from Plutarch the explanation of the ratherremarkable circumstance that the people at first gave Martius theirsupport, and, like Plutarch, he emphasises it by giving it twice over,though he avoids the dullness of repetition by making one of thestatements serious and one humorous. The first is put in the mouth ofthe official of the Capitol:    He hath so planted his honours in their eyes, and his    actions in their hearts, that for their tongues to be    silent, and not confess so much, were a kind of ingrateful    injury: to report otherwise, were a malice, that giving    itself the lie, would pluck reproof and rebuke from every    ear that heard it.                                               (II. ii. 32. )The second is given in the language of the plebeians themselves:      _First Citizen. _ Once, if he do require our voices,    we ought not to deny him.      _Second Citizen. _ We may, sir, if we will.      _Third Citizen. _ We have power in ourselves to do it,    but it is a power that we have no power to do: for if he    show us his wounds and tell us his deeds, we are to put our    tongues into those wounds and speak for them; so, if he    tell us his noble deeds, we must also tell him our noble    acceptance of them. Ingratitude is monstrous, and for the    multitude to be ingrateful, were to make a monster of the    multitude: of the which we being members, should bring    ourselves to be monstrous members.                                               (II. iii. 1. )But this is only before he wears the candidate’s gown, for, otherwisethan in Plutarch, he does not show his wounds—“No man saw them,” saythe citizens (III. iii. 173)—and gives such offence by his contumacythat it is on this the tribunes are able to take further action. Inthe biography he is rejected only because the indiscreet advocacy ofthe nobles makes the plebeians fear that he will be too much of apartizan. He shows no reluctance either to stand or to comply with theconditions. All these things are the inventions of Shakespeare, and aremade to bring about the catastrophe which in his authority was due tovery different causes. Nevertheless, they are suggested by Plutarch inso far as they are merely additional illustrations of that excess ofaristocratic pride, on which Plutarch, too, insists as the source ofMarcius’ offences and misfortunes. But this example merges into another kind of alteration which mayprimarily have been due to the need of greater economy and dramaticcondensation, but which in its results involves a great deal more. In Plutarch, Coriolanus’ unsuccessful candidature has, except as itadds to his private irritation, no immediate result; and only sometime later does his banishment follow on quite another occasion. Cornhad come from Sicily, and in the dearth it was proposed to distributeit gratis: but Marcius inveighed against such a course and urgedthat the time was opportune for the abolition of the Tribunate, ina speech which, in the play, he “speaks again” when his election ischallenged. But the _Life_ reports it only as delivered in the Senate;and the tribunes, who are present, at once leave and raise a tumult,attempt to arrest him and are resisted. The senators, to allay thecommotion, resolve to sell the corn cheap, and thus end the discontentagainst themselves, but the tribunes persist in their attack on theringleader, hoping, as we have seen, that he will prove refractory andgive a handle against himself. When he does this and the death-sentenceis pronounced, there is still so much feeling of fairness that alegal trial is demanded, which the tribunes consent to grant him, andto which he consents to submit on the stipulation that he shall becharged only on the one count of aspiring to make himself king. Butwhen the assembly is held the tribunes break their promise and accusehim of seeking to withhold the corn and abolish the Tribunate, and ofdistributing the spoils of the Antiates only among his own followers. For shortly after the fall of Corioli, the people had refused to marchagainst the Volsces, and Coriolanus, organising a private expedition,had won a victory, taken great booty, and given it to all those who hadbeen of the party. So the unexpectedness and injustice of this lastindictment throws him out.    This matter was most straunge of all to Martius, looking    least to have been burdened with that, as with any matter of    offence. Whereupon being burdened on the sodaine, and having    no ready excuse to make even at that instant: he beganne to    fall a praising of the souldiers that had served with him    in that jorney. But those that were not with him, being the    greater number, cried out so lowde, and made such a noyse,    that he could not be heard. To conclude, when they came to    tell the voyces of the Tribes, there were three voyces odde,    which condemned him to be banished for life. Now there are several things to notice in Shakespeare’s very differentversion. The first is the tact with which he compresses a greatmany remotely connected incidents into one. He antedates the affairabout the corn with Marcius’ speech against the distribution and theTribunate, and only brings it in as a supplementary circumstance inthe prosecution. The real centre of the situation is Coriolanus’behaviour when a candidate, and round this all else is grouped: andthis behaviour, it will be remembered, is altogether a fabrication onShakespeare’s part. Two other things follow from this. In the first place, the unreasonableness of the Romans as a wholeis considerably mitigated. More prominence, indeed, is given to themachinations of the tribunes, but on the other hand the body ofelectors is not only acting less on its own initiative than on theprompting of its guides, but it proceeds quite properly to avengegrievances that do exist and avert dangers that do threaten. And thisexcuse is to some extent valid for the leaders too. In Plutarch, theSenate has come to terms on the question of the corn, yet Coriolanus ishounded down for an opposition which has turned out to be futile. Inthe play, though he has met with a check, both he and his friends hopethat even now he may win the election, and the evils that would resultto the people from his consulship are still to be feared. Again, Plutarch dwells on the unfairness of the arrangements for takingthe votes, which has the effect of packing the jury:    And first of all the Tribunes would in any case (whatsoever    became of it) that the people would proceede to geve their    voyces by Tribes, and not by hundreds: for by this meanes    the multitude of the poore needy people (and all such rabble    as had nothing to lose, and had lesse regard of honestie    before their eyes) came to be of greater force (bicause    their voyces were numbered by the polle) then the noble    honest cittizens: whose persones and purse dyd duetifully    serve the common wealth in their warres. This is not exactly omitted in the drama, but it is slurred over, andPlutarch’s clear explanation is entirely suppressed, so that few ofShakespeare’s readers and still fewer of his hearers could possiblysuspect the significance.      _Sicinius. _          Have you a catalogue    Of all the voices that we have procured    Set down by the poll?

_Ædile. _              I have; ’tis ready.      _Sicinius. _ Have you collected them by tribes?      _Ædile. _                       I have.                                      (III. iii. 8. )Above all, the accusations brought against Coriolanus, in Shakespeare,are substantially just. He may not seek to wind himself into apower tyrannical, if we take _tyrant_, as Plutarch certainly didbut as Shakespeare probably did not, in the strict classical senseof _tyrannus_, but with his disregard of aged custom and his avowedopinions of the people, there can be no doubt that he would havewielded the consular powers tyrannically, in the ordinary acceptationof the word. For there can be as little doubt about his ill-will to themasses and his abhorrence of the tribunitian system. And it is on thesegrounds that he is condemned. It is very noticeable that the divisionof the Antiate spoil, which in Plutarch is the most decisive andunwarrantable allegation against him, is mentioned by Shakespeare onlyin advance as a subordinate point that may be brought forward, but, asa matter of fact, it is never urged.      _Brutus. _ In this point charge him home, that he affects    Tyrannical power: if he evade us there,    Enforce him with his envy to the people,    And that the spoil got on the Antiates    Was ne’er distributed.                                   (III. iii. 1. )Shakespeare makes no further use of a circumstance to which Plutarchattaches so great importance that he dwells on it twice over and givesit the prominent place in the narrative of the trial. This piece ofsharp practice becomes quite negligible in the play, and the onlychicanery of which the tribunes are guilty in the whole transactionis that, as in the _Life_, but more explicitly, they goad Coriolanusto a fit of rage in which he avows his real sentiments—a tacticalexpedient that many politicians would consider perfectly permissible. Shakespeare, as has often been pointed out, in some ways shows evenless appreciation than Plutarch of the merits of the people; so it isall the more significant that, at the crisis of the play, he softensdown and obliterates the worst traits in their proceedings againsttheir enemy. And the second thing we observe is that by all this Shakespeareemphasises the insolence and truculence of the hero. It is Coriolanus’pride that turns his candidature, which begins under the happiestauspices, to a snare. It is still his pride that plays into thetribunes’ hands and makes him repeat in mere defiance his offensivespeech. It is again his pride, not any calumny about his misapplyingthe profits of his raid, that gives the signal for the adversesentence. Just as in this respect the plebs is represented as on thewhole less ignoble than Plutarch makes it, so Coriolanus’ conduct isportrayed as more insensate. And this two-fold tendency, to palliate the guilt of Rome and to stressthe violence that provoked it, appears in the more conspicuous ofShakespeare’s subsequent deviations from his authority. In Plutarch, Tullus and Aufidius have great difficulty in persuadingthe magnates of Antium to renew the war, and only succeed when theRomans expel the Volscian residents from their midst.    On a holy daye common playes being kept in Rome, apon some    suspition, or false reporte, they made proclamation by sound    of trumpet, that all the Volsces should avoyde out of Rome    before sunne set. Some thincke this was a crafte and deceipt    of Martius, who sent one to Rome to the Consuls, to accuse    the Volsces falsely, advertising them howe they had made a    conspiracie to set upon them, whilest they were busie in    seeing these games, and also to sette their cittie a fyre. At any rate, the proclamation brings about a declaration ofhostilities, and war speedily follows. Now in Shakespeare, Lartius, for fear of attack, has to surrenderCorioli even before Coriolanus meets with his rebuff.      _Coriolanus. _ Tullus Aufidius then had made new head?      _Lartius. _ He had, my lord, and that it was which caused    Our swifter composition.                                                (III. i. 1. )Moreover, all the preparations of the Volsces are complete for a newincursion. Cominius, indeed, cannot believe that they will again temptfortune so soon.              They are worn, lord consul, so    That we shall hardly in our ages see    Their banners wave again.                                (III. i. 6. )But Cominius is wrong. In the little intercalated scene between theRoman and the Volsce, we learn that they have mustered an army whichthe latter thus describes:    A most royal one; the centurions and their charges, distinctly    billeted, already in the entertainment, and to be on foot at    an hour’s warning.                                                     (IV. iii. 47. )And Aufidius welcomes Coriolanus to the feast with the words:                            O, come, go in,    And take our friendly senators by the hands:    Who now are here, taking their leaves of me,    Who am prepared against your territories,    Though not for Rome itself.                                   (IV. v. 137. )The arrival of such an auxiliary, however, at once alters that plan,and we presently learn that they are now going to make direct for thecity:    To-morrow; to-day; presently; you shall have the drum struck    up this afternoon: ’tis, as it were, a parcel of their    feast, and to be executed ere they wipe their lips.                                                    (IV. v. 229. )Now in Plutarch we cannot but be struck by the pusillanimous partthe Romans play when menaced by their great peril. They answer thedeclaration of war with a bravado which events quite fail to justify,but, despite the warning they have received, they make no resistanceand do not even prepare for it. In Shakespeare there is more excuse forthem. They are taken completely by surprise. Their foe has almost beentheir match before, when they were equipped to meet him, and had theirchampion on their side. Now that champion is not only gone, but is atthe head of the invading army. Nor is this all. In Plutarch, Coriolanus begins operations by makinga raid on the Roman territories with light-armed troops, retiringagain with his plunder. Still the Romans do not take any precautions. In a second campaign he gets within five miles of the city, and stillthey do nothing but send an embassage. Even when, at the peril of hispopularity, he grants them a truce of thirty days, they make no useof it for defence, but only continue to transmit arrogant or abjectmessages. This further opportunity, too, which they so strangelyneglect, is wisely omitted by Shakespeare. With him the irruption isswift and sudden beyond the grasp of human thought. Coriolanus breaksacross the border and strikes straight for Rome. There is no timefor defensive measures, no possibility of aid. Even so, the part theRomans play is not so heroic as might be expected, but it is at leastintelligible and much less dastardly than in the history. Or take another instance. In describing the first inroad of Coriolanus,Plutarch writes:    His chiefest purpose was, to increase still the malice and    dissention betweene the nobilitie, and the communaltie: and    to drawe that on, he was very carefull to keepe the noble    mens landes and goods safe from harme and burning, but    spoyled all the whole countrie besides, and would suffer no    man to take or hurte any thing of the noble mens. This    made greater sturre and broyle betweene the nobilitie and    people, then was before. For the noble men fell out with the    people, bicause they had so unjustly banished a man of so    great valure and power. The people on thother side, accused    the nobilitie, how they had procured Martius to make these    warres, to be revenged of them: bicause it pleased them    to see their goodes burnt and spoyled before their eyes,    whilest them selves were well at ease, and dyd behold the    peoples losses and misfortunes, and knowing their owne goods    safe and out of daunger: and howe the warre was not made    against the noble men, that had the enemie abroad, to keepe    that they had in safety. In Shakespeare there is no word of Coriolanus making any suchdistinction either from policy or partisanship: he is incensed againstall the inhabitants of Rome, “the dastard nobles” quite as much as theoffending plebeians. And, on the other hand, though the patriciansrevile the populace and its leaders, there is no division betweenthe orders, and they show no inclination to disregard the solidarityof their interests. This contrast becomes more marked in the sequel. According to Plutarch, the people in panic desire to recall the exile;but the    Senate assembled upon it, would in no case yeld to that. Who    either dyd it of a selfe will to be contrarie to the peoples    desire: or bicause Martius should not returne through the    grace and favour of the people. Afterwards, however, when he encamps so near Rome, the majority has itsway:    For there was no Consul, Senatour, nor Magistrate, that    durst once contrarie the opinion of the people, for the    calling home againe of Martius. Accordingly, the first envoys are instructed to announce to him hisre-instatement in all his rights. In Shakespeare’s account the action of Rome becomes much moredignified. In none of the negociations, in no chance word of citizen,tribune or senator, is there any hint of the sentence on Coriolanusbeing revoked. Only when peace is concluded does his recall followquite naturally, as an act of gratitude, in the burst of jubilantrelief:    Unshout the shout that banish’d Marcius,    Repeal him with the welcome of his mother.                                   (V. v. 4. )This, too, is one of the indications of Shakespeare’s feeling for Romangreatness, that we should bear in mind when elsewhere he seems to showless sense even than Plutarch of her civic virtue. The last notable deviation of the play from the biography occurs in thepassage which deals with the murder of Coriolanus, and the differenceis such as to make the victim far more responsible for the crime. In Plutarch, after his return to Antium, Tullus, wishing to make awaywith him, demands that he should be deposed from his authority andtaken to task. Marcius replies that he is willing to resign, if thisbe required by all the lords, and also to give account to the peopleif they will hear him. Thereupon a common council is called, at whichproceedings begin by certain orators inciting popular feeling againsthim.    When they had tolde their tales, Martius rose up to make    them aunswer. Now, notwithstanding the mutinous people made    a marvelous great noyse, yet when they sawe him, for the    reverence they bare unto his valliantnes, they quieted them    selves, and gave still audience to alledge with leysure what    he could for his purgation. Moreover, the honestest men of    the Antiates, and who most rejoyced in peace, shewed by    their countenaunce that they would heare him willingly, and    judge also according to their conscience. Whereupon Tullus    fearing that if he dyd let him speake, he would prove his    innocencie to the people, bicause emongest other things he    had an eloquent tongue, besides that the first good service    he had done to the people of the Volsces, dyd winne him    more favour, then these last accusations could purchase him    displeasure: and furthermore, the offence they layed to his    charge, was a testimonie of the good will they ought him,    for they would never have thought he had done them wrong    for that they tooke not the cittie of Rome, if they had not    bene very neare taking of it, by meanes of his approche and    conduction. For these causes Tullus thought he might no    lenger delaye his pretence and enterprise, neither to tarie    for the mutining and rising of the common people against    him: wherefore those that were of the conspiracie, beganne    to crie out that he was not to be heard, nor that they would    not suffer a traytour to usurpe tyrannicall power over the    tribe of the Volsces, who would not yeld up his estate and    authoritie. And in saying these wordes, they all fell upon    him, and killed him in the market place, none of the people    once offering to rescue him. Howbeit it is a clear case,    that this murder was not generally consented unto, of the    most parte of the Volsces: for men came out of all partes    to honour his bodie, and dyd honorablie burie him, setting    out his tombe with great store of armour and spoyles, as the    tombe of a worthie persone and great captaine. Here the conspirators do not give him a chance, but kill him before aword passes his lips. In the tragedy, on the contrary, all might havebeen well, if in his rage of offended pride at Tullus’ insults andtaunts, he had not been carried away with his vaunts and remindersto excite and excuse the passions of his hearers. And thus withShakespeare his ungovernable insolence is now made the cause of hisdeath, just as before it has been accentuated as the cause of hisbanishment. Still, though the exasperation against Coriolanus in Rome as in Corioliis thus in a measure justified, his own violence also receives itsapology. In the latter case it is the provocation of Aufidius thatrouses him to frenzy. In the former, it is the ineptitude of thecitizens that fills him with scorn for their claims. And it is withreference to this and his whole conception of the Roman plebs thatShakespeare has made the most momentous and remarkable change in hisstory, the consideration of which we have purposely left to the last. The discussion of the difference in Plutarch’s and in Shakespeare’sattitude to the people will show us some of the most important aspectsof the play. CHAPTER IIITHE GRAND CONTRAST. SHAKESPEARE’S CONCEPTION OF THE SITUATION IN ROMEIt is difficult to describe with any certainty the reasons forShakespeare’s variations from Plutarch in his treatment of the people. They may, like some of those already discussed, be due to the dramaticrequirement of compression. They may be due to the deliberate purposeof exonerating the hero. They may, and this is more likely, have arisenquite naturally and unconsciously from Shakespeare’s indifference toquestions of constitutional theory and his inability to understand theideals of an antique self-governing commonwealth controlled by allits free members as a body. In any case the result is a picture ofthe primitive society, from which some of Plutarch’s inconsistencies,but with them some of the most typical traits, have been removed. Thegrand characteristic which the Tudor Englishman rejects, or all butrejects, is the intuitive political capacity which Plutarch, perhapsin idealising retrospect, attributes to all classes of citizens in theyoung republic, and which at any rate in after development formed thedistinctive genius of the Roman state. He has indeed an inarticulatesense of it that enables him to suggest the general impression. Hecould not but have a sense of it; for few men have been so pentratedwith the greatness of later Rome as he, and he seems to have felt, asthe shapers of the tradition and as Plutarch felt, that such a treemust have sprung from a healthy seed. So when we examine what his storyinvolves, we have evidence enough of a general spirit of moderation,accommodation, compromise, that flow from and minister to an efficientpractical patriotism; an ingrafted love of the city; and a convictionof the community of interests among high and low alike. Mr. WatkissLloyd puts this with great emphasis, and on the whole with great truth.    Rome is preserved from cleaving in the midst by the virtues    of the state, the reverence for the political majority which    pervades both contending parties. The senate averts the    last evil by the timely concession of the tribunitian power    first, and then by sacrifice of a favourite champion of    their own order, rather than civil war shall break out and    all go to ruin in quarrel for the privilege and supremacy    of a part. Rather than this they will concede, and trust to    temporising, to negociating, to management, to the material    influence of their position and the effect of their own    merits and achievements, to secure their power or recover    it hereafter. Among the people, on the other hand, there is    also a restraining sentiment, a religion that holds back    from the worst abuses of successful insurrection and excited    faction. The proposition to kill Marcius is easily given up.    Even the tribunes are capable of being persuaded to forego    the extremity of rancour against the enemy of the people and    of their authority, when he is fairly in their power, and    commute death for banishment; and, the victory achieved,    they counsel tranquility, as Menenius, on the other hand,    softens down; and all goes smoothly again like a reconciled    household, after experience of the miseries of adjusting    wrongs by debate and anger. Similarly the interests of the country are supreme when Coriolanus,with his new allies, advances to the attack:    Some impatience of the people against the tribunes is    natural, but the tribunes with all their faults, take    their humiliation not ignobly, and the nobles never for a    moment dream of getting a party triumph by foreign aid. The    danger of the country engrosses all, and at last Volumnia    presses upon her son the right and the noble, and employs    all the influences of domestic and natural affection—but    all entirely to the great political and national end,—and    is as disregardful of the fortunes or interests of the    aristocratical party, which might have hoped to seize the    opportunity for recovering lost ground, as she is apparently    unaware, unconscious, regardless of what may be the    consequences personally to her much loved son. And Mr. Lloyd clinches his plea by his estimate of the catastrophe.    In the concluding scene we appear to see the supremacy of    Rome assured. . . . In the senate house of the Volscians is    perpetrated the assassination, from the disgrace of which    the better spirit of the Romans preserved their city:    Aufidius and his fellows with equal envy and ingratitude    take the place of the plotting tribunes, and the senators    are powerless to control the conspirators and mob of    citizens who abet them. They are, in short, in comparison with Rome self-condemned; and thisbecomes more manifest if we contrast the finale of the play with theconcluding sentences in Plutarch, which Shakespeare leaves unused.    Now Martius being dead, the whole state of the Volsces    hartely wished him alive again. For first of all they    fell out with the Æques (who were their friendes and    confederates) touching preheminence and place: and this    quarrell grew on so farre betwene them, and frayes and    murders fell out apon it one with another. After that, the    Romaines overcame them in battell, in which Tullus was    slaine in the field, and the flower of all their force was    put to the sworde: so that they were compelled to accept    most shameful conditions of peace, in yelding them selves    subject unto the conquerors, and promising to be obedient at    their commandement. It is at first sight rather strange that Shakespeare should give noindication that the Volscians, first by condoning Tullus’ crime, thebreach of friendship from desire for pre-eminence, then by repeatingit as a community, prepare the way for their own downfall. Perhaps hefelt that no finger-post was necessary, and that all must see how inthe long run such a state must inevitably succumb to the greater moralforce of Rome. A few slight qualifications would have to be made in Mr. Lloyd’sstatement of his thesis to render it absolutely correct, but it is truein the main. Nevertheless, true though it be, it makes no account oftwo very important considerations. One of these is that despite thegeneral appreciation which Shakespeare shows for the attitude of theRoman _Civitas_, he has no perception of the real issues between theplebeians and the patricians, or of the course which the controversytook, though these matters constitute the chief claim of the citizensof early Rome to the credit they receive in Plutarch’s narrative. Andthe other consideration is, that Shakespeare’s general appreciation ofthe community he describes is perceptible only when we view the play ata distance and in its mass: the impression in detail as we follow itfrom scene to scene is by no means so favourable to either party. The first point is well brought out by the total omission in the dramaof the initial episode in the discussion between the populace and thesenate, and between the populace and Marcius. And the omission is allthe more noticeable since Plutarch gives it particular prominence asdirectly leading to the establishment of the tribunate, which thedrama, as we shall see, ascribes merely to an insignificant breadriot. Here is what Shakespeare must have read, and what slips from himwithout leaving more than a trace, though to modern feeling it is oneof the most impressive passages in the whole _Life_.    Now (Martius) being growen to great credit and authoritie in    Rome for his valliantnes, it fortuned there grewe sedition    in the cittie, bicause the Senate dyd favour the riche    against the people, who dyd complaine of the sore oppression    of userers, of whom they borowed money. For those that had    litle, were yet spoyled of that litle they had by their    creditours, for lack of abilitie to paye the userie: who    offered their goodes to be solde, to them that would    geve most. And suche as had nothing left, their bodies    were layed holde of, and they were made their bonde men,    notwithstanding all the woundes and cuttes they shewed,    which they had receyved in many battells, fighting for    defence of their countrie and common wealth: of the which,    the last warre they made, was against the Sabynes, wherein    they fought apon the promise the riche men had made them,    that from thenceforth they would intreate them more gently,    and also upon the worde of Marcus Valerius chief of the    Senate, who by authoritie of the counsell, and in the    behalfe of the riche, sayed they should performe that they    had promised. But after that they had faithfully served in    this last battell of all, where they overcame their enemies,    seeing they were never a whit the better, nor more gently    intreated, and that the Senate would geve no eare to them,    but make as though they had forgotten their former promise,    and suffered them to be made slaves and bonde men to their    creditours, and besides, to be turned out of all that ever    they had; they fell then even to flat rebellion and mutinie,    and to sturre up daungerous tumultes within the cittie. The    Romaines enemies, hearing of this rebellion, dyd straight    enter the territories of Rome with a marvelous great power,    spoyling and burning all as they came. Whereupon the Senate    immediatly made open proclamation by sounde of trumpet, that    all those which were of lawfull age to carie weapon, should    come and enter their names into the muster masters booke, to    goe to the warres: but no man obeyed their commaundement.    Whereupon their chief magistrates, and many of the Senate,    beganne to be of divers opinions emong them selves. For    some thought it was reason, they should somewhat yeld to    the poore peoples request, and that they should a little    qualifie the severitie of the lawe. Other held hard against    that opinion, and that was Martius for one. For he alleaged,    that the creditours losing their money they had lent, was    not the worst thing that was thereby: but that the lenitie    that was favored, was a beginning of disobedience, and    that the prowde attempt of the communaltie, was to abolish    lawe, and to bring all to confusion. Therefore he sayed;    if the Senate were wise, they should betimes prevent, and    quenche this ill favored and worse ment beginning. The    Senate met many dayes in consultation about it: but in the    end they concluded nothing. The poore common people seeing    no redresse, gathered them selves one daye together, and    one encoraging another, they all forsooke the cittie, and    encamped them selves upon a hill, called at this daye the    holy hill, alongest the river of Tyber, offering no creature    any hurte or violence, or making any shewe of actuall    rebellion; saving that they cried as they went up and down,    that the riche men had driven them out of the cittie, and    that all Italie through they should finde ayer, water and    ground to burie them in. Moreover, they sayed, to dwell    at Rome was nothing els but to be slaine, or hurte with    continuell warres and fighting for defence of the riche mens    goodes. Plutarch goes on to tell how in this crisis the Senate adopts aconciliatory attitude, and how after the fable of Menenius, themutineers are pacified by the concession of five _Tribuni plebis_,“whose office should be to defend the poore people from violence andoppression. ” Then he concludes this part of his recital:    Hereupon the cittie being growen againe to good quiet and    unitie, the people immediatly went to the warres, shewing    that they had a good will to doe better than ever they dyd,    and to be very willing to obey the magistrates in that they    would commaund concerning the warres. Now, in this account there is no question which side is on the rightand has a claim on our sympathies. The plebs is reduced to distressby fighting for the state and for the aristocratic _régime_ that wasset up some twenty years before: its misery is aggravated by harsh andinadequate laws, the redress of which it seeks by a policy of passiveresistance; its demands are so equitable that they are approved by aportion of the Senate, and so urgent that they are conceded by theSenate as a whole: but such is the strength of class selfishness, thatwhen the hour of need is past, the patricians violate their explicitpromise, and the grievances become more intolerable than before. Evennow the plebeians break out in no violent rebellion, and hardly showtheir discontent in a casual riot. In their worst desperation theymerely secede, and in their very secession they are far from stubborn. They admit Menenius’ moral that the Senate has an essential function inthe state: and as a preliminary to their return, only stipulate for amachinery that will protect them against further oppression. But hardly a line in the description of this movement which theplebeians conducted so moderately and sagaciously to a successfulend, has passed into the picture of Shakespeare. He ignores thereasonableness of their cause, the reasonableness of their means,and fails to perceive the essential efficiency and steadiness oftheir character, though all these things are expressed or implied inPlutarch’s narrative. This episode, in which the younger contemporaryof Nero favours the people, the elder contemporary of Pym summarilydismisses, and substitutes for it another far less important, in whichthey appear in no very creditable light, but which had nothing to dowith the institution of the Tribunate, and occurred in consequence ofthe dearth only after the capture of Corioli.    Now when this warre was ended, the flatterers of the people    beganne to sturre up sedition againe, without any newe    occasion, or just matter offered of complainte. For they dyd    grounde this seconde insurrection against the Nobilitie and    Patricians, apon the people’s miserie and misfortune, that    could not but fall out, by reason of the former discorde    and sedition, betweene them and the Nobilitie. Bicause the    most parte of the errable land within the territorie of    Rome, was become heathie and barren for lacke of plowing,    for that they had no time nor meane to cause corne, to be    brought them out of other countries to sowe, by reason of    their warres which made the extreme dearth they had emong    them. Now those busie pratlers that sought the peoples good    will, by suche flattering wordes, perceyving great scarsitie    of corne to be within the cittie, and though there had bene    plenty enough, yet the common people had no money to buye    it: they spread abroad false tales and rumours against the    Nobilitie, that they in revenge of the people, had practised    and procured the extreme dearthe emong them. This circumstance, combined with the still later demand for adistribution of corn, Shakespeare transposes, and makes the surelyrather inappropriate cause of the appointment of the tribunes. Inappropriate, that is, to what the logic of the situation requires,and to what the sagacity of the traditional plebs would solicit. Theyask for bread and they get a magistrate. But not inappropriate to theunreasoning demands of a frenzied proletariat. Many parallels mightbe cited from the French revolutions. But this is just an instance ofShakespeare’s inability to conceive a popular rising in other termsthan the outbreak of a mob. And this leads us to the second point. The general moderationand dignity implied in the attitude of Rome, viewed broadly andcomprehensively, almost disappears when we are confronted with the fullconcrete life of the participants in all its picturesque and incisivedetails. For consider first a little more closely the treatment of thepeople. We have seen that in many ways the proceedings which it andits representatives take against Coriolanus are more defensible inShakespeare than in Plutarch: but, on the other hand, they have lessrational grounds for the original insurrection, and are much lessclear-sighted and consequent in choosing the means of redress. They arecomparatively well-meaning and fair, neither bitter nor narrow-minded,but they are quite inefficient, far from self-reliant, very childishand helpless. They are conspicuously lacking in political aptitude,but they make up for it by a certain soundness of feeling. Plutarch’splebeians go the right way about protecting themselves from unjustlaws, but they pursue Coriolanus with rancorous chicane even whenhis policy has been overturned. Shakespeare’s plebeians seek tolegislate against a natural calamity, but at the crisis they turn quitejustifiably, if a little tardily, on a would-be governor who makes nosecret of his ill-will. Taken as separate units, they may be unwashedand puzzle-headed, but they are worthy fellows whom misery has drivendesperate, yet whose misery claims compassion, though their desperationmakes them meddle in things too high for them. In the opening scene,the First Citizen, even when calling for the death of Marcius, does somerely because he imagines that it is the preliminary to getting cheapfood:    The gods know I speak this in hunger for bread, not in    thirst for revenge.                                               (I. i. 15. )But even among the maddened and famishing crowd, Marcius is not withouthis advocate. The Second Citizen admonishes them:    Consider you what services he has done for his country?                                                (I. i. 30. )And though these the ringleader discounts on the ground that they weredue not to patriotism, but to personal pride and filial affection,his apologist, persisting in his defence, points out that he is notresponsible for his inborn tendencies.    What he cannot help in his nature, you account a vice in him.                                                      (I. i. 42. )All this is candid enough: a benevolent neutral could not say more. These rioters have no thought of libelling their adversary. They denyneither his claims nor his merits; they only assert that these areoutweighed by his offences. The Second Citizen proceeds in his plea:    You must in no way say he is covetous;and the First rejoins:    If I must not, I need not be barren of accusations; he hath    faults, with surplus, to tire in repetition.                                                    (I. i. 43. )We have seen how Shakespeare adopts from Plutarch the motive for theplebeians’ initial support of Coriolanus at the election, but he makesit a more striking instance of their fairness, for he represents themas quite aware and mindful of the reasons on the other side.      _Fourth Citizen. _ You have deserved nobly of your    country, and you have not deserved nobly.      _Coriolanus. _ Your enigma?      _Fourth Citizen. _ You have been a scourge to her    enemies, you have been a rod to her friends; you have not    indeed loved the common people.                                               (II. iii. 94. )It is all very well for the candidate to turn this off with a flout,but it is the sober truth. That the despised plebeian should see bothsides of the case shows in him more sanity of judgment than Coriolanusever possessed: that he should nevertheless cast his vote for such anapplicant shows more generosity as well. And the generosity, if alsothe simplicity, of the electors is likewise made more pronounced thanin Plutarch by their persevering in their course despite the scornwith which Coriolanus treats them; of which Plutarch of course knowsnothing. Even that they forgive till the tribunes irritate the woundsand predict more fatal ones from the new weapon that has been put intosuch ruthless hands.                             Did you perceive    He did solicit you in free contempt    When he did need your loves, and do you think    That his contempt shall not be bruising to you,    When he hath power to crush?                                   (II. iii. 207. )All these instances of right feeling and instinctive appreciation ofgreatness are in Shakespeare’s picture, while they are either not atall or in a much less degree in Plutarch’s. And these citizens arecapable of following good leadership as well as bad. They listen toMenenius, and are “almost persuaded” by his argument, without, as inPlutarch, making their acceptance of it merely provisional. UnderCominius they quit themselves, as he says, “like Romans,” and he givesthem the praise:    Breathe you, my friends: well fought.                              (I. vi. 1. )Afterwards too he recognises that they are earning their share of thespoil, even as before they had borne themselves stoutly:                      March on, my fellows:    Make good this ostentation, and you shall    Divide in all with us.                                  (I. vi. 85. )This is said to the volunteers who come forward at Marcius’ summons, anepisode for which there is hardly a hint in Plutarch. There, indeed, weread that he cannot call off the looters from the treasures of Corioli:    Whereupon taking those that willingly offered them selves he    went out of the cittie:which supplies the sentence,        I, with those that have the spirit, will haste    To help Cominius.                                           (I. v. 14. )But this hint, if hint it were, Shakespeare uses anew with far strongerand brighter colouring in the incident of Marcius’ stirring appeal toCominius’ men and their enthusiastic response: which is to be foundonly in the drama:                        If any such be here—    As it were sin to doubt—that love this painting    Wherein you see me smear’d: if any fear    Lesser his person than an ill report;    If any think brave death outweighs bad life    And that his country’s dearer than himself;    Let him alone, or so many so minded,    Wave thus, to express his disposition,    And follow Marcius.    [_They all shout and wave their swords, take him up in      their arms, and cast up their caps. _]                                              (I. vi. 67. )If they are handled in the right way, these citizen soldiers can playtheir part well. But they need to be rightly handled, they need tohave their feelings stirred. They have no rational initiative of theirown, and cannot do without inspiration and guidance. For, consider thegrounds for their rising. Shakespeare not only completely suppressesthe remarkable secession to the Mons Sacer, but barely mentions thesocial grievances that led to it. The First Citizen says indeed of thepatricians:    [They] make edicts for usury, to support usurers; repeal    daily any wholesome act established against the rich, and    provide more piercing statutes daily, to chain up and    restrain the poor. If the wars eat us not up, they will.                                                  (I. i. 83. )But this is a mere passing remark, and no stress is laid on these, thereal causes of the discontent, in comparison with the dearth, whichfor the rest seems to end with the Coriolan campaign, when there is,as Cominius promises, a “common distribution” of the spoils. Now thedearth is represented as a mere disastrous accident, for which no oneis responsible, and for which there is no remedy save prayer—or such aforay as presently took place. Menenius expressly says so:                            For the dearth,    The gods, not the patricians, made it, and    Your knees to them, not arms, must help.                                   (I. i. 74. )It is alleged, no doubt, by the mutineers that the “storehouses arecrammed with grain,” but there is no confirmation of this in the play,and the way in which “honest” Menenius reports the rumour, and Marcius,who is never less than honest receives it, implies that it is meretittle tattle and gossip of the chimney corner.      _Marcius. _                  What’s their seeking?      _Menenius. _ For corn at their own rates: whereof, they say,    The city is well stored.      _Marcius. _              Hang ’em! They say!    They’ll sit by the fire, and presume to know    What’s done i’ the Capitol; who’s like to rise,    Who thrives and who declines; side factions and give out    Conjectural marriages; making parties strong    And feebling such as stand not in their liking    Below their cobbled shoes. They say there’s grain enough!                                                 (I. i. 192. )In short their temper is hardly parodied in the modern skit,    Who fills the butchers’ shops with large blue flies? And if they resemble the ignorant fanatics of later days in theunreasonableness of their complaints, they resemble them too, as wehave seen, in the unreasonableness of their remedies. If things were asthe play implies what help would lie in constitutional reform? They areno better than the starving _Sansculottes_ who sought to allay theirhunger by snatching new morsels of the royal prerogative. It reallyreads like a scene in Carlyle’s Paris of 1790 A. D. , and not like anyscene in Plutarch’s Rome of 494 B. C. , when Coriolanus describes thedelight of the famine-stricken crowds at getting their representatives:                              They threw their caps    As they would hang them on the horns o’ the moon,    Shouting their emulation.                                        (I. i. 216. )Moreover, when left to themselves, or when their sleeping manhood isnot awakened, these plebeians, otherwise than those of Plutarch, havenot even the average of physical courage. They can fight creditablyunder the competent management of Cominius, or heroically under thestimulus of Marcius’ rousing appeal: but if such influences arelacking, they fail. Menenius says of them:        Though abundantly they lack discretion,    Yet are they passing cowardly.                                   (I. i. 206. )Marcius ironically invites them to the wars by indicating what wouldbe, and turns out to be, provision for their needs:    The Volsces have much corn: take these rats thither    To gnaw their garners. Worshipful mutineers,    Your valour puts well forth: pray, follow.                                        (I. i. 253. )And the citizens steal away. In truth the low opinion of their mettleseems justified by events. At Corioli the troops under Cominius dowell, but those in Marcius’ division, perhaps because his treatmentdoes not call out what is best in them, seem to deserve a part at leastof his imprecations:    All the contagion of the south light on you,    You shames of Rome! You herd of——. Boils and plagues    Plaster you o’er, that you may be abhorr’d    Further than seen, and one infect another    Against the wind a mile! You souls of geese,    That bear the shapes of men, how have you run    From slaves that apes would beat! Pluto and hell!    All hurt behind! backs red, and faces pale    With flight and agued fear!                                        (I. iv. 30. )Nor do they appear in a better light in the moment of partial victory,for they at once fall to plunder instead of following it up and helpingtheir fellows. This touch, of course, Shakespeare derived from Plutarch.    The most parte of the souldiers beganne incontinently to    spoyle, to carie awaye, and to looke up the bootie they had    wonne. But Martius was marvelous angry with them, and cried    out on them, that it was no time now to looke after spoyle,    and to ronne straggling here and there to enriche them    selves, whilest the other Consul and their fellowe cittizens    peradventure were fighting with their enemies; and howe that    leaving the spoyle they should seeke to winde them selves    out of daunger and perill. Howbeit, crie, and saye to them    what he could, very fewe of them would hearken to him. But Shakespeare is not content with this. He quite without warrantdescribes the articles as worthless, to emphasise the baseness of thepillagers.    See here these movers that do prize their hours    At a crack’d drachma! Cushions, leaden spoons,    Irons of a doit, doublets that hangmen would    Bury with those that wore them, these base slaves,    Ere yet the fight be done, pack up.                                        (I. v. 5. )This strain of baseness appears in another way afterwards, when theyyell and hoot at their banished enemy, like a pack of curs at aretreating mastiff, or when at his threatened return they eat theirwords and their deeds.      _First Citizen. _ For mine own part, When I said, banish    him, I said ’twas pity.      _Second Citizen. _ And so did I.      _Third Citizen. _ And so did I: and, to say the truth,    so did very many of us. . . .      _First Citizen. _ I ever said we were i’ the wrong when    we banished him.      _Second Citizen. _ So did we all.                                        (IV. vi. 139 and 155. )What then is Shakespeare’s opinion of the people as a whole? Despitehis sympathy with those of whom it is composed, it is to him agiant not yet in his teens, with formidable physical strength, withcrude natural impulses to the good and the bad, kindly-natured andsimple-minded, not incapable of fair-dealing and generosity; but rude,blundering, untaught, and therefore subject to spasms of fury, panic,and greed, fit for useful service only when it finds the right leader,but sure to go wrong if abandoned to its own or evil guidance. To the danger of evil guidance, however, it is specially exposed, forit loves flattery and is imposed on by professions of goodwill: soShakespeare reserves his severest treatment for those who cajole it,the demagogues of the Tribunate. No doubt in his tolerant objective wayhe concedes even to them a measure of justification. He was bound to doso, else they would have been outside the pale of dramatic sympathy;and also the culpability of Coriolanus would have been obscured. Sothere is something to be said even for their policy and management. They are quite right in fearing the results of Coriolanus’ elevation tothe chief place in Rome:      _Sicinius. _       On the sudden,    I warrant him consul.      _Brutus. _     Then our office may    During his power, go sleep.                           (II. i. 237. )Their admonitions to the electors are such as the organisers of a partyare not only entitled but bound to give to a constituency:                  Could you not have told him    As you were lesson’d, when he had no power,    But was a petty servant to the state,    He was your enemy, ever spake against    Your liberties and the charters that you bear    I’ the body of the weal: and now, arriving    A place of potency and sway o’ the state,    If he should still malignantly remain    Fast foe to the plebeii, your voices might    Be curses to yourselves.                                (II. iii. 180. )These forebodings of what is likely to occur are not only thoroughlyjustifiable but obvious. Then, though their abandonment of the methods of violence andacceptance of a trial are discounted partly by the perils of openforce, partly by their confidence in and manipulation of a verdict totheir minds, their willingness to substitute the penalty of banishmentfor the extreme sentence of death, must stand, as we have seen, to thecredit, if not of their placability, at least of their moderation andprudence. Moreover, if we could disregard the dangers of war, their“platform,” as we should now call it, seems approved by its success. One cannot but sympathise with the satisfaction of Sicinius at theresults of Marcius’ expulsion:    We hear not of him, neither need we fear him:    His remedies are tame i’ the present peace    And quietness of the people, which before    Were in wild hurry. Here do we make his friends    Blush that the world goes well, who rather had,    Though they themselves did suffer by ’t, behold    Dissentious numbers pestering streets, than see    Our tradesmen singing in their shops and going    About their functions friendly.                                      (IV. vi. 1. )And when the citizens pass with their greetings, the tribune has aright to say to Menenius:    This is a happier and more comely time    Than when these fellows ran about the streets,    Crying confusion.                                   (IV. vi. 27. )Even Menenius has to give a modified and grudging approval of the newposition of things:    All’s well: and might have been much better, if    He could have temporised.                                   (IV. vi. 16. )And when the disastrous news comes in, after the first outburst ofincredulous wrath and terrified impatience, the two colleagues bearthemselves well enough. There is shrewdness and good sense in Sicinius’words to the citizens:    Go, masters, get you home: be not dismay’d;    These are a side that would be glad to have    This true which they so seem to fear. Go home,    And show no sign of fear.                                   (IV. vi. 149. )When this very natural and probable conjecture proves false, they bothrise to the occasion, or seek to do so, the cross-grained Siciniussomewhat more effectually than the glib-tongued Brutus, and show acertain dignity and justness of feeling. Their remonstrance with andpetition to Menenius, if we grant the patriotism on the one side aswell as the other, are not without their cogency:    Nay, pray, be patient: if you refuse your aid    In this so never-needed help, yet do not    Upbraid’s with our distress.                                   (V. i. 33. )When Menenius objects that his mission will be futile, Sicinius’ replycomes near being noble:                            Yet your good will    Must have that thanks from Rome, after the measure    As you intended well.                                            (V. i. 45). When Menenius, returning from his fruitless mission, describesCoriolanus in his unapproachable, inexorable power, the tribune’srejoinder is again the true one:      _Menenius. _ He wants nothing of a god but eternity and    a heaven to throne in.      _Sicinius. _ Yes, mercy, if you report him truly.                                                (V. iv. 24. )Yet these various traits so little interfere with the generalimpression, that perhaps many tolerably careful readers who arefamiliar with the play, hardly take them into account. In the totaleffect they both seem to us pitiful busybodies, whose ill-earnedinfluence only leads to disaster; or, as Menenius describes them:    A pair of tribunes that have rack’d for Rome,    To make coals cheap.                                   (V. i. 16. )The first feature we notice in them is their pride, a vice which theyblame in Coriolanus, and with which their own is expressly contrasted. For his is the haughty, unbending self-consciousness that is based onthe sense of indwelling force, and has a shrinking disgust for praise. Theirs, on the other hand, revels in popularity, and their powerdepends entirely on the support which that popularity secures them. AsMenenius tells them:    You are ambitious for poor knaves’ caps and legs.                                          (II. i. 76. )    Your helps are many, or else your actions would grow    wondrous single: your abilities are too infant-like for    doing much alone.                                          (II. i. 39. )They are really consequential and overweening rather than proud. Andmagnifying their importance and their office, they are apt to taketoo seriously any trifle in which they are concerned, and to becomeirritated at any mishap to their own convenience. Having no standardbut themselves by which to measure the proportion of things, they arefussy over minor points and lose their tempers over petty troubles. This is the point of Menenius’ banter.    You wear out a good wholesome forenoon in hearing a cause    between an orange-wife and a fosset-seller; and then    rejourn the controversy of three pence to a second day of    audience. When you are hearing a matter between party and    party, if you chanced to be pinched with the colic, you    make faces like mummers; set up the bloody flag against all    patience; and, in roaring for a chamber-pot, dismiss the    controversy bleeding, the more entangled by your hearing:    all the peace you make in their cause is, calling both the    parties knaves.                                                  (II. i. 77. )This is, they are disposed to treat a molehill as a mountain, but ifthey are galled, to break out in indiscriminate and unjustified abuse. Menenius gives it them home in respect of these foibles:    You talk of pride: O that you could turn your eyes toward the    napes of your necks, and make but an interior survey of your    good selves! O that you could!      _Brutus. _ What then, sir?      _Menenius. _ Why, then you should discover a brace of    unmeriting, proud, violent, testy magistrates, alias fools,    as any in Rome.                                                  (II. i. 41. )This is the utterance of an enemy; nevertheless it is confirmed bytheir behaviour, and is moreover a prophecy of their action in regardto Marcius. In the first place their pride has been insulted by his:    _Sicinius. _ Was ever man so proud as is this Marcius?    _Brutus. _ He has no equal.    _Sicinius. _ When we were chosen tribunes of the people,—    _Brutus. _ Mark’d you his lip and eyes?    _Sicinius. _                    Nay, but his taunts.    _Brutus. _ Being moved, he will not spare to gird the gods—    _Sicinius. _ Bemock the modest moon.                                        (I. i. 256. )A man who gibes at the gods, the moon, and above all the tribunes, isevidently a profane and irreverent fellow who should be got rid of. Andperhaps it is anxiety not only for the public good but for their ownauthority that makes them dread their office may “go sleep,” duringhis consulship. At any rate the disrespect with which they have beentreated is one main motive of their indignation: “_Our_ Aediles smote,_ourselves_ resisted! ” they exclaim in pardonable horror (III. i. 319). Then the means they take to ruin Coriolanus, though not without itsastuteness, and similar enough to what is practised every day inparliamentary tactics, is altogether base: it is the device of mean,paltry, inferior natures. They speculate on the defect of their enemy’sgreatness, they reckon on his heroic vehemence and forcefulness todestroy him, and lay plans to betray his nobility to a passion thatwill embroil him with the people. It is as easy, says Sicinius, todrive him to provocation “as to set dogs on sheep” (II. i. 273). Buteasy though it is, they are careful to give minute directions to theirgang. Sicinius tells them that any condition proposed to him,            Would have gall’d his surly nature,    Which easily endures not article    Tying him to aught; so putting him to rage,    You should have ta’en the advantage of his choler    And pass’d him unelected.                                        (II. iii. 203. )Then, after engineering the disavowal of the elected candidate, Brutuscalculates    If, as his nature is, he fall in rage    With their refusal, both observe and answer    The vantage of his anger.                                 (II. iii. 266. )And here are his final instructions for the behaviour of the people atthe trial:    Put him to choler straight: he hath been used    Ever to conquer, and to have his worth    Of contradiction: being once chafed, he cannot    Be rein’d again to temperance; then he speaks    What’s in his heart; and that is there which looks    To break his neck.                                        (III. iii. 25. )The suggestion for these proceedings comes, as we saw, from Plutarch;but in this one respect his tribunes are by no means so wily. Theycontrive a dilemma in which Coriolanus will have either to humbleor to compromise himself; but though they would prefer the latteralternative, they do nothing to bring it about. Yet with all their activity in the matter, they are meanly desirous ofevading responsibility and saving their own skins.      _Brutus. _              Lay    A fault on us, your tribunes; that we labour’d,    No impediment between, but that you must    Cast your election on him.      _Sicinius. _     Say you chose him    More after our commandment than as guided    By your own true affections, and that your minds,    Pre-occupied with what you rather must do    Than what you should, made you against the grain    To voice him consul: lay the fault on us.                                     (II. iii. 234. )And parallel with this is the crowning vulgarity of their triumph:    Go, see him out at gates, and follow him,    As he hath follow’d you, with all despite;    Give him deserved vexation.                              (III. iii. 138. )This is perhaps the supreme instance of their headstrong, testy andinconsiderate violence, for, as we shall see, it embitters the waveringMarcius and drives him to alliance with the foe. But the same violencehas abundantly appeared before. The rest do all in their power toappease the tumult and procure a hearing for Sicinius, he uses theopportunity to add fuel to the fire and deserves Menenius’ rebuke:    This is the way to kindle, not to quench.                               (III. i. 197. )When Brutus proceeds in the same way, Cominius interrupts:    That is the way to lay the city flat;    To bring the roof to the foundation,    And bury all, which yet distinctly ranges,    In heaps and piles of ruin.                                (III. i. 204. )Menenius has to admonish them:    Do not cry havoc, where you should but hunt    With modest warrant.                                 (III. i. 274. )And again:                One word more, one word.    This tiger-footed rage, when it shall find    The harm of unscann’d swiftness, will too late    Tie leaden pounds to’s heels.                                   (III. i. 311. )They do yield at last, but clearly the game they were playing inunreflecting impatience was most hazardous for the populace itself. Indeed, even when they have accepted more moderate counsels, theexpulsion of Coriolanus seems an act not only of ingratitude but ofrecklessness. Their low cunning has attained an end, good perhapsin itself for the party they represent, but even for that party ofinsignificant advantage in view of the wider issues. Volumnia’s tauntis very much to the point:                          Hadst thou foxship    To banish him that struck more blows for Rome    Than thou hast spoken words?                                   (IV. ii. 18. )For after all, the pressing need in that period of constant war,as Plutarch and Shakespeare imagine it, was defence of the wholestate, the plebs as well as the senate, against the foreign enemy,and the danger of an invasion was one of the ordinary probabilitiesof the case. Most men who had any sense of proportion would, in thecircumstances, pause before they banished the sword and soldiership ofRome. No doubt the tribunes were to be excused for not foreseeing therenegacy of Coriolanus; when it is announced as a fact Menenius canhardly credit it.                This is unlikely:    He and Aufidius can no more atone    Than violentest contrariety.                         (IV. vi. 71. )It is less excusable that they should neglect the danger of a newattack from the Volsces, for though Cominius, as we saw, makes asimilar error, he does so when Marcius is still on the side of theRomans. Menenius’ exclamation, when the invasion actually takesplace and when the news of it is first brought to Rome, describes asituation, the possibility or probability of which every public manshould have anticipated.                            ’Tis Aufidius,    Who, hearing of our Marcius’ banishment,    Thrusts forth his horns again into the world:    Which were inshell’d when Marcius stood for Rome,    And durst not once peep out.                                   (IV. vi. 42. )This, though of course an understatement, for in point of fact Aufidiusdid not wait for Marcius’ banishment, is at any rate the least thatwas to be expected. But the tribunes, with a sanguine and criminalshortsightedness that suggests a distinguished pair of Britishpoliticians in our own day, refuse to admit as conceivable a fact thelikelihood of which the circumstances of the case and recent experienceavouch.      _Brutus. _     It cannot be    The Volsces dare break with us.      _Menenius. _          Cannot be!    We have record that very well it can,    And three examples of the like have been    Within my age.                               (IV. vi. 47. )Besides, the Volscians were not the only jealous neighbours the youngrepublic had to guard herself against. But their reception of the unwelcome tidings is a new instance of theignoble strain in the tribunes’ nature. The first effect they have onBrutus is to enrage him against the informant: “Go see this rumourerwhipp’d”; and Sicinius seconds the humane direction, but improves onit that the public may be duly cautioned against telling unpalatabletruths: “Go whip him ’fore the people’s eyes. ” Menenius may wellremonstrate:                            Reason with the fellow,    Before you punish him, where he heard this,    Lest you shall chance to whip your information,    And beat the messenger who bids beware    Of what is to be dreaded.                                   (IV. vi. 51. )This is not merely an illustration of their habitual touchiness andirritability at whatever thwarts them. Once more we think of thewords of the messenger in _Antony and Cleopatra_ when he fears toreport the worst: “The nature of bad news infects the teller”; and ofAntony’s reply: “When it concerns the fool and coward. ” There is beyonddoubt more than a spice of folly and cowardice in the self-importantquidnuncs, with their purblind temerity and shifty meanness. We arevery glad to hear in the end of Brutus being mishandled by the moband very sorry that Sicinius goes free: but at least he has had hisdose of alarm and mortification, and in the future his influence willbe gone; which is well. Yet they are not bad men. They are very likethe majority of the citizens of Great and Greater Britain, and noinconsiderable portion of those who govern the Empire and its members. They have a certain amount of principle, shrewdness, and, if the testof misfortune comes, even of proper feeling. They would have made veryworthy aldermen of a small municipality. But measured against thegreatness of Rome, or even of Coriolanus, they are as gnats to the lion. The picture, then, of the people and its elect is not flattering ifwe follow it in detail, but a similar examination is hardly morefavourable to the nobles. Of course their behaviour is to a certainextent accounted for by the peculiarity of their position. Hitherto,since the expulsion of the kings, the “honoured number” have hadit all their own way in the state, and Shakespeare imputes no blameto their management, unless it be their excessive arrogance towardsthe populace they rule and employ. But now bad times have made thatpopulace seditious, and they have discovered that, rightly or wrongly,they must give it a share of the power. Their pride, their traditions,the consciousness of their faculty for government, pull them oneway, the necessities of the case pull them another. A dominant casteis placed in a false position when it is forced to capitulate toassailants for whom it feels an unreasonable contempt and a reasonablemistrust. When we consider the difficulties of the situation and thebroad results, the patricians, as we saw, come off respectably enough,and we must give them credit for circumspection, adaptability, andcivic cohesion. But in detail their attitude betrays the uncertaintyand weakness that cannot but ensue in a man or a body of men whenthere is a conflict between conviction and expediency, and an attemptto obey them both. Their scorn of the plebeians, followed by thevery brief effort for their champion and very prompt acquiescence inhis expatriation, makes an unpleasant impression; and this is morenoticeable in the drama than in the biography. Plutarch repeatedlystates that they disagree among themselves, many of them sympathisingwith the popular demands and only the younger men favouring the harshand reactionary views of Coriolanus. [260] This distinction has leftno trace in the play except in the stage direction which representshim as departing into exile escorted to the gates by his friends, hisrelatives, and “the young nobility of Rome”: but otherwise Shakespearemakes no use of it. Coriolanus is mouthpiece for the ideals not ofheedless youth but of all the aristocracy, though most of them may bemore politic than he and not so frank. Nevertheless his presuppositionsare theirs, and therefore they seem temporisers and poltroons besidetheir outspoken advocate. Indeed, through Menenius, they admit theyhave been to blame:                    We loved him; but, like beasts    And cowardly nobles, gave way unto your clusters,    Who did hoot him out o’ the city.                                        (IV. vi. 121. )[260] See especially the passage that describes his behaviour afterhe has been rejected for the consulship: “Coriolanus went home to hishouse, full fraighted with spite and malice against the people, beingaccompanied with all the lustiest young gentlemen, whose mindes werenobly bent, as those that came of noble race, and commonly used forto followe and honour him. But then specially they floct about him,and kept him companie, to his muche harme; for they dyd but kyndle andinflame his choller more and more, being sorie with him for the injuriethe people offred him. ”Nor do they act very vigorously when destruction threatens Rome. Theydo not indeed seek to separate their cause from that of the wholecommunity and make terms with their former friend for their own class.

Beyond some naturally bitter gibes at the “clusters” and their leaders,not unaccompanied for the rest by bitter outbursts against themselves,there is no trace of the dissensions with the people which Plutarchdescribes. But they have no thought of organising any attempt atresistance. True, there are circumstances in Shakespeare that accountfor this supineness as it is not explained in his authority. It ispartly due to the feeling that they are in the wrong, which Shakespearein a much greater degree than Plutarch attributes to them. As their ownwords show:      _Cominius_.      For his best friends, if they    Should say, “Be good to Rome,” they charged him even    As those should do that had deserved his hate,    And therein show’d like enemies.      _Menenius. _           ’Tis true:    If he were putting to my house the brand    That should consume it, I have not the face    To say, “Beseech you, cease. ”                                        (IV. vi. 111. )And again:    If he could burn us all into one coal,    We have deserved it.                            (IV. vi. 137. )Partly, too, there has been no time for preparation, for, as wehave seen, the invasion is a bolt from the blue, and after it hasfirst struck there is no convenient truce of thirty days before itsrecurrence. Entreaty, says Sicinius, might help    More than the instant army we can make;                                (V. i. 37. )and it is the opinion of all. Partly, too, the inertness of Rome is a tribute to the greatness of theadversary, which is enhanced beyond the hyperboles of Plutarch, andwith which to inspire them the Volscians are irresistible.    He is their god: he leads them like a thing    Made by some other deity than nature    That shapes men better: and they follow him,    Against us brats, with no less confidence    Than boys pursuing summer butterflies,    Or butchers killing flies.                                   (IV. vi. 90. )But contrition, unpreparedness, despair of success hardly excuse thepalsy of incompetence into which this proud aristocracy has now fallen. It does not of course sink so low as in Plutarch. Of the first of therepeated deputations he narrates:    The ambassadours that were sent, were Martius familliar    friendes and acquaintaunce, who looked at the least for a    curteous welcome of him, as of their familliar friende and    kynesman. Howbeit they founde nothing lesse. For at their    comming, they were brought through the campe, to the place    where he was set in his chayer of state, with a marvelous    and unspeakable majestie, having the chiefest men of the    Volsces about him: so he commaunded them to declare openly    the cause of their comming. Which they delivered in the most    humble and lowly wordes they possiblie could devise, and    with all modest countenaunce and behaviour agreeable for the    same. When they had done their message; for the injurie they    had done him, he aunswered them very hottely and in great    choller. This is evidently the foundation of the interviews with Cominius andMenenius respectively, and it is worth while noting the points ofdifference. In the first place single individuals are substituted for anunspecified number. Just in the same way the final deputationconsists of “Virgilia, Volumnia, leading young Marcius, Valeria,and Attendants,” without any of “all the other Romaine Ladies” thataccompany them in Plutarch. In the last case it is the members and thefriend of Coriolanus’ family, in the previous cases it is his sworncomrade Cominius and his idolatrous admirer Menenius who make theappeal: and this at once gives their intercessions more of a personaland less of a public character. One result of this with which we arenot now concerned, is that the rigour of Coriolanus’ first two answersis considerably heightened; but at present it is more important toobserve that the impression of a formal embassy is avoided. Cominiusand Menenius strike us less as delegates from the Roman state, thanas private Romans who may suppose that their persuasions will havespecial influence with their friend. There is nothing to indicate thatCominius was official envoy of the republic, and we know that Meneniuswent without any authorisation, in compliance with the request madeby Sicinius and Brutus in the street. Shakespeare’s senate is sparedthe ignominy of the recurring supplications to which Plutarch’s senatecondescends. If these are not altogether suppressed, the references tothem are very faint and vague. And also the suppliants bear themselves more worthily. Menenius is farfrom employing “the most humble and lowly wordes” that could possiblybe devised or “the modest countenaunce and behaviour agreeable for thesame. ” Cominius indeed tells how at the close of the interview, we maysuppose as a last resort, he “kneeled before” Coriolanus, but there wasno more loss of dignity in his doing so, consul and general though hehad been, than there was afterwards in Volumnia’s doing the same; andhis words as he repeats them do not show any lack of self-respect. Still the inactivity, the helplessness, the want of nerve in the Romannobles in the hour of need are somewhat pitiful. It was the time tojustify their higher position by higher patriotism, resourcefulnessand courage. They do not make the slightest effort to do so. Remorsefor their desertion of Coriolanus need not have lamed their energies,since now they would be confronting him not for themselves but for thestate. Even their “instant armies” might do something if commandedand inspired by devoted captains. At the worst they could lead theirfellow-citizens to an heroic death. One cannot help feeling that if aCoriolanus, or anyone with a tithe of his spirit, had been among them,things would have been very different. But while they retain much ofthe old caste pride, they have lost much of the old caste efficiency. Thus Shakespeare, when he comes to the concrete, views with someseverity both the popular and the senatorial party. They showthemselves virulent and acrimonious in their relations with each other,yet inconsequent even in their virulence and acrimony: then, afterhaving respectively enforced and permitted the banishment of theirchief defender, they are ready to succumb to him without a blow when,it has well been said, he returns not even as an _émigré_ using foreignaid to restore the privileges of his own order and the old _régime_,but as a barbarian bringing the national foe to exterminate the stateand all its members. And we cannot help asking: Is this an adequaterepresentation of the young republic that was ere long to become themistress of the world? We must look steadily at those general aspectsof the story which we have noticed above, as well as at the doings ofthe persons and parties amidst which Coriolanus is set, if we would getthe total effect of the play. Then it produces something of the feelingwhich prompted Heine’s description of the ancient Romans:    They were not great men, but through their position they    were greater than the other children of earth, for they    stood on Rome. Immediately they came down from the Seven    Hills, they were small. . . . As the Greek is great through    the idea of Art, the Hebrew through the idea of one most    holy God; so the Romans are great through the idea of their    eternal Rome; great, wheresoever they have fought, written    or builded in the inspiration of this idea. The greater    Rome grew, the more this idea dilated: the individual lost    himself in it: the great men who remain eminent are borne up    by this idea, and it makes the littleness of the little men    more pronounced. [261][261] _Reisebilder_, 2ter Theil; “Italien, Reise nach Genua,” Cap. xxiv. The Idea of Rome! It is the triumph of that which yields the promiseand evidence of better things that the final situation contains. Thetitanic intolerance of Coriolanus after being expelled by fear andhatred from within, has threatened destruction from without, andthe threat has been averted. The presumptuous intolerance of thedemagogues, after imperilling the state, has been discredited by itsresults, and their authority is destroyed. The Idea of Rome in thepatriotism of Volumnia has led to her self-conquest and the conquest ofher son, and is acclaimed by all alike. Thus we have borne in upon usa feeling of the majesty and omnipotence of the Eternal City, and weunderstand how it not only inspires and informs the units that composeit, but stands out aloft and apart from its faulty representatives as akind of mortal deity that overrules their doings to its own ends, andagainst which their cavilling and opposition are vain. What Meneniussays to the rioters applies to all dissentients:                              You may as well    Strike at the heaven with your staves as lift them    Against the Roman state, whose course will on    The way it takes, cracking ten thousand curbs    Of more strong link asunder than can ever    Appear in your impediment.                                   (I. i. 69. )This, then, is the background against which are grouped with more orless prominence, as their importance requires, Coriolanus’ family, hisassociates, his rival, round the central figure of the hero himself. CHAPTER IVTHE KINSFOLK AND FRIENDS OF CORIOLANUSOf the subordinate persons, by far the most imposing and influentialis Volumnia, the great-hearted mother, the patrician lady, the Romanmatron. The passion of maternity, whether interpreted as maternal loveor as maternal pride, penetrates her nature to the core, not, however,to melt but to harden it. In her son’s existence she at first seemsliterally wrapped up, and she implies that devotion to him rather thanto her dead husband has kept her from forming new ties:                Thou hast never in thy life    Show’d thy dear mother any courtesy,    When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood,    Has cluck’d thee to the wars and safely home,    Loaden with honour.                                   (V. iii. 160. )Marcius is thus the only son of his mother and she a widow; but thesereminiscences show how strictly the tenderness, and still more theindulgence, usual in such circumstances, have been banished from thathome. In Plutarch the boy seeks a military career from his irresistiblenatural bent:    Martius being more inclined to the warres, then any young    gentleman of his time: beganne from his Childehood to geve    him self to handle weapons, and daylie dyd exercise him    selfe therein. In Shakespeare the direction and stimulus are much more directlyattributed to his mother, and it is she who first despatches him to thefield. This she herself expressly states in her admonition to Virgilia:      _Volumnia. _ I pray you, daughter, sing; or express    yourself in a more comfortable sort: if my son were my    husband, I should freelier rejoice in that absence wherein    he won honour, than in the embracements of his bed where he    would show most love. When yet he was but tender-bodied and    the only son of my womb, when youth with comeliness plucked    all gaze his way, when for a day of kings’ entreaties a    mother should not sell him an hour from her beholding, I,    considering how honour would become such a person, that it    was no better than picture-like to hang by the wall, if    renown made it not stir, was pleased to let him seek danger    where he was like to find fame. To a cruel war I sent him;    from whence he returned, his brows bound with oak. I tell    thee, daughter, I sprang not more in joy at first hearing    he was a man-child than now in first seeing he had proved    himself a man.      _Virgilia. _ But had he died in the business, madam; how    then?      _Volumnia. _ Then his good report should have been my    son; I therein would have found issue. Hear me profess    sincerely: had I a dozen sons, each in my love alike, and    none less dear than thine and my good Marcius, I had rather    had eleven die nobly for their country than one voluptuously    surfeit out of action.                                                   (I. iii. 1. )He is the object of her love because he is to be the ideal which sheadores. She trains him to all the excellence she understands, and wouldhave him a captain of Rome’s armies and a force in the state. She hasto the full the sentiment of _noblesse oblige_, and is inspired by thesame feeling which in Plutarch moves Marcius to bid the patricians showthat    they dyd not so muche passe the people in power and riches    as they dyd exceede them in true nobilitie and valliantnes. She is full of the virtues and prejudices of her class, and, withthe self-consciousness of an aristocrat, looks from the plebs onlyfor the obedience and approval due to their betters. They are quiteunqualified for self-government or for the criticism of those abovethem. In comparison with the noble Coriolanus, the people, whom shecalls the rabble, are “cats” (IV. ii. 34). Naturally she is tenaciousof the supremacy of her order, and would fain see it make good itsthreatened privileges. She remonstrates with her son for his contumacy:                            I am in this,    Your wife, your son, these senators, the nobles;    And you will rather show our general louts    How you can frown than spend a fawn upon ’em,    For the inheritance of their loves and safeguard    Of what that want might ruin.                                   (III. ii. 64. )Her dream has been that Marcius shall be consul to establish once morethe power of the patricians. When he enters in his great triumph fromCorioli, she exclaims in expectation of that result:                              I have lived    To see inherited my very wishes,    And the buildings of my fancy: only    There’s one thing wanting, which I doubt not but    Our Rome will cast upon thee.                                   (II. i. 214. )Yet she has one feeling that outweighs both her maternal and heraristocratic instincts, and that is devotion to her country. Thisis the first and last and noblest thing in her. It is the basisand mainspring of the training of her son; she wishes him to servethe fatherland. It is the basis and mainspring of her patricianpartisanship; she honestly believes that the nobles alone are fit tosteer Rome to safety and honour. And to it she is willing to sacrificethe two other grand interests of her life. When the call comes she isready for Rome, with its mechanics and tribunes as well as its senatorsand patricians, to persuade her son to the step that will certainlyimperil and probably destroy him. It is public spirit of no ordinarykind that makes such a nature disregard the dearest ties of family andcaste, and all personal motives of love and vengeance, to intercede forthe city as a whole. But she puts her country first, and her words showthat she never even questions the sacredness of its claim:                        Thou know’st, great son,    The end of war’s uncertain, but this certain,    That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit    Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name,    Whose repetition will be dogg’d with curses;    Whose chronicle thus writ: “The man was noble,    But with his last attempt he wiped it out:    Destroy’d his country, and his name remains    To the ensuing age abhorr’d. ”                                   (V. iii. 140. )She feels, as well she may, that she is basing her plea on eternalright, and is willing to stake her success on the irresistible truth ofher argument.                      Say my request’s unjust,    And spurn me back: but if it be not so,    Thou art not honest.                                (V. iii. 164. )Such a woman is made to be the mother of heroes. It is no wonder thatshe has bred that colossal _Übermensch_, her son. But she has thedefects of her qualities. Her devotion is narrow in its intensity,and in normal circumstances spares little recognition or tolerancefor those beyond its pale. Her contempt for the plebeians is open andunrestrained. She was wont, says Coriolanus,    To call them woollen vassals, things created    To buy and sell with groats, to show bare heads    In congregations, to yawn, be still and wonder,    When one but of my ordinance stood up    To speak of peace or war.                                   (III. ii. 9. )Even when trying to pacify her son, she cannot bridle her ownresentment. When he recklessly cries of his opponents: “Let themhang! ” she instinctively approves: “Ay, and burn too. ”[262] The energyof her love of glory has nothing sentimental about it, but oftenbecomes savage and sanguinary. She gloats over her robust imaginings ofthe fight:    Methinks I hear hither your husband’s drum,    See him pluck Aufidius down by the hair,    As children from a bear, the Volsces shunning him:    Methinks I see him stamp thus, and call thus:    “Come on, you cowards! you were got in fear,    Though you were born in Rome”: his bloody brow    With his mail’d hand then wiping, forth he goes,    Like to a harvest-man that’s tasked to mow    Or all or lose his hire.      _Virgilia. _ His bloody brow! O Jupiter, no blood!      _Volumnia. _ Away, you fool! it more becomes a man    Than gilt his trophy: the breasts of Hecuba,    When she did suckle Hector, look’d not lovelier    Than Hector’s forehead when it spit forth blood    At Grecian sword, contemning.                                   (I. iii. 32. )[262] There is no authority for taking this most characteristicutterance from Volumnia and assigning it to “a patrician” as someeditions do. And when she has heard the actual news, she triumphantly exclaims:    O, he is wounded; I thank the gods for’t.                                (II. i. 133. )As Kreyssig points out, even great-hearted mothers, proud of theirwarrior sons, do not often like to dwell so realistically on havocand slaughter and blood. But tenderness and humanity are alien to hernature. When Valeria narrates how young Marcius tore in pieces thebutterfly, she interrupts with obvious satisfaction: “One on’s father’smoods” (I. iii. 72). At her hearth Coriolanus would not be taughtmuch kindliness for Volscians or plebeians or any other of the loweranimals. Indeed, her own relations with her son depend on his reverencerather than on his fondness. In the two collisions of their wills heresists all her entreaties and endearments, but yields in a moment toher anger and indignation. She beseeches him to submit to the judgmentof the people—all in vain till she loses patience:                          At thy choice, then:    To beg of thee, it is my more dishonour    Than thou of them. Come all to ruin: let    Thy mother rather feel thy pride than fear    Thy dangerous stoutness, for I mock at death    With as big heart as thou. Do as thou list.                                 (III. ii. 123. )At this his efforts to propitiate her are almost amusing:                              Pray, be content:    Mother, I am going to the market-place:    Chide me no more. I’ll mountebank their loves,    Cog their hearts from them, and come home beloved    Of all the trades in Rome. Look, I am going.                                   (III. ii. 130. )Similarly, at the end, all argument and complaint, all pressure on theaffections of Coriolanus are without avail, till she turns upon himwith a violence for which, as in the previous case, Shakespeare foundno authority in Plutarch:                            Come, let us go:    This fellow had a Volscian to his mother;    His wife is in Corioli, and his child    Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch:    I am hush’d until our city be afire,    And then I’ll speak a little.                                   (V. iii. 177. )And the great warrior and rebel cannot bear her rebuke. These are instances both of the degree and the manner in whichVolumnia’s forceful character influences her son. Indeed it is easy tosee that for good and evil he is what she has made him. She is entitledto say:                     Thou art my warrior:    I holp to frame thee.                            (V. iii. 62. )And though elsewhere she puts it,    Thy valiantness was mine, thou suck’dst from me,    But owe thy pride thyself;                                   (III. ii. 129. )the impartial onlooker cannot make the distinction. He is bone of herbone and blood of her blood; and all her master impulses reappear inhim, though not so happily commingled or in such beneficent proportion. The joint operation is different and in some respects opposite, butthere is hardly a feature in him that cannot be traced to its origin inVolumnia, whether by heredity or education. This is just what we mightexpect. Modern conjecture points to the mother rather than the fatheras the source of will-power and character in the offspring; and in theup-bringing of the boy Volumnia has had it all her own way. Plutarch,as we saw, in his simple fashion, notices this as a disadvantage: andthough we may be sure that Plutarch’s insinuation of laxity could neverbe breathed against Shakespeare’s Volumnia, still she could not giveher son more width and flexibility than her own narrow and rigid idealsenjoined. Moreover, her limitations when transferred to the largersphere of his public efforts, would cramp and congest his powers, anddisplace his interests. Nor was there any other agency to divide the young man’s allegiance tohis mother or to counteract or temper her authority. Generally the mostpowerful rivals of home influence are the companionship of friends,and the love that founds a new home in marriage. But both of theseare either wanting in Coriolanus’ life, or serve only to deepen theimpressions made on him by Volumnia. If, for example, we consider the relation of friendship, we cannotbut notice that Shakespeare gives him no intimate of his own years. AFrench tragedian would infallibly have placed by his side the figure ofa confidant. Shakespeare was dispensed from the necessity by the freerusage of the Elizabethan stage and was at liberty to follow out thehints which he found in Plutarch. Marcius was    churlishe, uncivill, and altogether unfit for any mans    conversation. . . . They could not be acquainted with him,    as one cittizen useth to be with another in the cittie.    His behaviour was so unpleasaunt to them, by reason of a    certaine insolent and sterne manner he had, which bicause    it was to lordly, was disliked. So in Shakespeare he has no personal relations with any of the youngergeneration, even their resort to him as their congenial leadersurviving, as has already been pointed out, only in the desiccatedphrase of a stage direction; and his only associates are old or elderlymen like Titus Lartius, the Consul Cominius, and Menenius Agrippa. Whatsort of antidote could they supply against his mother’s intolerantvirtue? As Shakespeare conceives them, they respectively follow inMarcius’ wake, or are powerless to change and check his course, or evenurge him forward. Take Lartius, whom Shakespeare has drawn in a few rapid and vigorousstrokes. He is old and stiff, but ready if need be to lean on onecrutch and fight with the other, prompt to take a sporting wager, and,when he wins, eager to remit the stake in his admiration for the nobleyoungster, to whom with all his years he grants priority, whom on hissupposed death he laments as an irreplaceable jewel, whom he hails asthe living force that dwells within the trappings of their armament. Clearly from this cheery old fighting man, with his reverentialenthusiasm for Marcius’ fighting powers in voice, looks and blows, weneed not expect much correction of Marcius’ restiveness at the civiccurb. Cominius would seem more likely to prove a fitting Mentor, for to hislove and esteem he adds discretion. In Shakespeare, though he “hasyears upon him,” he is the avowed friend and comrade-in-arms of theyounger man; the brave and prudent general, “neither foolish in hisstands, nor cowardly in retire”; who, perhaps from seniority, holds theposition to which the other might aspire, but who confidently appealsto his promise of service. For their mutual affection is untouched byjealousy, and Cominius not only extols his heroism in the camp, but ishis warmest advocate in the Senate. He resents the citizens’ ficklenessand the tribunes’ trickery at the election as unworthy of Rome as wellas insulting to her hero, and is indignant at the attempt to arrestCoriolanus; but he abhors civil brawls, and, just as in the field so inthe city, he bows to “odds beyond arithmetic,” and considers that    Manhood is call’d foolery, when it stands    Against a falling fabric.                                (III. i. 246. )So he counsels Marcius’ withdrawal from the hostile mob, and afterwardsdispassionately states the three courses open to him, with somehesitation sanctioning the method of compromise if the hothead canbring himself to give it fair play. When his doubts prove true, heinterposes first with a remonstrance to his friend, and then with asolemn appeal to the people; and though in neither case is he allowedto finish, his efforts do not flag. He wishes to accompany the exilefor a month, and maintain a correspondence with him and have everythingin readiness for his recall. And if, when the invasion takes place,he rails at those who have brought about the calamity, that doesnot hinder him from his vain but zealous attempt at intercession. Altogether a sagacious, loyal, generous, but somewhat ineffectivecharacter, who wins our respect rather for what he essays than for whathe achieves; for he brings nothing to a successful issue. With the bestwill in the world, which he has, and with more freedom from classprejudice than can in point of fact be attributed to him, such an onecould do little to tame or bridle his friend. There remains Menenius, with his much more strongly marked character,and with the fuller opportunities that a close intimacy could procure. Were Marcius and he of the same flesh and blood, their affection couldhardly be greater. When debating with himself whether to try hismediation, this thought encourages the old man: “He call’d me father”(V. i. 3). He tells the Volscian sentinel:    You shall perceive that a Jack guardant cannot office me    from my son Coriolanus.                                                 (V. ii. 67. )And when they meet, he hails him:    The glorious gods sit in hourly synod about thy particular    prosperity, and love thee no worse than thy old father    Menenius does! O, my son, my son!                                                  (V. ii. 72. )Nor are these statements idle brags; they are borne out by Coriolanus’own words when he dismisses him:                      For I loved thee,    Take this along; I writ it for thy sake, [_Gives a letter_    And would have sent it.                                                   (V. ii. 95. )And again he tells Aufidius:                          This last old man,    Whom with a crack’d heart I have sent to Rome,    Loved me above the measure of a father;    Nay, godded me, indeed.                                   (V. iii. 8. )But the last expression may give an explanation both of the youngman’s condescension to fondness and of the unprofitableness ofMenenius’ influence. He is too much dazzled by the glories of hissplendid adoptive son. His enthusiasm knows no bounds. No lover is moreenraptured at receiving a _billet doux_ from his mistress, than is theold man when the youth on whom he dotes, deigns to write to him.    A letter for me! it gives me an estate of seven years’    health; in which time I will make a lip at the physician;    the most sovereign prescription in Galen is but empiricutic,    and, to this preservative, of no better report than a    horse-drench.                                                  (II. i. 125. )He may occasionally interpose a mild hint of remonstrance againstMarcius’ vehemence, but it is solely on the ground of expediency, notat all on the ground of principle; and on the whole he belongs to thatnot very edifying class of devotees who can say of a friend,    Whate’er he does seems well done to me. Of which he himself is not altogether unaware. He tells the Volsciansentinel:                            I tell thee, fellow,    Thy general is my lover: I have been    The book of his good acts, whence men have read    His fame unparallel’d, haply amplified:    For I have ever verified my friends,    Of whom he’s chief, with all the size that verity    Would without lapsing suffer: nay, sometimes,    Like to a bowl upon a subtle ground,    I have tumbled past the throw; and in his praise    Have almost stamp’d the leasing.                                      (V. ii. 13. )This attitude, then, accounts for Coriolanus’ predilection for the oldsenator, and also reduces the value of the relation as an educativeagency. Youthful recklessness will meet with no inconvenient thwarting,_i. e. _ with no salutary rebuke, from such an adorer. But of course inthe blindest friendship there is always the unconscious influence andcriticism of the admirer’s own walk and conversation. And at firstsight it might seem that this influence and criticism Menenius was wellfitted to supply. He, too, like Volumnia, puts Rome before all otherconsiderations, as is shown not only by his undertaking the mission tothe Volscian camp, but by his action all through the drama. He is everwilling to play the part of mediator. Now we find him soothing thepeople, now we find him soothing Coriolanus. When the banishment is anaccomplished fact, he endeavours to mitigate the outbursts of Volumnia;and Sicinius bears witness:    O, he is grown most kind of late.                        (IV. vi. 11. )During all the tumult of the election and the _émeute_ he keeps hishead and his heart; for he is inspired by the right civic feeling thatthere must be no civil war.                          Proceed by process;    Lest parties, as he is beloved, break out,    And sack great Rome with Romans.                               (III. i. 314. )And with this patriotism, partly as its result, he combines singularmoderation, at least in principle and thought, if not in language. He is always ready to commend and accept compromises. He says to thetribune,    Be that you seem, truly your country’s friend,    And temperately proceed to what you would    Thus violently redress.                                   (III. i. 218. )On the other hand, when Marcius draws he sees the mistake andinterposes: “Down with that sword” (III. i. 226); and only when thetribunes persist in their attack does he himself resort to force,which, however, he is glad to abandon at the first opportunity. Andthis moderation comes the more easily to him that he has a realkindliness even for the plebeians. It is assuredly no small complimentthat at the very height of the popular violence this patrician andsenator, the known and avowed friend of Coriolanus, should be chosen bythe tribunes themselves as their own delegate:                      Noble Menenius,    Be you then as the people’s officer.                          (III. i. 329. )This confirms the testimony given him by the First Citizen in theopening scene: “He’s one honest enough” (I. i. 54); and the SecondCitizen describes him as    Worthy Menenius Agrippa; one that hath always loved the    people.                                                (I. i. 52. )He has indeed a sympathy with them, that shows itself in the russet andkersey of his speech. The haughty Coriolanus despises the householdwords of the common folk, and cites them only to ridicule them,but Menenius’ phrases of their own accord run to the homespun andproverbial. He addresses the obtrusive citizen: “You, the great toe ofthis assembly” (I. i. 159). The dissension at Rome is a rent that “mustbe patch’d with cloth of any colour” (III. i. 252). Coriolanus’ roughwords he excuses on the ground that he is                              ill school’d    In bolted language: meal and bran together    He throws without distinction.                                   (III. i. 321. )He figures the relentlessness of the returned exile as “yon coigno’ the Capitol, yon corner-stone” (V. iv. 1), and is at no loss forillustrations of the change that has come over the outcast:    There is a differency between a grub and a butterfly,    yet your butterfly was a grub.                                             (V. iv. 11. )And with similes for Coriolanus’ present temper he positively overflows:    He no more remembers his mother now than an eight-year-old    horse. The tartness of his face sours ripe grapes.                                             (V. iv. 16. )    There is no more mercy in him than there is milk in a male    tiger.                                             (V. iv. 29. )All his thoughts clothe themselves in the pat, familiar image, andthis is no doubt a great help to him in persuading his auditors, forwhich he has an undeniable talent. His famous apologue, besides being amasterpiece in its kind, worthy of La Fontaine at his best, completelyanswers its immediate purpose; and in the later scene he is able tolull the storm that Coriolanus and the tribunes have raised, and obtainfrom the infuriated demagogues what are in some sort favourable terms. But he is assisted in this by his genuine joviality and _bonhomie_. He is one of those people who permit themselves a little indulgencethat we hardly blame, for it is only one side of their pervasive goodnature. Menenius is in truth something of a belly-god and wine-bibber. When he hears news of Marcius he promptly decides how to celebrate theoccasion:    I will make my very house reel to-night;                               (II. i. 121. )and he has already confessed that he is known to be    one that loves a cup of hot wine with not a drop of allaying    Tiber in’t; . . . one that converses more with the buttock of    the night than with the forehead of the morning.                                            (II. i. 52 and 56. )It is almost comic to hear him consoling Volumnia on her son’sbanishment when she moves off to lament “in anger, Juno-like,” with aninvitation: “You’ll sup with me? ” (IV. ii. 49). And wholly comic is hisexplanation of Cominius’ rebuff by Coriolanus, an explanation suggestedno doubt by subjective considerations:    He was not taken well; he had not dined:    The veins unfill’d, our blood is cold, and then    We pout upon the morning, are unapt    To give or to forgive; but when we have stuff’d    These pipes and these conveyances of the blood    With wine and feeding, we have suppler souls    Than in our priest-like fasts; therefore I’ll watch him    Till he be dieted to my request,    And then I’ll set upon him.                                           (V. i. 50. )But the worthy _bon-vivant_ is thoroughly in earnest, and in the crisisof his altercation with the sentinel harks back to this key of theposition, as he supposes it to be:    Has he dined, canst thou tell? for I would not speak with    him till after dinner.                                                  (V. ii. 36. )All these, however, are very human weaknesses, that sort well withthe geniality of the man, and, just because they are very humanweaknesses, might have a wholesome rather than a prejudicial effect onthe overstrained tensity of Marcius. So far then, despite the excessiveand uncritical in Menenius’ love, his patriotism, his moderation, hispopular bent, commended by his persuasive tongue and companionableways, might tend to supplement the defects and transcend thelimitations of Volumnia’s training. But Menenius has other qualitiesakin to, or associated with, those that we have discussed, which wouldhave a more questionable and not less decisive influence. He admitsthat he is    said to be something imperfect in favouring the first    complaint.                                               (II. i. 53. )That is, he neglects the wise counsel, “Hear the other side,” andjumps to his conclusion at once. This is quite in keeping with thepartiality that makes him magnify the virtues of his friends, andwith his assumption that, since his own intercession has failed, thatof Volumnia can have no effect. He prejudges, in other words he isprejudiced. We do not have any instance of this in his acts, but wehave many in his unconsidered sayings, that, as he imagines, are tohave no consequence beyond the moment. Then he goes on to confess that he has the reputation of being “hastyand tinder-like upon too trivial motion” (II. i. 55), which meansthat he loses patience and fires up without adequate ground; and ofthis too we have ample evidence. He is wonderfully forbearing andlongsuffering if matters of any moment are at stake, but if he hasgained his point, or if there is nothing to gain and nothing to lose,he rails and mocks in Coriolanus’ own peculiar vein. Thus, when hehas convinced the mob, he feels free to make the ringleader his butt. When the tribunes profess to “know him,” that is, to understand hischaracter, he overwhelms them with peppery banter. When the news ofCoriolanus’ invasion arrives, in unrestrained indignation he upbraidsthe people and their blind guides with their imbecility. But it willbe observed that no harm ever comes by any of these ebullitions. Theyhave no after-effects. If something has to be done, no one could bemore sagacious and conciliatory than Menenius. Dr. Johnson said of him,perhaps more in exercise of his right as a sturdy old Tory to twitthose in high places, than in deliberate appreciation of the facts:“Shakespeare wanted a buffoon and he went to the Senate House forthat with which the Senate House would certainly have supplied him. ”Similarly, in the play Brutus is rash enough to answer him back:    Come, come, you are well understood to be a perfecter giber    for the table than a necessary bencher in the Capitol.                                                   (II. i. 90. )But Menenius deserves neither taunt. It was no parliamentary wag orsocial lampooner whom the Senate entrusted with the task of addressingthe rioters, or who persuaded the triumphant tribunes to a compromise. The charges nevertheless have a foundation in so far that Menenius,partly in jest, partly in irritation, gives his tongue rein unlesshe sees reason to curb it, and allows his choleric impulses fullexpression. These random ejaculations are taken at their proper valueby himself and others. As he says:    What I think I utter, and spend my malice in my breath.                                               (II. i. 58. )He is obviously one of those estimable and deservedly popular peoplewhose deliberate views are just and penetrating, and who are giftedwith the power of commending them, but who are none the less likedbecause they do not always think it necessary to have themselvesin hand, but let themselves go on the full career of their ownhalf-jocular, half-serious likes and dislikes, when for the moment theyare free from graver responsibilities. Now this of itself was no very good example for Coriolanus. Headopts Menenius’ headlong frankness, but without Menenius’ tacitpresupposition of good-humoured hyperbole. He utters what he thinks buthe does not spend his malice in his breath. His friend would do nothingto teach him restraint and reserve, but would rather, if he influencedhim at all, influence him to surcharge his invectives and double-barbhis flouts. But not only so. These instinctive likes and dislikes, which the oldpatrician could not but feel but which he never allowed to interferewith his practical policy, were the guiding principles of his lesscautious friend. It must be admitted that there is no abuse of thecitizens or their officers to which Coriolanus gives vent, but can beparalleled with something as strong from the mouth of Menenius. Thisworthy senior who hath always loved the people, turns from the tribuneswith the insult:    God-den to your worships: more of your conversation would    infect my brain, being the herdsmen of the beastly plebeians.                                                   (II. i. 103. )In this mood he asks them in regard to Coriolanus:    Your multiplying spawn how can he flatter—    That’s thousand to one good one?                                   (II. ii. 82. )He has to the full the aristocratic loathing for the uncleanly populace:                          You are they    That made the air unwholesome, when you cast    Your stinking greasy caps in hooting at    Coriolanus’ exile.                                   (IV. vi. 129. )    You are the musty chaff: and you are smelt    Above the moon.                                   (V. i. 31. )These are his authentic innate prejudices that he controls andrepresses by the help of his reason and his patriotism, when theemergency requires: but they are there; and he would be no more carefulto restrain them in his familiar circle than a squatter at his clubfeels called upon to restrain his opinions about the Labour Party,though he may be very proud of Australia, and a very kindly master,and though he would neither publish them in an election address norperhaps justify them in his serious moments to himself. And this, wemay suppose, was the sort of conversation Marcius would hear as a ladfrom his old friend. There would be little in it to modify the prideand prejudice he derived from his mother. And lastly, coming to the other possible corrective, would his wifebe likely to soften the asperities of temper and opinion that werehis by nature and by second nature? At first we might say Yes. Shetakes comparatively little pleasure in the brilliance of his careerand is more concerned for his life than for his glory. When Volumniarecalls how she sent him forth as a lad to win honour, Virgilia’s heartpictures his possible death, and how would that have been compensated? For she loves in the first place not the hero but the husband, and herlove makes her timorous. She has none of her mother-in-law’s assurancethat his prowess is without match and beyond comparison. When “wondrousthings” are told of him how characteristic are their respectivecomments:    _Virgilia. _ The gods grant them true!    _Volumnia. _ True! pow, wow.                            (II. i. 154. )How differently they feel about his contest with his rival:      _Virgilia. _ Heavens bless my lord from fell Aufidius!      _Volumnia. _ He’ll beat Aufidius’ head below his knee    And tread upon his neck.                                            (I. iii. 48. )So she shrinks from the thoughts of blood and wounds over whichVolumnia gloats, and trembles at the dangers of the campaign. Devouredby suspense, she is in no mood to meet the ordinary social claimson her rank and sex, but shuts herself up within her four walls,and wears out the time over household tasks. Her seclusion, and theattempts to withdraw her from it, must not be misunderstood. Theyhave sometimes been taken as pictures of domestic narrow-mindednesson the one hand, and callous frivolity on the other. But frivolity isunthinkable in Volumnia; we may be sure she would never advise or doanything unbefitting the Roman matron. And it is quite opposed to theimpression Valeria produces; we may be sure she would never suggest it. In Plutarch’s story it is she who proposes and urges the deputation ofwomen to Coriolanus, and though Shakespeare, to suit his own purpose,transfers by implication the credit of this to Volumnia, Plutarch’sstatement was enough to prevent him from transforming the trueauthoress of the idea into the fashionable gadabout that some criticshave alleged her to be. On the contrary, with him she calls forth themost purely poetical passage in the whole play, and she does so by thevestal dignity and severity of her character. Coriolanus greets her inthe camp:    The noble sister of Publicola,    The moon of Rome, chaste as the icicle    That’s curdied by the frost of purest snow    And hangs on Dian’s temple: dear Valeria!                                  (V. iii. 65. )The woman to whom this splendid compliment is paid by one who neverspeaks otherwise than he thinks, is assuredly no more obnoxiousthan Volumnia herself to the charge of levity. They are both greathigh-hearted Roman ladies who do not let their private or publicsolicitudes interfere with their customary social routine, and Valeriavisits her friend to cheer her in her anxiety, as she would have her,in turn, visit and comfort their common acquaintance. But Virgilia iscast in a gentler mould; though neither is she lacking in character,spirit and magnanimity. Of course she is not an aggressive woman, andshe feels that the home is the place for her. She speaks seldom, andwhen she does her words are few. It is typical that she greets herhusband when he returns a victor with no articulate welcome, but withher more eloquent tears. He addresses her in half humorous, half tenderreproach:                      My gracious silence, hail!    Wouldst thou have laugh’d had I come coffin’d home,    That weep’st to see me triumph?                                          (II. i. 192. )A wonderful touch that comes from a wonderful insight. It may well beasked, as it has been asked, how Shakespeare _knew_ that Virgilia’sheart was too full for words. But with all this, she shows abundant resolution, readiness andpatriotism. She is adamant to the commands of her imperiousmother-in-law and the entreaties of her insistent friend when they urgeher to break her self-imposed retirement. She, too, has her rebuke forthe insolent tribunes. Above all, she, too, plays her part in turningCoriolanus from his revenge. In that scene, after her wont, she doesnot say much, less than two lines in all, that serve to contain thesimple greeting and the quick answer to her husband’s warning that heno longer sees things as he did:    The sorrow that delivers us thus changed    Makes you think so.                               (V. iii. 39. )But who shall say that                          those dove’s eyes    Which can make gods forsworn,                              (V. iii. 27. )did not shed their influence on his mother’s demand, and help himto break his vindictive vow. Remember, too, that the sacrifice thisimplied would mean more to her than to Volumnia, for though shelikewise can dedicate what she holds dearest on the altar of hercountry, her affections, her home, Marcius as an individual, bulk morelargely in her life. And if she loves him, we see how fondly he loves her. More than once ortwice he alludes to his happiness as bridegroom, husband, and father. When she appears before him, his ejaculations and the tenderness of hisappeal,                     Best of my flesh,    Forgive my tyranny,                         (V. iii. 42. )speak volumes in a mouth like his for the keenness of his affection. To express the bliss that he feels in the salute of reunion, thishero-lover can find analogues only in his banishment and his vengeance:                        O, a kiss    Long as my exile, sweet as my revenge!    Now, by the jealous queen of heaven, that kiss    I carried from thee, dear: and my true lip    Hath virgin’d it e’er since.                                   (V. iii. 44. )This woman, then, with her love and sweetness, that strike suchresponsive chords in the rude breast of her lord, is apparently wellfitted to smooth the harshness of his dealings with his fellow-men: andthis would seem all the more likely since her gentleness is not of thatflabby kind that cannot hold or bind, but is strengthened by firmnessof will and largeness of feeling. All the same, she exerts no influence whatever before the very end onher husband’s public life or even on his general character, becauseshe has no interest in or aptitude for concerns of his busy, practicalcareer. She has chosen her own orbit in her home, and her love hasno desire to step beyond. We have seen that, according to Plutarch,Volumnia was entrusted with the selection of her son’s wife. ThisShakespeare omits, perhaps as incongruous with the spontaneousness ofthe relation between his wedded lovers, but it may have left a tracein the position he assigns to Virgilia. The mother-in-law has andclaims the leading place; and, as Kreyssig remarks, with a woman ofthe daughter-in-law’s steady inflexibility, collisions more proper forcomedy than for tragedy must inevitably ensue, unless there were astrict delimitation of spheres. Volumnia continues to be prompter andguide in all matters political. She has all the outward precedence. On his return from Corioli, her son gives her the prior reverence andsalutation, and, only as it were by her permission, turns to his wife. When the deputation of ladies appears in his presence before Rome,he seems for a moment to be surprised out of his decorum, and hisfirst words of passionate greeting are for Virgilia; but he presentlyrecovers, and, with a certain accent of reproof, turns on himself:                        You gods! I prate,    And the most noble mother of the world    Leave unsaluted: sink, my knee, i’ the earth:    Of thy deep duty more impression show    Than that of common sons.                                  (V. iii. 48. )Evidently, his love for his wife, intense though it be, is a thingapart, a sanctuary of his most inmost feeling, and is quite out ofrelation with the affairs of the jostling world. In them his mother hassupreme sway, and Virgilia’s unobtrusive graciousness does not exerciseeven an indirect influence on his ingrained principles and prejudices. She is no makeweight against the potent authority of Volumnia. CHAPTER VTHE GREATNESS OF CORIOLANUS. AUFIDIUSIn the atmosphere then of Volumnia’s predominance we are to imagineyoung Marcius growing up from infancy to boyhood, from boyhoodto youth, environed by all the most inspiring and most exclusivetraditions of an old Roman family of the bluest blood. After theexpulsion of the Tarquins, we must suppose that there was no moredistinguished _gens_ than his. The tribune Brutus gives the longbead-roll of his ancestry, the glories of which, as has already beenshown, are even exaggerated in his statement through Shakespeare’shaving made a little mistake in regard to Plutarch’s account, andhaving included representatives of later among those of formergenerations. But Volumnia is not the mother to let him rest on theachievements of his predecessors; he must make them his own byequalling or excelling them. He begins as a boy, and already in hismaiden fight his exploits rouse admiration. Plutarch describes thecircumstance:    The first time he went to the warres, being but a    strippling, was when Tarquine surnamed the prowde . . . dyd    come to Rome with all the ayde of the Latines, and many    other people of Italie. . . . In this battell, wherein were    many hotte and sharpe encounters of either partie, Martius    valliantly fought in the sight of the Dictator; and a    Romaine souldier being throwen to the ground even hard by    him, Martius straight bestrid him, and slue the enemie with    his owne handes that had overthrowen the Romaine. Hereupon,    after the battell was wonne, the Dictator dyd not forget so    noble an acte, and therefore first of all he crowned Martius    with a garland of oken boughs. This furnishes Cominius with the prologue to his eulogy:                                At sixteen years,    When Tarquin made a head for Rome, he fought    Beyond the mark of others: our then dictator,    Whom with all praise I point at, saw him fight,    When with his Amazonian chin he drove    The bristled lips before him: he bestrid    An o’erpress’d Roman and i’ the consul’s view    Slew three opposers: Tarquin’s self he met    And struck him on his knee: in that day’s feats,    When he might act the woman in the scene,    He proved the best man i’ the field, and for his meed    Was brow-bound with the oak.                                          (II. ii. 91. )But it will be noticed that in Shakespeare’s version Marcius’prowess is enhanced: not one opponent but three fall before him; heconfronts the arch-enemy himself, and has the best of it. Similarlyhis derring-do at Corioli is raised to the superhuman. Plutarch’sstatement, as he feels, makes demands, but it is moderate compared withShakespeare’s.    Martius being in the throng emong the enemies, thrust him    selfe into the gates of the cittie, and entred the same    emong them that fled, without that any one of them durst at    the first turne their face upon him, or els offer to slaye    him. But he looking about him and seeing he was entred the    cittie with very fewe men to helpe him, and perceyving he    was envirouned by his enemies that gathered round about to    set apon him: dyd things then as it is written, wonderfull    and incredible: . . . By this meanes, Lartius that was gotten    out, had some leysure to bring the Romaines with more    safetie into the cittie. Here he is accompanied at least by a few, among whom, it is implied,the valiant Lartius is one, and Lartius having extricated himself,comes back with reinforcements to help him. But in Shakespeare he isfrom beginning to end without assistance, and his boast, “Alone I didit,” is the literal truth. The first soldier says, discreetly passingover the disobedience of the men:    Following the fliers at the very heels,    With them he enters; who, upon the sudden,    Clapp’d to their gates: he is himself alone    To answer all the city.                                   (I. iv. 49. )And Cominius reports:                            Alone he enter’d    The mortal gate of the city, which he painted    With shunless destiny; aidless came off.                                  (II. ii. 114. )But he is not merely, though he is conspicuously, a soldier. He isalso a general who once and again gives proof of his strategic skill. Nor do his qualifications stop here. He has the forethought and insightof a statesman, at any rate in matters of foreign and military policy. He has anticipated the attack of the Volsces with which the playbegins, as we learn from the remark of the First Senator:    Marcius, ’tis true that you have lately told us;    The Volsces are in arms.                                       (I. i. 231. )So after their disaster at Corioli, he estimates the situation aright,when even Cominius is mistaken, and conjectures that the enemy is onlywaiting an opportunity for renewing the war:    So then the Volsces stand but as at first,    Ready, when time shall prompt them, to make road    Upon’s again.                                       (III. i. 4. )And this, as we presently learn, is quite correct. Even in political statesmanship, the department in which he is supposedto be specially to seek, he has a sagacity and penetration that showhim the centre of the problem. This does not necessarily mean that hissolution is the true one; and still less does it mean that he is wisein proclaiming his views when and where he does so: but the viewsthemselves are certainly deep-reaching and acute, and such as would winapproval from some of the greatest builders of states, the Richelieus,the Fredericks, the Bismarcks. He is quite right in denying that hisinvectives against the policy of concession are due to “choler”:    Choler!    Were I as patient as the midnight sleep,    By Jove, ’twould be my mind!                              (III. i. 84. )His objections are in truth no outbreaks of momentary exasperation,though that may have added pungency to their expression, but mature andsober convictions, that have a worth and weight of their own. As wemight expect; for Shakespeare derives almost all of them from Plutarch;and Plutarch, who had thought about these things, puts several of hisfavourite ideas in Coriolanus’ mouth, even while condemning Coriolanus’bigotry and harshness; and while, for dramatic fitness, suppressing thequalifications and provisos that he himself thought essential. To Marcius the root of the matter is to be found in the fact that theRoman Republic is not a democracy but an aristocracy, and in thisrespect he contrasts it with some of the Greek communities.    Therefore sayed he, they that gave counsell, and persuaded    that the corne should be geven out to the common people    _gratis_, as they used to doe in citties of Graece, where    the people had more absolute power; dyd but only nourishe    their disobedience, which would breake out in the ende, to    the utter ruine and overthrowe of the whole state. Shakespeare’s transcription is, but for the interpolated interruption,fairly close:      _Coriolanus. _ Whoever gave that counsel, to give forth    The corn o’ the storehouse gratis, as ’twas used    Sometime in Greece,—      _Menenius. _ Well, well, no more of that.      _Coriolanus. _ Though there the people had more absolute power,    I say, they nourished disobedience, fed    The ruin of the state.                                                   (III.

i. 113. )That being so, he regards it as a kind of treason to the constitutionto pay court to the plebs, or let it have a share of the government.    He sayed they nourished against them selves, the naughty    seede and cockle of insolencie and sedition, which had    bene sowed and scattered abroade emongest the people, whom    they should have cut of, if they had bene wise, and have    prevented their greatnes. This is only a little more explicit in Shakespeare:                                I say again,    In soothing them, we nourish ’gainst our senate    The cockle of rebellion, insolence, sedition,    Which we ourselves have plough’d for, sow’d, and scatter’d,    By mingling them with us, the honour’d number,    Who lack not virtue, no, nor power, but that    Which they have given to beggars.                                             (III. i. 68. )For, and this is one of Shakespeare’s additions, if they have any shareat all, being the majority they will swamp the votes of the superiororder.                            You are plebeians,    If they be senators; and they are no less,    When, both your voices blended, the great’st taste    Most palates theirs.                                         (III. i. 101. )And their magistrate, strong in the support he receives, dictates hisignorant will to the experience and wisdom of the senate.    [They should] not to their owne destruction to have suffered    the people, to stablishe a magistrate for them selves, of    so great power and authoritie, as that man had, to whom    they had graunted it. Who was also to be feared, bicause he    obtained what he would, and dyd nothing but what he listed,    neither passed for any obedience to the Consuls, but lived    in all libertie acknowledging no superieur to commaund him,    saving the only heades and authors of their faction, whom    he called his magistrates: . . . [The Tribuneshippe] most    manifestly is the embasing of the Consulshippe. This arraignment of the populace and its elect as mischief-makerswhenever they try to rule and interfere with competent authority, goesto Shakespeare’s heart, and he makes the passage much more nervous andvivid; but the idea is the same.    O good but most unwise patricians! why,    You grave but reckless senators, have you thus    Given Hydra here to choose an officer,    That with his peremptory “shall,” being but    The horn and noise of the monster’s, wants not spirit    To say he’ll turn your current in a ditch,    And make your channel his.                                            (III. i. 91. )                                By Jove himself!    It makes the consuls base.                                           (III. i. 107. )The result must be division and altercation with all the resultinganarchy.    The state [of the cittie] as it standeth, is not now as it    was wont to be, but becommeth dismembred in two factions,    which mainteines allwayes civill dissention and discorde    betwene us, and will never suffer us againe to be united    into one bodie. Here, too, with some variation in the wording Shakespeare keeps closeto the sense.                            My soul aches    To know, when two authorities are up,    Neither supreme, how soon confusion    May enter ’twixt the gap of both, and take    The one by the other.                                 (III. i. 108. )The grand mistake was the distribution of corn, for, as Plutarch putsit very clearly:    They will not thincke it is done in recompense of their    service past, sithence they know well enough they have    so ofte refused to goe to the warres, when they were    commaunded: neither for their mutinies when they went with    us, whereby they have rebelled and forsaken their countrie:    neither for their accusations which their flatterers have    preferred unto them, and they have receyved, and made good    against the Senate: but they will rather judge we geve and    graunt them this, as abasing our selves, and standing in    feare of them, and glad to flatter them every waye. These weighty arguments, which Coriolanus is quite entitled to callhis “reasons,” for reasons they are, are substantially reproduced inShakespeare:                                They know the corn    Was not our recompense, resting well assured    They ne’er did service for’t: being press’d to the war,    Even when the navel of the state was touched,    They would not thread the gates. This kind of service    Did not deserve corn gratis. Being i’ the war,    Their mutinies and revolts, wherein they show’d    Most valour, spoke not for them: the accusation    Which they have often made against the senate,    All cause unborn, could never be the motive    Of our so frank donation. Well, what then?    How shall this bisson multitude digest    The senate’s courtesy? Let deeds express    What’s like to be their words: “We did request it;    We are the greater poll, and in true fear    They gave us our demands. ” Thus we debase    The nature of our seats and make the rabble    Call our cares fears: which will in time    Break ope the locks o’ the senate, and bring in    The crows to peck the eagles.                                      (III. i. 120. )That seems convincing enough. Their refusal of military service showsthat the citizens merited no leniency from the state, the chargethat the patricians were hoarding stores was universally known tobe baseless, so the malcontents can only infer that the senate gavethe largesse in fright, and find in this encouragement for theirusurpations. And in the meantime, while doubt exists as to the realcentre of authority, the effect must be vacillation in the policyof the republic and neglect of the most urgent measures. This was aconsideration that came home to Shakespeare, who never forgot theweakness and misery of his own country when it was torn by civilstrife, so he calls urgent attention to it at the close. This is theonly portion of the speech that is quite original so far as the thoughtis concerned.                            This double worship,    Where one part does disdain with cause, the other    Insult without all reason, where gentry, title, wisdom,    Cannot conclude but by the yea and no    Of general ignorance,—it must omit    Real necessities, and give way the while    To unstable slightness: purpose so barr’d, it follows,    Nothing is done to purpose.                                          (III. i. 142. )                            Your dishonour    Mangles true judgment and bereaves the state    Of that integrity which should become’t,    Not having the power to do the good it would,    For the ill which doth control’t.                                   (III. i. 157. )All this contains a measure of truth that is valid in all times; fromthe point of view of the aristocratic republican it is absolutelytrue. Coriolanus’ diagnosis of the case is minutely correct and everyone of his prognostics is fulfilled. The plebs does proceed withits encroachments; the power of Rome is strangely weakened as theimmediate result of the struggle; the foreign policy is short-sightedand unwise; the pressing need of defence is overlooked. Of course theanswer is that his uncompromising suggestions might have led to a worserevolution, and that in the long run a great deal more was gained thanlost: but the important point to note is that his views are certainlyarguable, that much could be said for them, that at the very leastthey assert one aspect of the real facts, and are as far as possiblefrom being the mere tirades of a brainless aristocratic swashbuckler. As already pointed out they give just the sort of estimate that someof the wisest statesmen who have ever lived would have formed of thesituation. It is quite conceivable that his proposals if carriedthrough with vigour and ruthlessness would have settled thingssatisfactorily at least for the moment. So besides his pre-eminence inwar and generalship and his foresight in foreign affairs, we may claimfor Coriolanus not indeed political tact but political grip. And to these qualifications of physical prowess and intellectual forcehe adds others of a more distinctively moral description. Among these the most obvious is his extreme truthfulness. He has noidea of equivocation or even of reticence. Menenius says of him:                  His heart’s his mouth:    What his breast forges, that his tongue must vent.                                        (III. i. 257. )Nor is his veracity confined to words; he is honest and genuine to thecore of his nature and will not stoop to a gesture that belies hisfeeling:                          I will not do’    Lest I surcease to honour mine own truth    And by my body’s action teach my mind    A most inherent baseness.                             (III. ii. 120. )And following on this is his innate loyalty. Nothing revolts him likea breach of that obligation, and in the crises of his career it is theaccusation of treason that rouses him to a frenzy. Thus, after hisimprudent speech, Sicinius cries:    Has spoken like a traitor, and shall answer    As traitors do.                                 (III. i. 162. )And Coriolanus bursts out:    Thou wretch, despite o’erwhelm thee. It is the same word that scatters his prudent resolutions in the trialscene:      _Sicinius. _       You are a traitor to the people.      _Coriolanus. _ How! traitor!      _Menenius. _                 Nay, temperately; your promise.      _Coriolanus. _ The fires i’ the lowest hell fold-in the people!    Call me their traitor! Thou injurious tribune!    Within thine eyes sat twenty thousand deaths,    In thy hands clutch’d as many millions, in    Thy lying tongue both numbers, I would say    “Thou liest” unto thee with a voice as free    As I do pray the gods.                                               (III. iii. 66. )And similarly when Aufidius calls him traitor, he repeats theword “Traitor! how now! ” in a wrath that is for the moment almostspeechless, till it overflows in a torrent of reckless abuse. It ispart of the tragic irony of the play that with his ingrained horror ofsuch an offence, he should yet in very truth let himself be hurriedinto treason against his country. For all his instincts are on theside of faith and troth and obligation. When he wishes to express hishostility to Aufidius he can think of no better comparison than this:    I’ll fight with none but thee; for I do hate thee    Worse than a promise-breaker.                                       (I. viii. 1. )One result of this is that he has a simple reverence for allprescriptive ties, which suffuses his stern nature with a certaintinge of kindly humanity. His piety to his mother comes of coursefrom Plutarch; but his tenderness for his wife and delight in hisson, lightly but strongly marked, are Shakespearean traits. So isthe intimacy with Menenius, which greatly removes the impression of“churlishness” and “solitariness” that Plutarch’s portrait conveys; andhis self-effacement in obedience to the powers that be and to the wordthat he has pledged, appears in his willing acceptance of a subordinaterank. The tribunes wonder that    His insolence can brook to be commanded    Under Cominius;                                (I. i. 266. )and attribute it to base calculation in keeping with their own natures;but to this view Shakespeare’s story gives no support. The realexplanation is simpler: it is his former promise and he is constant (I. i. 241). Even more pleasant is the famous instance of his respect for the claimsof hospitality. This episode is obtained from Plutarch, but in severalrespects it is completely altered. After describing how Coriolanusdeclined all special reward, the original narrative proceeds:    “Only this grace (sayed he) I crave, and beseeche you to    graunt me. Among the Volsces there is an olde friende and    hoste of mine, an honest wealthie man and now a prisoner,    who living before in great wealthe in his owne countrie,    liveth now a poore prisoner in the handes of his enemies:    and yet notwithstanding all this his miserie and misfortune,    it would do me great pleasure if I could save him from this    one daunger: to keepe him from being solde as a slave. ” The    souldiers hearing Martius wordes, made a marvelous great    showte among them. Compare this with the scene in Shakespeare:      _Coriolanus. _ The gods begin to mock me. I, that now    Refused most princely gifts, am bound to beg    Of my lord general.      _Cominius. _ Take’t; ’tis yours. What is’t?      _Coriolanus. _ I sometime lay here in Corioli    At a poor man’s house: he used me kindly:    He cried to me; I saw him prisoner;    But then Aufidius was within my view,    And wrath o’erwhelmed my pity: I request you    To give my poor host freedom.      _Cominius. _          O well begg’d!    Were he the butcher of my son, he should    Be free as is the wind. Deliver him, Titus.      _Lartius. _ Marcius, his name?      _Coriolanus. _    By Jupiter! forgot.    I am weary; yea, my memory is tired.    Have we no wine here?                                   (I. ix. 79. )The postponement of pity to wrath is a new characteristic detail whichshows how these gentler impulses in Coriolanus must yield to his rulingpassions. On the other hand his host is transformed from a rich to apoor man, and thus his humanity acquires a wider range, and we see howit can extend beyond his own class if only there is a personal claimon it. Above all there is the new illuminating touch of the lapse ofmemory. Sometimes this has been taken as betraying the indifference ofthe aristocrat for an inferior whose name he does not think it worthwhile to remember. Surely not. Coriolanus is experiencing the collapsethat follows his superhuman exertions, the exhaustion of body andmind when one cannot think of the most familiar words: but he rallieshis strength for a last effort, and is just able to intercede for hishumble guest-friend ere he succumbs. And this last passage brings before us another of his magnanimousqualities. He has refused most princely gifts. No one can accuse him ofcovetousness. His patrician bigotry aims at power and leadership, notat material perquisites. After the double battle, won almost entirelyby his instrumentality, when Cominius offers him the tenth, he makesthe generous answer:                    I thank you, general;    But cannot make my heart consent to take    A bribe to pay my sword: I do refuse it.                                (I. ix. 36. )He deserves the encomium of the consul:                      Our spoils he kick’d at,    And look’d upon things precious as they were    The common muck of the world: he covets less    Than misery itself would give; rewards    His deeds with doing them, and is content    To spend the time to end it.                                   (II. ii. 128. )He “rewards his deeds with doing them,” without thought of ulteriorprofit or of anything beyond the worthy occupation of the moment. Thisleads to the next point, his cult of honour; and it must be confessedthat he conceives it in a very lofty and noble way. His view of itreminds one of Arthur’s saying in Tennyson’s _Idylls_:    For the deed’s sake my knighthood do the deed,    Not to be noised of. Honour, of course, is not the highest possible principle. It implies acertain quest for recognition, and in so far has a personal and evenselfish aspect. But in the right kind of honour the recognition issought, in the first place, for real excellences that, in the secondplace, are determined only by competent judges, in some cases only bythe individual’s own conscience. In both respects Coriolanus bearsexamination. Of course, when there is any pursuit of honour at all, it is almostimpossible to exclude some admixture of rivalry and emulation: for thedesire of recognition, if only by oneself, carries with it the desireof being recognised as having achieved the very best: and rivalry andemulation must to that extent have an egoistic direction. Coriolanushas these feelings to the full, and often gives them extreme expressionin regard to his one possible competitor Aufidius. He calls him“the man of my soul’s hate” (I. v. 11); and tells him: “I have everfollowed thee with hate” (IV. v. 104). Aufidius has equal animosityagainst Coriolanus. His correspondent, to give an idea of his rival’sunpopularity with his townsmen, writes of                  Marcius your old enemy,    Who is of Rome worse hated than of you.                               (I. ii. 12. )Lartius reports how the Volscian has said,    That of all things upon the earth, he hated    Your person most.                                   (III. i. 14. )Marcius, hearing he is at Antium, sums up for both:    I wish I had a cause to seek him there,    To oppose his hatred fully.                              (III. i. 19. )As Tullus sums up on his side:                          We hate alike;    Not Afric owns a serpent I abhor    More than thy fame and envy.                           (I. viii. 2. )Still, it is precisely in his relations with Aufidius, and incomparison with Aufidius’ passions and purposes, that Coriolanus’ finerconception of honour becomes apparent. The true warrior values theseencounters for themselves, and has a rapture in them second to nonethat he knows. He exclaims:    Were half to half the world by the ears, and he    Upon my party, I’ld revolt, to make    Only my wars with him: he is a lion    That I am proud to hunt.                                      (I. i. 237·)This has sometimes been regarded as a hint in advance of Marcius’readiness to desert the national cause. But that seems to be taking_au pied de la lettre_ one of those conversational audacities thatmuch discreeter men than he often permit themselves. It is rather anexaggerated expression of his delight in the contest, and an ironicalcomment on his later abandonment of it for the sake of revenge. At anyrate even if the worst interpretation be put on it, it suggests a morerespectable motive for desertion than the parallel outburst of Aufidius:    I would I were a Roman; for I cannot,    Being a Volsce, be that I am.                                (I. x. 4. )For Coriolanus would change sides in order to confront the severesttest, Aufidius would do so in order not to be of the defeated party. There is a meanness and bitterness in Tullus from which his rival iswholly free. All through, Marcius shows the generosity of consciousheroism. He is very handsome in his acknowledgment of Aufidius’ merits:                            They have a leader,    Tullus Aufidius, that will put you to’t.    I sin in envying his nobility,    And were I anything but what I am,    I would wish me only he.                                   (I. i. 232. )In their trials of valour he takes no advantage, but rather makesa point, first of facing his foe though he himself is wearied andwounded, and, second, of rousing him to put forth all his strength.    The blood I drop is rather physical    Than dangerous to me: to Aufidius thus    I will appear, and fight.                               (I. v. 19. )Then, when they meet, he dissembles his hurts, and cries:              Within these three hours, Tullus,    Alone I fought in your Corioli walls,    And made what work I pleased: _’tis not my blood_    Wherein thou seest me mask’d: for thy revenge    Wrench up thy power to the highest.                                      (I. viii. 7. )They are pledged to slay each other or be slain. Tullus has told thesenators:    If we and Caius Marcius chance to meet,    ’Tis sworn between us we shall ever strike    Till one can do no more.                                   (I. ii. 34. )And to this he adds boasts of his own, which Coriolanus omits. Nevertheless, though his professions are the loudest, Aufidius makesgood neither pledge nor boasts, but lets himself be driven back despitethe assistance of his friends. And then, just as he would rather be asuccessful Roman than a defeated Volsce, his thoughts turn to gettingthe better of his victor by whatever means; he cannot take his beatingin a sportsmanlike way, and thus shows finally how hollow is the honourafter which he strives. Whether intentionally or not, Lartius’ reportgives a true description of his feeling:                  He would pawn his fortunes    To hopeless restitution, so he might    Be call’d your vanquisher.                               (III. i. 15. )“Be call’d”; as though the vain ascription of superiority were all thathe desired. But in truth he has already made the same confession inso many words, with the more damaging admission that he now feels asthough he no longer cared by what foul play such ascription is won.                              By the elements,    If e’er again I meet him beard to beard,    He’s mine, or I am his: mine emulation    Hath not that honour in’t it had: for where    I thought to crush him in an equal force,    True sword to sword, I’ll potch at him some way    Or wrath or craft may get him.                                        (I. x. 10. )                                My valour’s poison’d    With only suffering stain by him: for him    Shall fly out of itself: nor sleep, nor sanctuary,    Being naked, sick, nor fane nor Capitol,    The prayers of priests, nor times of sacrifice,    Embarquements all of fury, shall lift up    Their rotten privilege and custom ’gainst    My hate to Marcius: where I find him, were it    At home, upon my brother’s guard, even there,    Against the hospitable canon, would I    Wash my fierce hand in’s blood.                                        (I. x. 17. )On this passage Coleridge comments:    I have such deep faith in Shakespeare’s heart-lore, that I    take for granted that this is in nature, and not as a mere    anomaly; although I cannot in myself discover any germ of    possible feeling, which could wax and unfold itself into    such a sentiment as this. It seems strange that Coleridge should say this, for it is provedby not a few examples that baffled emulation may issue in an envywhich knows few restraints. Perhaps it was the avowal rather thanthe temper which struck him as verging on the unnatural or abnormal. Those who deliberately adopt such an attitude do not usually admitit to themselves, still less to their victims, and least of all to athird party. Which may admonish us that Aufidius’ threats were notdeliberate, but mere frantic outcries wrung from him in rage andmortification. Yet they spring from authentic impulses in his heart,and though they may for a time be hidden by his superficial chivalry,they will spread and thrive if the conditions favour their growth. Whenthey have overrun his nature and choked the wholesome grain, he willnot point to them so openly and will name them by other names. Butthey are the same and differ from what they were only as the thornythicket differs from its parent seeds. They have always been thereand it is well that we should be aware of their presence from thefirst. Coleridge concludes his criticism: “However I perceive that inthis speech is meant to be contained a prevention of the shock at theafter-change in Aufidius’ character. ” In short, it is not to be takenas his definite programme from which he inconsistently deviates whenthe opportunity is offered at Antium for carrying it out, but as theinvoluntary presentiment, which the revealing power of anguish awakensin his soul, of the crimes he is capable of committing for his masterpassion, a presentiment that in the end is realised almost to theletter. And in the fulfilment, as in the anticipation, he has an eye merelyto the results, and seeks only to obtain the first place for himselfwhether he deserve it or no. When Coriolanus consents to the peace withRome, Aufidius soliloquises:    I am glad thou hast set thy mercy and thy honour    At difference in thee: out of that I’ll work    Myself a former fortune.                                       (V. iii. 200. )It is the adventitious superiority and the judgment by appearances thatalways appeal to him. Listen to the interchange of confidences betweenhis accomplice and himself:      _Third Conspirator. _ The people will remain uncertain whilst    ’Twixt you there’s difference; but the fall of either    Makes the survivor heir of all.      _Aufidius. _           I know it:    And my pretext to strike at him admits    A good construction.                                             (V. vi. 17. )He will be heir of all, and his action will admit a good construction;that is enough for him. It only remains to keep another constructionfrom being suggested; and he approves the conspirator’s advice:                    When he lies along,    After your way his tale pronounced shall bury    His reasons with his body.                                      (V. vi. 57. )It has sometimes been questioned whether such a man would give hisfugitive rival a welcome which at the first and for some time seems somagnanimous, and if he did, whether the magnanimity was sincere. ButAufidius, though he is above all a lover of pre-eminence at whatevercost and therefore cannot for long stand the ordeal of being surpassed,is not without a soldier’s generosity; and moreover, the course whichhe was moved to adopt (and this is a more important consideration)would be one congenial to his meretricious love of ostentation anddisplay. There is no rôle more soothing to worsted vanity and at thesame time more likely to gain it the admiration it prizes, than thatof patron to a formerly successful and now unfortunate rival. In thereflected glory, the benefactor seems to acquire the merits of theother in addition to a magnificence all his own. This, we may assume,was in part the motive of Aufidius; as appears from his own words, inwhich he shows himself well aware of his own generous behaviour:                            He came unto my hearth;    Presented to my knife his throat: I took him;    Made him joint-servant with me; gave him way    In all his own desires; nay, let him choose    Out of my files, his projects to accomplish,    My best and freshest men; served his designments    In mine own person; holp to reap the fame    Which he did end all his; and _took some pride_    _To do myself this wrong_; till, at the last,    I seem’d his follower, not partner, and    He waged me with his countenance, as if    I had been mercenary.                                      (V. vi. 30. )The hasty flash of generosity, the hope of winning new credit, wouldsoon be extinguished or transmuted by such persistent success,superiority and pride. And Coriolanus’ popularity with the troops atthe expense of his Volscian colleague, would be bitter to the mosthigh-minded benefactor. It is brought out to us by his question to hislieutenant in the camp near Rome: “Do they still fly to the Roman? ”(IV. vii. 1). Evidently the soldiers of Antium flock to the bannersof this foreigner rather than to those of their own countrymen. Thesuggestion for this is furnished by Plutarch, but with Shakespeare asting is added. In the _Life_ Tullus stays behind as reserve with halfthe army to guard against any inroad, while Coriolanus acts on theoffensive and captures a number of towns. Thereupon,    the other Volsces that were appointed to remaine in garrison    for defence of theur countrie, hearing this good newes,    would tary no lenger at home, but armed them selves, and    ranne to Martius campe, saying they dyd acknowledge no other    captaine but him. It is much less wounding to Aufidius that his men should wish toexchange inaction for the excitement of war, than that he shouldwitness their resort to his rival who is, in name, only his equal incommand. Indeed his lieutenant in the play regrets that he did not doprecisely what he did do according to Plutarch.                      I wish, sir,—    I mean for your particular,—you had not    Join’d in commission with him; but either    Had borne the action of yourself, or else    To him had left it solely.                               (IV. vii. 12. )Thus Shakespeare gives Tullus a stronger motive, and in so far abetter policy for his treason. On the other hand he bases it moreexclusively on personal envy. For in Plutarch the truce of thirty dayswhich Coriolanus grants Rome is the original occasion of the movementagainst him, in which other Volscians besides Aufidius share; and thismovement culminates only after he has conceded peace on conditionswhich even Plutarch considers unfair to his employers. But in the play,as we have seen, the truce is omitted, and Tullus has determined onthe destruction of his supplanter even at a time when he confidentlyexpects that Rome cannot save herself:                    When, Caius, Rome is thine,    Thou art poor’st of all: then shortly art thou mine.                                          (IV. vii. 56. )Thus the last shred of public spirit is torn away from his selfishambition and spite. In contrast with all this lust for precedence and vainglorious egotism,we cannot but feel that Marcius is striving for the reality of honourand is eager to fulfil the conditions on which honour is due. And connected with this is another point which we might regard as thenatural and inevitable consequence, but which Shakespeare only inferredand did not obtain from Plutarch, who gives no indication of it. Thisis Marcius’ indifference to or rather detestation of all professedpraise. His distaste for eulogy does not of course lead him to rejecta distinction and acknowledgment like the surname of _Coriolanus_that he is conscious of having deserved. On the contrary he prizesit and clings to it, and among the circumstances that overthrow hisself-control in the final scene, the fact that Aufidius withholds fromhim this appellation has a chief place.      _Aufidius. _                   Marcius!      _Coriolanus. _                       Marcius!      _Aufidius. _ Ay, Marcius, Caius Marcius; dost thou think    I’ll grace thee with that robbery, thy stol’n name    Coriolanus in Corioli? Just in the same way, his aversion from mercantile profit does not leadhim to refuse a gift from a friend when he feels that he has earnedthat friend’s approval. So when Cominius bestows on him the charger,and bids the host hail him with his new title, he answers graciouslyenough if a little awkwardly:    I will go wash;    And when my face is fair, you shall perceive    Whether I blush or no: howbeit I thank you.    I mean to stride your steed, and at all times    To undercrest your good addition    To the fairness of my power.                                      (I. ix. 68. )But except on such semi-official occasions, which he is obliged torecognise, any sort of commendation abashes him and puts him out. EvenLartius’ burst of admiration he immediately checks:                Pray now, no more: my mother,    Who has a charter to extol her blood,    When she does praise me, grieves me.                                 (I. ix. 13. )When Cominius persists, he would fain cut him short:    I have some wounds upon me, and they smart    To hear themselves remember’d.                                   (I. ix. 28. )When the host spontaneously breaks out in acclamation, he feels it isover much, and is more irritated than pleased:    May these same instruments, which you profane,    Never sound more! When drums and trumpets shall    I’ the field prove flatterers, let courts and cities be    Made all of false-faced soothing!    When steel grows soft as the parasite’s silk,    Let him be made a coverture for the wars!    No more, I say! For that I have not wash’d    My nose that bled, or foil’d some debile wretch,—    Which, without note, here’s many else have done,—    You shout me forth    In acclamations hyperbolical;    As if I loved my little should be dieted    In praises sauced with lies.                                        (I. ix. 42. )So, too, with the welcome of the crowd at his homecoming:    No more of this; it does offend my heart;    Pray now, no more.                                (II. i. 185. )Where the formal, and therefore up to a certain point, conventionalpanegyrics have to be pronounced in the senate, he is honestly ill atease and would rather go away. To the senator who seeks to stay him, heanswers:                        Your honour’s pardon:    I had rather have my wounds to heal again    Than hear say how I got them.                                 (II. ii. 72. )And he adds, as he actually leaves his seat:    I had rather have one scratch my head i’ the sun    When the alarum were struck, than idly sit    To hear my nothings monster’d.                                       (II. ii. 79. )He can dispense with the admiration of others, because he seeks “theperfect witness” of his own approval, and abhors any extravagantapplause because he measures his actions by the standard of absolutedesert. In other words, both his self-respect and his ideal ofattainment are abnormally, one might say morbidly, developed. And thisexplains both his humility and his self-assertion. Volumnia tells him:    Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour,    To imitate the graces of the gods.                                   (V. iii. 149. )If that is the goal, how far must even the mightiest fall short of it,and how much must he resent the adulation of his prowess as the highestto be attained. On the contrary he “waxes like the sea,” sets himselfto advance    From well to better, daily self surpassed;and every glory he achieves is, as Shakespeare read in Plutarch, less awage that he has earned than a pledge that he must redeem.    It is daylie seene, that honour and reputation lighting on    young men before their time, and before they have no great    corage by nature, the desire to winne more, dieth straight in    them, which easely happeneth, the same having no deepe    roote in them before. Where contrariwise, the first honour    that valliant mindes doe come unto, doth quicken up their    appetite, hasting them forward as with force of winde,    to enterprise things of highe deserving praise. For they    esteeme, not to receave reward for service done, but rather    take it for a remembraunce and encoragement, to make them    doe better in time to come: and be ashamed also to cast    their honour at their heeles, not seeking to increase it    still by like deserte of worthie valliant dedes. This desire    being bred in Martius, he strained still to passe him selfe    in manlines: and being desirous to shewe a daylie increase    of his valliantnes, his noble service dyd still advaunce his    fame. But, on the other hand, though he, as not having attained, pressesforward to the mark of his high calling, he has but to spend a glanceon his fellows, and being an honest man he must perceive that hisperformance quite eclipses theirs. When the citizen asks him what hasbrought him to stand for the consulship, his reply is from the heart:“Mine own desert” (II. iii. 71). He feels poignantly the indignity ofhaving to ask for what seems to him his due, and this partly explainsthe reluctance, which Shakespeare invents for him, to face a popularelection.    Better it is to die, better to starve,    Than crave the hire which first we do deserve.                                   (II. iii. 120. )In bitter self-irony he belies the disinterestedness of his exploits,and libels them as mere contrivances to win favour:    Your voices: for your voices I have fought;    Watch’d for your voices; for your voices bear    Of wounds two dozen odd; battles thrice six    I have seen and heard of; for your voices have    Done many things, some less, some more.                                   (II. iii. 133. )His fault lies in an opposite direction. His sense of dignity andself-esteem makes him inflexible to any concession that would seem todisparage himself and the truth.    His nature is too noble for the world:    He would not flatter Neptune for his trident.    Or Jove for’s power to thunder.                                   (III. i. 255. )And he is entitled to this consciousness of his worth, for it is notmerely individual. It collects in a focus the most valued traits ofvarious social fellowships that are greater and wider than himself. Heis—he has been taught to consider himself and to become—the peculiarrepresentative of the great family of the great aristocracy of thegreat city of Rome. If he transcends the dimensions of ordinary humanpower and human error, this consideration enables us to see how he hascome to do so, and brings him back to our ordinary human sympathies. These are the three concentric orbits in which his universe revolves,the three well-heads that feed the current of his life. They giveimpetus to his love of honour and volume to his pride. His civic patriotism he lives to abjure, but at first it is eager andintense. It is this feeling that is affronted by the retreat of histownsmen before Corioli and that boils over in curses and abuse: heis wroth with them because they are “shames of Rome. ” The climax tohis appeal for volunteers is to ask if any thinks “that his country’sdearer than himself” (I. vi. 72): and in the moment of triumph heclasses himself unreservedly among all his comrades who have beenactuated by his own and the only right motive, love for the _patria_.                            I have done    What you have done; that’s what I can: induced    As you have been; that’s for my country:    He that hath but effected his good will    Hath overta’en my act.                                      (I. ix. 15. )He cherishes a transcendent idea of the state, and is wounded to theheart that its members fall short of it.    I would they were barbarians—as they are,    Though in Rome litter’d—not Romans—as they are not,    Though calved i’ the porch o’ the Capitol.                                          (III. i. 238. )And he is similarly, but more closely bound up in his own order. The nobles, the patricians, the senate, are to him the core of thecommonwealth, the very Rome of Rome. They are, as he says, “thefundamental part of state” (III. i. 151). His first thought on hisreturn from the campaign is to pay his due respects to their dignity:    Ere in my own house I do shade my head,    The good patricians must be visited.                              (II. i. 211. )He is scandalised by the insolence of the plebs in revolting againstsuch authority:                          What’s the matter,    That in these several places of the city    You cry against the noble senate, who,    Under the gods, keep you in awe?                                (I. i. 188. )His gorge rises at the thought of a representative of the peopleimposing his mandate on so august a body.                    They choose their magistrate,    And such a one as he, who puts his “shall,”    His popular “shall” against a graver bench    Than ever frown’d in Greece.                                   (III. i. 104. )He hates any innovation that is likely    To break the heart of generosity    And make bold power look pale.                        (I. i. 215. )For to him the power that is vested in the generous, that is, thehigh-born classes, is a sacred thing. But the domestic tie is the closest of all. The whole story bringsout its compulsive pressure and no particular passages are neededto illustrate it. Yet in some passages we are made to realisewith special vividness how it binds and entwines him, as in thatexclamation when he sees the deputation of women approaching:    My wife comes foremost; then the honour’d mould    Wherein this trunk was framed, and in her hand    The grandchild to her blood.                                       (V. iii. 22. )It is as son, husband and father that the depths of Coriolanus’ naturecan be reached. In his greetings to his wife, in his prayers for hisboy, we have glimpses of his inward heart; but of course this familyfeeling is concentrated on his mother who, as it were, sums up hisancestry to him, and who, by her personal qualities and her parentalauthority, fills his soul with a kind of religious reverence. We haveseen how she has fashioned him, how she commands and awes him. When sheinclines her head as she appears before him, he already feels that itis incongruous and absurd:                        My mother bows:    As if Olympus to a molehill should    In supplication nod.                          (V. iii. 29. )When she kneels, it is prodigious, incredible; he cannot believe hiseyes:                            What is this?    Your knees to me? to your corrected son?    Then let the pebbles on the hungry beach    Fillip the stars; then let the mutinous winds    Strike the proud cedars ’gainst the fiery sun:    Murdering impossibility, to make    What cannot be, slight work.                                     (V. iii. 56. )Not only then is Coriolanus in other respects a singularly noblepersonality, but even his pride is certainly not devoid of ethicalcontent when it embodies the consciousness of the city republic, thegoverning estate, the organised family, with all their claims andobligations. These are the constituent elements that have suppliedmatter for his self-esteem, and all of them are formative, and capable,as we saw, of producing such a lofty, though limited moral characteras that of Volumnia. Yet it is precisely to them, or at least to theway in which they are mingled in his pride, that Coriolanus’ faults andmisfortunes may be traced. CHAPTER VITHE DISASTERS OF CORIOLANUS AND THEIR CAUSESFeeling for his country, feeling for his caste, feeling for his familythus form the triple groundwork of Coriolanus’ nobleness, but they failto uphold it in the storm of temptation. As furnishing the foundationsof conduct they have dangers and defects, inherent in themselves, orincident to their combination, and these it is to which the guilt andruin of Coriolanus are due. These drawbacks may be illustrated under three heads. They are unfitcompletely to transfigure egoism, for they have all an egoistic aspect,and are indeed merely extended forms of selfishness. They are primarilythe products of nature, instinct, passion; and may exist without beingraised to the rank of rational principles and without having theirjust scope delimited and defined. And, lastly, for that reason theirrelative importance may be mistaken, and one that is the strongernatural impulse may usurp the place of one that is of more bindingmoral authority. It has often been pointed out, and sometimes as a matter of complaint,that family affection is very restricted in its range and may conflictwith the larger interests of mankind. It produces an intense unitywithin the one household, but it is apt to be jealous, repellent,aggressive as regards other households and their members. Further,in so far as it is _my_ parents, _my_ brothers, _my_ children, whosewelfare I promote, the ground of preference has nothing to do withimpartial equity: it is determined by the nearness of the persons to_me_, by _my_ fondness for them, by my looking on them as appurtenancesof _mine_; in short it is selfish. And those who maintain thesacredness of the family give this no absolute denial, but reply,first, that in the long run the true interests of one family, rightlyunderstood, do not conflict with the true interests of other families,of the state, or the rest of mankind; and, second, that even before thetrue interests are rightly grasped, the family relation forms at leasta stage in the process by which the individual learns to enlarge hisself-interest, a preliminary stage but an inevitable stage, and stillfor the vast majority of men the stage of most practical importance. Many a one is ready to give up his personal pleasure or advantage forthose of his own house, who would be deaf to all more general appeals. Thus the family so widens self-love as to include in it some otherpeople, but in one of its aspects it nevertheless depends on self-love. And the same thing holds good of the enlarged kindred that we call anaristocracy. The nobility of blood forms a sort of family on a largescale, a family of caste, an amplified household united by commonpursuits, privileges, education and ideals, and often further blendedby frequent intermarriage. The aristocrat finds himself born into thisartificial, which is in some respects almost like a natural fraternity;and his ethos to his order, ethos though it be, is largely the ethos ofthe individual who recognises his own reflection in his fellow nobles. Nor is it otherwise with the state, especially, we may say, theantique city state, where often the aristocracy really was the nativenucleus, and which in the greatest expansion of which it was capable,did not exceed the dimensions of a modern municipality. The patriotismof the citizens had the fervour of domestic piety, their disputes hadthe bitterness of family quarrels. In the community its sons exultedand lived and moved and had their being: it was theirs and they wereits, in opposition to the alien states, the states of other people, towhich they were apt to be indifferent or hostile. Now it is evident that all these principles in the case of a man witha strong consciousness of his own worth and superlative self-respect,might give substance and validity to his egoism, but would ratherencourage than counteract it. And so with Coriolanus. His independent,individual, isolated sufficiency passes all bounds. He derivessustenance for it from the three layers of atmosphere that envelopehim, but he thinks he can if necessary dispense with these externalaids. In so far as he can separate the people in his mind from thewhole body politic of Rome, he excludes them from his sympathy, or evenhis tolerance, and glories in his ostentation of antagonism. Take hisspeech about the popular demonstration:    They said they were an-hungry, sigh’d forth proverbs,    That hunger broke stone walls, that dogs must eat,    That meat was made for mouths, that the gods sent not    Corn for the rich men only: with these shreds    They vented their complainings.                                            (I. i. 209. )In reference to this Archbishop Trench has a very true remark. Hepoints out that where there is a marked and conscious division of ranks,    [proverbs] may go nearly or quite out of use among    the so-called upper classes. No gentleman, says Lord    Chesterfield, “ever uses a proverb. ” And with how true a    touch of nature, Shakespeare makes Coriolanus, the man who    with all his greatness, is entirely devoid of all sympathy    with the people, to utter his scorn of them in scorn of    their proverbs and of their frequent employment of them. He has indeed no sense of their homely wisdom or their homely virtues. He has no common charity for them, and his attitude to them if theyventure to assert themselves, is that of a less human slaveholder torefractory slaves.    Would the nobility lay aside their ruth,    And let me use my sword, I’ld make a quarry    With thousands of these quarter’d slaves, as high    As I could pick my lance.                                         (I. i. 201. )After such counsel, we feel that the exclamation of Sicinius is notwithout its warrant:                            Where is this viper    That would depopulate the city, and    Be every man himself?                                 (III. i. 263. )His self-centred confidence and egotism culminates in his retort to hissentence:    You common cry of curs? whose breath I hate    As reek o’ the rotten fens, whose loves I prize    As the dead carcasses of unburied men    That do corrupt my air, I banish you.                                   (III. iii. 120. )But it is characteristic of this spirit which really makes a man alaw to himself and the measure of things, that though by all histraining and prejudices inclined to the traditional and conservative inpolitics, yet, if use-and-wont presses hard against his own pride, heshows himself an innovator of the most uncompromising kind. He objectsonce and again to the prescriptive forms of election, and at lastbreaks out:                          Custom calls me to ’t!    What custom wills, in all things should we do ’t,    The dust on antique time would lie unswept    And mountainous error be too highly heapt    For truth to o’er-peer.                                   (II. iii. 124. )Here he blossoms out as the reddest of radicals, though a radical ofthe Napoleonic type. But, further, his feeling for family, class and country ispre-eminently feeling. It belongs to those natural tendencies thatalmost seem to come to us by heredity and environment, and haveanalogies with the instincts of animals. It is, at least in the formit assumes with him, not to be ranked among the moral convictionswhich can stand the examination of conscience and reason, and in theproduction of which conscience and reason have co-operated. It israther an innate impulse, a headlong passion, and resembles a blindphysical force of which he can give no account. His understanding iswithout right of entry into this part of his life. We have seen, nodoubt, that his presuppositions once granted he can form a very acuteestimate of the situation. But he never uses his judgment eitherin examining his presuppositions or in discovering the treatmentthat the situation requires. He has not the width of outlook or theself-criticism that enable Menenius and Cominius, and even the ordinarysenators, to see the relative importance of the principles for whichthey contend, and prefer any compromise to laying the city flat andsacking great Rome with Romans. He has not the astuteness of Volumnia,who perceives that strategy is to be used in government as in war andbids him stoop to conquer:    I have a heart as little apt as yours,    But yet a brain that leads my use of anger    To better vantage.                                 (III. ii. 29. )    If it be honour in your wars to seem    The same you are not, which, for your best ends,    You adopt your policy, how is it less or worse,    That it shall hold companionship in peace    With honour, as in war, since that to both    It stands in like request?                                 (III. ii. 46. )Both in regard to end and means, he listens to the counsels not of hisreason but of his passion and hot blood. As how could he do otherwise? It is passion not reason that oversways his nature, determiningeverything in him from these first fundamental principles to the mosttransitory mood. More particularly, that tyrannous self-respect of his,the personal flame in which all his interests, domestic, aristocratic,national, are fused, is his central passion, and one that gives moreheat than light. Sometimes, indeed, it kindles him to great things. When the Volscian army abandons the shelter of Corioli he feels it aninsult to his country, therefore to himself; and the outrage to his_amour propre_ incites him to do wonders.    They fear us not, but issue forth their city.    Now put your shields before your hearts, and fight    With hearts more proof than shields. Advance, brave Titus:    _They do disdain us much beyond our thoughts,    Which makes me sweat with wrath_.                                                 (I. iv. 23. )But again, it may make it impossible for him to take the right path. When asked to show some outward submission to the people, he answers:                            To the market place!    You have put me now to such a part which never    I shall discharge to the life.                                   (III. ii. 104. )He was justified in objecting to methods of dissimulation and flattery,but, if only he had been reasonable, a middle course would not havebeen hard to find, which should safeguard his self-respect whilepacifying the populace. It is because his self-respect is of passionnot of reason, that he is so unconciliatory, and therefore almost asculpable as if he were guilty of the opposite fault. Plutarch, indeed,thinks he is more so. In his comparison between him and Alcibiades, heis in this matter more lenient to the latter:    He is lesse to be blamed, that seeketh to please and    gratifie his common people; then he that despiseth and    disdaineth them, and therefore offereth them wrong and    injurie, bicause he would not seeme to flatter them, to    winne the more authoritie. For as it is an evill thing to    flatter the common people to winne credit; even so it is    besides dishonesty, and injustice also, to atteine to credit    and authoritie, for one to make him selfe terrible to the    people, by offering them wrong and violence. This passage has inspired the criticism of the officer of the Capitol;who, however, impartially holds the scales.    If he did not care whether he had their love or no, he waved    indifferently ’twixt doing them neither good nor harm: but    he seeks their hate with greater devotion than they can    render it him; and leaves nothing undone that may fully    discover him their opposite. Now, to seem to affect the    malice and displeasure of the people is as bad as that which    he dislikes, to flatter them for their love.                                                     (II. ii. 18. )With this temper it is natural that the arrogance of success, lackof nous, and want of adaptability—which is often merely another formof self-will—should bring about his ruin; and it is these threecharacteristics, or a modicum of them, to which Aufidius in point offact attributes his banishment.                            First he was    A noble servant to them; but he could not    Carry his honours even: whether ’twas pride,    Which out of daily fortune ever taints    The happy man; whether defect of judgement,    To fail in the disposing of those chances    Which he was lord of; or whether nature,    Not to be other than one thing, not moving    From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace    Even with the same austerity and garb    As he controll’d the war; but one of these—    As he hath spices of them all, not all,    For I dare so far free him—made him fear’d,    So hated, and so banish’d.                                   (IV. vii. 35. )But, lastly, not only are the three objective ethical principles thatgive Coriolanus his moral equipment, inadequate in so far as theirrange is largely selfish and their origin largely natural; he misplacesthe order in which they should come. In the case of Volumnia, despiteall her maternal preference and patrician prejudice, Rome is the grandconsideration, as her deeds unequivocally prove. Nor is she singular;she is only the most conspicuous example among others of her caste. Cominius, too, postpones the family to the state:                                I do love    My country’s good with a respect more tender,    More holy and profound, than mine own life,    My dear wife’s estimate, her womb’s increase,    And treasure of my loins.                                 (III. iii. 111. )And this is more or less the attitude of the rest. But Coriolanusreverses the sequence, and gives his chief homage precisely to the mostrestricted and elementary, the most primitive and instinctive principleof the three. He loves Rome indeed, fights for her, grieves for hershames, and glories in her triumphs; but he loves the nobility more,and would by wholesale massacre secure their supremacy. He loves thenobility indeed, but when they, no doubt for the common good, sufferhim to be expelled from Rome, they become to him the “dastard nobles”;and he makes hardly any account of his old henchman and intimateMenenius, and none at all of his old comrade and general Cominius. Buthe loves his family as himself, and though he strives to root out itsclaims from his heart, the attempt is vain. He may exclaim:                          Out, affection!    All bond and privilege of nature, break!                                   (V. iii. 24. )                              I’ll never    Be such a gosling to obey instinct, but stand,    As if a man were author of himself    And knew no other kin.                                   (V. iii. 34. )But it is mere histrionic make-believe and pretence: at the first wordsof Virgilia he cries:                          Like a dull actor now,    I have forgot my part, and I am out,    Even to a full disgrace.                                   (V.

iii. 40. )How could this man, whose personal pride and family pride areso interwoven, whose self-love and whose virtues are so much aninheritance of his line, ever hope to sever himself from what makes uphis very being? The home instincts must triumph. It is well that they should, and this is the redeeming touch thatcancels much of the guilt of apostasy which brands the close of hiscareer. But all the same we feel that his self-surrender to theobligations of the family is a less noble thing than his mother’sself-surrender to the obligations of the state. Of course, in a way,family and class must with all come before the whole community. Men,that is, are bound to be more interested in those of their own circleand their own set than in their fellow-citizens with whom they haveless relation. That gives a very good ground for a man’s constantunremitting occupation with his nearest and dearest. But, nevertheless,when the call comes, it is the wider community that has the moreimperative claim. And it is easy to see that Volumnia, though at the supreme momentshe shows that she herself has the right feeling for the relation,is responsible for the inverted order in the conception of her son. Her contempt for the masses, her exaltation of the patricians, herhigh-handed insistence on the family authority were almost bound to beexaggerated in a child growing up under her influence and subjectedto no corrective views. And she must have added to the dangers of hertuition by dangling before his eyes the ideal personal honour as thegrand prize of life. He wins it and lets it slip again and again, andwhen he grasps it at last, it is rent and mangled in his hands. Thereis something typical in the episode of his son and the butterfly, asValeria narrates it:    I saw him run after a gilded butterfly; and when he caught    it, he let it go again; and after it again; and over and over    he comes, and up again; catched it again; or whether his    fall enraged him, or how ’twas, he did so set his teeth and    tear it: Ο, I warrant, how he mammocked it!                                                   (I. iii. 65. )Young Marcius is described as the facsimile and “epitome” of hisfather, and Volumnia is well pleased with this example of the familybent. She must not disclaim her share in the preparation, when thefather enacts the apologue in the larger theatre of life. And she is even responsible for some of the mistaken courses thatdirectly lead to the disaster. For Coriolanus, with all his blind sides and rough corners, might stillbe the faithful and honoured champion of Rome if he were left to followhis own predestined and congenial path as military leader. In the fieldhe can rouse the courage of the citizens and fire their enthusiasm,while on his part, when he wins their recognition and devotion, helays aside some of his asperity to them, and is even gracious in hisawkward, convincing way. They forget their hatred, he forgets hisscorn. And to him as warrior the whole population, not only the portionof it that has the franchise, is ready to do honour. The descriptionwhich the chagrined tribune gives of his triumphal progress throughthe streets shows with what cordial pride all ranks were eager to payhim homage. There is no reason why he should not continue to dischargein this his proper sphere the functions that none could discharge sowell. His political weight is from the first small. Despite his urgentdissuasion he has been powerless to prevent the distribution of cornor the concession of the tribunate. And when he does not intrude intothis outlying domain, where he effects nothing, he seems to go his ownway peaceably enough, occupied mainly in watching for the common goodthe movements of Aufidius and the Volscians; so that, so far as hisantipathy to the people is concerned, his bark is worse than his bite. That is the point of the similes that Brutus and Menenius exchangeabout him when Menenius has compared the plebs to a wolf and Coriolanusto a lamb. Says the tribune:    He’s a lamb indeed, that baes like a bear. And the senator answers:    He’s a bear indeed, that lives like a lamb.                                   (II. i. 12. )But thrust him into a position that involves political authority, andall will be changed. It will be impossible for him to confine himselfto harmless growls; the bear will have the people in his hug, andthey are not to blame if they take to their weapons. In short theantagonism, which before was, so to speak, academic and led to nothing,must become a matter of life and death. Now it must not be overlookedthat it is in obedience to his mother’s ambitions and in opposition tohis own better judgment that Coriolanus stands for the consulship. Ofcourse, in a way, it is the natural goal of his career. Even Meneniusis so blinded by the glamour of the situation that he interposes noprudent warning. Nevertheless, if he had only exercised his accustomedshrewdness he would have seen the mischievousness of such a course; forin a remark to the tribune he sums up admirably the perils it involves:                        He loves your people;    But tie him not to be their bedfellow;                                (II. ii. 68. )yet for all that, Menenius is the candidate’s most activeelectioneering agent. When his sagacity so neglects its ownsuggestions, it is perhaps not wonderful that Volumnia’s narrowerintellect should ignore everything but her visions of glory forherself and her son. And yet she might have laid to heart his sincereremonstrance:                            Know, good mother,    I had rather been their servant in my way,    Than sway with them in theirs.                                (II. i. 218. )She cannot be acquitted of driving him into the false position. And she is equally responsible for the fiasco and disaster in which hisattempted submission ends. Observe that this is not the only course hemight have adopted. Cominius, entering in the middle of the discussion,suggests two others:    I have been i’ the market-place; and, sir, ’tis fit    You make strong party, or defend yourself    By calmness or by absence.                                        (III. ii. 93. )The first expedient of making strong party and resorting to force isout of the question, both because, as Cominius has already pointedout, it is practically hopeless in face of the odds, and because, ashe and others have also pointed out, even if successful it would ruinthe state. The second expedient of calmness and conciliation is theone that Volumnia and Menenius in their pertinacious craving to seeCoriolanus consul, strongly advocate; and in the abstract it is theright one. But it suffers from a drawback which makes it worse thanhopeless, and which Cominius has the foresight to recognise. “Only fairspeech,” says Menenius, and Cominius rejoins very doubtfully:         I _think_ ’t will serve, _if_ he    Can thereto frame his spirit.                           (III. ii. 95. )That is just the point; and one wonders how anyone who knew Coriolanuscould expect of him so impossible a feat. There remains the expedientof absence, which Cominius, from the third place he assigns to it,himself seems to prefer. And in the circumstances it is obviously thebest. If only the accused had withdrawn for a time, he would soonhave been recalled. It is inconceivable that when the new expeditionof the Volscians, which he alone foresaw, broke into Roman territory,the state would not at once have had recourse to the great commander. Nor would there have been much difficulty in doing so, since he wouldmerely have betaken himself to voluntary retirement; and even hadhe been exiled in default, the mutual exasperation on both sides,which the last collision was to produce, would have been avoided. But again it is Volumnia’s overbearing self-will that imposes on himthe pernicious choice. And though, as I have said, this proposal isideally the best, for in such cases management and compromise arelegitimate enough and may be laudable, it is not only the worst inthe present instance, but she gives it a turn that must have made itpeculiarly revolting to her son. In her covetousness for the consulardignity she recommends such hypocrisy, trickery and base cringing asthe self-respect of no honest man, much less of a Coriolanus, couldtolerate:                            I prithee now, my son,    Go to them, with this bonnet in thy hand;    And thus far having stretch’d it—here be with them—    Thy knee bussing the stones—for in such business    Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant    More learned than the ears—waving thy head,    Which often, thus, correcting thy stout heart,    Now humble as the ripest mulberry    that will not hold the handling: or say to them,    Thou art their soldier, and being bred in broils    Hast not the soft way which, thou dost confess,    Were fit for thee to use as they to claim,    In asking their good loves, but thou wilt frame    Thyself, forsooth, hereafter theirs, so far    As thou hast power and person.                                       (III. ii. 72. )The amicable policy need not have been painted in such colours asthese. It is inevitable that Coriolanus, already inclined to regardit as a degradation, should after these words construe it in the mosthumiliating-sense:                                  Well, I must do’t:    Away, my disposition, and possess me    Some harlot’s spirit! My throat of war be turn’d,    Which quired with my drum, into a pipe    Small as an eunuch, or the virgin voice    That babies lulls asleep! The smile of knaves    Tent in my cheeks, and schoolboys’ tears take up    The glasses of my sight! a beggar’s tongue    Make motion through my lips, and my arm’d knees,    Who bow’d but in the stirrup, bend like his    That hath received an alms.                                   (III. ii. 110. )What wonder that his conclusion is to reject such tactics lest theyshould dishonour his integrity and degrade his soul? His mother’s angerindeed makes him abandon this decision, but his instincts are right. It is a part that of course he could not play under any circumstances,but she has done nothing to show it in its more honourable aspect, andeverything to confirm and increase his feeling of its vileness. Hissourness and recalcitrance at being false to himself makes him boilover the more fiercely at the first provocation, and all is lost. It is sometimes said that defeat and the desire for vengeance teachhim the lessons which his mother had inculcated in vain, and thathenceforth he shows himself a master of dissimulation, flattery, anddeception. In proof of this it is usual to cite, in the first place,the farewell scene, when he breathes no word to Cominius, Menenius,Virgilia, or Volumnia of his intention to join the Volscians and returnto overthrow Rome. But was any such intention as yet in his mind? InPlutarch he has adopted no definite plan before he sets out. Aftertelling how he comforts his family, the biography proceeds:    He went immediatly to the gate of the cittie, accompanied    with a great number of Patricians that brought him thither,    from whence he went on his waye with three or foure of his    friendes only, taking nothing with him, nor requesting    any thing of any man. So he remained a fewe dayes in the    countrie at his houses, turmoyled with sundry sortes and    kynde of thoughtes, suche as the fyer of his choller dyd    sturre up. In the ende, seeing he could resolve no waye, to    take a profitable or honorable course, but only was pricked    forward still to be revenged of the Romaines, he thought to    raise up some great warres against them, by their neerest    neighbours. Of course it is quite true, and it has been one purpose of this essayto show, that Shakespeare often completely recasts Plutarch. But itis also true that, when he does not expressly do so, he often keepsPlutarch’s statements in his mind, even when, as in the case of thevoting by tribes, he does not cite them. It counts for something then,that in the _Life_, Coriolanus on leaving Rome has no fixed purposeof seeking foreign help. And if we turn to the parting scene in thetragedy, and let it make its own impression, without reading intoit suggestions from subsequent occurrences, I think we feel not somuch that he is still undecided as that the idea has not yet enteredinto his head. We seem to hear the very accent of sincerity in hisrepetition of the maxims that erewhile he learned from his mother’s ownlips, and that he clinches with the reminder:                        You were used to load me    With precepts that would make invincible    The heart that conn’d them.                                     (IV. i. 9. )Surely it is a real attempt at consolation, when he interrupts hermaledictions on the plebeians who have banished him:                            What, what, what!    I shall be loved, when I am lack’d.                                 (IV. i. 14. )He seems to hint at seeking out new adventures and a new career in newregions beyond the reach of Rome, when he says:                          My mother, you wot well    My hazards still have been your solace: and    Believe’t not lightly—though I go alone,    Like to a lonely dragon, that his fen    Makes fear’d and talk’d of more than seen—your son    Will or exceed the common or be caught    With cautelous baits and practice.                                         (IV. i. 27. )It was not cautelous baits and practice that he would have to fear,but the open violence of Aufidius if he already thought of going toAntium, and the simile of the lonely dragon more talked of than seenwould be abundantly inappropriate if it referred to his reappearanceat the head of the Volscian forces: but the expressions would be quiteapt if he meant to make his name redoubtable by his single prowess instrange places amidst the risks of an errant life. It is in professedanticipation of this that he rejects the companionship which Cominiusoffers:    Thou hast years upon thee; and thou art too full    Of the wars’ surfeits, to go rove with one    That’s yet unbruised.                                         (IV. i. 45. )Are these utterances mere pretence? And have not his last farewellsthe genuine note of cordiality and good will? If we could imagine thathe would bring himself to address those whom he afterwards called the“dastard nobles” as “my friends of noble touch,” it would still beimpossible to believe him guilty of cold-hearted deceit to Virgilia andVolumnia.    Come, my sweet wife, my dearest mother, and    My friends of noble touch, when I am forth    Bid me farewell, and smile. I pray you, come.    While I remain above the ground, you shall    Hear from me still, and never of me aught    But what is like me formerly.                                     (IV. i. 48. )It would not be like the former champion of Rome to return as itsassailant; but we may take it that at this moment he is expecting tocarve his way to glory in a different world and perhaps eventually berecalled to his country, but in any case to proceed merely on the oldlines in so far as that is possible, and meanwhile to be reported of,as Menenius continues, “worthily as any ear can hear. ”If, then, he is speaking honestly in this scene, how are we to accountfor his change of purpose when we next meet him a renegade in Antium? No explanation was needed in Plutarch, for the circumstances were notquite the same. There he had only not resolved to join the enemy; herehe apparently has resolved to do something else. In the _Life_ afterleaving the city he merely comes to a decision, in the play he reversesthe decision he has formed. So some statement is needed of the causefor the alteration of his plans, and at first sight there seems to benone. Yet there is a hint and a fairly emphatic one, though it has notbeen worked out; a hint, moreover, which is the more significant thatit is one of Shakespeare’s interpolations. When the sentence of banishment is pronounced and Coriolanus hasretired to his house, there follows a passage which has no parallel orfoundation in Plutarch. It is the one already referred to in anotherconnection in which Sicinius gives his mean and malicious order to thepeople:    Go, see him out at gates, and follow him,    As he hath follow’d you, with all despite:    Give him deserved vexation.                              (III. iii. 138. )And the citizens promptly agree:    Come, come; let’s see him out at gates; come.                                 (III. iii. 141. )This is at the very close of the Third Act, and the Fourth Act beginsin “Rome, before a gate of the city” with the scene of leave-takingdiscussed above. We naturally expect that it will be interrupted by thepopular demonstrations which the tribunes have contrived, especiallyas these exist only in Shakespeare’s imagination; but it passes offwithout any hint of them. Only patrician persons appear by whomCoriolanus is beloved and who are beloved by him: and no hostile murmurjars on the solemnity of their grief. But that does not mean that itmay not do so even now. He is not yet beyond the walls, and towards theclose bids his friends: “Bring me out at gate”; which, we assume, theydo forthwith. There is still time for the plebeians to execute theirmasters’ orders, and though we witness nothing of the kind, there is noreason to believe that they failed to do so. It is easy to conjecturewhy Shakespeare thought it unnecessary to present this incident toeye and ear. It would have disturbed the quiet dignity of the partinginterview; it would have repeated at a lower pitch, without theaccompaniment of suspense, and therefore with the risk of monotony andflatness, the tumultuary _motif_ of preceding scenes. But Shakespeare’svariations from his authority are not idle, and we cannot suppose thatthe tribune’s direction, though we do not actually see it carried out,was a meaningless tag. There is room enough in the economy of theplay for its fulfilment beyond the stage. We may imagine that just asCoriolanus’ friends proceed to “bring him out at gate” the insultingirruption takes place; and in the next scene, “a street near the gate,”we find the tribunes, the work done, dismissing their agents:    Bid them all home; he’s gone, and we’ll no further.                                           (IV. ii. i. )It seems probable that this last indignity, a hurt to his pride moregalling than any refusal of office or sentence of banishment, drivesCoriolanus to his fury of vindictiveness; and that the failure of thenobles to protect him from the outrage has in his eyes confoundedthem with his more ignoble enemies. Indeed, he almost says as much inhis speech to Aufidius. In that speech, as we have seen, Shakespeareadheres more closely to North than in any other continuous passage inthe play, and the greatest variation occurs in a line that would applywith peculiar aptness to the purely Shakespearian episode of the lastaffront, and that sets forth the main cause of the exile’s resentment. In Plutarch, after saying that only the surname of Coriolanus remainsto him, he continues:    The rest the envie and crueltie of the people of Rome have    taken from me, by the sufferance of the dastardly nobilitie    and magistrates, who have forsaken me, and let me be    banished by the people. This becomes:    The cruelty and envy of the people,    Permitted by our dastard nobles, who    Have all forsook me, hath devour’d the rest:    _And suffer’d me by the voice of slaves to be    Whoop’d out of Rome_.                                   (IV. v. 80. )Considering all these things there seems to be no evidence in Marcius’parting professions of acquired duplicity. But, again, it is said that for his revenge he condescends to fawn uponAufidius and the Volscians. This is not very plausible. His speech ofgreeting certainly shows no servile propitiation, and according toTullus it is conspicuously absent in his subsequent behaviour:                  He bears himself more proudlier,    Even to my person, than I thought he would    When first I did embrace him: yet his nature    In that’s no changeling; and I must excuse    What cannot be amended.                                      (IV. vii. 8. )And elsewhere Tullus complains that his guest has “waged him with hiscountenance. ” The only ground for saying that he paid court to theVolsces is alleged in Tullus’ speech that just precedes this accusationof haughtiness to himself:    He water’d his new plants with dews of flattery,    Seducing so my friends; and, to this end,    He bow’d his nature, never known before    But to be rough, unswayable and free.                                       (V. vi. 23. )But the speaker is an enemy, and an enemy who has to account for thedisagreeable circumstance that his own adherents have gone over tohis rival, and who, moreover, at the time is looking for a plea that“admits of good construction. ” There is nothing that we see or hear ofCoriolanus elsewhere that supports the charge. We are told, indeed,that the Volscians throng to him and do him homage. The very magnatesof Antium, Aufidius included, treat him like a demi-god:    Why, he is so made on here within, as if he were son and    heir to Mars; set at upper end o’ the table: no question    asked by any of the senators, but they stand bald before    him: our general himself makes a mistress of him; sanctifies    himself with ’s hand and turns up the white o’ the eye to    his discourse.                                                 (IV. v. 203. )Recruits throng to his standard and the army worships him. TheLieutenant tells Aufidius:    I do not know what witchcraft’s in him, but    Your soldiers use him as the grace ’fore meat,    Their talk at table, and their thanks at end.                                     (IV. vii. 2. )Doubtless this enthusiasm would have its effect on Marcius. Eagernessof service, coupled with confidence in himself, has before now warmedhim to graciousness, and in his own despite wrung from him inspiringcompliments. When at Cominius’ camp before Corioli the volunteerscrowded round him, waved their swords, and took him up in their arms,he was almost hyperbolical in his praises:    O, me alone! make you a sword of me?    If these shows be not outward, which of you    But is four Volsces? none of you but is    Able to bear against the great Aufidius    A shield as hard as his.                                   (I. vi. 76. )So we may well believe that his soldierly spirit would respondpromptly and lavishly when the Volscians rallied round him. But suchappreciation, however his outstripped competitor might interpret it,would have nothing in common with the arts of the sycophant and thetime-server; nor is there anything else in Coriolanus’ conduct thatexplains or confirms ever so slightly the charge of the interested andenvious Aufidius. On the contrary he remains true, and even too true, to his originalnature. It is the outrage on his self-respect that drives him to theVolscians, and his self-respect still gives the law to his life, andwould forbid all petty vices, though it enjoins heroic crime. A manlike this could not be expected to palliate or overlook the profanationof his cherished dignity. The passion of pride at his ear, he setshimself to rupture all weaker ties of passion or instinct. And yet hehimself is half aware of his mistake, and he has to fortify himself inhis obstinate perversity. This is shown in two ways: first, he has asmothered sense of the inadequacy of his justification; and, second, hecannot with all his efforts be quite consistent in his revenge. Of his repressed feeling that the offence does not excuse theretaliation, we have repeated confessions on his part, all the morestriking that they are involuntary and perhaps unconscious. Thus, justafter he has sought out the enemy of his country, he soliloquises:    O world, thy slippery turns! Friends now fast sworn,    Whose double bosoms seem to wear one heart,    Whose hours, whose bed, whose meal, and exercise,    Are still together, who twin, as ’twere, in love    Unseparable, shall within this hour,    On a dissension of a doit, break out    To bitterest enmity: so, fellest foes,    Whose passions and whose plots have broke their sleep    To take the one the other, by some chance,    Some trick not worth an egg, shall grow dear friends    And interjoin their issues. So with me:    My birth-place hate I, and my love’s upon    This enemy town.                                        (IV. iv. 12. )Here he acknowledges that his change of sides has the most trivialoccasion. Friends fall out on a dissension of a doit while foes arereconciled for some trick not worth an egg; and he applies thisprinciple to his own case: “So with me. ” After all he has infinitelymore in common with the Romans than he can ever have in common with theVolscians, infinitely more reason for hating this enemy town than hecan ever have for hating his own birth-place. Or again, when on the point of dismissing Menenius, he says:                      That we have been familiar    Ingrate forgetfulness shall poison, rather    Than pity note how much.                                   (V. ii. 91. )He admits, then, that his wilful oblivion is “ingrate,” and realisesthat pity would consider the old relations. Or, once more, almost at the close, when he feels himself in danger ofyielding to the voice of nature, he utters the truculent prayer:    Let it be virtuous to be obstinate;                          (V. iii. 26. )which implies that he knew it was not. On the other hand, with all his doggedness, he cannot be quiteconsequent in his rancour. He may lead her foes against his “thanklesscountry” as he calls it, but he has a lurking kindliness even for theRome he thinks he detests. As we learn from Aufidius’ speech:                      Although it seems,    And so he thinks, and is no less apparent    To the vulgar eye, that he bears all things fairly,    And shows good husbandry for the Volscian state,    Fights dragon-like, and does achieve as soon    As draw his sword; yet he hath left undone    That which shall break his neck or hazard mine,    Whene’er we come to our account.                                   (IV. vii. 19. )This is no doubt suggested by the incident of the thirty days’truce, of which Plutarch makes so much and which Shakespeare totallysuppresses. But the vague reference becomes all the more pregnant, whenwe are to understand that Coriolanus has at unawares and against hispurpose granted some little concessions to the victims of his wrath. That Aufidius’ statement has some foundation, is made probable bythe words of the First Antium Lord, who is no enemy to Marcius, butreproaches Tullus with his murder and reverently bewails his death:    What faults he made before the last, I think,    Might have found easy fines.                                   (V. vi. 64. )Faults, then, from the Volscian point of view he has committed in theopinion of a sympathetic and impartial onlooker: which means that as aRoman he has shown forbearance. So much for the toll that he pays to his patriotism; but neither canhe quite uproot the old associations with his class. He may denouncethe “dastard nobles,” but he does concede something to Menenius, thepatrician whose aristocratic prejudices are most akin to his own:                      Their latest refuge    Was to send him; for whose old love I have,    Though I show’d sourly to him, once more offer’d    The first conditions, which they did refuse    And cannot now accept: to grace him only    That thought he could do more, _a very little_    _I have yielded to_.                                   (V. iii. 11. )And, coming to the chief in his trinity of interests, he may seekto break all bond and privilege of nature and refuse to be such agosling to obey instinct, but the natural instinct of the family is toostrong for him; before it his resolution crumbles to pieces, though heforesees the result.                    O mother, mother!    What have you done? Behold, the heavens do ope,    The gods look down, and this unnatural scene    They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O!    You have won a happy victory to Rome;    But for your son,—believe it, O, believe it,    Most dangerously you have with him prevail’d,    If not most mortal to him.                                   (V. iii. 182. )Still this collapse of Coriolanus’ purpose means nothing more thanthe victory of his strongest impulse. There is no acknowledgmentof offence, there is no renovation of character, there is not evensubmission to the highest force within his experience. Our admirationof his surrender is not unmixed. It is a moving spectacle to see aman, despite all the solicitations of wrath and revenge, of interestand fear, obedient to what is on the whole so salutary an influenceas domestic affection. But loyalty to this will not of itself availto safeguard anyone from criminal entanglements, or to equip him forbeneficent public action, or to change the current of his life. Itmay mean the triumph of a natural tendency that happens to be goodover other natural tendencies that happen to be bad, but it does notmean acceptance of duty as duty, or anxiety to satisfy the claimsthat different duties impose. Hence Coriolanus, to the very end,leaves unredeemed his inherited obligations to Rome, while he leavesunfulfilled his voluntary pledges to his allies. Even in Plutarch’snarrative Shakespeare’s insight is not required to detect thisunderlying thought, but in the _Comparison_, which there is proof thatShakespeare had studied, it is set forth so clearly that he who runsmay read.    He made the Volsces (of whome he was generall) to lose the    oportunity of noble victory. Where in deede he should (if he    had done as he ought) have withdrawen his armie with their    counsaill and consent, that had reposed so great affiance    in him, in making him their generall: if he had made that    accompt of them, as their good will towards him did in duety    binde him. Or else, if he did not care for the Volsces in    the enterprise of this warre, but had only procured it of    intent to be revenged, and afterwards to leave it of, when    his anger was blowen over; yet he had no reason for the    love of his mother to pardone his contrie; but rather he    should in pardoning his contrie have spared his mother,    bicause his mother and wife were members of the bodie of his    contrie and cittie, which he did besiege. For in that he    uncurteously rejected all publike petitions . . . to gratifie    only the request of his mother in his departure; that was    no acte so much to honour his mother with, as to dishonour    his contrie by, the which was preserved for the pitie    and intercession of a woman, and not for the love of it    selfe, as if it had not bene worthie of it. And so was this    departure a grace, to say truly, very odious and cruell, and    deserved no thanks of either partie, to him that did it. For    he withdrew his army, not at the request of the Romaines,    against whom he made warre: nor with their consent, at whose    charge the warre was made. That Shakespeare, with his patriotism and equity, perceived the doubleflaw in Coriolanus’ act of grace can hardly be doubted. He was the lastman to put the household above the national gods, or to glorify breachof contract if only it were sanctioned by domestic tenderness. In pointof fact, he does not acquit his hero on either count. On the one hand, if Coriolanus remits the extreme penalty, he neitherforgets nor forgives, and has no thought of return to the offendingcity or resumption of the old ties. Scarcely has he granted the ladiestheir boon, when he addresses Aufidius:                            For my part    I’ll not to Rome, I’ll back with you.                           (V. iii. 197. )And his speech to the senators of Antium shows no revival of formerloyalties:    Hail, lords! I am return’d your soldier,    No more infected with my country’s love    Than when I parted hence, but still subsisting    Under your great command. You are to know    That prosperously I have attempted and    With bloody passage led your wars even to    The gates of Rome. Our spoils we have brought home    Do more than counterpoise a full third part    The charges of the action. We have made peace    With no less honour to the Antiates    Than shame to the Romans.                                         (V. vi. 71. )The insolent announcement of the invasion carried to the gates of thecapital, of the plunder that substantially exceeds the cost, of thehumiliating terms imposed on his countrymen, is ample proof that inCoriolanus there is no recrudescence of patriotism. Yet, despite his words, he has been false to the Volscians. Howeverbase were his motives, Aufidius speaks the truth when he says:                                Perfidiously    He has betray’d your business, and given up,    For certain drops of salt, your city Rome,    I say “your city,” to his wife and mother;    Breaking his oath and resolution like    A twist of rotten silk, never admitting    Counsel o’ the war.                                   (V. vi. 91. )It is the opinion of the First Lord, despite his impartiality and hissympathy with Marcius:                            There to end    Where he was to begin, and give away    The benefit of our levies, answering us    With our own charge; making a treaty where    There was a yielding,—this admits no excuse,                                    (V. vi. 65. )Thus both his native and his adopted country have reason to complain. He remains a traitor to the one, while yet he breaks faith with theother. Of course, in theory there was a middle course possible, which wouldhave served the best interests of the two states equally. He might haveused his influence to establish a lasting and intimate alliance; andthis was the policy that Volumnia outlined in her plea:    If it were so that our request did tend    To save the Romans, thereby to destroy    The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us    As poisonous to your honour: no; our suit    Is, that you reconcile them: while the Volsces    May say, “This mercy we have show’d”; the Romans,    “This we received”; and each in either side    Give the all-hail to thee, and cry “Be blest    For making up this peace! ”                                   (V. iii. 132. )But such an all-hail was not for Coriolanus to win. It is one of thecharges which Plutarch brings against him in the _Comparison_, that heneglected the opportunity.    By this dede of his he tooke not away the enmity that was    betwene both people. But how could he, when he had no special desire for the well-being ofeither, and when his heart was unchanged? His family affection has gotthe better of his narrower egoism, but even after sacrificing a portionof his revenge, he remains essentially the man he was, and is no morecapable of pursuing a judicious and conciliatory policy now for thegood of the whole and his own good, than of old in the market-place ofRome. For to the end he is imprudent, headstrong, and violent as ever. Hesees quite clearly that his compliance with his mother’s prayer must bedangerous, if not mortal, to him. Dangerous it is, mortal it need notbe. With a little more self-restraint and circumspection, a little lessaggressiveness and truculence, he might still preserve both his lifeand his authority. It is his unchastened spirit, not the questionabletreaty, that is the direct cause of his death. Indeed, in a sense,the treaty had nothing to do with it. In Shakespeare, though not inPlutarch, Tullus, as we have seen, when he still anticipated thecapture of Rome, determined to make away with his rival so soon as thatshould take place; and from what we know of Coriolanus’ character, andTullus’ comprehension of it[263] and general astuteness in management,we feel sure that the scheme was bound to succeed, if Coriolanuspersisted in his old ways. Even as things have turned out, Marciushas all the odds in his favour. His triumphal entry into Antium is arepetition of his triumphal entry into Rome. When, according to thestage direction, “Drums and trumpets sound, with great shouts of thePeople,” the malcontents turn to Aufidius:      _First Conspirator. _ Your native town you enter’d like a post,    And had no welcomes home; but he returns,    Splitting the air with noise.      _Second Conspirator. _       And patient fools,    Whose children he hath slain, their base throats tear    With giving him the glory.                                             (V. vi. 50. )[263] See Appendix F. That is, the admiration of the populace, constrained by his prowess,is the same sort of obstacle to these factionaries as it formerly wasto the tribunes; and with that, and his great services as well, hecommands the situation. He needs only a minimum of skill and moderationto carry all before him. So the problem of his antagonists is thesame in both cases: namely, to neutralise these advantages by rousinghis passion, and provoking him to show his pride, his recklessness,his uncompromising rigour. In both cases he falls into the trap, andconverts the popular goodwill to hatred by defiantly harping on theinjuries he has inflicted on his admirers. He is the unregenerate“superman” to the last. The suppression of his victorious surname,the taunts of “traitor” and “boy,” drive him mad. He lets himself betransported to a bravado that must shake from sleep all the latenthostility of the Volscians.    Measureless liar, thou hast made my heart    Too great for what contains it. Boy! O slave!    Pardon me, lords, ’tis the first time that ever    I was forc’d to scold. Your judgements, my grave lords,    Must give this cur the lie: and his own notion—    Who wears my stripes impress’d upon him; that    Must bear my beating to his grave—shall join    To thrust the lie unto him.      _First Lord. _ Peace, both, and hear me speak.      _Coriolanus. _ Cut me to pieces, Volsces; men and lads,    Stain all your edges on me. Boy! false hound!    If you have writ your annals true, ’tis there,    That like an eagle in a dove-cote, I    Flutter’d your Volscians in Corioli;    Alone I did it. Boy! The patient fools, whose children he had slain, are not patient now,and no longer tear their throats in acclaiming his glory. Their cries,“Tear him to pieces,” “He killed my son,” and the like, give theconspirators the cue, and Aufidius is presently standing on his body. It is not, then, as a martyr to retrieved patriotism that Coriolanusperishes, but as the victim of his own passion. In truth, the victoryhe won over himself under the influence of his mother, though real, isvery incomplete. His piety to the hearth saves him from the superlativeinfamy of destroying his country, which is something, and even a gooddeal; but it is not everything; and beyond that it has no result,public or personal. On the contrary, Coriolanus’ isolated and butpartly justified act of clemency receives its comment from the motivesthat induced it, the troth-breach that accompanied it, and the ragein which he passed away. If, like his son with the butterfly, he didgrasp honour at the close, it was disfigured by his rude handling. But at least he never belies his own great though mixed nature, andit is fitting that his death, needless but heroic, should have itscause in his nature and be such as his nature would select. Indeed,it is both his nemesis and his guerdon. For he would not be a Roman,he could not be a Volsce; what part could he have played in the yearsto come? Perhaps Shakespeare read in Philemon Holland’s rendering thealternative account that Livy gives of the final scene.     I find in Fabius, a most ancient writer, that he lived     untill he was an old man: who repeateth this of him: that     oftentimes in his latter daies he used to utter this speech:    _A heavie case and most wretched, for an aged man to live banisht_. At all events some such feeling as his regrets in this varianttradition suggest, makes us prefer the version that Plutarch followedand that Shakespeare adapted. Coriolanus deserves to be spared the woesthat the future has in store. As it is, he falls in the fulness of hispower, inspired by great memories to greater audacity, and, no doubt,elated at the thought of challenging and outbraving death, when deathis sure to win. APPENDIX ANEAREST PARALLELS BETWEEN GARNIER’S _CORNELIE_, IN THE FRENCH ANDENGLISH VERSIONS, AND _JULIUS CAESAR_It should be remembered that it is not on these particular equivalents,mostly very loose, that those who uphold the theory of connectionbetween the two plays rely, but on the general drift of thecorresponding scenes which in this respect strikingly resemble eachother and in no way produce the same impression as the narrative ofPlutarch.                       _French.                       English. _    _Cassie. _ Miserable Cité, tu       _Cassius. _ Accursed Rome,         armes contre toy                that arm’st against thy selfe    La fureur d’un Tyran pour le       A Tyrants rage, and mak’st a          faire ton Roy:                    wretch thy King:    Tu armes tes enfans, injurieuse    For one mans pleasure         Romme,                           (O injurious Rome! )    Encontre tes enfans, pour le       Thy chyldren gainst thy        plaisir d’un homme:                chyldren arm’d:    Et ne te souvient plus             _And thinkst not of the_     _d’avoir faict autrefois_        _riuers of theyr bloode,_    _Tant ruisseler de sang four_       _That earst were shed to_       _n’avoir point de Rois,_          _ saue thy libertie,_    _Pour n’estre point esclave,_       _Because thou euer hatedst_       _et ne porter flechie_             _Monarchie_. [264]. . .    _Au sendee d’un seul, le joug de_         _Monarchie_. [265]   (line 1065. )[264]    Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome?    My ancestors did from the streets of Rome    The Tarquin drive when he was call’d a King.                                         (II. i. 51. )[265]    Shall Rome stand under one man’s awe? What, Rome?    My ancestors did from the streets of Rome    The Tarquin drive when he was call’d a King.                                          (II. i. 51. )    . . . Quoy Brute? et nous faut-il      But, Brutus, shall wee        trop craignant le danger,           dissolutelie sitte    Laisser si laschement sous un        And see the tyrant line        Prince ranger?                      to tyranize?    _Faut-il que tant de gens morts_    Or shall _theyr ghosts,_     _pour nostre franchise_              _that dide to doe us good_,    _Se plaignent aux tombeaux de_       _Plaine in their Tombes of_        _nostre couardise? _                _our base cowardise_. . . .    Et que les _peres vieux voisent_        _disant de nous_,    “_Ceux-là ont mieux aimé, tant_     “_See where they goe that haue_        _ils ont le coeur mous,_           _theyr race forgot! _    _Honteusement servir en_             _And rather chuse, (unarm’d)_        _dementant leur race,_             _to serue with shame,_    _Qu’armez pour le païs mourir_      _Then, (arm’d), to saue their_       _dessus la place. _”[266]          _freedom and their fame! _”[267]                       (line 1101. )[266]                            Age, thou art shamed!    Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!                                      (I. ii. 150. )                            Our fathers’ minds are dead    And we are govern’d by our mothers’ spirits,    Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.                                         (I. iii. 82. )[267]                            Age, thou art shamed!    Rome, thou hast lost the breed of noble bloods!                                      (I. ii. 150. )                            Our fathers’ minds are dead    And we are govern’d by our mothers’ spirits,    Our yoke and sufferance show us womanish.                                         (I. iii. 82. )    _Brute. _ Je jure par le Ciel,        _Brutus. _ I swear by heauen,        thrône des Immortels,             th’ Immortals highest throne.    Par leurs images saincts, leurs      Their temples, Altars, and        temples, leurs autels,              theyr Images,    De ne souffrir, vray Brute,          To see (for one) that Brutus        aucun maistre entreprendre          suffer not    Sur nostre liberte, si je la         His ancient liberty to be        puis defendre.                      represt.    J’ai Cesar en la guerre              I freely marcht with Caesar        ardentement suyvi,                  in hys warrs,    Pour maintenir son droit,            Not to be subject, but to ayde        non pour vivre asservi . . .          his right, . . .    . . . Il verra que Decime                But he shall see, that Brutus        a jusques aujourdhuy                   thys day beares    Porté pour luy l’estoc qu’il           The self-same Armes to be        trouvera sur luy.                      aueng’d on hym. . . .    . . . _Je l’aime cherement_,           _I loue, I loue him deerely. _      _je l’aime, mais le droit_               But the loue    _Qu’on doit à son païs_,             _That men theyr Country and_      _qu’à sa naissance on doit,_         _theyr birth-right beare,_    _Tout autre amour surmonte. _[268]. . .  _Exceeds all loues. _[269]. . .             (line 1109. )    _Cassie. _ Tandisque Cassie aura      _Cassius_. . . . Know, while        goutte de sang                   Cassius hath one drop of blood    En son corps animeux, il voudra      To feede this worthles body        vivre franc,                         that you see,    _Il fuira le servage ostant_         What reck I death, to doe so        _la tyrannie,_                       many good? [268]    If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of    Caesar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Caesar was    no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus    rose against Caesar, this is my answer:—Not that I    loved Caesar less but that I loved Rome more.                                              (III. ii. 19. )[269]    If there be any in this assembly, any dear friend of    Caesar’s, to him I say, that Brutus’ love to Caesar was    no less than his. If then that friend demand why Brutus    rose against Caesar, this is my answer:—Not that I    loved Caesar less but that I loved Rome more.                                             (III. ii. 19. )    _Ou l’ame de son corps il_           _In spite of Caesar_,        _chassera bannie. _[270]            _Cassius will be free. _[271]    _Brute. _ Toute ame genereuse         _Brutus. _ A generous or        indocile a servir                      true enobled spirit    Deteste les Tyrans.                   Detests to learne what tasts                                               of seruitude.    _Cassie. _ Je ne puis m’asservir,     _Cassius. _ Brutus, I cannot                                               serue nor see Rome yok’d:    Ny voir que Rome serve, et plustost   No, let me rather die a        la mort dure                           thousand deaths. . . .    M’enferre mille fois, que vivant        je l’endure. . . .    O chose trop indigne!                O base indignitie!      _Un homme effeminé_ . . .              _A beardles youth_[272] . . .    _Commande a l’Univers, la terre_     _Commaunds the world, and_      _tient en bride_,[273]             _brideleth all the earth_,[274]    Et maistre donne loy au              And like a prince controls        peuple Romulide,                       the Romulists;    Aux enfants du dieu Mars. . . .         Braue Roman Souldiers,                                          sterne-borne sons of Mars. . . .          O Brute, O Servilie,           O Brutus, speake!    Qu’ores vous nous laissez            O say, Servilius!        une race avilie!                   Why cry you aime,[275]                                            and see us used thus?    Brute est vivant, il sçait,          But Brutus liues, and sees,        il voit, il est present,            and knowes, and feeles,    Que sa chere patrie on va            That there is one that curbs        tyrannisant:                        their Countries weale.    Et comme s’il n’estoit               Yet (as he were the semblance,        qu’une vaine semblance               not the sonne,    De Brut son ayeul, non                 Of noble Brutus, his        sa vraye semence,                    great Grandfather);    S’il n’avoit bras ny mains,          As if he wanted hands,        sens ny coeur, pour oser,            sence, sight or hart,    Simulacre inutile, aux Tyrans        He doth, deuiseth, sees,        s’opposer:                           nor dareth ought,    Il ne fait rien de Brute, et         That may extirpe or raze        et d’heure en heure augmente         these tyrannies:    Par trop de lascheté la force        Nor ought doth Brutus that to         violente.    (line 1201. )          Brute belongs, But still                                            increaseth by his negligence                                            His owne disgrace and                                            Caesars violence. [270]    Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius . . .      Life being weary of these worldly bars    Never lacks power to dismiss itself.                                    (I. iii. 90. )[271]    Cassius from bondage will deliver Cassius . . .      Life being weary of these worldly bars    Never lacks power to dismiss itself.                                    (I. iii. 90. )[272] Notice the inept rendering. [273]                      It doth amaze me,    A man of such a feeble temper should    So get the start of the majestic world,    And bear the palm alone.                              (I. ii. 128. )[274]                      It doth amaze me,    A man of such a feeble temper should    So get the start of the majestic world,    And bear the palm alone.                              (I. ii. 128. )[275] Approve or agree. APPENDIX BTHE VERBAL RELATIONS OF THE VARIOUS VERSIONS OF PLUTARCH ILLUSTRATED BYMEANS OF VOLUMNIA’S SPEECHThis passage, though it does not show the successive modifications ofthe text quite so fully and strikingly as some others, is the mostinteresting in so far as it is the longest in which Shakespeare closelyfollows the lead of the original. The Latin version of the Renaissance is placed first, both because indefinite form it is chronologically the earliest, and because for thereasons already given it cannot be held to have had much influence onAmyot, North and Shakespeare. It is of course impossible to reconstruct the Greek text that Amyotput together for himself. I have taken that of the edition of 1599,published half a dozen years after his death, as a fair approximation. The chief variations from the Latin are given in spaced type. In the extract from Amyot the chief variations from the Greek areprinted in Italics; the few phrases or words in which the influence ofthe Latin may be suspected are underlined. In the extract from North the chief variations from the French areprinted in Italics. In the extract from Shakespeare, it is, as we might expect, moreconvenient to reverse the process and italicise what he has taken over.    THE VERSION[276] OF THE ELDER GUARINI, STYLED      GUARINUS VERONENSIS, IN THE EDITION OF THE     _Vitae Parallelae_ ISSUED BY UDALRICUS GALLUS      IN 1470 (? )Tum pueros ac Vergiliam unacum reliquis secum mulieribus ducens castraVolscorum adiit. Earum miseranda facies hosti reverentiam injecitatque silentium. Hic Martius in suggesto inter Volscorum proceressedens, ubi eas adventare mulieres vidit, admiratione confectus est,imprimis venientem uxorem noscitans immoto et obstinato persistereanimo[277] voluit: verum consternatus affectu et ad ipsarum confususintuitum haud tulit ut se sedentem adirent,[278] ac pernici devotasgradu obviam prodiit. Et matre primo diutissimeque salutata, indeuxore ac filiis, nullo jam pacto frenare lacrimas poterat. Ut verodulces incepti sunt amplexus, virum parentis amore perinde ac secundofluminis cursu deferri cerneres. [279] Caeterum cum inchoantem jam verbamatrem intelligeret, acceptis Volscorum primoribus Volumniam taliaorantem audivit. “Etsi fili taceamus, ipse, tum veste, tum misericorporis apparatu, cernis qualem domesticae rei conditionem tuum nobisconfecerit exilium. Existima vero quam caeteris longe mulieribusinfeliciores accessimus, quibus dulcissimum aspectum fecit fortunaterribilem: te mihi filium, huic vero maritum, patriae muros obsidentemaspicimus. Et quod caeteris calamitatis et malorum solet esse solacium,deos orare, quam procul nobis ablatum est: non enim et patriaevictoriam et tibi salutem implorare fas est: quaeque atrociora quispiamnobis impraecaretur hostis, ea nostris insunt[280] praecibus. Uxoremenim ac liberos aut patria aut te orbari necesse est. Ego vero, dumhaec viventi mihi bellum dijudicet, haud morabor, teque nisi positisinimicitiis ad pacem atque concordiam conciliavero; ita ut utrique[281]potius beneficum quam alteri perniciosum te reddas. Hoc tibi persuadesicque conformatus et paratus accede, ut non ante hostiles patriaemanus conferas quam caesam calcaveris parentem. Nec enim ea mihiexpectanda dies est qua filium aut in triumpho tractum a civibus autde patria triumphantem aspiciam. Quod si pro conservanda patriaprofligari a te Volscos exorarem, grave fili iniquumque tibi fateorimminere consilium; namque necque cives perdere bonum est, necque tuoscommissos fidei perdere justum. Nunc malorum finem imploramus simulquepopulis utrisque salutem. Quae res maximam Volscis gloriam comparabit:quod cum ingentia nobis bona et victores quidem tribuerint, non minusjocundam ipsi pacem et amicitiam sint consecuturi: quae si effectafuerint, tu tantorum profecto dux eris et causa bonorum: sin ea infectapermanserint, utrique noxam in te solum crimenque rejicient. Cumqueincertus belli sit eventus, hoc certi secum affert: ut siquidem vincasimmanissimus patriae vastator appellandus sis, sin victus succumbas,ob tuam videberis iracundiam benefactoribus et amicis ingentium origomalorum extitisse. ” Haec dum oraret Volumnia, nullum respondensverbum Martius intentis excipiebat auribus. Ut vero desierat, cum isdiuturnum teneret silentium, rursus Volumnia; “Quid siles,” inquit. “Nate, num irae receptarumque injuriarum memoriae omnia concederesatius arbitraris an depraecanti talia matri largiri pulcherrimummunificentiae genus non est? Magnine interesse viri putas acceptorummeminisse malorum? Suscepta autem a parentibus beneficia eorum cultuiac venerationi reddere num excelso potius ac bono dignissimum viromunus censes? Caeterum gratiam habere tuerique magisquam tu debuitnemo, cum tamen per acerbissimam adeo ingratitudinem eas. Et cumpermagnas jam patriae paenas exegeris acceperisque, nullas adhuc matrigrates retulisti. Erat vero aequissimum atque sanctissimum ut abs tevel nulla ingruenti necessitate tam honesta tamque justa postulansimpetrarem. Quid cum in meam te verbis sententiam deflectere nequeam,extremae jam parco spei? ” Haec affata cum uxore simul ac liberispedibus advoluta procumbit. Tum conclamans Martius, “Qualia mihi” ait“factitasti mater”; et jacentem sustulit: et pressa dextera inquit;“Vicisti patriae quidem prosperam, nimis atque nimis perniciosamautem[282] mihi victoriam. Abs te tantum superatus abscedam. ”[276] I have modernised the punctuation, and extended the contractionsthroughout, but wherever there is any possibility of misinterpretationI have noted it. [277] aīo. [278] adiret. [279] cernēs. [280] Insinit. [281] uterque. [282] _aūt. _PLUTARCH’S GREEK IN THE EDITION OF 1599Ἐκ τούτου, τά τε παιδία καὶ τὴν Οὐεργιλίαν ἀναστήσασα μετὰ τῶν ἄλλωνγυναικῶν, ἐβάδιζεν εἰς τὸ στρατόπεδον τῶν Οὐολούσκων. ἡ δ’ ὄψιςαὐτῶν τότε οἰκτρὰν καὶ τοῖς πολεμίοις ἐνεποίησεν αἰδὼ καὶ σιωπήν. ἔτυχε δ’ ὁ Μάρκιος ἐπὶ βήματος καθεζόμενος μετὰ τῶν ἡγεμονικῶν. ὡςοὖν εἶδε προσιούσας τὰς γυναῖκας, ἐθαύμασεν· ἐπιγνοὺς δὲ τὴν γυναῖκαπρώτην βαδίζουσαν, ἐβούλετο μὲν ἐμμένειν τοῖς ἀτρέπτοις ἐκείνοιςκαὶ ἀπαραιτήτοις λογισμοῖς· γενόμενος δὲ τοῦ πάθους ἐλάττων καὶσυνταραχθεὶς πρὸς τὴν ὄψιν, οὐκ ἔτλη καθεζομένῳ προσελθεῖν, ἀλλὰ=καταβὰς= θᾶττον ἢ βάδην, καὶ ἀπαντήσας, πρώτην μὲν ἠσπάσατο τὴνμητέρα, καὶ πλεῖστον χρόνον, ἔτι δὲ τὴν γυναῖκα καὶ τὰ τέκνα, μήτεδακρύων ἔτι, =μήτε τοῦ φιλοφρονεῖσθαι= φειδόμενος, ἀλλ’ ὥσπερ ὑπὸῥεύματος φέρεσθαι τοῦ πάθους ἑαυτὸν ἐνδεδωκώς. =ἐπεὶ δὲ τούτων ἄδηνεἶχε=, καὶ τὴν μητέρα βουλομένην ἤδη λόγων ἄρχειν ἤσθετο, τοὺς τῶνΟὐολούσκων προβούλους παραστησάμενος, ἤκουσε τῆς Οὐολουμνίας τοιαῦταλεγούσης, “Ὁρᾶς μὲν, ὦ παῖ, κᾳν αὐταὶ μὴ λέγωμεν, ἐσθῆτι καὶ μορφῇτῶν ἀθλίων σωμάτων τεκμαιρόμενος, οἵαν οἰκουρίαν ἡμῖν ἡ σὴ φυγὴπεριποίησε. λόγισαι δὲ νῦν ὡς ἀτυχέσταται πασῶν ἀφίγμεθα γυναικῶν, αἷςτὸ ἥδιστον θέαμα, φοβερώτατον ἡ τύχη πεποίηκεν, ἐμοὶ μὲν υἱὸν, ταύτῃ δ’ἄνδρα τοῖς τῆς πατρίδος τείχεσιν ἰδεῖν ἀντικαθήμενον. ὃ δ’ ἔστι τοῖςἄλλοις ἀτυχίας πάσης καὶ κακοπραγίας παραμύθιον, εὔχεσθαι θεοῖς, ἡμῖνἀπορώτατον γέγονεν.

οὐ γὰρ οἷόν τε καὶ τῇ πατρίδι νίκην ἅμα καὶ σοὶσωτηρίαν αἰτεῖσθαι παρὰ τῶν θεῶν, ἀλλ’ ἅ τις ἄν ἡμῖν καταράσαιτο τῶνἐχθρῶν, ταῦτα ταῖς ἡμετέραις ἔνεστιν εὐχαῖς. ἀνάγκη γὰρ ἢ τῆς πατρίδοςἢ σου στέρεσθαι γυναικὶ σῇ καὶ τέκνοις. ἐγὼ δ’ οὐ περιμένω ταύτην μοιδιαιτῆσαι τὴν τύχην ζώσῃ τὸν πόλεμον· ἀλλ’ εἰ μή σε πείσαιμι φιλίανκαὶ ὁμόνοιαν διαφορὰς καὶ κακῶν θέμενον, ἀμφοτέρων γενέσθαι εὐεργέτηνμᾶλλον, ἢ λυμεῶνα τῶν ἑτέρων, οὕτω διανοοῦ καὶ παρασκεύαζε σεαυτὸν, ὡςτῇ πατρίδι μὴ προσμίξαι δυνάμενος πρὶν ἢ νεκρὰν ὑπερβῆναι τὴν τεκούσαν. οὐ γὰρ ἐκείνην με δεῖ τὴν ἡμέραν ἀναμένειν ἐν ᾗ τὸν υἱὸν ἐπόψομαιθριαμβευόμενον ὑπὸ τῶν πολίτων, ἢ θριαμβεύοντα κατὰ τῆς πατρίδος. εἰ μὲν οὖν ἀξιῶ σε τὴν πατρίδα σῶσαι Οὐολούσκους ἀπολέσαντα, χαλεπήσοι καὶ δυσδιαίτητος, ὦ παῖ, πρόκειται σκέψις, οὔτε γὰρ διαφθεῖραιτοὺς πολίτας καλὸν, οὔτε τοὺς πεπιστευκότας προδοῦναι δίκαιον. νῦν δ’ἀπαλλαγὴν κακῶν αἰτιούμεθα, σωτήριον μὲν ἀμφοτέροις ὁμοίως, ἔνδοξονδὲ καὶ καλὴν μᾶλλον Οὐολούσκοις, ὅτι τῷ κρατεῖν δόξουσι διδόναι τὰμέγιστα τῶν ἀγαθῶν, =οὐχ ἧττον λαμβάνοντες=, εἰρήνην καὶ φιλίαν, ὧνμάλιστα μὲν αἴτιος ἔσῃ γινομένων, μὴ γινομένων δὲ, μόνος αἰτίαν ἕξειςπαρ’ ἀμφοτέροις. ἄδηλος δ’ ὠν ὁ πόλεμος τοῦτ’ ἔχει πρόδηλον, ὅτι σοὶνικῶντι μὲν, ἀλάστορι τῆς πατρίδος εἶναι περιέστιν· ἡττώμενος δὲ,δόξεις ὑπ’ ὀργῆς εὐεργέταις ἀνδράσι καὶ φίλοις τῶν μεγίστων συμφορῶναἴτιος γεγονέναι. ” ταῦτα τῆς Οὐολουμνίας λεγούσης ὁ Μάρκιος ἠκροάτομηδὲν ἀποκρινόμενος. ἐπεὶ δὲ καὶ παυσαμένης, εἱστήκει σιωπῶν πολὺνχρόνον, αὖθις ἡ Οὐολουμνία, “Τί σιγᾷς (εἶπεν) ὦ παῖ, πότερον ὀργῇ καὶμνησικακίᾳ πάντα συγχωρεῖν καλόν; οὐ καλὸν δὲ μητρὶ χαρίσασθαι δεομένῃπερὶ τηλικούτων; ἢ τὸ μεμνῆσθαι πεπονθότα κακῶς ἀνδρὶ μεγάλῳ προσήκει,τὸ δ’ εὐεργεσίας αἷς εὐεργετοῦνται παῖδες ὑπὸ τῶν τεκόντων σέβεσθαι καὶτιμᾷν, οὐκ ἀνδρὸς ἔργον ἐστὶ μεγάλου καὶ ἀγαθοῦ; καὶ μὴν οὐδενὶ μᾶλλονἔπρεπε τηρεῖν χάριν ὡς σοι, =πικρῶς οὕτως ἀχαριστίαν ἐπεξίοντι=. καίτοιπαρὰ τῆς πατρίδος ἤδη μεγάλας δίκας ἀπείληφας, τῇ μητρὶ δ’ οὐδεμίανχάριν ἀποδέδωκας. ἦν μὲν οὖν ὁσιώτατον ἄνευ τινος ἀνάγκης τυχεῖν μεπαρὰ σοῦ δεομένην οὕτω καλῶν καὶ δικαίων· μὴ πείθουσα δὲ τί φείδομαιτῆς ἐσχάτης ἐλπίδος;” καὶ ταῦτ’ εἰποῦσα προσπίπτει τοῖς ποσὶν αὐτοῦμετὰ τῆς γυναικὸς ἅμα καὶ τῶν τέκνων. ὁ δὲ Μάρκιος ἀναβοήσας, “Οἷαεἴργασαί με, ὦ μᾶτερ;” ἐξανίστησιν αὐτὴν, καὶ τὴν δεξιὰν πιέσας σφόδρα,“Νενίκηκας (εἶπεν) εὐτυχῆ μὲν τῇ πατρίδι νίκην, ἐμοὶ δ’ ὀλέθριον·ἄπειμι γὰρ ὑπὸ σοῦ μόνης ἡττώμενος. ”AMYOT’S VERSION. _Elle prit sa belle fille_ et ses enfans quand et[283] elle, et avectoutes les autres Dames Romaines s’en alla droit au camp des Volsques,lesquelz eurent eulx-mesmes une compassion meslee de reverence quandils la veirent _de maniere qu’il n’y eut personne d’eulx qui luyozast rien dire_. Or estoit lors Martius assis en son tribunal, _avecles marques de souverain Capitaine_,[284] et _de tout loing_ qu’ilapperceut venir des femmes, s’esmerveilla que ce pouvoit estre;mais peu apres recognoissant sa femme, qui marchoit la premiere, ilvoulut _du commencement_ perseverer en son obstinee et inflexible_rigueur_; mais à la fin, vaincu de l’affection naturelle, estanttout esmeu de les voir, il _ne peut_ avoir le _coeur si dur_ que deles attendre en son siege, ains[285] en descendant plus viste que lepas, leur alla au devant, et baisa sa mere la premiere, et la teintassez longuement embrassee, puis sa femme et ses petits enfants,ne se pouvant plus tenir que les _chauldes_ larmes ne luy vinssent_aux yeux_, ny se garder de leur faire caresses, ains se laissantaller à l’affection _du sang_ ne plus ne moins qu’à _la force_ d’unimpetueux torrent. Mais apres qu’il leur eut assez faict _d’aimablerecueil_, et qu’il apperceut que sa mere Volumnia vouloit commencera luy parler, il appella les principaux du conseil des Volsques pour_ouyr ce qu’elle proposeroit_, puis elle parla en ceste maniere: “Tupeux assez cognoistre de toy mesme, mon filz, encore que nous ne t’endissions rien, à voir noz accoustremens, et l’estat auquel sont nozpauvres corps, quelle a esté nostre vie en la maison depuis tu en esdehors; mais considere encore maintenant combien plus _mal heureuses_et plus infortunees nous sommes icy venues que toutes les femmes dumonde, attendu que ce qui est à toutes les autres le plus doulx avoir, la fortune nous l’a rendu le plus effroyable, faisant voir à moymon filz, et à celle-ci, son mary, assiegeant les murailles de sonpropre païs; tellement que ce qui est à toutes autres le _souverain_renconfort en leurs adversitez, de _prier_ et invoquer les Dieux àleur secours, c’est ce qui nous met en plus grande perplexité, pourceque nous ne leur sçaurions demander en noz prieres victoire a nostrepaïs et preservation de ta vie tout ensemble, ains toutes les plusgriefves maledictions que sçauroit imaginer contre nous un ennemy sont_necessairement_ encloses en noz oraisons, pource qu’il est force à tafemme et à tes enfans qu’ilz soyent privez de l’un de deux, ou de toy,ou de leurs païs: car quant a moy, je ne suis pas deliberee d’attendreque la fortune, moy vivante, decide _l’issue de ceste guerre_: car sije ne te puis persuader que tu vueilles plus tost bien faire à toutesles deux parties, que d’en _ruiner_ et destruire l’une, en preferantamitie et concorde aux miseres et calamitez de la guerre, je veux bienque tu saches et le tienes pour asseuré que tu n’iras jamais assaillirny combattre ton païs que premierement tu ne passes par dessus le corpsde celle qui t’a mis en ce monde, et ne doy point differer jusques àvoir le jour, ou que mon filz _prisonnier_ soit mené en triumphe parses citoyens, ou que luy mesme triumphe de son païs. Or si ainsi estoitque je te requisse de sauver ton païs en destruisant les Volsques, cete serait certainement une deliberation trop mal-aisee à resoudre;car comme il n’est point licite de ruiner son païs, aussi n’est-ilpoint juste de trahir ceulx qui se sont fiez en toy. Mais ce queje te demande est une delivrance de maulx, laquelle est egalement_profitable_ et salutaire à l’un et à l’autre peuple, mais plushonorable aux Volsques, pource qu’il semblera qu’ayans la victoire enmain, ils nous auront de grace donné deux souverains biens, la paix etl’amitié, encore qu’ilz n’en prennent pas moins pour eulx, duquel tuseras principal autheur, s’il se fait; et, s’il ne se fait, tu en aurasseul le _reproche et le blasme_[286] total envers l’une et l’autre desparties: ainsi _estant l’issue de la guerre_ incertaine,[287] celaneantmoins est bien tout certain que, si tu en demoures vaincueur,il t’en restera _ce profit_, que tu en seras estimé la _peste_ et laruine de ton païs: et si tu es vaincu, on dira que pour un _appetitde venger tes propres injures_ tu auras esté cause de tres griefvescalamitez à ceulx qui t’avoient humainement et amiablement recueilly. ”Martius escouta ces paroles de Volumnia sa mere sans l’interrompre,et apres qu’elle eut acheve de dire demoura longtemps tout _picqué_sans luy respondre. Parquoy elle reprit la parole et recommencea à luydire: “Que ne me respons-tu, mon filz? Estimes-tu qu’il soit licite deconceder tout à son ire et à son appetit de vengeance, et non honestede condescendre et _incliner_ aux prieres de sa mere en si grandeschoses? Et _cuides-tu_ qu’il soit convenable a un grand personnage, sesouvenir des torts qu’on luy a faits et _des injures passees_, et quece ne soit point acte d’homme de bien et de grand cueur, _recognoistre_les bienfaicts que reçoyvent les enfans de leurs peres et meres, enleur portant honneur et reverence? Si[288] n’y a il homme en ce mondequi deust mieux observer tous les poincts de gratitude que toy, veu quetu poursuis si asprement une ingratitude: et si[289] y a davantage,que tu as ja fait payer a ton païs de grandes amendes pour les tortsque l’on t’y a faits, et n’as encore fait aucune recognoissance ata mere; pourtant seroit-il plus honeste que sans autre contraintej’_impetrasse_[290] de toy une requeste si juste et si raisonnable. Mais puis que _par raison_ je ne le te puis persuader, à quel besoingespargne-je plus, et _differe-je_ la derniere esperance. ” En disantces paroles elle se jetta elle mesme, avec sa femme et ses enfans, ases pieds. Ce que Martius _ne pouvant supporter_, la releva tout aussitost en s’escriant: “O mere, que m’as tu faict? ” et un luy serrantestroittement la main droite: “Ha,” dit il, “Mere, tu as vaincu unevictoire heureuse pour ton païs mais bien _malheureuse_ et mortellepour ton filz, car je m’en revois[291] vaincu par toy seule. ”[283] _together with. _[284] A mistranslation of the Greek phrase, μετὰ τῶν ἡγεμονικῶν, fromwhich it must come. The Latin is correct and unmistakable. [285] But. [286] Greek αἰτίαν, Latin noxam crimenque. [287] Latin: cumque incertus belli sit eventus. [288] Yet. [289] Yet. [290] An unusual word in French. Compare the _impetrare_ of the Latin. [291] ἄπειμι, revais = retourne. NORTH’S VERSION. She tooke her daughter in lawe, and Martius children with her, andbeing accompanied with all the other Romaine ladies, they went _introupe_ together unto the Volsces camp: whome when they sawe, they ofthem selves did both pitie and reverence her, and there was not a manamonge them that once durst say a worde unto her. Nowe was Martiusset then in his chayer of state, with all the honours of a generall,and when he had spied the women coming a farre of, he marveled whatthe matter ment: but afterwardes knowing his wife which came formest,he determined at the first to persist in his obstinate and inflexiblerancker. But overcomen in the ende with naturall affection, and beingaltogether altered to see them; his harte _would not serve him_ totarie their comming to his chayer, but comming down in hast, he went tomeete them, and first he kissed his mother, and imbraced her a pretiewhile, then his wife and litle children. And _Nature so wrought withhim_, that the[292] teares fell from his eyes, and he coulde not keepehim selfe from making much of them, but yeelded to the affection of hisbloode as if he had bene _violently_ caried with the furie of a mostswift running streame. After he had thus lovingly received them, andperceiving that his mother Volumnia would beginne to speake to him, hecalled the chiefest of the counsell of the Volsces to heare what shewould say. Then she spake in this sorte: “If we held our peace, (mysonne) and _determined not to speake_, the state of our poor bodies,and _present_ sight of our rayment, would easely bewray to thee whatlife we have led at home, since thy exile and abode abroad. But thinkenowe with thy selfe, how much more unfortunatly,[293] then all thewomen livinge we are come hether, considering that the sight whichshould be most pleasaunt to all other to beholde, _spitefull_ fortunehath made most fearefull to us: making my selfe to see my sonne, andmy daughter here, her husband, besieging the walles of his nativecountrie. So as that which is thonly comforte to all other in theiradversitie and _miserie_, to pray unto the goddes and to call to themfor aide; is the _onely_ thinge which _plongeth_ us into most deepeperplexitie. For we can not (alas) together pray, both for victorie,for our countrie, and for safetie of thy life also: but a _worlde_ ofgrievous curses, _yea more then any mortall_ enemie can heape uppon us,are forcibly wrapt up in our prayers. For the _bitter soppe of mosthard choyce_ is offered thy wife and children, to forgoe the one of thetwo: either to lose the _persone_ of thy selfe, or the _nurse_ of[294]their native contrie. For my selfe (my sonne) I am determined not totarie, till fortune in my life time do make an ende of this warre. Forif I cannot persuade thee, rather to doe good unto both parties than tooverthrowe and destroye the one, preferring love and _nature_ beforethe _malice_ and calamitie of warres: _thou shalt_ see, my sonne, andtrust unto it,[295] thou shalt no soner marche forward to assaultthy countrie, but thy foote shall treade upon thy mothers _wombe_,that brought thee first into this world. And I maye not deferre tosee the daye, either that my sonne be led prisoner in triumphe by his_naturall_ country men, or that he him selfe doe triumphe _of them_,and of his _naturall_ countrie. For if it were so, that my requesttended to save thy countrie, in destroying the Volsces: _I mustconfesse_, thou wouldest hardly and _doubtfully_ resolve on that. Foras to destroye thy naturall countrie it is altogether _unmete_ andunlawfull; so were it not just, and _lesse honorable_, to betraye thosethat put their trust in thee. But my only demaunde consisteth to make a_gayle_[296] deliverie of all evills, which delivereth equall benefitand safety both to the one and the other, but most honorable for theVolsces. For it shall appeare, that having victorie in their hands,they have of speciall favour graunted us singular graces; peace, andamitie, albeit them selves have no lesse parte of both, then we. Ofwhich _good_, if so it came to passe, thy selfe is thonly authour, _andso hast thou thonly honour_. But if it faile, _and fall out contrarie_:thy selfe alone _deservedly_ shall carie the _shameful_ reproche andburden of either partie. So, though the ende of warre be uncertaine,yet this notwithstanding is most certaine: that if it be thy chaunceto conquer, this benefit shalt thou _reape_ of _thy goodly conquest_,to be chronicled the plague and destroyer of thy countrie. And iffortune also overthrowe thee, then the worlde will saye, that throughdesire to revenge thy private injuries, thou hast _for ever_ undonethy good friendes, who dyd most lovingly and curteously receyve thee. ”Martius gave good eare unto his mothers wordes, without interrupting_her speache at all_: and after she had sayed _what she would_, he heldhis peace a prety while,[297] and annswered not a worde. Hereupon shebeganne again to speake unto him, and sayed: “My sonne, why doest thounot aunswer me? Doest thou think it good altogether to geve place untothy choller and desire of revenge, and thinkest thou it not honestiefor thee to graunt[298] thy mothers request in so weighty a cause? doest thou take it honorable for a noble man, to remember the wrongsand injuries done him: and doest not in like case thinke it an honestnoble man’s parte, to be thankefull for the goodnes that parents doeshewe to their children, acknowledging the duety and reverence _theyought to beare unto them_? [299] No man living is more bounde to shewehim selfe thankefull in all partes and respects then thy selfe: whoso unnaturally sheweth all ingratitude. [300] Moreover (my sonne) thouhast sorely taken of thy countrie, exacting grievous payments aponthem, in revenge of the injuries offered thee: besides, thou hast nothitherto shewed thy poore mother any curtesie. [301] And therefore itis _not only_ honest, _but due unto me_, that without compulsion Ishould obtaine my so just and reasonable request of thee. But since byreason I cannot persuade thee to it, to what purpose do I deferre[302]my last hope? ” And with these wordes her selfe, his wife and childrenfell downe upon their knees before him. Martius seeing that couldrefraine no longer but _went straight_ and lifte her up, crying out:“Oh mother, what have you done to me? ” And holding her hard by theright hand, “Oh mother,” sayed he, “You have wonne a happy victorie foryour countrie, but mortall and unhappy for your sonne: for I see[303]myself vanquished by you alone. ”[292] No _chauldes_. [293] Adverb for adjective, omission of one duplicate. [294] _of_, appositional. [295] Not so clear as the French. [296] gaol. [297] picqué not translated. [298] One of Amyot’s duplicates wanting. [299] Important connective particle omitted. [300] Quite wrong. The French means: “Since you so bitterly pursueingratitude. ”[301] In this sentence North again misses the point of the argument. The meaning is “And there is this further point as well, that you havealready in a measure requited your wrongs, but never yet shown yourgratitude. ”[302] One of Amyot’s duplicate expressions omitted. [303] A pardonable mistranslation of the French; which, however, provesthat in this passage at least North consulted neither the Greek nor theLatin. SHAKESPEARE’S VERSION. The narrative which ushers in the speech is of course left to theactors. It is interesting, however, to observe that Shakespeare variesfrom his authorities in making Coriolanus embrace not his mother buthis wife in the first instance. He inserts too the conversation, that,at first merely personal, leads up to the grand question. Then Volumniaproceeds with her speech. It is impossible to note all the minutechanges that Shakespeare makes. The Italics in the following reprintrepresent most generously what he has borrowed, for even in the clausesand phrases indicated as loans there is abundant evidence of his ownirrepressible dramatic and poetic originality.      _Vol. _ _Should we be silent and not speak, our raiment    And state of bodies would bewray what life    We have led since thy exile. Think with thyself    How more unfortunate than all living women    Are we come hither: since that thy sight_, which should    Make our eyes flow with joy, hearts dance with comforts,    Constrains them weep and shake with fear and sorrow;    _Making the mother, wife_, and child to see    _The son, the husband_, and the father tearing    His country’s bowels out. _And to poor we    Thine enmity’s most capital: thou barr’st us    Our prayers to the gods, which is a comfort    That all but we enjoy; for how can we,    Alas, how can we for our country pray_,    Whereto we are bound, _together with thy victory_,    Whereto we are bound? _alack, or we must lose    The country, our dear nurse, or else thy person_,    Our comfort in the country. We must find    An evident calamity, though we had    Our wish, which side should win: for _either thou    Must_, as a foreign recreant, _be led_    With manacles thorough our streets, or _else    Triumphantly tread on thy country’s ruin_    And bear the palm for having bravely shed    Thy wife and children’s blood. _For myself, son,    I purpose not to wait on fortune till    These wars determine: if I cannot persuade thee    Rather to show a noble grace to both parts    Than seek the end of one, thou shalt no sooner    March to assault thy country than to tread_—    _Trust to’t thou shalt not—on thy mother’s womb,    That brought thee to this world. _      _Vir. _                            Ay, and mine,    That brought you forth this boy, to keep your name    Living to time.      _Young Mar. _ A’ shall not tread on me;    I’ll run away till I am bigger, but then I’ll fight.      _Cor. _ Not of a woman’s tenderness to be,    Requires nor child nor woman’s face to see.    I have sat too long.      [_Rising. _      _Vol. _               Nay, go not from us thus,    _If it were so that our request did tend    To save the Romans, thereby to destroy    The Volsces whom you serve, you might condemn us_,    As poisonous of your honour: no; _our suit    Is, that you reconcile them: while the Volsces    May say “This mercy we have show’d”; the Romans,    “This we received”; and each in either side    Give the all-hail to thee; and cry “Be blest    For making up this peace! _” Thou know’st, great son,    _The end of war’s uncertain, but this certain    That, if thou conquer Rome, the benefit    Which thou shalt thereby reap is such a name_,    Whose repetition will be dogg’d with curses;    _Whose chronicle thus writ_: “The man was noble,    But with his last attempt he wiped it out;    _Destroy’d his country_, and his name remains    To the ensuing age abhorr’d. ” Speak to me, son:    Thou hast affected the fine strains of honour,    To imitate the graces of the gods;    To tear with thunder the wide cheeks o’ the air,    And yet to charge thy sulphur with a bolt    That should but rive an oak. Why dost not speak?    _Think’st thou it honourable for a noble man    Still to remember wrongs? _ Daughter, speak you:    He cares not for your weeping. Speak thou, boy:    Perhaps thy childishness will move him more    Than can our reasons. _There’s no man in the world    More bound to’s mother_; yet here he lets me prate    Like one i’ the stocks. _Thou hast never in thy life    Show’d thy dear mother any courtesy_,    When she, poor hen, fond of no second brood,    Has cluck’d thee to the wars and safely home,    Loaden with honour. _Say my request’s unjust,    And spurn me back: but if it be not so,    Thou art not honest_; and the gods will plague thee,    That thou restrain’st from me the duty which    To a mother’s part belongs. He turns away:    Down, ladies; let us shame him with our knees.    To his surname Coriolanus ’longs more pride    Than pity to our prayers. Down: an end;    This is the last: so we will home to Rome,    And die among our neighbours. Nay, behold’s:    This boy, that cannot tell what he would have,    But kneels and holds up hands for fellowship,    Does reason our petition with more strength    Than thou hast to deny’t. Come, let us go:    This fellow had a Volscian to his mother;    His wife is in Corioli and his child    Like him by chance. Yet give us our dispatch:    I am hush’d until our city be afire,    And then I’ll speak a little.         [_He holds her by the hand, silent. _      _Cor. _                        _O mother, mother!    What have you done? _ Behold, the heavens do ope,    The gods look down, and this unnatural scene    They laugh at. O my mother, mother! O!    _You have won a happy victory to Rome;    But, for your son_,—believe it, O, believe it,    _Most dangerously you have with him prevail’d,    If not most mortal to him. _ But, let it come. APPENDIX CSHAKESPEARE’S ALLEGED INDEBTEDNESS TO APPIAN IN _JULIUS CAESAR_Plutarch gives little more than the situation and the _motif_ forAntony’s oration. He has two accounts of the incident.    (_a_) When Caesars body was brought into the Market    Place, Antonius making his funeral oration in praise of the    dead according to the ancient custom of Rome, and perceiving    that his wordes moved the common people to compassion; he    framed his eloquence to make their harts yerne the more,    and taking Caesars gowne all bloudy in his hand, he layed    it open to the sight of them all, shewing what a number of    cuts and holes it had upon it. Therewithall the people fell    presently into such a rage and mutinie, that there was no    more order kept amongs the common people.                                        (_Marcus Brutus. _)    (_b_) When Caesars body was brought to the place    where it should be buried, he made a funeral oration in    commendacion of Caesar, according to the auncient custom of    praising noble men at their funerals. When he saw that the    people were very glad and desirous to heare Caesar spoken    of, and his praises uttered: he mingled his oration with    lamentable wordes, and by amplifying of matters did greatly    move their harts and affections unto pitie and compassion.    In fine to conclude his oration, he unfolded before the    whole assembly the bloudy garments of the dead, thrust    through in many places with their swords, and called the    malefactors, cruell and cursed murtherers. With these words    he put the people into . . . a fury.                                        (_Marcus Antonius. _)Shakespeare certainly did not get much of the stuff for Antony’s speechfrom these notices. Appian, on the other hand, gives a much fuller report, which was quiteaccessible to ordinary readers, for Appian had been published in 1578by Henrie Bynniman. [304][304] Under the title: “An auncient Historie and exquisite Chronicleof the Romanes warres, both Ciuile and Foren. Written in Greeke by thenoble Orator and Historiographer Appian of Alexandria. ”The English version of the most important passages runs thus:    Antony marking how they were affected, did not let it    slippe, but toke upon him to make Caesars funeral sermon,    as Consul, of a Consul, friend of a friend, and kinsman, of    a kinsman (for Antony was partly his kinsman) and to use    craft againe. And thus he said: “I do not thinke it meete    (O citizens) that the buriall praise of suche a man, should    rather be done by me, than by the whole country. For what    you have altogither for the loue of hys vertue giuen him    by decree, aswell the Senate as the people, I thinke your    voice, and not Antonies, oughte to expresse it. ”    This he uttered with sad and heauy cheare, and wyth a    framed voice, declared euerything, chiefly upon the decree,    whereby he was made a God, holy and inuiolate, father of the    country, benefactor and gouernor, and suche a one, as neuer    in al things they entituled other man to the like. At euery    of these words Antonie directed his countenance and hands to    Caesars body, and with vehemencie of words opened the fact.    At euery title he gaue an addition, with briefe speach,    mixte with pitie and indignation. And when the decree named    him father of the country, then he saide: “This is the    testimony of our duety. ”    And at these wordes, _holy_, _inuiolate_ and _untouched_,    and _the refuge of all other_, he said: “None other made    refuge of hym. But he, this holy and untouched, is kylled,    not takyng honoure by violences whiche he neuer desired, and    then be we verye thrall that bestowe them on the unworthy,    neuer suing for them. But you doe purge your selves (O    Citizens) of this unkindnesse, in that you nowe do use suche    honoure towarde hym being dead. ”    Then rehearsing the othe, that all shoulde keepe Caesar    and Caesars body, and if any one wente about to betraye    hym, that they were accursed that would not defende him: at    this he extolled hys voice, and helde up his handes to the    Capitoll, saying:    “O Jupiter, Countries defendour, and you other Gods, I am    ready to reuenge, as I sware and made execration, and when    it seemes good to my companions to allowe the decrees, I    desire them to aide me. ”    At these plaine speeches spoken agaynst the Senate, an    uproare being made, Antony waxed colde, and recanted hys    wordes. “It seemeth, (O Citizens),” saide hee, “that the    things done haue not bin the worke of men but of Gods, and    that we ought to haue more consideration of the present,    than of the past, bycause the thyngs to come, maye bring us    to greater danger than these we haue, if we shall returne to    oure olde [dissentions], and waste the reste of the noble    men that be in the Cittie. Therefore let us send thys holy    one to the number of the blessed, and sing to him his due    hymne and mourning verse. ”    When he had saide thus, he pulled up his gowne lyke a man    beside hymselfe, and gyrded it, that he might the better    stirre his handes: he stoode ouer the Litter, as from a    Tabernacle, looking into it and opening it, and firste    sang his Himne, as to a God in heauen. And to confirme he    was a God, he held up his hands, and with a swift voice he    rehearsed the warres, the fights, the victories, the nations    that he had subdued to his countrey, and the great booties    that he had sent, making euery one to be a maruell. Then    with a continuall crie,      “This is the only unconquered of all that euer came      to hands with hym. Thou (quoth he) alone diddest      reuenge thy countrey being iniured, 300 years, and      those fierce nations that only inuaded Rome, and only      burned it, thou broughtest them on their knees. ”    And when he had made these and many other inuocations,    he tourned hys voice from triumphe to mourning matter,    and began to lament and mone him as a friend that had bin    uniustly used, and did desire that he might giue hys soule    for Caesars. Then falling into moste vehement affections,    uncouered Caesars body, holding up his vesture with a    speare, cut with the woundes, and redde with the bloude of    the chiefe Ruler, by the which the people lyke a Quire,    did sing lamentation unto him, and with this passion were    againe repleate with ire. And after these speeches, other    lamentations wyth voice after the Country custome, were sung    of the Quires, and they rehearsed again his acts and his hap.    Then made he Caesar hymselfe to speake as it were in a    lamentable sort, to howe many of his enimies he hadde done    good by name, and of the killers themselves to say as in an    admiration, “Did I saue them that haue killed me? ” This the    people could not abide, calling to remembraunce, that all    the kyllers (only Decimus except) were of Pompey’s faction,    and subdued by hym, to whom, in stead of punishment, he had    giuen promotion of offices, gouernments of prouinces and    armies, and thought Decimus worthy to be made his heyre and    son by adoption, and yet conspired his death. [305][305] In Schweighäuser’s Edition II. cxliii. to cxlvi. Now, this is not very like the oration in the play. It may be analysedand summarised as follows:Antony begins by praising the deceased as a consul a consul, a friend afriend, a kinsman a kinsman. He recites the public honours awarded toCaesar as a better testimony than his private opinion, and accompaniesthe enumeration with provocative comment. He touches on Caesar’ssacrosanct character and the unmerited honours bestowed on those whoslew him, but acquits the citizens of unkindness on the ground of theirpresence at the funeral. He avows his own readiness for revenge, andthus censures the policy of the Senate, but admits that that policy maybe for the public interest. He intones a hymn in honour of the deifiedCaesar; reviews his wars, battles, victories, the provinces annexedand the spoils transmitted to Rome, and glances at the subjugation ofthe Gauls as the payment of an ancient score. He uncovers the body ofCaesar and displays the pierced and blood-stained garment to the wrathof the populace. He puts words in the mouth of the dead, and makes himcite the names of those whom he had benefited and preserved that theyshould destroy him. And the people brook no more. Thus Appian’s Antony differs from Shakespeare’s Antony in hisattitude to his audience, in the arrangement of his material, and toa considerable extent in the material itself. Nevertheless, in someof the details the speeches correspond. It is quite possible thatShakespeare, while retaining Plutarch’s general scheme, may havefilled it in with suggestions from Appian. The evidence is not veryconvincing, but the conjecture is greatly strengthened by the apparentloans from the same quarter in _Antony and Cleopatra_, which would showthat he was acquainted with the English translation. See Appendix D. APPENDIX DSHAKESPEARE’S LOANS FROM APPIAN IN _ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA_I do not think there can be any serious doubt about Shakespeare’shaving consulted the 1578 translation of the _Bella Civilia_ for thisplay, at any rate for the parts dealing with Sextus Pompeius. The mostimportant passage is the one (_A. and C. _ III. v. 19) which recordsAntony’s indignation at Pompey’s death. Now of that death there is nomention at all in the _Marcus Antonius_ of Plutarch; and even in the_Octavius Caesar Augustus_ by Simon Goulard, which was included in the1583 edition of Amyot and in the 1603 edition of North, it is expresslyattributed to Antony. Here is Goulard’s statement:[306]    Whilst Antonius made war with the Parthians, or rather    infortunately they made war with him to his great confusion,    his lieutenant Titius found the means to lay hands upon    Sextus Pompeius; that was fled into the ile of Samos, and    then forty years old: whom he put to death by Antonius’    commandment. [306] I quote from _Shakespeare’s Plutarch_ (Prof. Skeat), the 1603edition of North being at present inaccessible to me. Appian at least leaves it an open question whether Antony wasresponsible or not, and thus gives his apologist an opportunity:    Titius commaunded hys (_i. e. _ Pompey’s) army to sweare to    Antony, and put hym to death at Mileto, when he hadde lyved    to the age of fortye yeares, eyther for that he remembered    late displeasure and forgot olde good turnes, or for that he    had such commaundemente of Antony.    _There bee that saye that Plancus, and not Antony did    commaunde hym to dye, whyche beeyng president of Syria had    Antonyes signet, and in greate causes wrote letters in hys    name. _ Some thynke it was done wyth Antonyes knowledge, he    fearyng the name of Pompey, or for Cleopatra, who fauoured    Pompey the Great.    _Some thynke that Plancus dyd it of hymselfe_ for these    causes, and also that Pompey shoulde gyve no cause of    dissention between Caesar and Antony, or for that Cleopatra    would turn hyr favour to Pompey.                                                     (V. cxiv. )I do not think indeed that there is any indication that Shakespearehad read, or at all events been in any way impressed by, Goulard’s_Augustus_: no wonder, for compared with the genuine _Lives_, it is adull performance. The only other passages with which a connection mightbe traced, do no more than give hints that are better given in Appian. Thus Sextus Pompeius’ vein of chivalry, of which there is hardly asuggestion in Plutarch’s brief notices, is illustrated in Goulard byhis behaviour to the fugitives from the proscription.    Pompeius had sent certain ships to keep upon the coast of    Italy, and pinnaces everywhere, to the end to receive all    them that fled on that side; giving them double recompence    that saved a proscript, and honourable offices to men that    had been consuls and escaped, comforting and entertaining    the others with a most singular courtesy. But Appian says all this too in greater detail, and adds thesignificant touch:    So was he moste profitable to hys afflicted Countrey, and    wanne greate glory to hymselfe, _not inferioure to that he    hadde of hys father_.                                                  (IV. xxxvi. )Note particularly this reference to his father’s reputation, for whichthere is no parallel in Plutarch or Goulard; and compare                Our slippery people     . . . begin to throw    Pompey the Great, and all his dignities    Upon his son.                  (_A. and C. _ I. ii. 192. )and    Rich in his father’s honour.             (_Ib. _ I. iii. 50. )Again, Goulard, talking of the last struggle, says:    After certain encounters, where Pompey ever had the better,    insomuch as Lepidus was suspected to lean on that side, Caesar    resolved to commit all to the hazard of a latter battle. The insinuation in regard to Lepidus might be taken as the foundationfor Shakespeare’s statement, which has no sanction in Plutarch, thatCaesar    accuses him of letters he had formerly wrote to Pompey.                                   (_A. and C. _ III. v. 10. )But it seems a closer echo of a remark of Appian’s about sometransactions shortly after Philippi:    Lepidus was accused to favour Pompey’s part.                                       (V. iii. )There are, moreover, several touches in Shakespeare’s sketch, that hecould no more get from Goulard than from Plutarch, but that are to befound in Appian. Thus there is Pompey’s association with the partyof the “good Brutus” and the enthusiasm he expresses for “beauteousfreedom” (_A. and C. _ II. vi. 13 and 17). Compare passages like thefollowing in Appian:    Sextus Pompey, the seconde son of Pompey the Great being    lefte of that faction, was sette up of Brutus friends.                                                     (V. i. )    Pompey’s friends hearing of this, did marvellously rejoyce,    crying now to be time to restore their Countrey’s libertie.                                                 (III. lxxxii. )Thus, too, Shakespeare refers to Pompey’s command of “the empire of thesea” (_A. and C. _ I. ii. 191), which, if Plutarch were his authority,would be an unjustifiable exaggeration. Yet it exactly corresponds tothe facts of the case as Appian repeatedly states them, and perhaps oneof Binniman’s expressions suggested the very phrase.    Pompey _being Lorde of the Sea_ . . . caused famine in    the cittie all victuall beyng kepte away.                                                  (V. xv. )    The Citie in the meane time was in great penurie, their    provision of corne beyng stopped by Pompey.                                                (V. xviii. )    In the meane time the cytie was oppressed with famine, for    neyther durst the Merchauntes bring any corn from the East    bicause of Pompeis beeing in Sicelie, nor from the Weast of    Corsica and Sardinia, where Pompeis ships also lay: nor from    Africa, where the navies of the other conspiratours kepte    their stations. Being in this distresse, they (_i. e. _ the    people) alleaged that the discorde of the rulers was the cause,    and therefore required that peace might be made with Pompey,    unto the whiche when Caesar woulde not agree, Antonie thought    warre was needefull for necessitie.                                                  (V. lxvii. )Then there are the frequent references of Antony (_A. and C. _ I. ii. 192, I. iii. 148), of the messenger (I. iv. 38, I. iv. 52), of Pompeyhimself (II. i. 9), to Pompey’s popularity and the rush of recruitsto his standard. Neither Goulard nor Plutarch makes mention of thesepoints, but Appian does often, and most emphatically in the followingpassage:    Out of Italy all things were not quiet, for Pompey by    resorte of condemned Citizens, and auntient possessioners    was greatly increased, both in mighte, and estimation:    for they that feared their life, or were spoyled of their    goodes, or lyked not the present state, fledde all to hym.    And this disagreemente of Lucius augmented his credite:    beside a repayre of yong men, desirous of gayne and seruice,    not caring under whome they went, because they were all    Romanes, sought unto him. And among other, hys cause seemed    most just. He was waxed rich by booties of the Sea, and    he hadde good store of Shyppes, with their furniture. . . .    Wherefore me thynke, that if he had then inuaded Italy,    he might easily have gotte it, which being afflicted with    famine and discord loked for him. But Pompey of ignorance    had rather defend his owne, than inuade others, till so he    was ouercome also.                                                      (V. xxv. )It should be noted too that Menas, to whom Appian always gives his fullformal name of Menodorus, not only as in Plutarch proposes to makeaway with the Triumvirs after the compact, but as in the play (II,vi. 84 and 109) and not as in Plutarch, disapproves the cessation ofhostilities.    All other persuaded Pompey earnestly to peace, only    Menodorus wrote from Sardinia that he should make open    _warre, or dryve off_,[307] whyles the dearth continued,    _that he might make peace with_ the better conditions.                                                  (V. lxxi. )[307] _i. e. _ put off. Greek, βραδύνειν. I have not noticed any other points of importance in which there isan apparent connection between the drama and the _Roman History_:unless indeed Antony’s passing compunction for Fulvia’s death may be soregarded.    Newes came that Antonies wyfe was dead, who coulde not bear    his unkyndenesse, leavyng her sicke, & not bidding hyr    farewell. Hir death was thought very commodius for them    both. For Fulvia was an unquiet woman, & for ielousie of    Cleopatra, raysed suche a mortall warre. Yet the matter    vexed Antony bicause he was compted the occasion of her death.                                                         (V. lix. )Here, however, the motive of Antony’s regret differs from that whichShakespeare attributes to him; and on the whole the references toFulvia in the play deviate even more from Appian’s account thanfrom Plutarch’s. So far as I am in a position to judge, Shakespearederived all his other historical data, as well as the general schemeinto which he fitted these trifling loans, from Plutarch’s _Life_,and can be considered a debtor to Appian only in the points that areillustrated in my previous extracts. But there are two qualifications I should like to make to thisstatement. In the first place, I have not seen the 1578 version of Appian, thepassages I have quoted being merely transcripts made by my direction. Ihave had only the original text to work upon, and it is possible thatthe Tudor Translation might offer verbal coincidences that of coursewould not suggest themselves to me. In the second place, the book is not merely a translation of Appian. The descriptive title runs: “An auncient historie and exquisitechronicle of the Romanes warres, both civile and foren . . . with acontinuation . . . from the death of Sextus Pompeius to the overthrow ofAntonie and Cleopatra. ”Appian’s History of the Civil Wars, as now extant, concludes at thedeath of Sextus Pompeius. The Tudor translator’s continuation tillthe deaths of Antony and Cleopatra may be responsible for some of thelater deviations from Plutarch, which I have described as independentmodifications of Shakespeare’s. The matter is worth looking into. Meanwhile, from my collation I draw two conclusions, the firstdefinitive, the second provisional:    (1) That Shakespeare laid Appian under contribution to fill    in the details of his picture.    (2) That he borrowed from him, that is, from his English    translator, only for the episode of Sextus Pompeius. APPENDIX ECLEOPATRA’S _ONE WORD_Professor Th. Zielinski of St. Petersburg suggests a peculiarinterpretation of this passage in his _Marginalien_ (_Philologus_,N. F. , Band xviii. 1905). He starts from the assertion that Shakespearehad in his mind Ovid’s _Epistle from Dido_ (_Heroid. _ vii. ) when hecomposed the parting scene between Antony and Cleopatra. This statementis neither self-evident nor initially probable. Shakespeare was nodoubt acquainted with portions of Ovid both in the original and intranslation, but there is not much indication that his knowledgeextended to the _Heroides_. Mr. Churton Collins, indeed, in his pleafor Shakespeare’s familiarity with Latin, calls attention to thewell-known pair of quotations from these poems, the one in _3 HenryVI. _, the other in the _Taming of the Shrew_. But though Mr. Collinsmakes good his general contention, he hardly strengthens it with theseexamples: for Shakespeare’s share in both plays is so uncertain thatno definite inference can be drawn from them. Apart from these morethan doubtful instances, there seems to be no reference in Shakespeareto the _Heroides_, either in the Latin of Ovid or in the English ofTurberville; and it would be strange to find one cropping up here. But Professor Zielinski gives his arguments, and one of them iscertainly plausible. He quotes:    What says the married woman? You may go:    Would she had never given you leave to come;                       (_A. and C. _ I. iii. 20. )and compares    “Sed iubet ire deus. ” Vellem vetuisset adire.                                (_Her. _ VII. 37. )There is a coincidence, but it is not very close, and scarcely impliesimitation. Moreover, it becomes even less striking in the Englishversion; which, after all, Shakespeare is more likely to have known, ifhe knew the poem at all:   But God doth force thee flee; would God had kept away   Such guilefull guests, and Troians had in Carthage made no stay. [308][308] _The Heroycall Epistles of the learned poet Publius Ouidius Nasoin English verse: set out and translated by George Turberville, gent_,etc. Transcribed from a copy in the Bodleian, which Malone, who ownedit, conjecturally dated 1569. Professor Zielinski’s next argument is singularly unconvincing. Hesays: “The situation (_i. e. _ in the Epistle and in the Play) isparallel even in details, as everyone will tell himself: moreover thepoet himself confesses it:    Where souls do couch on flowers, we’ll hand in hand,    And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze:    Dido and her Æneas shall want troops    And all the haunt be ours. ”                                          (IV. xiv. 51. )But in the first place this has reference not to the separation but tothe reunion: and in the second place, of the reunion there is no wordin the Epistle. I cannot therefore see how Shakespeare’s lines can betaken as a confession of indebtedness to Ovid. But these analogies,real or imaginary, lead up to Professor Zielinski’s main point. Hequotes as what he calls the “Motiv des Kindes” and considers thedistinctive feature of Ovid’s treatment, Dido’s reproach:    Forsitan et gravidam Didon, scelerate, relinquas,    Parsque tui lateat corpore clausa meo.         (line 131. )He admits that it is not easy to find this “Motiv” in the play, butargues that Shakespeare was always very reticent in such regards. Then he proceeds: “Hier nun war Kleopatra tatsächlich schwanger, alsAntonius sie verliess: Plutarch setzt es c. 36 voraus, und Shakespearewird es gewusst haben, da er Act III. die Kinder erwähnt. Sollte er inder grossen Abschieds-scene das dankbare Motiv haben entgehen lassen? Sehn wir zu. Kleopatra spielt die nervöse, ihr ist bald gut, baldschlecht: ‘schnür mich auf . . . nein, lass es sein. ’ Ihre ungerechtenVorwürfe bringen den Antonius endlich auf; er will gehn. Sie hältihn zurück: _courteous lord, one word_. Wir erwarten eine wichtigeErklärung; was wird das ‘eine Wort’ sein?    Sir, you and I must part—but that’s not it:    Sir, you and I have loved—but there’s not it;    That you know well: something it is I would—    O, _my oblivion is a very Antony_,    And I am all forgotten. Es ist für den klassischen Philologen erheiternd und tröstlich, dieCommentare zum hervorgehoben verse zu lesen: dieselben Torheiten, wiebei uns, wenn einer das erklären muss, was er selber nicht versteht. Man wollte sogar _oblivion_ hinausconjiciren: andere befehlen es= _memory_ zu nehmen. Was wird dadurch gewonnen? Ich verlange dasversprochene ‘eine wort. ’—‘Ja, das hat sie eben vergessen’—Ich danke. Nein, sie hat es ausgesprochen: ihr ‘Vergessen’ war in der Tat ‘einechter Antonius,’ wenn auch ein ganz kleiner. Und als der Freund dieAnspielung nicht versteht—_I should take you for idleness itself_—fährtsie bitter fort:                              ’Tis sweating labour    _To bear such idleness so near the heart_,    As Cleopatra _this_. (das _this_ mit discret hinweisender Geberde). . . . Es wäre Mangelan Zartgefühl, mehr zu verlangen. —Und wirklich, besser als dieErklärer hat ein Dichter den Dichter verstanden; ich meine Puschkin,der in einer Stelle seiner lieblichen ‘Nixe’ (Rusalka) die obenausgeschriebenen Worte der Kleopatra offenbar nachahmen wollte:      _Fürst. _ Leb’ wohl.      _Mädchen. _ Nein, wart . . . ich muss dir etwas sagen . . .    Weiss nimmer was.      _Fürst. _      So denke nach!      _Mädchen. _                  Für dich    Wär ich bereit. . . . Nein das ist’s nicht. . . . So wart doch.    Ich kann’s nicht glauben, dass du mich auf ewig    Verlassen willst. . . . Nein, das ist’s immer nicht. . . .    Jetzt hab’ ich’s: heut war’s, dass zum ersten Mal    Dein kind sich unter’m Herzen mir bewegte. ”This is very ingenious, and the parallel from Puschkin is veryinteresting. What makes one doubtful is that from first to lastShakespeare slurs over the motherhood of Cleopatra, to which theother tragedians of the time give great prominence. On the whole heobliterates even those references that Plutarch makes to this aspectof his heroine, and it would therefore be odd if he went out of hisway to invent an allusion which does not fit in with the rest of thepicture, and which is without consequence and very obscure. If one wereforced to conjecture the “missing word,” it would be more plausible tosuppose that she both wishes and hesitates to suggest marriage withAntony. At the close, her exclamation:                              Husband, I come:    Now to that name my courage prove my title!                                  (V. ii. 290. )shows that she recognises the dignity of the sanction. At the outset,she feels the falsity of her position, as we see from her reference to“the married woman”; and in Plutarch Shakespeare had read the complaintof her partisans, that “Cleopatra, being borne a Queene of so manythousands of men, is onely named Antonius Leman. ” In Rome the marriageis assumed to be quite probable; and in this very scene Antony, afterannouncing the removal of the grand impediment by Fulvia’s death, hasjust professed his unalterable devotion to his Queen. Why should therenot be a marriage, unless he regards her merely as a mistress; and whyshould she not propose it, except that she fears to meet with thisrebuff? The “sweating labour” she bears would thus be her unsanctionedlove and its disgrace. This, however, is not put forward as a serious interpretation, butonly as a theory quite as possible as Professor Zielinski’s. The mostobvious and the most satisfactory way is to suppose, as probably almostevery reader does and has done, that she is merely making pretextsto postpone the separation. And there is surely no great difficultyabout the phrase: “My oblivion is a very Antony. ” Here too the obviousexplanation is the most convincing: “My forgetfulness is as great asAntony’s own. ”APPENDIX FTHE “INEXPLICABLE” PASSAGE IN _CORIOLANUS_Coleridge, in his _Notes on Shakespeare_ (1818, Section IV. ), callsattention to the difficulty of Aufidius’ speech to his lieutenant:    All places yield to him ere he sits down;    And the nobility of Rome are his:    The senators and patricians love him too:    The tribunes are no soldiers; and their people    Will be as rash in the repeal, as hasty    To expel him thence. I think he’ll be to Rome    As is the osprey to the fish, who takes it    By sovereignty of nature. First he was    A noble servant to them; but he could not    Carry his honours even: whether ’twas pride,    Which out of daily fortune ever taints    The happy man; whether defect of judgement,    To fail in the disposing of those chances    Which he was lord of; or whether nature,    Not to be other than one thing, not moving    From the casque to the cushion, but commanding peace    Even with the same austerity and garb    As he controll’d the war; but one of these—    As he hath spices of them all, not all,    For I dare so far free him—made him fear’d,    So hated, and so banish’d, but he has a merit,    To choke it in the utterance. So our virtues    Lie in the interpretation of the time;    And power, unto itself most commendable,    Hath not a tomb so evident as a chair    To extol what it hath done.    One fire drives out one fire; one nail, one nail;    Rights by rights falter, strengths by strengths do fail.    Come, let’s away. When, Caius, Rome is thine,    Thou art poor’st of all: then shortly art thou mine.                                             (IV. vii. 28. )Here there are puzzling expressions in detail, but they have on thewhole been satisfactorily explained, and it is not to them thatColeridge refers. [309] He says: “I have always thought this in itselfso beautiful speech the least explicable from the mood and fullintention of the speaker of any in the whole works of Shakespeare. ”It strikes one indeed as a series of disconnected jottings that haveas little to do with each other as with the situation and attitude ofAufidius. First he gives reason for expecting the capture of Rome; thenhe enumerates defects in Coriolanus that have led to his banishmentwith a supplementary acknowledgment of his merits; next he makesgeneral reflections on the relation of virtue to the construction putupon it, and on the danger that lies in conspicuous power: thereafterhe points out that things are brought to nought by themselves or theirlikes; and finally he predicts that when Rome is taken, he will get thebetter of his rival. [309] Of these the most perplexing to me is the distinction Shakespearemakes between “the nobility” on the one hand, and “the senatorsand patricians” on the other. What was in his mind? I fail to findan explanation even on trying to render his thought in terms ofcontemporary arrangements in England. “Peers,” “parliament men,” and“gentry” would not do. Is there here a mere congeries of thoughts as one chance suggestionleads to another with which it happens to be casually associated; ordoes one thread of continuous meaning run through the whole? I wouldventure to maintain the latter opinion with more confidence than I do,if Coleridge had not been so emphatic. In the first place we have to remember what goes before. The reportof the Lieutenant confirms the jealousy of Aufidius, who is furtherembittered by the hint that he is losing credit, but reflects that hecan bring weighty charges against Coriolanus, and concludes:                                He hath left undone    That which shall break his neck or hazard mine,    Whene’er we come to our account. Thereupon the Lieutenant meaningly rejoins:    Sir, I beseech you, think you he’ll carry Rome? It is a contingency to be reckoned with, for clearly if Rome falls,any previous mistakes or complaisances alleged against the conquerorwill find ready pardon. So Aufidius discusses the matter in the lightof these two main considerations: (1) that he must get rid of hisrival, and (2) that his rival may do the state a crowning service. He admits that Coriolanus, what with his own efficiency, what withthe friendliness of one class in Rome and the helplessness of theremainder, is likely to achieve the grand exploit. How then willAufidius’ chances stand? Formerly Marcius deserved as well of his owncountry when he had overthrown Corioli, yet that did not secure him. What qualities in himself discounted his services to Rome and mayagain discount his services to Antium? Pride of prosperity, disregardof his opportunities, his unaccommodating peremptory behaviour—allof these faults which in point of fact afterwards contributed to hisdeath—brought about his banishment, though truly he had merit enoughto make men overlook such trifles. This shows how worth depends on theway it is taken, and how ability, even when of the sterling kind thatwins its own approval, may find the throne of its public recognitionto be, more properly, its certain grave. Thus likes counteract likes;the greater the popularity, the greater the reaction; the greater thesuperiority, the more certainly it will balk itself. So, and this isthe conclusion of the whole matter, even when Marcius has won Rome by agreater conquest than when he won Corioli, the result will be the same. His proud, imprudent and overbearing conduct will obscure his highdeserts. These will be construed only by public opinion, and the veryprowess in which he delights will rouse an adulation, which, when he isno longer required, will swing round to its opposite. So his successwill correct itself. His very triumph over Rome will be guarantee forAufidius’ triumph over him. If this amplified paraphrase give the meaning, that meaning is coherentenough and is quite suitable to the mood and attitude of the speaker. INDEX    Acciaiuoli, additional lives to Plutarch, _note_ 144.    Agrippa (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 346.    Alexander (Sir William) [Earl of Stirling],      _Julius Caesar_, 35;      _Julius Caesar_ compared with Garnier, 39;      _Julius Caesar_ and Shakespeare, 207.    Alexas (Lord), (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 348.    Ammonius (the Philosopher), 95.    Amyot (Jacques), 119-141;      birth, etc. , 120;      translation of Heliodorus, 121;      of Diodorus Siculus, 123;      and Longus, 124;      tutor to Dukes of Orleans and Anjou, 124;      Grand Almoner of France, 124;      Bishop of Auxerre, 125;      Commander of Order of Holy Ghost, 126;      various disasters, 126;      _Projet de l’Eloquence Royal_, 128;      modifications of Plutarch, 138.    ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA, 300-453;      date of composition, 300;      and Appian, 648-652.    Antony and Cleopatra (the two characters), 439-453.    _Apius and Virginia_, 2-10, 70.    Appian and _Antony and Cleopatra_, 648-652;      and _Julius Caesar_, 644-647.    Appian’s Chronicle, translated by Bynniman, _note_ 644;      _Sextus Pompeius_, 333.    Aufidius (Tullus), [in _Coriolanus_], 501, 584.    B. (R. ), 2, 9.    Baker, _Development of Shakespeare as a Dramatist_, _note_ 267.    Bernage (S. ), on _Julius Caesar_ and _Cornélie_, 60.    Berners (Lord), part translation, Guevara (Antonio de),       _Marco Aurelio con el Relox de Principes_, 148.    Bidpai, Fables of, 150.    Blignières (Auguste de), _Essai on Amyot_, 119.    Blount (Edward), a printer, 300.    Boas (F. S. ), _Shakespeare and his Predecessors_, 426.    Boner (Hieronymus), version of Plutarch’s _Lives_, _note_ 132.    Boswell (James), quotation from Plutarch, 116.    Bower (Richard), ? author of a _New Tragicall Comedie                       of Apius and Virginia_, 2.    Bradley (A. C. ), on the Roman Plays, 80;      _Julius Caesar_, _note_ 267;      Shakesperian atmosphere after _Othello_ and _Lear_, 305;      _Antony and Cleopatra_, _note_ 312;      _Coriolanus_, 462.    Brandes (Dr. George), _Julius Caesar_, _note_ 217;      on Tieck’s Dramas (in _Romantic School in Germany_), _note_ 280;      _Antony and Cleopatra_, 307;      _Coriolanus_, 464 and 466.    Brandl (Professor Alois), _Coriolanus_, 464.    Brandon (Samuel), _Vertuous Octavia_, 71.    Brontë (Charlotte), on _Coriolanus_, 468, 472.    Brooke (Lord), _Antony and Cleopatra_—destroyed tragedy on, 70.    Buchanan (George), _Baptistes_ and _Jephthes_, 21.    Butler (Professor), on _Appius and Virginia_, _note_ 9.    Büttner, _Zu Coriolan und seiner Quelle_, 488.    _Caesar’s Fall_, a play by Drayton, Webster and others, 170.    Calvin (John), prose of, 135.    Camden (William), _Remaines_, 455.    Caractacus, Elizabethan Plays on, 1.    Carlyle (Thomas), on the Historical Plays, 89.    Casca (in _Julius Caesar_), 286.    Cassius (in _Julius Caesar_), 275, 284.    _César_, by Jacques Grévin, 31.    _César_, by Grévin and Muretus, compared, 30-33.    Chalmers (Alexander), on _Coriolanus_, 460.    Chapman (George), French plays, 77;      _Bussy d’Ambois_, 303;      _The Conspiracie_ and _The Tragedie of Charles,          Duke of Byron_, 464.    Charmian (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 347.    Chaucer (Geoffrey), on Brutus and Cassius, 27;      _Legend of Good Women_, 308.    Chenier (Marie-Joseph), _Brutus et Cassius,          Les Derniers Romains_, 27.    Cicero (in _Julius Caesar_), 287.    Cinthio (Giovanni Battista Giroldi), play on _Cleopatra_,            _note_ 310.    Cleopatra (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 413-438;      relations between Antony and Cleopatra, 439-453;      “One Word,” 653-656.    _Cleopatra_, by Samuel Daniel, 48.    Coleridge (Samuel Taylor), Brutus (in _Julius Caesar_), 201, 202,          204, 205;      _Julius Caesar_, 256;      _Antony and Cleopatra_, 305, 317, 338;      _Coriolanus_, 462, 473;      on Aufidius (in _Coriolanus_), 486;      “Inexplicable” passage in _Coriolanus_, 657-659.    Collins (John Churton), _Studies in Shakespeare_, 180;      Shakespeare’s Latinity, 653.    Collischonn (G. A. O. ), Introduction to Grévin’s _Caesar_, _note_ 27;      and Muretus’ _Julius Caesar_, _note_ 27;      coincidences between Grévin and Shakespeare, 34.    Cominius (in _Coriolanus_), 498, 556.    _Complaint of Rosamond_, by Samuel Daniel, 48;      parallelisms with _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Rape of Lucrece_, 56.    Confrères de la Passion, 30.    CORIOLANUS, 454-627;      date of composition, 454;      “Inexplicable” passage in, 657-659.    _Cornelia_, by Thomas Kyd, 54.    _Cornélie_, compared with Muretus, 37.    Cory, translation of Leo, 333.    Courier (P. L. ), on Plutarch, 106, 119.    Cruserius, Latin version of Plutarch, 133.    _Cymbeline_, 312.    Daniel (Samuel), _Cleopatra_, 48, 338, 451.    Dante, on Brutus and Cassius, 26.    Decius (in _Julius Caesar_), 286.    _Defence of Ryme_, by Samuel Daniel, 50.    de l’Escluse (Charles), additional lives to Plutarch, 144.    _Delia_, by Samuel Daniel, 48.    Delius (Nicolaus), Shakespeare and Plutarch, 165;      on Coriolanus, 456, 487;      Coriolanus and Plutarch, 493.    Demogeot, on Amyot, 139.    De Quincey (Thomas), on Plutarch, _note_ 114.    _Diall of Princes_, by Thomas North, 143.    Digges (Leonard), on the Roman Plays, 85;      on _Julius Caesar_, 255.    Dodsley (Robert), Old English Plays, 4.    Dolabella (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 346.    Doni (Antonio Francesco), _Morale Filosofia_        (same as Bidpai’s Fables), 144, 150.

Dowden (Professor Edward), _Shakespeare’s Mind and Art_, 214.    Drayton (Michael), _Mortimeriados_ or _The Barons’ War_, 169.    Dryden (John), on Plutarch, 106;      _Life of Plutarch_, 110;      _All for Love_ or _The World Well Lost_, 256, 340.    _Eccerinis_, by Mussato, 11.    Eedes (Dr. ), lost Latin play, 180.    English and Roman plays compared, 74.    Enobarbus (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 349-359.    Eros (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 366.    _Fabula Praetexta_, 11.    Faguet (Émile), on _Cornélie_, 37.    _Famous Victories of Henry V. _, 2.    Farmer (John S. ), reproduction of _Appius and Virginia_, 3.    Favorinus (the Philosopher), 101.    Fénelon (François de Salignac de la Mothe), on Amyot, 136.    Ferrero (Professor Guglielmo), on _Antony and Cleopatra_,              _note_ 335;      on Cleopatra, _note_ 414 and 452.    Filelfo, Latin version of Plutarch, 134.    Florus (Mestrius) [friend of Plutarch], 97.    French Senecans, 19-44.    Fulvia (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 396.    Furness (Frances Howard), _Antony and Cleopatra_, _note_ 59;      on Charmian, _note_ 347.    Garnett (Dr. Richard), _Date and Occasion of The Tempest_, 466.    Garnier (R. ), _Cornélie_, 35;      Drama about Portia, 35;      _Marc Antoine_, 41;      _Antonius_, English translation by Countess of Pembroke, 46;      _Antony and Cleopatra_, 338;      parallels between _Cornélie_ and _Julius Caesar_, 628-630.    Gassner (H. ), edition of Kyd’s _Cornelia_, _note_ 55.    Geddes (Dr. ), a lost Latin play, 180.    Gellius (Aulus), on Plutarch, 101.    Genée (Rudolph), Shakespeare’s _Leben und Werke_, 198.    Gervinus (Georg Gottfried), _Shakespeare Commentaries_,      _Julius Caesar_, 224;      _Antony and Cleopatra_, 305, 307, 340;      Plutarch’s Antony, 336;      Coriolanus, 471.    Goethe, on “love,” 446.    _Gorboduc_, 45, 70.    Goulard (Simon), _Octavius Caesar Augustus_, 648.    Greene (Robert), _James IV. _, _note_ 62.    Grévin (Jacques), _César_, _note_ 27, 31.    Grosart (Dr. Alexander), edition of Daniel’s _Cleopatra_          quoted from, 51.    Guevara (Antoniode), _The Favored Courtier_, 148;      _El Libro Aureo de Marco Aurelio, otherwise           Emperador y eloquentissimo Orator_,           called _Marco Aurelio con el Relox de Principes_           or _The Diall of Princes_, 147 and 148.    Halliwell-Phillips (J. O. ), Weever’s _Mirror of Martyrs_, 170.    Hamlet, 78, 173.    Hardy (Alexandre), _Coriolan_, 475.    Hazlitt (W. Carew), _notes_ 4 and 5.    Heine (Heinrich), on Cleopatra, 441;      on Rome, 547.    _Henry V. _, 172.    Heywood (Thomas), _Rape of Lucrece_, 68.    Holden (Rev. Dr. H. A. ), on Plutarch, _note_ 114;      on Amyot, _note_ 133.    Holland (Philemon), translation of Pliny, 333, _note_ 456;      Livy on Coriolanus, 626.    Hudson (Dr. Henry Norman),          _Shakespeare, his Life, Art and Characters_, 224.    Hughes (Thomas), _Misfortunes of Arthur_, 45.    Hugo (Victor), Historical Plays, 87.    Ingram (Professor), on “endings” (of verses), 304.    Iras (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 347, 438.    Jacobs (Joseph), _Fables of Bidpai_, _note_ 150.    Jaggard (the Younger), a printer, 301.    Jodelle (Étienne), _Cleopatra Captive_, 28, _note_ 322;      _Antony and Cleopatra_, 338;      _Cleopatra_, _note_ 435.    Johnson (Dr. Samuel), _Julius Caesar_, 256;      _Coriolanus_, 480, 482;      Menenius Agrippa, 564.    Jonson (Ben), _Catiline_, 54;      _Sejanus_ and _Catiline_, 85;      _Discoveries_ and _Staple of News_,          on _Julius Caesar_, 174 and 175;      _Epicoene_, note 303, 460.    Jowett (Benjamin), _Plato_, Vol. I. , _note_ 237;      _Plato_, Vol. II. , 446.    JULIUS CAESAR, date of composition, 168;      Plutarch, 180;      the lives of Brutus, Caesar and Antony, 188;      should it be named Marcus Brutus, 212;      _Julius Caesar_ is himself analogous to the          King in the English Historical Plays, 213.    Julius Caesar, character in other plays, 177.    Julius Caesar and Appian, 644-647.    _Julius Caesar_ and Garnier’s _Cornélie_, 60;      parallels between, 628-630.    _Julius Caesar_, by Muretus, 11.    Junius Brutus (in _Coriolanus_), 499.    Kahnt (Paul), _Gedankenkreis . . .          in Jodelle’s und Garnier’s Tragödien_, _note_ 19.    Karsteg (Prof. von), in _Harry Richmond_, 393.    _King John_, 82.    _King Lear_, 78.    Klein, on Cinthio’s _Cleopatra_ and _Antony and Cleopatra_,          _note_ 310.    Kreyssig (Friedrich Alexo Theodor), on Octavius, 378;      on Volumnia, 553;      on Virgilia, 570.    Kyd (Thomas), translation of _Cornélie_     (under name _Cornelia_), 54;     Boas’ edition, _note_ 55.    Lamprias, brother of Plutarch, 98.    Landman (Dr. Friedrich), on _Euphues_, 149.    Lanson, on Amyot, 141.    La Rochefoucauld (François, VI. Duc de), _notes_ 420, 424 and 451.    Lartius (in _Coriolanus_), 513.    Le Duc (Viollet), _Ancien Théatre François_, _note_ 28.    Lee (Sidney), Shakespeare and Camden, 457.    Lepidus (in _Julius Caesar_), 297.    Lepidus (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 368.    Lessing (Gotthold Ephraim), _Hamburg Dramaturgy_          on the Roman Plays, 86.    Ligarius (in _Julius Caesar_), 286.    “light” endings, 304.    Lily (John), _Euphues_ and _The Diall of Princes_, 149.    Lloyd (Watkiss), on _Coriolanus_, 519.    Lodge (Thomas), _The Wounds of Civill War_, 62;      _A Looking Glass for London and England_, 62;      translator of Josephus and Lucius Annaeus Seneca, 68.    Lord Alexas, _see_ Alexas.    Lotze, on Historical Plays, 89.    “Love,” in three plays, 342.    Luce (Alice), edition of Countess of Pembroke’s        translation of R. Garnier’s _Antonius_, _note_ 46.    Lucilius (in _Julius Caesar_), 285.    Lucina, Elizabethan plays on, 1.    Lucretia, Elizabethan plays on, 1.    _Macbeth_, 78, and _Antony and Cleopatra_, 302.    Malone (Edmund), date of _Antony and Cleopatra_, 303;      date of _Coriolanus_, 454, 459, 460.    “Mansions” (another name for “scenes”), 476.    Marcius (in _Coriolanus_), 497, 549.    Marcus Aurelius, 104.    Mark Antony          (in _Julius Caesar_), 289-298.          (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 390-412.    Marlowe (Christopher), _Edward II. _, 2;      _Tamburlaine_, _note_ 62,      and Shakespeare, _Henry VI. _, 93.    Massinissa, Elizabethan plays on, 1.    Mecaenas (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 346, 361.    Menas (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 348, 376.    Menecrates (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 376.    Menenius Agrippa (in _Julius Caesar_), 558.    Meres (Francis), list of plays, 171;      _Palladis Tamia_, 172.    Messala (in _Julius Caesar_), 285.    Méziriac (Bachet de), on Amyot, 128.    _Misfortunes of Arthur_, by Thomas Hughes, 45.    “Mixed” plays, 18.    Moeller, _Kleopatra in der Tragödien-Literatur_, _note_, 310.    Montaigne (Michael, Lord of), on Muretus, 20;      on Amyot, 129.    Montreuil, _Cleopatre_, _note_ 310.    Muretus, _Julius Caesar_, 11, 20.    Mussato, _Eccerinis_, 11.    Nashe (Thomas), use of word “lurched,” 460.    Nicholson (S. ), _Acolastus his Afterwit_, 171.    North (Sir Thomas), 141-167;      birth and education, 142;      _Diall of Princes_, 143;      Lord Lieutenant of Cambridgeshire and Isle of Ely, 143;      Doni’s _Morale Filosofia_, 144;      command at Ely, 146;      dignities and pensions, 146;      his style in translating Plutarch, 154;      ? as to the Greek text, _note_ 155.    Nuce (Thomas), English version of _Octavia_, 12.    _Octavia_, ? by Seneca, 10-19.    Octavia (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 362-366.    Octavius (in _Julius Caesar_), 298.    Octavius (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 373, 378.    _Othello_, 78.    Ovid, _Epistle of Dido_, 653.    Pais (Ettore), on story of Coriolanus, 474.    Pembroke (Countess of),      translation of Garnier’s _Antonius_, 2;      Mornay’s _Discourse on Life and Death_, _note_ 46.    _Philotas_, by Samuel Daniel, 49.    Pindarus (in _Julius Caesar_), 284, 285.    Plays named after _two_ persons, 341.    Plutarch and Shakespeare, 92 etc. , 95-119;      ancestry and education, 95;      _Isis and Osiris_, 96;      _Moralia_, 97;      marriage, 98;      priest of Apollo, 102;      Archon of Chaeronea, 104;      ? a consul, 104;      ? governor of Greece, 104;      and Plato, 108;      Neo-Platonism, 108;      his philosophy, 108;      _Praecepta gerendae Reipublicae_, 113;      Latin version of his _Lives_, published at Rome by Campani, 132;      other translations, 132;      editions of North’s version, 151;      various versions and Volumnia’s speech, 631-643.    Portia (in _Julius Caesar_), 271-274.    Preston (Thomas), _King Cambyses_, 8.    Proculeius (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 346.    Puschkin, parallel with Cleopatra’s “One Word,” 655.    _Quarterly Review_ (1861), on Plutarch, 162.    Rabelais (François), prose of, 135.    Racine (Jean), on Amyot, 136.    _Richard III. _, 177.    Rigal (Eugène), on Alexandre Hardy, 476.    Roman and English plays compared, 74.    _Romeo and Juliet_, 177.    Ronsard (Pierre de) Roman plays by the School of, 11;      on Grévin’s _César_, 33.    Rousseau (Jean Jacques), on Plutarch, 117.    Ruhnken, edition of Muretus, _note_ 27.    Ruskin (John), on Virgilia, 497.    Rusticus (Arulenus), friend of Plutarch, 97.    Sachs (Hans), play on Cleopatra, _note_ 310.    St. Évremond, on Plutarch, 112.    Scarus (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 359.    Schiller, historical plays of, 87.    Schweighäuser (Johann), version of Appian quoted, 645.    Scott (Sir Walter), on Dryden’s _All for Love_, 256.    Seneca, ? author of _Octavia_, 10.    Senecio (Sosius), friend of Plutarch, 97.    Serapion, a poet, 101.    Sextus of Chaeronea, 104.    Sextus Pompeius (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 346, 373.    Shakespeare (William),      Roman plays influenced by Senecan pieces, 56,      and Thomas Kyd, 56;      _Midsummer-Night’s Dream_ and      _Merchant of Venice_ show traces of North’s Plutarch, 151;      various editions of North’s Plutarch, _note_ 152, and North, 163.    Sicinius Vellutus (in _Coriolanus_), 499.    Sidgwick (Henry), on _Julius Caesar_, 176.    Silius (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 345.    Skelton (John), _Garland of Laurel_, 309.    Sonnets—Daniel’s _Delia_, 56;      sorrows in the, 313.    Stahr (A. ), on Cleopatra, 427.    Stengel, _Théatre d’Alexandre Hardy_, 476.    Stirling (Earl of), _see_ Alexander (Sir William).    Stokes (Henry Paine),      _Chronological Order of Shakespeare’s Plays_, _note_ 168.    Stone (Boswell), _Shakespeare’s Holinshed_, _note_ 180.    Strato (in _Julius Caesar_), 285.    Swinburne (Algernon Charles), Trilogy on Mary Stuart, 89.    Taylor (Sir Henry), _Philip van Artevelde_, 89.    Ten Brink (Bernhard), on Cleopatra, 443.    Tennyson, _Harold_, 89.    Thyreus (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 346.    _Timaeus_, treatise on the, by Plutarch, 101.    _Timon_, 82, 307.    Timon, brother of Plutarch, 98.    Titinius (in _Julius Caesar_), 284, 285.    _Titus Andronicus_, 177.    Titus Lartius (in _Coriolanus_), 498, 556.    Trench (Richard Chenevix), Archbishop of Dublin, on Plutarch, 114;      on Shakespeare and Plutarch, 164;      on _Coriolanus_, 600.    _Troilus and Cressida_, 84.    Tullus Aufidius, _see_ Aufidius (Tullus).    Turberville (George), translation of Ovid, 654.    Vaugelas (Claude Favre de), on Amyot, 136.    Ventidius (in _Antony and Cleopatra_), 345.    Verity (A. W. ), edition of _Julius Caesar_, 175;      edition of _Coriolanus_, _note_ 497.    Viehoff, on _Shakespeare’s Coriolan_, 479.    Virgilia (in _Coriolanus_), 497, 566.    Voltaire (François Marie Arouet de), on Brutus, 239.    Volumnia (in _Coriolanus_), 494, 549;      her speech and various versions of Plutarch, 631-643.    Warburton (William), a reading in _Antony and Cleopatra_, 411.    Ward (Prof. A. W. ),      on Countess of Pembroke’s version of Garnier’s _Antonius_,          _note_ 46;      on Lodge’s _The Wounds of Civill War_, _note_ 62.    _Warning to Fair Women_, 171.    “weak” endings, 304.    Weever (John), _Mirror of Martyrs_, 170, 172.    Whitelaw, date of _Coriolanus_, 466.    Wordsworth (William), on Plutarch, _note_ 114.    Wright (W. Aldis), edition of _Julius Caesar_, 172.    Wyndham (the Right Honble. George), on Plutarch, 112;      on Amyot’s Plutarch’s _Morals_, _note_ 144;      on _Julius Caesar_, 239.    Xylander, Latin version of Plutarch, 133.    Zielinski (Professor Thaddäus),      _Marginalia Philologus_      on _Antony and Cleopatra_, _note_ 347;      on Cleopatra’s “One Word,” 653.                GLASGOW:     PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS    BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD.                                  BY                A. C. BRADLEY, LL. D. , LITT. D.    _Formerly Professor of Poetry in the University of Oxford_                         Shakespearean Tragedy                     LECTURES ON HAMLET, OTHELLO,                          KING LEAR, MACBETH                 8_vo. _ 10_s. _ _net_.      “Mr. Bradley’s book, as the Americans would say, is a      ‘real live book,’ and ought to find a place side by      side with the volumes of Coleridge, Lamb, Hazlitt,      and Swinburne, among the best and most illuminative      specimens of English dramatic criticism. ”—Mr. W.      L. COURTNEY in the _Daily Telegraph_.      “An admirable piece of work. To call it the most      luminous piece of Shakespearean criticism that      has ever been written would be to pretend to an      impossible familiarity with the whole gigantic      literature of the subject. 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LTD.                 A History of English Poetry.    By W. J. COURTHOPE, C. B. , M. A. , D. Litt. ,    LL. D. , formerly Professor of Poetry in the    University of Oxford; Fellow of the British    Academy; Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature;    Hon. Fellow of New College, Oxford. 6 vols. 8vo.    10s. net each.    Vol. I. The Middle Ages; Influence of the Roman    Empire; The Encyclopædic Education of the Church;    The Feudal System.    Vol. II. The Renaissance and the Reformation;    Influence of the Court and the Universities.    Vol. III. The Intellectual Conflict of the    Seventeenth Century; Decadent Influence of the    Feudal Monarchy; Growth of the National Genius.    Vol. IV. Development and Decline of the Poetical    Drama; Influence of the Court and the People.    Vol. V. The Constitutional Compromise of the    Eighteenth Century; Effects of the Classical    Renaissance; its Zenith and Decline; The Early    Romantic Renaissance.    Vol. VI. The Romantic Movement in English Poetry;    Effects of the French Revolution.                 A History of English Prosody    from the Twelfth Century to the Present Day. By    GEORGE SAINTSBURY, M. A. Oxon. , Hon. LL. D.    Aberd. , Hon. D. Litt. Dresd. , Professor of Rhetoric    and English Literature in the University of    Edinburgh. 3 vols. 8vo.    Vol.   I. From the Origins to Spenser. 10s. net.    Vol.  II. From Shakespeare to Crabbe. 15s. net.    Vol. III. Conclusion.    [_Spring, 1910. _               LONDON: MACMILLAN AND CO. LTD. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAKESPEARE'S ROMAN PLAYS ANDTHEIR BACKGROUND ***Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions willbe renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U. S. copyrightlaw means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works,so the Foundation (and you! ) can copy and distribute it in theUnited States without permission and without paying copyrightroyalties. 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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Shakespearean Tragedy, by A. C. BradleyThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www. gutenberg. orgTitle: Shakespearean Tragedy       Lectures on Hamlet, Othello, King Lear, MacbethAuthor: A. C. BradleyRelease Date: October 30, 2005 [EBook #16966]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDY ***Produced by Suzanne Shell, Lisa Reigel and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at https://www. pgdp. netSHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDYMACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITEDLONDON·BOMBAY·CALCUTTA·MADRAS·MELBOURNETHE MACMILLAN COMPANYNEW YORK·BOSTON·CHICAGO·DALLAS·SAN FRANCISCOTHE MACMILLAN CO. OF CANADA, LTD. TORONTOSHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDYLECTURES ONHAMLET, OTHELLO, KING LEARMACBETHBYA. C. BRADLEYLL. D. LITT. D. , FORMERLY PROFESSOR OF POETRY IN THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD_SECOND EDITION_ (_THIRTEENTH IMPRESSION_)MACMILLAN AND CO. , LIMITED ST. MARTIN'S STREET, LONDON1919_COPYRIGHT. _First Edition 1904. Second Edition March 1905. Reprinted August 1905, 1906, 1908, 1910, 1911, 1912, 1914, 1915, 1916,1918, 1919. GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. TO MY STUDENTSPREFACEThese lectures are based on a selection from materials used in teachingat Liverpool, Glasgow, and Oxford; and I have for the most partpreserved the lecture form. The point of view taken in them is explainedin the Introduction. I should, of course, wish them to be read in theirorder, and a knowledge of the first two is assumed in the remainder; butreaders who may prefer to enter at once on the discussion of the severalplays can do so by beginning at page 89. Any one who writes on Shakespeare must owe much to his predecessors. Where I was conscious of a particular obligation, I have acknowledgedit; but most of my reading of Shakespearean criticism was done manyyears ago, and I can only hope that I have not often reproduced as myown what belongs to another. Many of the Notes will be of interest only to scholars, who may find, Ihope, something new in them. I have quoted, as a rule, from the Globe edition, and have referredalways to its numeration of acts, scenes, and lines. _November, 1904. _       *       *       *       *       *NOTE TO SECOND AND SUBSEQUENT IMPRESSIONSIn these impressions I have confined myself to making some formalimprovements, correcting indubitable mistakes, and indicating here andthere my desire to modify or develop at some future time statementswhich seem to me doubtful or open to misunderstanding. The changes,where it seemed desirable, are shown by the inclusion of sentences insquare brackets. CONTENTS                                                              PAGEINTRODUCTION                                                    1LECTURE I. THE SUBSTANCE OF SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDY                          5LECTURE II. CONSTRUCTION IN SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGEDIES                        40LECTURE III. SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGIC PERIOD--HAMLET                            79LECTURE IV. HAMLET                                                        129LECTURE V. OTHELLO                                                       175LECTURE VI. OTHELLO                                                       207LECTURE VII. KING LEAR                                                     243LECTURE VIII. KING LEAR                                                     280LECTURE IX. MACBETH                                                       331LECTURE X. MACBETH                                                       366NOTE A. Events before the opening of the action in _Hamlet_   401NOTE B. Where was Hamlet at the time of his father's death?   403NOTE C. Hamlet's age                                          407NOTE D. 'My tables--meet it is I set it down'                 409NOTE E. The Ghost in the cellarage                            412NOTE F. The Player's speech in _Hamlet_                       413NOTE G. Hamlet's apology to Laertes                           420NOTE H. The exchange of rapiers                               422NOTE I. The duration of the action in  _Othello_                                                   423NOTE J. The 'additions' in the Folio text of _Othello_. The  Pontic sea                                                  429NOTE K. Othello's courtship                                   432NOTE L. Othello in the Temptation scene                       434NOTE M. Questions as to _Othello_, IV. i.                     435NOTE N. Two passages in the last scene of _Othello_           437NOTE O. Othello on Desdemona's last words                     438NOTE P. Did Emilia suspect Iago?                              439NOTE Q. Iago's suspicion regarding Cassio and Emilia          441NOTE R. Reminiscences of _Othello_ in _King Lear_             441NOTE S. _King Lear_ and _Timon of Athens_                     443NOTE T. Did Shakespeare shorten _King Lear_?                  445NOTE U. Movements of the _dramatis personæ_ in _King  Lear_, II                                                   448NOTE V. Suspected interpolations in _King Lear_               450NOTE W. The staging of the scene of Lear's reunion with  Cordelia                                                    453NOTE X. The Battle in _King Lear_                             456NOTE Y. Some difficult passages in _King Lear_                458NOTE Z. Suspected interpolations in _Macbeth_                 466NOTE AA. Has _Macbeth_ been abridged?                         467NOTE BB. The date of _Macbeth_. Metrical Tests                470NOTE CC. When was the murder of Duncan first plotted?         480NOTE DD. Did Lady Macbeth really faint?                       484NOTE EE. Duration of the action in _Macbeth_. Macbeth's age.  'He has no children'                                        486NOTE FF. The Ghost of Banquo                                  492INDEX                                                         494INTRODUCTIONIn these lectures I propose to consider the four principal tragedies ofShakespeare from a single point of view. Nothing will be said ofShakespeare's place in the history either of English literature or ofthe drama in general. No attempt will be made to compare him with otherwriters. I shall leave untouched, or merely glanced at, questionsregarding his life and character, the development of his genius and art,the genuineness, sources, texts, inter-relations of his various works. Even what may be called, in a restricted sense, the 'poetry' of the fourtragedies--the beauties of style, diction, versification--I shall passby in silence. Our one object will be what, again in a restricted sense,may be called dramatic appreciation; to increase our understanding andenjoyment of these works as dramas; to learn to apprehend the action andsome of the personages of each with a somewhat greater truth andintensity, so that they may assume in our imaginations a shape a littleless unlike the shape they wore in the imagination of their creator. Forthis end all those studies that were mentioned just now, of literaryhistory and the like, are useful and even in various degrees necessary. But an overt pursuit of them is not necessary here, nor is any one ofthem so indispensable to our object as that close familiarity with theplays, that native strength and justice of perception, and that habit ofreading with an eager mind, which make many an unscholarly lover ofShakespeare a far better critic than many a Shakespeare scholar. Such lovers read a play more or less as if they were actors who had tostudy all the parts. They do not need, of course, to imagine whereaboutsthe persons are to stand, or what gestures they ought to use; but theywant to realise fully and exactly the inner movements which producedthese words and no other, these deeds and no other, at each particularmoment. This, carried through a drama, is the right way to read thedramatist Shakespeare; and the prime requisite here is therefore a vividand intent imagination. But this alone will hardly suffice. It isnecessary also, especially to a true conception of the whole, tocompare, to analyse, to dissect. And such readers often shrink from thistask, which seems to them prosaic or even a desecration. Theymisunderstand, I believe. They would not shrink if they remembered twothings. In the first place, in this process of comparison and analysis,it is not requisite, it is on the contrary ruinous, to set imaginationaside and to substitute some supposed 'cold reason'; and it is only wantof practice that makes the concurrent use of analysis and of poeticperception difficult or irksome. And, in the second place, thesedissecting processes, though they are also imaginative, are still, andare meant to be, nothing but means to an end. When they have finishedtheir work (it can only be finished for the time) they give place to theend, which is that same imaginative reading or re-creation of the dramafrom which they set out, but a reading now enriched by the products ofanalysis, and therefore far more adequate and enjoyable. This, at any rate, is the faith in the strength of which I venture, withmerely personal misgivings, on the path of analytic interpretation. Andso, before coming to the first of the four tragedies, I propose todiscuss some preliminary matters which concern them all. Though each isindividual through and through, they have, in a sense, one and the samesubstance; for in all of them Shakespeare represents the tragic aspectof life, the tragic fact. They have, again, up to a certain point, acommon form or structure. This substance and this structure, which wouldbe found to distinguish them, for example, from Greek tragedies, may, todiminish repetition, be considered once for all; and in considering themwe shall also be able to observe characteristic differences among thefour plays. And to this may be added the little that it seems necessaryto premise on the position of these dramas in Shakespeare's literarycareer. Much that is said on our main preliminary subjects will naturally holdgood, within certain limits, of other dramas of Shakespeare beside_Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_, and _Macbeth_. But it will often applyto these other works only in part, and to some of them more fully thanto others. _Romeo and Juliet_, for instance, is a pure tragedy, but itis an early work, and in some respects an immature one. _Richard III. _and _Richard II. _, _Julius Caesar_, _Antony and Cleopatra_, and_Coriolanus_ are tragic histories or historical tragedies, in whichShakespeare acknowledged in practice a certain obligation to follow hisauthority, even when that authority offered him an undramatic material. Probably he himself would have met some criticisms to which these playsare open by appealing to their historical character, and by denying thatsuch works are to be judged by the standard of pure tragedy. In anycase, most of these plays, perhaps all, do show, as a matter of fact,considerable deviations from that standard; and, therefore, what is saidof the pure tragedies must be applied to them with qualifications whichI shall often take for granted without mention. There remain _TitusAndronicus_ and _Timon of Athens_. The former I shall leave out ofaccount, because, even if Shakespeare wrote the whole of it, he did sobefore he had either a style of his own or any characteristic tragicconception. _Timon_ stands on a different footing. Parts of it areunquestionably Shakespeare's, and they will be referred to in one of thelater lectures. But much of the writing is evidently not his, and as itseems probable that the conception and construction of the whole tragedyshould also be attributed to some other writer, I shall omit this worktoo from our preliminary discussions. LECTURE ITHE SUBSTANCE OF SHAKESPEAREAN TRAGEDYThe question we are to consider in this lecture may be stated in avariety of ways. We may put it thus: What is the substance of aShakespearean tragedy, taken in abstraction both from its form and fromthe differences in point of substance between one tragedy and another? Or thus: What is the nature of the tragic aspect of life as representedby Shakespeare? What is the general fact shown now in this tragedy andnow in that? And we are putting the same question when we ask: What isShakespeare's tragic conception, or conception of tragedy? These expressions, it should be observed, do not imply that Shakespearehimself ever asked or answered such a question; that he set himself toreflect on the tragic aspects of life, that he framed a tragicconception, and still less that, like Aristotle or Corneille, he had atheory of the kind of poetry called tragedy. These things are allpossible; how far any one of them is probable we need not discuss; butnone of them is presupposed by the question we are going to consider. This question implies only that, as a matter of fact, Shakespeare inwriting tragedy did represent a certain aspect of life in a certain way,and that through examination of his writings we ought to be able, tosome extent, to describe this aspect and way in terms addressed to theunderstanding. Such a description, so far as it is true and adequate,may, after these explanations, be called indifferently an account of thesubstance of Shakespearean tragedy, or an account of Shakespeare'sconception of tragedy or view of the tragic fact. Two further warnings may be required. In the first place, we mustremember that the tragic aspect of life is only one aspect. We cannotarrive at Shakespeare's whole dramatic way of looking at the world fromhis tragedies alone, as we can arrive at Milton's way of regardingthings, or at Wordsworth's or at Shelley's, by examining almost any oneof their important works. Speaking very broadly, one may say that thesepoets at their best always look at things in one light; but _Hamlet_ and_Henry IV. _ and _Cymbeline_ reflect things from quite distinctpositions, and Shakespeare's whole dramatic view is not to be identifiedwith any one of these reflections. And, in the second place, I mayrepeat that in these lectures, at any rate for the most part, we are tobe content with his _dramatic_ view, and are not to ask whether itcorresponded exactly with his opinions or creed outside his poetry--theopinions or creed of the being whom we sometimes oddly call 'Shakespearethe man. ' It does not seem likely that outside his poetry he was a verysimple-minded Catholic or Protestant or Atheist, as some havemaintained; but we cannot be sure, as with those other poets we can,that in his works he expressed his deepest and most cherishedconvictions on ultimate questions, or even that he had any. And in hisdramatic conceptions there is enough to occupy us. 1In approaching our subject it will be best, without attempting toshorten the path by referring to famous theories of the drama, to startdirectly from the facts, and to collect from them gradually an idea ofShakespearean Tragedy. And first, to begin from the outside, such atragedy brings before us a considerable number of persons (many morethan the persons in a Greek play, unless the members of the Chorus arereckoned among them); but it is pre-eminently the story of one person,the 'hero,'[1] or at most of two, the 'hero' and 'heroine. ' Moreover, itis only in the love-tragedies, _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Antony andCleopatra_, that the heroine is as much the centre of the action as thehero. The rest, including _Macbeth_, are single stars. So that, havingnoticed the peculiarity of these two dramas, we may henceforth, for thesake of brevity, ignore it, and may speak of the tragic story as beingconcerned primarily with one person. The story, next, leads up to, and includes, the _death_ of the hero. Onthe one hand (whatever may be true of tragedy elsewhere), no play at theend of which the hero remains alive is, in the full Shakespearean sense,a tragedy; and we no longer class _Troilus and Cressida_ or _Cymbeline_as such, as did the editors of the Folio. On the other hand, the storydepicts also the troubled part of the hero's life which precedes andleads up to his death; and an instantaneous death occurring by'accident' in the midst of prosperity would not suffice for it. It is,in fact, essentially a tale of suffering and calamity conducting todeath. The suffering and calamity are, moreover, exceptional. They befall aconspicuous person. They are themselves of some striking kind. They arealso, as a rule, unexpected, and contrasted with previous happiness orglory. A tale, for example, of a man slowly worn to death by disease,poverty, little cares, sordid vices, petty persecutions, however piteousor dreadful it might be, would not be tragic in the Shakespearean sense. Such exceptional suffering and calamity, then, affecting the hero,and--we must now add--generally extending far and wide beyond him, so asto make the whole scene a scene of woe, are an essential ingredient intragedy and a chief source of the tragic emotions, and especially ofpity. But the proportions of this ingredient, and the direction taken bytragic pity, will naturally vary greatly. Pity, for example, has a muchlarger part in _King Lear_ than in _Macbeth_, and is directed in the onecase chiefly to the hero, in the other chiefly to minor characters. Let us now pause for a moment on the ideas we have so far reached. Theywould more than suffice to describe the whole tragic fact as itpresented itself to the mediaeval mind. To the mediaeval mind a tragedymeant a narrative rather than a play, and its notion of the matter ofthis narrative may readily be gathered from Dante or, still better, fromChaucer. Chaucer's _Monk's Tale_ is a series of what he calls'tragedies'; and this means in fact a series of tales _de CasibusIllustrium Virorum_,--stories of the Falls of Illustrious Men, such asLucifer, Adam, Hercules and Nebuchadnezzar. And the Monk ends the taleof Croesus thus:     Anhanged was Cresus, the proudè kyng;     His roial tronè myghte hym nat availle.     Tragédie is noon oother maner thyng,     Ne kan in syngyng criè ne biwaille     But for that Fortune alwey wole assaile     With unwar strook the regnès that been proude;     For whan men trusteth hire, thanne wol she faille,     And covere hire brighte facè with a clowde. A total reverse of fortune, coming unawares upon a man who 'stood inhigh degree,' happy and apparently secure,--such was the tragic fact tothe mediaeval mind. It appealed strongly to common human sympathy andpity; it startled also another feeling, that of fear. It frightened menand awed them. It made them feel that man is blind and helpless, theplaything of an inscrutable power, called by the name of Fortune or someother name,--a power which appears to smile on him for a little, andthen on a sudden strikes him down in his pride. Shakespeare's idea of the tragic fact is larger than this idea and goesbeyond it; but it includes it, and it is worth while to observe theidentity of the two in a certain point which is often ignored. Tragedywith Shakespeare is concerned always with persons of 'high degree';often with kings or princes; if not, with leaders in the state likeCoriolanus, Brutus, Antony; at the least, as in _Romeo and Juliet_, withmembers of great houses, whose quarrels are of public moment. There is adecided difference here between _Othello_ and our three other tragedies,but it is not a difference of kind. Othello himself is no mere privateperson; he is the General of the Republic. At the beginning we see himin the Council-Chamber of the Senate. The consciousness of his highposition never leaves him. At the end, when he is determined to live nolonger, he is as anxious as Hamlet not to be misjudged by the greatworld, and his last speech begins,     Soft you; a word or two before you go.     I have done the state some service, and they know it. [2]And this characteristic of Shakespeare's tragedies, though not the mostvital, is neither external nor unimportant. The saying that everydeath-bed is the scene of the fifth act of a tragedy has its meaning,but it would not be true if the word 'tragedy' bore its dramatic sense. The pangs of despised love and the anguish of remorse, we say, are thesame in a peasant and a prince; but, not to insist that they cannot beso when the prince is really a prince, the story of the prince, thetriumvir, or the general, has a greatness and dignity of its own. Hisfate affects the welfare of a whole nation or empire; and when he fallssuddenly from the height of earthly greatness to the dust, his fallproduces a sense of contrast, of the powerlessness of man, and of theomnipotence--perhaps the caprice--of Fortune or Fate, which no tale ofprivate life can possibly rival. Such feelings are constantly evoked by Shakespeare's tragedies,--againin varying degrees. Perhaps they are the very strongest of the emotionsawakened by the early tragedy of _Richard II. _, where they receive aconcentrated expression in Richard's famous speech about the anticDeath, who sits in the hollow crown     That rounds the mortal temples of a king,grinning at his pomp, watching till his vanity and his fancied securityhave wholly encased him round, and then coming and boring with a littlepin through his castle wall. And these feelings, though theirpredominance is subdued in the mightiest tragedies, remain powerfulthere. In the figure of the maddened Lear we see     A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,     Past speaking of in a king;and if we would realise the truth in this matter we cannot do betterthan compare with the effect of _King Lear_ the effect of Tourgénief'sparallel and remarkable tale of peasant life, _A King Lear of theSteppes_. 2A Shakespearean tragedy as so far considered may be called a story ofexceptional calamity leading to the death of a man in high estate. Butit is clearly much more than this, and we have now to regard it fromanother side. No amount of calamity which merely befell a man,descending from the clouds like lightning, or stealing from the darknesslike pestilence, could alone provide the substance of its story. Job wasthe greatest of all the children of the east, and his afflictions werewell-nigh more than he could bear; but even if we imagined them wearinghim to death, that would not make his story tragic. Nor yet would itbecome so, in the Shakespearean sense, if the fire, and the great windfrom the wilderness, and the torments of his flesh were conceived assent by a supernatural power, whether just or malignant. The calamitiesof tragedy do not simply happen, nor are they sent; they proceed mainlyfrom actions, and those the actions of men. We see a number of human beings placed in certain circumstances; and wesee, arising from the co-operation of their characters in thesecircumstances, certain actions. These actions beget others, and theseothers beget others again, until this series of inter-connected deedsleads by an apparently inevitable sequence to a catastrophe. The effectof such a series on imagination is to make us regard the sufferingswhich accompany it, and the catastrophe in which it ends, not only orchiefly as something which happens to the persons concerned, but equallyas something which is caused by them. This at least may be said of theprincipal persons, and, among them, of the hero, who always contributesin some measure to the disaster in which he perishes. This second aspect of tragedy evidently differs greatly from the first. Men, from this point of view, appear to us primarily as agents,'themselves the authors of their proper woe'; and our fear and pity,though they will not cease or diminish, will be modified accordingly. Weare now to consider this second aspect, remembering that it too is onlyone aspect, and additional to the first, not a substitute for it. The 'story' or 'action' of a Shakespearean tragedy does not consist, ofcourse, solely of human actions or deeds; but the deeds are thepredominant factor. And these deeds are, for the most part, actions inthe full sense of the word; not things done ''tween asleep and wake,'but acts or omissions thoroughly expressive of the doer,--characteristicdeeds. The centre of the tragedy, therefore, may be said with equaltruth to lie in action issuing from character, or in character issuingin action. Shakespeare's main interest lay here. To say that it lay in _mere_character, or was a psychological interest, would be a great mistake,for he was dramatic to the tips of his fingers. It is possible to findplaces where he has given a certain indulgence to his love of poetry,and even to his turn for general reflections; but it would be verydifficult, and in his later tragedies perhaps impossible, to detectpassages where he has allowed such freedom to the interest in characterapart from action. But for the opposite extreme, for the abstraction ofmere 'plot' (which is a very different thing from the tragic 'action'),for the kind of interest which predominates in a novel like _The Womanin White_, it is clear that he cared even less. I do not mean that thisinterest is absent from his dramas; but it is subordinate to others, andis so interwoven with them that we are rarely conscious of it apart, andrarely feel in any great strength the half-intellectual, half-nervousexcitement of following an ingenious complication. What we do feelstrongly, as a tragedy advances to its close, is that the calamities andcatastrophe follow inevitably from the deeds of men, and that the mainsource of these deeds is character. The dictum that, with Shakespeare,'character is destiny' is no doubt an exaggeration, and one that maymislead (for many of his tragic personages, if they had not met withpeculiar circumstances, would have escaped a tragic end, and might evenhave lived fairly untroubled lives); but it is the exaggeration of avital truth. This truth, with some of its qualifications, will appear more clearly ifwe now go on to ask what elements are to be found in the 'story' or'action,' occasionally or frequently, beside the characteristic deeds,and the sufferings and circumstances, of the persons. I will refer tothree of these additional factors. (_a_) Shakespeare, occasionally and for reasons which need not bediscussed here, represents abnormal conditions of mind; insanity, forexample, somnambulism, hallucinations. And deeds issuing from these arecertainly not what we called deeds in the fullest sense, deedsexpressive of character. No; but these abnormal conditions are neverintroduced as the origin of deeds of any dramatic moment. Lady Macbeth'ssleep-walking has no influence whatever on the events that follow it. Macbeth did not murder Duncan because he saw a dagger in the air: he sawthe dagger because he was about to murder Duncan. Lear's insanity is notthe cause of a tragic conflict any more than Ophelia's; it is, likeOphelia's, the result of a conflict; and in both cases the effect ismainly pathetic. If Lear were really mad when he divided his kingdom, ifHamlet were really mad at any time in the story, they would cease to betragic characters. (_b_) Shakespeare also introduces the supernatural into some of histragedies; he introduces ghosts, and witches who have supernaturalknowledge. This supernatural element certainly cannot in most cases, ifin any, be explained away as an illusion in the mind of one of thecharacters. And further, it does contribute to the action, and is inmore than one instance an indispensable part of it: so that to describehuman character, with circumstances, as always the _sole_ motive forcein this action would be a serious error. But the supernatural is alwaysplaced in the closest relation with character. It gives a confirmationand a distinct form to inward movements already present and exerting aninfluence; to the sense of failure in Brutus, to the stifled workings ofconscience in Richard, to the half-formed thought or the horrifiedmemory of guilt in Macbeth, to suspicion in Hamlet. Moreover, itsinfluence is never of a compulsive kind. It forms no more than anelement, however important, in the problem which the hero has to face;and we are never allowed to feel that it has removed his capacity orresponsibility for dealing with this problem. So far indeed are we fromfeeling this, that many readers run to the opposite extreme, and openlyor privately regard the supernatural as having nothing to do with thereal interest of the play. (_c_) Shakespeare, lastly, in most of his tragedies allows to 'chance'or 'accident' an appreciable influence at some point in the action. Chance or accident here will be found, I think, to mean any occurrence(not supernatural, of course) which enters the dramatic sequence neitherfrom the agency of a character, nor from the obvious surroundingcircumstances. [3] It may be called an accident, in this sense, thatRomeo never got the Friar's message about the potion, and that Julietdid not awake from her long sleep a minute sooner; an accident thatEdgar arrived at the prison just too late to save Cordelia's life; anaccident that Desdemona dropped her handkerchief at the most fatal ofmoments; an accident that the pirate ship attacked Hamlet's ship, sothat he was able to return forthwith to Denmark. Now this operation ofaccident is a fact, and a prominent fact, of human life. To exclude it_wholly_ from tragedy, therefore, would be, we may say, to fail intruth. And, besides, it is not merely a fact. That men may start acourse of events but can neither calculate nor control it, is a _tragic_fact. The dramatist may use accident so as to make us feel this; andthere are also other dramatic uses to which it may be put. Shakespeareaccordingly admits it. On the other hand, any _large_ admission ofchance into the tragic sequence[4] would certainly weaken, and mightdestroy, the sense of the causal connection of character, deed, andcatastrophe. And Shakespeare really uses it very sparingly. We seldomfind ourselves exclaiming, 'What an unlucky accident! ' I believe mostreaders would have to search painfully for instances. It is, further,frequently easy to see the dramatic intention of an accident; and somethings which look like accidents have really a connection withcharacter, and are therefore not in the full sense accidents. Finally, Ibelieve it will be found that almost all the prominent accidents occurwhen the action is well advanced and the impression of the causalsequence is too firmly fixed to be impaired. Thus it appears that these three elements in the 'action' aresubordinate, while the dominant factor consists in deeds which issuefrom character. So that, by way of summary, we may now alter our firststatement, 'A tragedy is a story of exceptional calamity leading to thedeath of a man in high estate,' and we may say instead (what in its turnis one-sided, though less so), that the story is one of human actionsproducing exceptional calamity and ending in the death of such a man. [5]       *       *       *       *       *Before we leave the 'action,' however, there is another question thatmay usefully be asked. Can we define this 'action' further by describingit as a conflict? The frequent use of this idea in discussions on tragedy is ultimatelydue, I suppose, to the influence of Hegel's theory on the subject,certainly the most important theory since Aristotle's. But Hegel's viewof the tragic conflict is not only unfamiliar to English readers anddifficult to expound shortly, but it had its origin in reflections onGreek tragedy and, as Hegel was well aware, applies only imperfectly tothe works of Shakespeare. [6] I shall, therefore, confine myself to theidea of conflict in its more general form. In this form it is obviouslysuitable to Shakespearean tragedy; but it is vague, and I will try tomake it more precise by putting the question, Who are the combatants inthis conflict? Not seldom the conflict may quite naturally be conceived as lyingbetween two persons, of whom the hero is one; or, more fully, as lyingbetween two parties or groups, in one of which the hero is the leadingfigure. Or if we prefer to speak (as we may quite well do if we knowwhat we are about) of the passions, tendencies, ideas, principles,forces, which animate these persons or groups, we may say that two ofsuch passions or ideas, regarded as animating two persons or groups, arethe combatants. The love of Romeo and Juliet is in conflict with thehatred of their houses, represented by various other characters. Thecause of Brutus and Cassius struggles with that of Julius, Octavius andAntony. In _Richard II. _ the King stands on one side, Bolingbroke andhis party on the other. In _Macbeth_ the hero and heroine are opposed tothe representatives of Duncan. In all these cases the great majority ofthe _dramatis personae_ fall without difficulty into antagonisticgroups, and the conflict between these groups ends with the defeat ofthe hero. Yet one cannot help feeling that in at least one of these cases,_Macbeth_, there is something a little external in this way of lookingat the action. And when we come to some other plays this feelingincreases. No doubt most of the characters in _Hamlet_, _King Lear_,_Othello_, or _Antony and Cleopatra_ can be arranged in opposedgroups;[7] and no doubt there is a conflict; and yet it seems misleadingto describe this conflict as one _between these groups_. It cannot besimply this. For though Hamlet and the King are mortal foes, yet thatwhich engrosses our interest and dwells in our memory at least as muchas the conflict between them, is the conflict _within_ one of them. Andso it is, though not in the same degree, with _Antony and Cleopatra_ andeven with _Othello_; and, in fact, in a certain measure, it is so withnearly all the tragedies. There is an outward conflict of persons andgroups, there is also a conflict of forces in the hero's soul; and evenin _Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_ the interest of the former can hardlybe said to exceed that of the latter. The truth is, that the type of tragedy in which the hero opposes to ahostile force an undivided soul, is not the Shakespearean type. Thesouls of those who contend with the hero may be thus undivided; theygenerally are; but, as a rule, the hero, though he pursues his fatedway, is, at least at some point in the action, and sometimes at many,torn by an inward struggle; and it is frequently at such points thatShakespeare shows his most extraordinary power. If further we comparethe earlier tragedies with the later, we find that it is in the latter,the maturest works, that this inward struggle is most emphasised. In thelast of them, _Coriolanus_, its interest completely eclipses towards theclose of the play that of the outward conflict. _Romeo and Juliet_,_Richard III. _, _Richard II. _, where the hero contends with an outwardforce, but comparatively little with himself, are all early plays. If we are to include the outer and the inner struggle in a conceptionmore definite than that of conflict in general, we must employ some suchphrase as 'spiritual force. ' This will mean whatever forces act in thehuman spirit, whether good or evil, whether personal passion orimpersonal principle; doubts, desires, scruples, ideas--whatever cananimate, shake, possess, and drive a man's soul. In a Shakespeareantragedy some such forces are shown in conflict. They are shown acting inmen and generating strife between them. They are also shown, lessuniversally, but quite as characteristically, generating disturbance andeven conflict in the soul of the hero. Treasonous ambition in Macbethcollides with loyalty and patriotism in Macduff and Malcolm: here is theoutward conflict. But these powers or principles equally collide in thesoul of Macbeth himself: here is the inner. And neither by itself couldmake the tragedy. [8]We shall see later the importance of this idea. Here we need onlyobserve that the notion of tragedy as a conflict emphasises the factthat action is the centre of the story, while the concentration ofinterest, in the greater plays, on the inward struggle emphasises thefact that this action is essentially the expression of character. 3Let us turn now from the 'action' to the central figure in it; and,ignoring the characteristics which distinguish the heroes from oneanother, let us ask whether they have any common qualities which appearto be essential to the tragic effect. One they certainly have. They are exceptional beings. We have seenalready that the hero, with Shakespeare, is a person of high degree orof public importance, and that his actions or sufferings are of anunusual kind. But this is not all. His nature also is exceptional, andgenerally raises him in some respect much above the average level ofhumanity. This does not mean that he is an eccentric or a paragon. Shakespeare never drew monstrosities of virtue; some of his heroes arefar from being 'good'; and if he drew eccentrics he gave them asubordinate position in the plot. His tragic characters are made of thestuff we find within ourselves and within the persons who surround them. But, by an intensification of the life which they share with others,they are raised above them; and the greatest are raised so far that, ifwe fully realise all that is implied in their words and actions, webecome conscious that in real life we have known scarcely any oneresembling them. Some, like Hamlet and Cleopatra, have genius. Others,like Othello, Lear, Macbeth, Coriolanus, are built on the grand scale;and desire, passion, or will attains in them a terrible force. In almostall we observe a marked one-sidedness, a predisposition in someparticular direction; a total incapacity, in certain circumstances, ofresisting the force which draws in this direction; a fatal tendency toidentify the whole being with one interest, object, passion, or habit ofmind. This, it would seem, is, for Shakespeare, the fundamental tragictrait. It is present in his early heroes, Romeo and Richard II. ,infatuated men, who otherwise rise comparatively little above theordinary level. It is a fatal gift, but it carries with it a touch ofgreatness; and when there is joined to it nobility of mind, or genius,or immense force, we realise the full power and reach of the soul, andthe conflict in which it engages acquires that magnitude which stirs notonly sympathy and pity, but admiration, terror, and awe. The easiest way to bring home to oneself the nature of the tragiccharacter is to compare it with a character of another kind. Dramas like_Cymbeline_ and the _Winter's Tale_, which might seem destined to endtragically, but actually end otherwise, owe their happy ending largelyto the fact that the principal characters fail to reach tragicdimensions. And, conversely, if these persons were put in the place ofthe tragic heroes, the dramas in which they appeared would cease to betragedies. Posthumus would never have acted as Othello did; Othello, onhis side, would have met Iachimo's challenge with something more thanwords. If, like Posthumus, he had remained convinced of his wife'sinfidelity, he would not have repented her execution; if, like Leontes,he had come to believe that by an unjust accusation he had caused herdeath, he would never have lived on, like Leontes. In the same way thevillain Iachimo has no touch of tragic greatness. But Iago comes nearerto it, and if Iago had slandered Imogen and had supposed his slanders tohave led to her death, he certainly would not have turned melancholy andwished to die. One reason why the end of the _Merchant of Venice_ failsto satisfy us is that Shylock is a tragic character, and that we cannotbelieve in his accepting his defeat and the conditions imposed on him. This was a case where Shakespeare's imagination ran away with him, sothat he drew a figure with which the destined pleasant ending would notharmonise. In the circumstances where we see the hero placed, his tragic trait,which is also his greatness, is fatal to him. To meet thesecircumstances something is required which a smaller man might havegiven, but which the hero cannot give. He errs, by action or omission;and his error, joining with other causes, brings on him ruin. This isalways so with Shakespeare. As we have seen, the idea of the tragic heroas a being destroyed simply and solely by external forces is quite aliento him; and not less so is the idea of the hero as contributing to hisdestruction only by acts in which we see no flaw. But the fatalimperfection or error, which is never absent, is of different kinds anddegrees. At one extreme stands the excess and precipitancy of Romeo,which scarcely, if at all, diminish our regard for him; at the other themurderous ambition of Richard III. In most cases the tragic errorinvolves no conscious breach of right; in some (_e. g. _ that of Brutus orOthello) it is accompanied by a full conviction of right. In Hamletthere is a painful consciousness that duty is being neglected; in Antonya clear knowledge that the worse of two courses is being pursued; butRichard and Macbeth are the only heroes who do what they themselvesrecognise to be villainous. It is important to observe that Shakespearedoes admit such heroes,[9] and also that he appears to feel, and exertshimself to meet, the difficulty that arises from their admission. Thedifficulty is that the spectator must desire their defeat and even theirdestruction; and yet this desire, and the satisfaction of it, are nottragic feelings. Shakespeare gives to Richard therefore a power whichexcites astonishment, and a courage which extorts admiration. He givesto Macbeth a similar, though less extraordinary, greatness, and adds toit a conscience so terrifying in its warnings and so maddening in itsreproaches that the spectacle of inward torment compels a horrifiedsympathy and awe which balance, at the least, the desire for the hero'sruin. The tragic hero with Shakespeare, then, need not be 'good,' thoughgenerally he is 'good' and therefore at once wins sympathy in his error. But it is necessary that he should have so much of greatness that in hiserror and fall we may be vividly conscious of the possibilities of humannature. [10] Hence, in the first place, a Shakespearean tragedy is never,like some miscalled tragedies, depressing. No one ever closes the bookwith the feeling that man is a poor mean creature. He may be wretchedand he may be awful, but he is not small. His lot may be heart-rendingand mysterious, but it is not contemptible. The most confirmed of cynicsceases to be a cynic while he reads these plays. And with this greatnessof the tragic hero (which is not always confined to him) is connected,secondly, what I venture to describe as the centre of the tragicimpression. This central feeling is the impression of waste. WithShakespeare, at any rate, the pity and fear which are stirred by thetragic story seem to unite with, and even to merge in, a profound senseof sadness and mystery, which is due to this impression of waste. 'Whata piece of work is man,' we cry; 'so much more beautiful and so muchmore terrible than we knew! Why should he be so if this beauty andgreatness only tortures itself and throws itself away? ' We seem to havebefore us a type of the mystery of the whole world, the tragic factwhich extends far beyond the limits of tragedy. Everywhere, from thecrushed rocks beneath our feet to the soul of man, we see power,intelligence, life and glory, which astound us and seem to call for ourworship. And everywhere we see them perishing, devouring one another anddestroying themselves, often with dreadful pain, as though they cameinto being for no other end. Tragedy is the typical form of thismystery, because that greatness of soul which it exhibits oppressed,conflicting and destroyed, is the highest existence in our view. Itforces the mystery upon us, and it makes us realise so vividly the worthof that which is wasted that we cannot possibly seek comfort in thereflection that all is vanity. 4In this tragic world, then, where individuals, however great they may beand however decisive their actions may appear, are so evidently not theultimate power, what is this power? What account can we give of it whichwill correspond with the imaginative impressions we receive? This willbe our final question. The variety of the answers given to this question shows how difficult itis. And the difficulty has many sources. Most people, even among thosewho know Shakespeare well and come into real contact with his mind, areinclined to isolate and exaggerate some one aspect of the tragic fact. Some are so much influenced by their own habitual beliefs that theyimport them more or less into their interpretation of every author whois 'sympathetic' to them. And even where neither of these causes oferror appears to operate, another is present from which it is probablyimpossible wholly to escape. What I mean is this. Any answer we give tothe question proposed ought to correspond with, or to represent in termsof the understanding, our imaginative and emotional experience inreading the tragedies. We have, of course, to do our best by study andeffort to make this experience true to Shakespeare; but, that done tothe best of our ability, the experience is the matter to be interpreted,and the test by which the interpretation must be tried. But it isextremely hard to make out exactly what this experience is, because, inthe very effort to make it out, our reflecting mind, full of everydayideas, is always tending to transform it by the application of theseideas, and so to elicit a result which, instead of representing thefact, conventionalises it. And the consequence is not only mistakentheories; it is that many a man will declare that he feels in reading atragedy what he never really felt, while he fails to recognise what heactually did feel. It is not likely that we shall escape all thesedangers in our effort to find an answer to the question regarding thetragic world and the ultimate power in it. It will be agreed, however, first, that this question must not beanswered in 'religious' language. For although this or that _dramatispersona_ may speak of gods or of God, of evil spirits or of Satan, ofheaven and of hell, and although the poet may show us ghosts fromanother world, these ideas do not materially influence hisrepresentation of life, nor are they used to throw light on the mysteryof its tragedy. The Elizabethan drama was almost wholly secular; andwhile Shakespeare was writing he practically confined his view to theworld of non-theological observation and thought, so that he representsit substantially in one and the same way whether the period of the storyis pre-Christian or Christian. [11] He looked at this 'secular' worldmost intently and seriously; and he painted it, we cannot but conclude,with entire fidelity, without the wish to enforce an opinion of his own,and, in essentials, without regard to anyone's hopes, fears, or beliefs. His greatness is largely due to this fidelity in a mind of extraordinarypower; and if, as a private person, he had a religious faith, his tragicview can hardly have been in contradiction with this faith, but musthave been included in it, and supplemented, not abolished, by additionalideas. Two statements, next, may at once be made regarding the tragic fact ashe represents it: one, that it is and remains to us something piteous,fearful and mysterious; the other, that the representation of it doesnot leave us crushed, rebellious or desperate. These statements will beaccepted, I believe, by any reader who is in touch with Shakespeare'smind and can observe his own. Indeed such a reader is rather likely tocomplain that they are painfully obvious. But if they are true as wellas obvious, something follows from them in regard to our presentquestion. From the first it follows that the ultimate power in the tragic world isnot adequately described as a law or order which we can see to be justand benevolent,--as, in that sense, a 'moral order': for in that casethe spectacle of suffering and waste could not seem to us so fearful andmysterious as it does. And from the second it follows that this ultimatepower is not adequately described as a fate, whether malicious andcruel, or blind and indifferent to human happiness and goodness: for inthat case the spectacle would leave us desperate or rebellious. Yet oneor other of these two ideas will be found to govern most accounts ofShakespeare's tragic view or world. These accounts isolate andexaggerate single aspects, either the aspect of action or that ofsuffering; either the close and unbroken connection of character, will,deed and catastrophe, which, taken alone, shows the individual simply assinning against, or failing to conform to, the moral order and drawinghis just doom on his own head; or else that pressure of outward forces,that sway of accident, and those blind and agonised struggles, which,taken alone, show him as the mere victim of some power which caresneither for his sins nor for his pain. Such views contradict oneanother, and no third view can unite them; but the several aspects fromwhose isolation and exaggeration they spring are both present in thefact, and a view which would be true to the fact and to the whole of ourimaginative experience must in some way combine these aspects. Let us begin, then, with the idea of fatality and glance at some of theimpressions which give rise to it, without asking at present whetherthis idea is their natural or fitting expression. There can be no doubtthat they do arise and that they ought to arise. If we do not feel attimes that the hero is, in some sense, a doomed man; that he and othersdrift struggling to destruction like helpless creatures borne on anirresistible flood towards a cataract; that, faulty as they may be,their fault is far from being the sole or sufficient cause of all theysuffer; and that the power from which they cannot escape is relentlessand immovable, we have failed to receive an essential part of the fulltragic effect. The sources of these impressions are various, and I will refer only to afew. One of them is put into words by Shakespeare himself when he makesthe player-king in _Hamlet_ say:     Our thoughts are ours, their ends none of our own;'their ends' are the issues or outcomes of our thoughts, and these, saysthe speaker, are not our own. The tragic world is a world of action, andaction is the translation of thought into reality. We see men and womenconfidently attempting it. They strike into the existing order of thingsin pursuance of their ideas. But what they achieve is not what theyintended; it is terribly unlike it. They understand nothing, we say toourselves, of the world on which they operate. They fight blindly in thedark, and the power that works through them makes them the instrument ofa design which is not theirs. They act freely, and yet their actionbinds them hand and foot. And it makes no difference whether they meantwell or ill. No one could mean better than Brutus, but he contrivesmisery for his country and death for himself. No one could mean worsethan Iago, and he too is caught in the web he spins for others. Hamlet,recoiling from the rough duty of revenge, is pushed intoblood-guiltiness he never dreamed of, and forced at last on the revengehe could not will. His adversary's murders, and no less his adversary'sremorse, bring about the opposite of what they sought. Lear follows anold man's whim, half generous, half selfish; and in a moment it loosesall the powers of darkness upon him. Othello agonises over an emptyfiction, and, meaning to execute solemn justice, butchers innocence andstrangles love. They understand themselves no better than the worldabout them. Coriolanus thinks that his heart is iron, and it melts likesnow before a fire. Lady Macbeth, who thought she could dash out her ownchild's brains, finds herself hounded to death by the smell of astranger's blood. Her husband thinks that to gain a crown he would jumpthe life to come, and finds that the crown has brought him all thehorrors of that life. Everywhere, in this tragic world, man's thought,translated into act, is transformed into the opposite of itself. Hisact, the movement of a few ounces of matter in a moment of time, becomesa monstrous flood which spreads over a kingdom. And whatsoever he dreamsof doing, he achieves that which he least dreamed of, his owndestruction. All this makes us feel the blindness and helplessness of man. Yet byitself it would hardly suggest the idea of fate, because it shows man asin some degree, however slight, the cause of his own undoing. But otherimpressions come to aid it. It is aided by everything which makes usfeel that a man is, as we say, terribly unlucky; and of this there is,even in Shakespeare, not a little. Here come in some of the accidentsalready considered, Juliet's waking from her trance a minute too late,Desdemona's loss of her handkerchief at the only moment when the losswould have mattered, that insignificant delay which cost Cordelia'slife. Again, men act, no doubt, in accordance with their characters; butwhat is it that brings them just the one problem which is fatal to themand would be easy to another, and sometimes brings it to them just whenthey are least fitted to face it? How is it that Othello comes to be thecompanion of the one man in the world who is at once able enough, braveenough, and vile enough to ensnare him? By what strange fatality does ithappen that Lear has such daughters and Cordelia such sisters? Evencharacter itself contributes to these feelings of fatality. How couldmen escape, we cry, such vehement propensities as drive Romeo, Antony,Coriolanus, to their doom? And why is it that a man's virtues help todestroy him, and that his weakness or defect is so intertwined witheverything that is admirable in him that we can hardly separate themeven in imagination? If we find in Shakespeare's tragedies the source of impressions likethese, it is important, on the other hand, to notice what we do _not_find there. We find practically no trace of fatalism in its moreprimitive, crude and obvious forms. Nothing, again, makes us think ofthe actions and sufferings of the persons as somehow arbitrarily fixedbeforehand without regard to their feelings, thoughts and resolutions. Nor, I believe, are the facts ever so presented that it seems to us asif the supreme power, whatever it may be, had a special spite against afamily or an individual. Neither, lastly, do we receive the impression(which, it must be observed, is not purely fatalistic) that a family,owing to some hideous crime or impiety in early days, is doomed in laterdays to continue a career of portentous calamities and sins. Shakespeare, indeed, does not appear to have taken much interest inheredity, or to have attached much importance to it. (See, however,'heredity' in the Index. )What, then, is this 'fate' which the impressions already considered leadus to describe as the ultimate power in the tragic world? It appears tobe a mythological expression for the whole system or order, of which theindividual characters form an inconsiderable and feeble part; whichseems to determine, far more than they, their native dispositions andtheir circumstances, and, through these, their action; which is so vastand complex that they can scarcely at all understand it or control itsworkings; and which has a nature so definite and fixed that whateverchanges take place in it produce other changes inevitably and withoutregard to men's desires and regrets. And whether this system or order isbest called by the name of fate or no,[12] it can hardly be denied thatit does appear as the ultimate power in the tragic world, and that ithas such characteristics as these. But the name 'fate' may be intendedto imply something more--to imply that this order is a blank necessity,totally regardless alike of human weal and of the difference betweengood and evil or right and wrong. And such an implication many readerswould at once reject. They would maintain, on the contrary, that thisorder shows characteristics of quite another kind from those which madeus give it the name of fate, characteristics which certainly should notinduce us to forget those others, but which would lead us to describe itas a moral order and its necessity as a moral necessity. 5Let us turn, then, to this idea. It brings into the light those aspectsof the tragic fact which the idea of fate throws into the shade. And theargument which leads to it in its simplest form may be stated brieflythus: 'Whatever may be said of accidents, circumstances and the like,human action is, after all, presented to us as the central fact intragedy, and also as the main cause of the catastrophe. That necessitywhich so much impresses us is, after all, chiefly the necessaryconnection of actions and consequences. For these actions we, withouteven raising a question on the subject, hold the agents responsible; andthe tragedy would disappear for us if we did not. The critical actionis, in greater or less degree, wrong or bad. The catastrophe is, in themain, the return of this action on the head of the agent. It is anexample of justice; and that order which, present alike within theagents and outside them, infallibly brings it about, is therefore just. The rigour of its justice is terrible, no doubt, for a tragedy is aterrible story; but, in spite of fear and pity, we acquiesce, becauseour sense of justice is satisfied. 'Now, if this view is to hold good, the 'justice' of which it speaks mustbe at once distinguished from what is called 'poetic justice. ' 'Poeticjustice' means that prosperity and adversity are distributed inproportion to the merits of the agents. Such 'poetic justice' is inflagrant contradiction with the facts of life, and it is absent fromShakespeare's tragic picture of life; indeed, this very absence is aground of constant complaint on the part of Dr. Johnson. [Greek:Drasanti pathein], 'the doer must suffer'--this we find in Shakespeare. We also find that villainy never remains victorious and prosperous atthe last. But an assignment of amounts of happiness and misery, anassignment even of life and death, in proportion to merit, we do notfind. No one who thinks of Desdemona and Cordelia; or who remembers thatone end awaits Richard III. and Brutus, Macbeth and Hamlet; or who askshimself which suffered most, Othello or Iago; will ever accuseShakespeare of representing the ultimate power as 'poetically' just. And we must go further. I venture to say that it is a mistake to use atall these terms of justice and merit or desert. And this for tworeasons. In the first place, essential as it is to recognise theconnection between act and consequence, and natural as it may seem insome cases (_e. g. _ Macbeth's) to say that the doer only gets what hedeserves, yet in very many cases to say this would be quite unnatural. We might not object to the statement that Lear deserved to suffer forhis folly, selfishness and tyranny; but to assert that he deserved tosuffer what he did suffer is to do violence not merely to language butto any healthy moral sense. It is, moreover, to obscure the tragic factthat the consequences of action cannot be limited to that which wouldappear to us to follow 'justly' from them. And, this being so, when wecall the order of the tragic world just, we are either using the word insome vague and unexplained sense, or we are going beyond what is shownus of this order, and are appealing to faith. But, in the second place, the ideas of justice and desert are, it seemsto me, in _all_ cases--even those of Richard III. and of Macbeth andLady Macbeth--untrue to our imaginative experience. When we are immersedin a tragedy, we feel towards dispositions, actions, and persons suchemotions as attraction and repulsion, pity, wonder, fear, horror,perhaps hatred; but we do not _judge_. This is a point of view whichemerges only when, in reading a play, we slip, by our own fault or thedramatist's, from the tragic position, or when, in thinking about theplay afterwards, we fall back on our everyday legal and moral notions. But tragedy does not belong, any more than religion belongs, to thesphere of these notions; neither does the imaginative attitude inpresence of it. While we are in its world we watch what is, seeing thatso it happened and must have happened, feeling that it is piteous,dreadful, awful, mysterious, but neither passing sentence on the agents,nor asking whether the behaviour of the ultimate power towards them isjust. And, therefore, the use of such language in attempts to render ourimaginative experience in terms of the understanding is, to say theleast, full of danger. [13]Let us attempt then to re-state the idea that the ultimate power in thetragic world is a moral order. Let us put aside the ideas of justice andmerit, and speak simply of good and evil. Let us understand by thesewords, primarily, moral good and evil, but also everything else in humanbeings which we take to be excellent or the reverse. Let us understandthe statement that the ultimate power or order is 'moral' to mean thatit does not show itself indifferent to good and evil, or equallyfavourable or unfavourable to both, but shows itself akin to good andalien from evil. And, understanding the statement thus, let us ask whatgrounds it has in the tragic fact as presented by Shakespeare. Here, as in dealing with the grounds on which the idea of fate rests, Ichoose only two or three out of many. And the most important is this. InShakespearean tragedy the main source of the convulsion which producessuffering and death is never good: good contributes to this convulsiononly from its tragic implication with its opposite in one and the samecharacter. The main source, on the contrary, is in every case evil; and,what is more (though this seems to have been little noticed), it is inalmost every case evil in the fullest sense, not mere imperfection butplain moral evil. The love of Romeo and Juliet conducts them to deathonly because of the senseless hatred of their houses. Guilty ambition,seconded by diabolic malice and issuing in murder, opens the action in_Macbeth_. Iago is the main source of the convulsion in _Othello_;Goneril, Regan and Edmund in _King Lear_. Even when this plain moralevil is not the obviously prime source within the play, it lies behindit: the situation with which Hamlet has to deal has been formed byadultery and murder. _Julius Caesar_ is the only tragedy in which one iseven tempted to find an exception to this rule. And the inference isobvious. If it is chiefly evil that violently disturbs the order of theworld, this order cannot be friendly to evil or indifferent between eviland good, any more than a body which is convulsed by poison is friendlyto it or indifferent to the distinction between poison and food.

Again, if we confine our attention to the hero, and to those cases wherethe gross and palpable evil is not in him but elsewhere, we find thatthe comparatively innocent hero still shows some marked imperfection ordefect,--irresolution, precipitancy, pride, credulousness, excessivesimplicity, excessive susceptibility to sexual emotions, and the like. These defects or imperfections are certainly, in the wide sense of theword, evil, and they contribute decisively to the conflict andcatastrophe. And the inference is again obvious. The ultimate powerwhich shows itself disturbed by this evil and reacts against it, musthave a nature alien to it. Indeed its reaction is so vehement and'relentless' that it would seem to be bent on nothing short of good inperfection, and to be ruthless in its demand for it. To this must be added another fact, or another aspect of the same fact. Evil exhibits itself everywhere as something negative, barren,weakening, destructive, a principle of death. It isolates, disunites,and tends to annihilate not only its opposite but itself. That whichkeeps the evil man[14] prosperous, makes him succeed, even permits himto exist, is the good in him (I do not mean only the obviously 'moral'good). When the evil in him masters the good and has its way, itdestroys other people through him, but it also destroys _him_. At theclose of the struggle he has vanished, and has left behind him nothingthat can stand. What remains is a family, a city, a country, exhausted,pale and feeble, but alive through the principle of good which animatesit; and, within it, individuals who, if they have not the brilliance orgreatness of the tragic character, still have won our respect andconfidence. And the inference would seem clear. If existence in an orderdepends on good, and if the presence of evil is hostile to suchexistence, the inner being or soul of this order must be akin to good. These are aspects of the tragic world at least as clearly marked asthose which, taken alone, suggest the idea of fate. And the idea whichthey in their turn, when taken alone, may suggest, is that of an orderwhich does not indeed award 'poetic justice,' but which reacts throughthe necessity of its own 'moral' nature both against attacks made uponit and against failure to conform to it. Tragedy, on this view, is theexhibition of that convulsive reaction; and the fact that the spectacledoes not leave us rebellious or desperate is due to a more or lessdistinct perception that the tragic suffering and death arise fromcollision, not with a fate or blank power, but with a moral power, apower akin to all that we admire and revere in the charactersthemselves. This perception produces something like a feeling ofacquiescence in the catastrophe, though it neither leads us to passjudgment on the characters nor diminishes the pity, the fear, and thesense of waste, which their struggle, suffering and fall evoke. And,finally, this view seems quite able to do justice to those aspects ofthe tragic fact which give rise to the idea of fate. They would appearas various expressions of the fact that the moral order acts notcapriciously or like a human being, but from the necessity of itsnature, or, if we prefer the phrase, by general laws,--a necessity orlaw which of course knows no exception and is as 'ruthless' as fate. It is impossible to deny to this view a large measure of truth. And yetwithout some amendment it can hardly satisfy. For it does not includethe whole of the facts, and therefore does not wholly correspond withthe impressions they produce. Let it be granted that the system or orderwhich shows itself omnipotent against individuals is, in the senseexplained, moral. Still--at any rate for the eye of sight--the evilagainst which it asserts itself, and the persons whom this evilinhabits, are not really something outside the order, so that they canattack it or fail to conform to it; they are within it and a part of it. It itself produces them,--produces Iago as well as Desdemona, Iago'scruelty as well as Iago's courage. It is not poisoned, it poisonsitself. Doubtless it shows by its violent reaction that the poison _is_poison, and that its health lies in good. But one significant factcannot remove another, and the spectacle we witness scarcely warrantsthe assertion that the order is responsible for the good in Desdemona,but Iago for the evil in Iago. If we make this assertion we make it ongrounds other than the facts as presented in Shakespeare's tragedies. Nor does the idea of a moral order asserting itself against attack orwant of conformity answer in full to our feelings regarding the tragiccharacter. We do not think of Hamlet merely as failing to meet itsdemand, of Antony as merely sinning against it, or even of Macbeth assimply attacking it. What we feel corresponds quite as much to the ideathat they are _its_ parts, expressions, products; that in their defector evil _it_ is untrue to its soul of goodness, and falls into conflictand collision with itself; that, in making them suffer and wastethemselves, _it_ suffers and wastes itself; and that when, to save itslife and regain peace from this intestinal struggle, it casts them out,it has lost a part of its own substance,--a part more dangerous andunquiet, but far more valuable and nearer to its heart, than that whichremains,--a Fortinbras, a Malcolm, an Octavius. There is no tragedy inits expulsion of evil: the tragedy is that this involves the waste ofgood. Thus we are left at last with an idea showing two sides or aspects whichwe can neither separate nor reconcile. The whole or order against whichthe individual part shows itself powerless seems to be animated by apassion for perfection: we cannot otherwise explain its behaviourtowards evil. Yet it appears to engender this evil within itself, and inits effort to overcome and expel it it is agonised with pain, and drivento mutilate its own substance and to lose not only evil but pricelessgood. That this idea, though very different from the idea of a blankfate, is no solution of the riddle of life is obvious; but why should weexpect it to be such a solution? Shakespeare was not attempting tojustify the ways of God to men, or to show the universe as a DivineComedy. He was writing tragedy, and tragedy would not be tragedy if itwere not a painful mystery. Nor can he be said even to point distinctly,like some writers of tragedy, in any direction where a solution mightlie. We find a few references to gods or God, to the influence of thestars, to another life: some of them certainly, all of them perhaps,merely dramatic--appropriate to the person from whose lips they fall. Aghost comes from Purgatory to impart a secret out of the reach of itshearer--who presently meditates on the question whether the sleep ofdeath is dreamless. Accidents once or twice remind us strangely of thewords, 'There's a divinity that shapes our ends. ' More important areother impressions. Sometimes from the very furnace of affliction aconviction seems borne to us that somehow, if we could see it, thisagony counts as nothing against the heroism and love which appear in itand thrill our hearts. Sometimes we are driven to cry out that thesemighty or heavenly spirits who perish are too great for the little spacein which they move, and that they vanish not into nothingness but intofreedom. Sometimes from these sources and from others comes apresentiment, formless but haunting and even profound, that all the furyof conflict, with its waste and woe, is less than half the truth, evenan illusion, 'such stuff as dreams are made on. ' But these faint andscattered intimations that the tragic world, being but a fragment of awhole beyond our vision, must needs be a contradiction and no ultimatetruth, avail nothing to interpret the mystery. We remain confronted withthe inexplicable fact, or the no less inexplicable appearance, of aworld travailing for perfection, but bringing to birth, together withglorious good, an evil which it is able to overcome only by self-tortureand self-waste. And this fact or appearance is tragedy. [15]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 1: _Julius Caesar_ is not an exception to this rule. Caesar,whose murder comes in the Third Act, is in a sense the dominating figurein the story, but Brutus is the 'hero. '][Footnote 2: _Timon of Athens_, we have seen, was probably not designedby Shakespeare, but even _Timon_ is no exception to the rule. Thesub-plot is concerned with Alcibiades and his army, and Timon himself istreated by the Senate as a man of great importance. _Arden of Feversham_and _A Yorkshire Tragedy_ would certainly be exceptions to the rule; butI assume that neither of them is Shakespeare's; and if either is, itbelongs to a different species from his admitted tragedies. See, on thisspecies, Symonds, _Shakspere's Predecessors_, ch. xi. ][Footnote 3: Even a deed would, I think, be counted an 'accident,' if itwere the deed of a very minor person whose character had not beenindicated; because such a deed would not issue from the little world towhich the dramatist had confined our attention. ][Footnote 4: Comedy stands in a different position. The tricks played bychance often form a principal part of the comic action. ][Footnote 5: It may be observed that the influence of the three elementsjust considered is to strengthen the tendency, produced by thesufferings considered first, to regard the tragic persons as passiverather than as agents. ][Footnote 6: An account of Hegel's view may be found in _Oxford Lectureson Poetry_. ][Footnote 7: The reader, however, will find considerable difficulty inplacing some very important characters in these and other plays. I willgive only two or three illustrations. Edgar is clearly not on the sameside as Edmund, and yet it seems awkward to range him on Gloster's sidewhen Gloster wishes to put him to death. Ophelia is in love with Hamlet,but how can she be said to be of Hamlet's party against the King andPolonius, or of their party against Hamlet? Desdemona worships Othello,yet it sounds odd to say that Othello is on the same side with a personwhom he insults, strikes and murders. ][Footnote 8: I have given names to the 'spiritual forces' in _Macbeth_merely to illustrate the idea, and without any pretension to adequacy. Perhaps, in view of some interpretations of Shakespeare's plays, it willbe as well to add that I do not dream of suggesting that in any of hisdramas Shakespeare imagined two abstract principles or passionsconflicting, and incorporated them in persons; or that there is anynecessity for a reader to define for himself the particular forces whichconflict in a given case. ][Footnote 9: Aristotle apparently would exclude them. ][Footnote 10: Richard II. is perhaps an exception, and I must confessthat to me he is scarcely a tragic character, and that, if he isnevertheless a tragic figure, he is so only because his fall fromprosperity to adversity is so great. ][Footnote 11: I say substantially; but the concluding remarks on_Hamlet_ will modify a little the statements above. ][Footnote 12: I have raised no objection to the use of the idea of fate,because it occurs so often both in conversation and in books aboutShakespeare's tragedies that I must suppose it to be natural to manyreaders. Yet I doubt whether it would be so if Greek tragedy had neverbeen written; and I must in candour confess that to me it does not oftenoccur while I am reading, or when I have just read, a tragedy ofShakespeare. Wordsworth's lines, for example, about         poor humanity's afflicted will     Struggling in vain with ruthless destinydo not represent the impression I receive; much less do images whichcompare man to a puny creature helpless in the claws of a bird of prey. The reader should examine himself closely on this matter. ][Footnote 13: It is dangerous, I think, in reference to all really goodtragedies, but I am dealing here only with Shakespeare's. In not a fewGreek tragedies it is almost inevitable that we should think of justiceand retribution, not only because the _dramatis personae_ often speak ofthem, but also because there is something casuistical about the tragicproblem itself. The poet treats the story in such a way that thequestion, Is the hero doing right or wrong? is almost forced upon us. But this is not so with Shakespeare. _Julius Caesar_ is probably theonly one of his tragedies in which the question suggests itself to us,and this is one of the reasons why that play has something of a classicair. Even here, if we ask the question, we have no doubt at all aboutthe answer. ][Footnote 14: It is most essential to remember that an evil man is muchmore than the evil in him. I may add that in this paragraph I have, forthe sake of clearness, considered evil in its most pronounced form; butwhat is said would apply, _mutatis mutandis_, to evil as imperfection,etc. ][Footnote 15: Partly in order not to anticipate later passages, Iabstained from treating fully here the question why we feel, at thedeath of the tragic hero, not only pain but also reconciliation andsometimes even exultation. As I cannot at present make good this defect,I would ask the reader to refer to the word _Reconciliation_ in theIndex. See also, in _Oxford Lectures on Poetry_, _Hegel's Theory ofTragedy_, especially pp. 90, 91. ]LECTURE IICONSTRUCTION IN SHAKESPEARE'S TRAGEDIESHaving discussed the substance of a Shakespearean tragedy, we shouldnaturally go on to examine the form. And under this head many thingsmight be included; for example, Shakespeare's methods ofcharacterisation, his language, his versification, the construction ofhis plots. I intend, however, to speak only of the last of thesesubjects, which has been somewhat neglected;[16] and, as construction isa more or less technical matter, I shall add some general remarks onShakespeare as an artist. 1As a Shakespearean tragedy represents a conflict which terminates in acatastrophe, any such tragedy may roughly be divided into three parts. The first of these sets forth or expounds the situation,[17] or state ofaffairs, out of which the conflict arises; and it may, therefore, becalled the Exposition. The second deals with the definite beginning, thegrowth and the vicissitudes of the conflict. It forms accordingly thebulk of the play, comprising the Second, Third and Fourth Acts, andusually a part of the First and a part of the Fifth. The final sectionof the tragedy shows the issue of the conflict in a catastrophe. [18]The application of this scheme of division is naturally more or lessarbitrary. The first part glides into the second, and the second intothe third, and there may often be difficulty in drawing the linesbetween them. But it is still harder to divide spring from summer, andsummer from autumn; and yet spring is spring, and summer summer. The main business of the Exposition, which we will consider first, is tointroduce us into a little world of persons; to show us their positionsin life, their circumstances, their relations to one another, andperhaps something of their characters; and to leave us keenly interestedin the question what will come out of this condition of things. We areleft thus expectant, not merely because some of the persons interest usat once, but also because their situation in regard to one anotherpoints to difficulties in the future. This situation is not one ofconflict,[19] but it threatens conflict. For example, we see first thehatred of the Montagues and Capulets; and then we see Romeo ready tofall violently in love; and then we hear talk of a marriage betweenJuliet and Paris; but the exposition is not complete, and the conflicthas not definitely begun to arise, till, in the last scene of the FirstAct, Romeo the Montague sees Juliet the Capulet and becomes her slave. The dramatist's chief difficulty in the exposition is obvious, and it isillustrated clearly enough in the plays of unpractised writers; forexample, in _Remorse_, and even in _The Cenci_. He has to impart to theaudience a quantity of information about matters of which they generallyknow nothing and never know all that is necessary for his purpose. [20]But the process of merely acquiring information is unpleasant, and thedirect imparting of it is undramatic. Unless he uses a prologue,therefore, he must conceal from his auditors the fact that they arebeing informed, and must tell them what he wants them to know by meanswhich are interesting on their own account. These means, withShakespeare, are not only speeches but actions and events. From the verybeginning of the play, though the conflict has not arisen, things arehappening and being done which in some degree arrest, startle, andexcite; and in a few scenes we have mastered the situation of affairswithout perceiving the dramatist's designs upon us. Not that this isalways so with Shakespeare. In the opening scene of his early _Comedy ofErrors_, and in the opening speech of _Richard III. _, we feel that thespeakers are addressing us; and in the second scene of the _Tempest_(for Shakespeare grew at last rather negligent of technique) the purposeof Prospero's long explanation to Miranda is palpable. But in generalShakespeare's expositions are masterpieces. [21]His usual plan in tragedy is to begin with a short scene, or part of ascene, either full of life and stir, or in some other way arresting. Then, having secured a hearing, he proceeds to conversations at a lowerpitch, accompanied by little action but conveying much information. Forexample, _Romeo and Juliet_ opens with a street-fight, _Julius Caesar_and _Coriolanus_ with a crowd in commotion; and when this excitement hashad its effect on the audience, there follow quiet speeches, in whichthe cause of the excitement, and so a great part of the situation, aredisclosed. In _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ this scheme is employed with greatboldness. In _Hamlet_ the first appearance of the Ghost occurs at thefortieth line, and with such effect that Shakespeare can afford tointroduce at once a conversation which explains part of the state ofaffairs at Elsinore; and the second appearance, having again increasedthe tension, is followed by a long scene, which contains no action butintroduces almost all the _dramatis personae_ and adds the informationleft wanting. The opening of _Macbeth_ is even more remarkable, forthere is probably no parallel to its first scene, where the senses andimagination are assaulted by a storm of thunder and supernatural alarm. This scene is only eleven lines long, but its influence is so great thatthe next can safely be occupied with a mere report of Macbeth'sbattles,--a narrative which would have won much less attention if it hadopened the play. When Shakespeare begins his exposition thus he generally at first makespeople talk about the hero, but keeps the hero himself for some time outof sight, so that we await his entrance with curiosity, and sometimeswith anxiety. On the other hand, if the play opens with a quietconversation, this is usually brief, and then at once the hero entersand takes action of some decided kind. Nothing, for example, can be lesslike the beginning of _Macbeth_ than that of _King Lear_. The tone ispitched so low that the conversation between Kent, Gloster, and Edmundis written in prose. But at the thirty-fourth line it is broken off bythe entrance of Lear and his court, and without delay the King proceedsto his fatal division of the kingdom. This tragedy illustrates another practice of Shakespeare's. _King Lear_has a secondary plot, that which concerns Gloster and his two sons. Tomake the beginning of this plot quite clear, and to mark it off from themain action, Shakespeare gives it a separate exposition. The great sceneof the division of Britain and the rejection of Cordelia and Kent isfollowed by the second scene, in which Gloster and his two sons appearalone, and the beginning of Edmund's design is disclosed. In _Hamlet_,though the plot is single, there is a little group of characterspossessing a certain independent interest,--Polonius, his son, and hisdaughter; and so the third scene is devoted wholly to them. And again,in _Othello_, since Roderigo is to occupy a peculiar position almostthroughout the action, he is introduced at once, alone with Iago, andhis position is explained before the other characters are allowed toappear. But why should Iago open the play? Or, if this seems too presumptuous aquestion, let us put it in the form, What is the effect of his openingthe play? It is that we receive at the very outset a strong impressionof the force which is to prove fatal to the hero's happiness, so that,when we see the hero himself, the shadow of fate already rests upon him. And an effect of this kind is to be noticed in other tragedies. We aremade conscious at once of some power which is to influence the wholeaction to the hero's undoing. In _Macbeth_ we see and hear the Witches,in _Hamlet_ the Ghost. In the first scene of _Julius Caesar_ and of_Coriolanus_ those qualities of the crowd are vividly shown which renderhopeless the enterprise of the one hero and wreck the ambition of theother. It is the same with the hatred between the rival houses in _Romeoand Juliet_, and with Antony's infatuated passion. We realise them atthe end of the first page, and are almost ready to regard the hero asdoomed. Often, again, at one or more points during the exposition thisfeeling is reinforced by some expression that has an ominous effect. Thefirst words we hear from Macbeth, 'So foul and fair a day I have notseen,' echo, though he knows it not, the last words we heard from theWitches, 'Fair is foul, and foul is fair. ' Romeo, on his way with hisfriends to the banquet, where he is to see Juliet for the first time,tells Mercutio that he has had a dream. What the dream was we neverlearn, for Mercutio does not care to know, and breaks into his speechabout Queen Mab; but we can guess its nature from Romeo's last speech inthe scene:                          My mind misgives     Some consequence yet hanging in the stars     Shall bitterly begin his fearful date     With this night's revels. When Brabantio, forced to acquiesce in his daughter's stolen marriage,turns, as he leaves the council-chamber, to Othello, with the warning,     Look to her, Moor, if thou hast eyes to see;     She has deceived her father, and may thee,this warning, and no less Othello's answer, 'My life upon her faith,'make our hearts sink. The whole of the coming story seems to beprefigured in Antony's muttered words (I. ii. 120):     These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,     Or lose myself in dotage;and, again, in Hamlet's weary sigh, following so soon on the passionateresolution stirred by the message of the Ghost:     The time is out of joint. Oh cursed spite,     That ever I was born to set it right. These words occur at a point (the end of the First Act) which may beheld to fall either within the exposition or beyond it. I should takethe former view, though such questions, as we saw at starting, canhardly be decided with certainty. The dimensions of this first sectionof a tragedy depend on a variety of causes, of which the chief seems tobe the comparative simplicity or complexity of the situation from whichthe conflict arises. Where this is simple the exposition is short, as in_Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_. Where it is complicated the expositionrequires more space, as in _Romeo and Juliet_, _Hamlet_, and _KingLear_. Its completion is generally marked in the mind of the reader by afeeling that the action it contains is for the moment complete but hasleft a problem. The lovers have met, but their families are at deadlyenmity; the hero seems at the height of success, but has admitted thethought of murdering his sovereign; the old king has divided his kingdombetween two hypocritical daughters, and has rejected his true child; thehero has acknowledged a sacred duty of revenge, but is weary of life:and we ask, What will come of this? Sometimes, I may add, a certain timeis supposed to elapse before the events which answer our question maketheir appearance and the conflict begins; in _King Lear_, for instance,about a fortnight; in _Hamlet_ about two months. 2We come now to the conflict itself. And here one or two preliminaryremarks are necessary. In the first place, it must be remembered thatour point of view in examining the construction of a play will notalways coincide with that which we occupy in thinking of its wholedramatic effect. For example, that struggle in the hero's soul whichsometimes accompanies the outward struggle is of the highest importancefor the total effect of a tragedy; but it is not always necessary ordesirable to consider it when the question is merely one ofconstruction. And this is natural. The play is meant primarily for thetheatre; and theatrically the outward conflict, with its influence onthe fortunes of the hero, is the aspect which first catches, if it doesnot engross, attention. For the average play-goer of every period themain interest of _Hamlet_ has probably lain in the vicissitudes of hislong duel with the King; and the question, one may almost say, has beenwhich will first kill the other. And so, from the point of view ofconstruction, the fact that Hamlet spares the King when he finds himpraying, is, from its effect on the hero's fortunes, of great moment;but the cause of the fact, which lies within Hamlet's character, is notso. In the second place we must be prepared to find that, as the plays varyso much, no single way of regarding the conflict will answer preciselyto the construction of all; that it sometimes appears possible to lookat the construction of a tragedy in two quite different ways, and thatit is material to find the best of the two; and that thus, in any giveninstance, it is necessary first to define the opposing sides in theconflict. I will give one or two examples. In some tragedies, as we sawin our first lecture, the opposing forces can, for practical purposes,be identified with opposing persons or groups. So it is in _Romeo andJuliet_ and _Macbeth_. But it is not always so. The love of Othello maybe said to contend with another force, as the love of Romeo does; butOthello cannot be said to contend with Iago as Romeo contends with therepresentatives of the hatred of the houses, or as Macbeth contends withMalcolm and Macduff. Again, in _Macbeth_ the hero, however muchinfluenced by others, supplies the main driving power of the action; butin _King Lear_ he does not. Possibly, therefore, the conflict, and withit the construction, may best be regarded from different points of viewin these two plays, in spite of the fact that the hero is the centralfigure in each. But if we do not observe this we shall attempt to findthe same scheme in both, and shall either be driven to some unnaturalview or to a sceptical despair of perceiving any principle ofconstruction at all. With these warnings, I turn to the question whether we can trace anydistinct method or methods by which Shakespeare represents the rise anddevelopment of the conflict. (1) One at least is obvious, and indeed it is followed not merely duringthe conflict but from beginning to end of the play. There are, ofcourse, in the action certain places where the tension in the minds ofthe audience becomes extreme. We shall consider these presently. But, inaddition, there is, all through the tragedy, a constant alternation ofrises and falls in this tension or in the emotional pitch of the work, aregular sequence of more exciting and less exciting sections. Some kindof variation of pitch is to be found, of course, in all drama, for itrests on the elementary facts that relief must be given after emotionalstrain, and that contrast is required to bring out the full force of aneffect. But a good drama of our own time shows nothing approaching tothe _regularity_ with which in the plays of Shakespeare and of hiscontemporaries the principle is applied. And the main cause of thisdifference lies simply in a change of theatrical arrangements. InShakespeare's theatre, as there was no scenery, scene followed scenewith scarcely any pause; and so the readiest, though not the only, wayto vary the emotional pitch was to interpose a whole scene where thetension was low between scenes where it was high. In our theatres thereis a great deal of scenery, which takes a long time to set and change;and therefore the number of scenes is small, and the variations oftension have to be provided within the scenes, and still more by thepauses between them. With Shakespeare there are, of course, in any longscene variations of tension, but the scenes are numerous and, comparedwith ours, usually short, and variety is given principally by theirdifference in pitch. It may further be observed that, in a portion of the play which isrelatively unexciting, the scenes of lower tension may be as long asthose of higher; while in a portion of the play which is speciallyexciting the scenes of low tension are shorter, often much shorter, thanthe others. The reader may verify this statement by comparing the Firstor the Fourth Act in most of the tragedies with the Third; for, speakingvery roughly, we may say that the First and Fourth are relatively quietacts, the Third highly critical. A good example is the Third Act of_King Lear_, where the scenes of high tension (ii. , iv. , vi. ) arerespectively 95, 186 and 122 lines in length, while those of low tension(i. , iii. , v. ) are respectively 55, 26 and 26 lines long. Scene vii. ,the last of the Act, is, I may add, a very exciting scene, though itfollows scene vi. , and therefore the tone of scene vi. is greatlylowered during its final thirty lines. (2) If we turn now from the differences of tension to the sequence ofevents within the conflict, we shall find the principle of alternationat work again in another and a quite independent way. Let us for thesake of brevity call the two sides in the conflict A and B. Now,usually, as we shall see presently, through a considerable part of theplay, perhaps the first half, the cause of A is, on the whole,advancing; and through the remaining part it is retiring, while that ofB advances in turn. But, underlying this broad movement, all through theconflict we shall find a regular alternation of smaller advances andretirals; first A seeming to win some ground, and then thecounter-action of B being shown. And since we always more or lessdecidedly prefer A to B or B to A, the result of this oscillatingmovement is a constant alternation of hope and fear, or rather of amixed state predominantly hopeful and a mixed state predominantlyapprehensive. An example will make the point clear. In _Hamlet_ theconflict begins with the hero's feigning to be insane fromdisappointment in love, and we are shown his immediate success inconvincing Polonius. Let us call this an advance of A. The next sceneshows the King's great uneasiness about Hamlet's melancholy, and hisscepticism as to Polonius's explanation of its cause: advance of B. Hamlet completely baffles Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who have beensent to discover his secret, and he arranges for the test of theplay-scene: advance of A. But immediately before the play-scene hissoliloquy on suicide fills us with misgiving; and his words to Ophelia,overheard, so convince the King that love is _not_ the cause of hisnephew's strange behaviour, that he determines to get rid of him bysending him to England: advance of B. The play-scene proves a completesuccess: decided advance of A. Directly after it Hamlet spares the Kingat prayer, and in an interview with his mother unwittingly killsPolonius, and so gives his enemy a perfect excuse for sending him away(to be executed): decided advance of B. I need not pursue theillustration further. This oscillating movement can be traced withoutdifficulty in any of the tragedies, though less distinctly in one or twoof the earliest. (3) Though this movement continues right up to the catastrophe, itseffect does not disguise that much broader effect to which I havealready alluded, and which we have now to study. In all the tragedies,though more clearly in some than in others, one side is distinctly feltto be on the whole advancing up to a certain point in the conflict, andthen to be on the whole declining before the reaction of the other. There is therefore felt to be a critical point in the action, whichproves also to be a turning point. It is critical sometimes in the sensethat, until it is reached, the conflict is not, so to speak, clenched;one of the two sets of forces might subside, or a reconciliation mightsomehow be effected; while, as soon as it is reached, we feel this canno longer be. It is critical also because the advancing force hasapparently asserted itself victoriously, gaining, if not all it couldwish, still a very substantial advantage; whereas really it is on thepoint of turning downward towards its fall. This Crisis, as a rule,comes somewhere near the middle of the play; and where it is well markedit has the effect, as to construction, of dividing the play into fiveparts instead of three; these parts showing (1) a situation not yet oneof conflict, (2) the rise and development of the conflict, in which A orB advances on the whole till it reaches (3) the Crisis, on which follows(4) the decline of A or B towards (5) the Catastrophe. And it will beseen that the fourth and fifth parts repeat, though with a reversal ofdirection as regards A or B, the movement of the second and third,working towards the catastrophe as the second and third worked towardsthe crisis. In developing, illustrating and qualifying this statement, it will bebest to begin with the tragedies in which the movement is most clear andsimple. These are _Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_. In the former thefortunes of the conspiracy rise with vicissitudes up to the crisis ofthe assassination (III. i. ); they then sink with vicissitudes to thecatastrophe, where Brutus and Cassius perish. In the latter, Macbeth,hurrying, in spite of much inward resistance, to the murder of Duncan,attains the crown, the upward movement being extraordinarily rapid, andthe crisis arriving early: his cause then turns slowly downward, andsoon hastens to ruin. In both these tragedies the simplicity of theconstructional effect, it should be noticed, depends in part on the factthat the contending forces may quite naturally be identified withcertain persons, and partly again on the fact that the defeat of oneside is the victory of the other. Octavius and Antony, Malcolm andMacduff, are left standing over the bodies of their foes. This is not so in _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Hamlet_, because here,although the hero perishes, the side opposed to him, being the morefaulty or evil, cannot be allowed to triumph when he falls. Otherwisethe type of construction is the same. The fortunes of Romeo and Julietrise and culminate in their marriage (II. vi. ), and then begin todecline before the opposition of their houses, which, aided byaccidents, produces a catastrophe, but is thereupon converted into aremorseful reconciliation. Hamlet's cause reaches its zenith in thesuccess of the play-scene (III. ii. ). Thereafter the reaction makes way,and he perishes through the plot of the King and Laertes. But they arenot allowed to survive their success. The construction in the remaining Roman plays follows the same plan, butin both plays (as in _Richard II. _ and _Richard III. _) it suffers fromthe intractable nature of the historical material, and is alsoinfluenced by other causes. In _Coriolanus_ the hero reaches the topmostpoint of success when he is named consul (II. iii. ), and the rest of theplay shows his decline and fall; but in this decline he attains againfor a time extraordinary power, and triumphs, in a sense, over hisoriginal adversary, though he succumbs to another. In _Antony andCleopatra_ the advance of the hero's cause depends on his freeinghimself from the heroine, and he appears to have succeeded when hebecomes reconciled to Octavius and marries Octavia (III. ii. ); but hereturns to Egypt and is gradually driven to his death, which involvesthat of the heroine. There remain two of the greatest of the tragedies, and in both of them acertain difficulty will be felt. _King Lear_ alone among these plays hasa distinct double action. Besides this, it is impossible, I think, fromthe point of view of construction, to regard the hero as the leadingfigure. If we attempt to do so, we must either find the crisis in theFirst Act (for after it Lear's course is downward), and this is absurd;or else we must say that the usual movement is present but its directionis reversed, the hero's cause first sinking to the lowest point (in theStorm-scenes) and then rising again. But this also will not do; forthough his fortunes may be said to rise again for a time, they rise onlyto fall once more to a catastrophe. The truth is, that after the FirstAct, which is really filled by the exposition, Lear suffers but hardlyinitiates action at all; and the right way to look at the matter, _fromthe point of view of construction_, is to regard Goneril, Regan andEdmund as the leading characters. It is they who, in the conflict,initiate action. Their fortune mounts to the crisis, where the old Kingis driven out into the storm and loses his reason, and where Gloster isblinded and expelled from his home (III. vi. and vii. ). Then thecounter-action begins to gather force, and their cause to decline; and,although they win the battle, they are involved in the catastrophe whichthey bring on Cordelia and Lear. Thus we may still find in _King Lear_the usual scheme of an ascending and a descending movement of one sidein the conflict. The case of _Othello_ is more peculiar. In its whole constructionaleffect _Othello_ differs from the other tragedies, and the cause of thisdifference is not hard to find, and will be mentioned presently. Buthow, after it is found, are we to define the principle of theconstruction? On the one hand the usual method seems to show itself. Othello's fortune certainly advances in the early part of the play, andit may be considered to reach its topmost point in the exquisite joy ofhis reunion with Desdemona in Cyprus; while soon afterwards it begins toturn, and then falls to the catastrophe. But the topmost point thuscomes very early (II. i. ), and, moreover, is but faintly marked; indeed,it is scarcely felt as a crisis at all. And, what is still moresignificant, though reached by conflict, it is not reached by conflictwith the force which afterwards destroys it. Iago, in the early scenes,is indeed shown to cherish a design against Othello, but it is not Iagoagainst whom he has at first to assert himself, but Brabantio; and Iagodoes not even begin to poison his mind until the third scene of theThird Act. Can we then, on the other hand, following the precedent of _King Lear_,and remembering the probable chronological juxtaposition of the twoplays, regard Iago as the leading figure from the point of view ofconstruction? This might at first seem the right view; for it is thecase that _Othello_ resembles _King Lear_ in having a hero more actedupon than acting, or rather a hero driven to act by being acted upon. But then, if Iago is taken as the leading figure, the usual mode ofconstruction is plainly abandoned, for there will nowhere be a crisisfollowed by a descending movement. Iago's cause advances, at firstslowly and quietly, then rapidly, but it does nothing but advance untilthe catastrophe swallows his dupe and him together. And this way ofregarding the action does positive violence, I think, to our naturalimpressions of the earlier part of the play. I think, therefore, that the usual scheme is so far followed that thedrama represents first the rise of the hero, and then his fall. But,however this question may be decided, one striking peculiarity remains,and is the cause of the unique effect of _Othello_. In the first half ofthe play the main conflict is merely incubating; then it bursts intolife, and goes storming, without intermission or change of direction, toits close. Now, in this peculiarity _Othello_ is quite unlike the othertragedies; and in the consequent effect, which is that the second halfof the drama is immeasurably more exciting than the first, it isapproached only by _Antony and Cleopatra_. I shall therefore reserve itfor separate consideration, though in proceeding to speak further ofShakespeare's treatment of the tragic conflict I shall have to mentionsome devices which are used in _Othello_ as well as in the othertragedies. 3Shakespeare's general plan, we have seen, is to show one set of forcesadvancing, in secret or open opposition to the other, to some decisivesuccess, and then driven downward to defeat by the reaction it provokes. And the advantages of this plan, as seen in such a typical instance as_Julius Caesar_, are manifest. It conveys the movement of the conflictto the mind with great clearness and force. It helps to produce theimpression that in his decline and fall the doer's act is returning onhis own head. And, finally, as used by Shakespeare, it makes the firsthalf of the play intensely interesting and dramatic. Action whicheffects a striking change in an existing situation is naturally watchedwith keen interest; and this we find in some of these tragedies. And thespectacle, which others exhibit, of a purpose forming itself and, inspite of outward obstacles and often of inward resistance, forcing itsway onward to a happy consummation or a terrible deed, not only givesscope to that psychological subtlety in which Shakespeare is scarcelyrivalled, but is also dramatic in the highest degree. But when the crisis has been reached there come difficulties anddangers, which, if we put Shakespeare for the moment out of mind, areeasily seen. An immediate and crushing counter-action would, no doubt,sustain the interest, but it would precipitate the catastrophe, andleave a feeling that there has been too long a preparation for a finaleffect so brief. What seems necessary is a momentary pause, followed bya counter-action which mounts at first slowly, and afterwards, as itgathers force, with quickening speed. And yet the result of thisarrangement, it would seem, must be, for a time, a decided slackening oftension. Nor is this the only difficulty. The persons who represent thecounter-action and now take the lead, are likely to be comparativelyunfamiliar, and therefore unwelcome, to the audience; and, even iffamiliar, they are almost sure to be at first, if not permanently, lessinteresting than those who figured in the ascending movement, and onwhom attention has been fixed. Possibly, too, their necessary prominencemay crowd the hero into the back-ground. Hence the point of danger inthis method of construction seems to lie in that section of the playwhich follows the crisis and has not yet approached the catastrophe. Andthis section will usually comprise the Fourth Act, together, in somecases, with a part of the Third and a part of the Fifth. Shakespeare was so masterly a playwright, and had so wonderful a powerof giving life to unpromising subjects, that to a large extent he wasable to surmount this difficulty. But illustrations of it are easily tobe found in his tragedies, and it is not always surmounted. In almostall of them we are conscious of that momentary pause in the action,though, as we shall see, it does not generally occur _immediately_ afterthe crisis. Sometimes he allows himself to be driven to keep the herooff the stage for a long time while the counter-action is rising;Macbeth, Hamlet and Coriolanus during about 450 lines, Lear for nearly500, Romeo for about 550 (it matters less here, because Juliet is quiteas important as Romeo). How can a drama in which this happens compete,in its latter part, with _Othello_? And again, how can deliberationsbetween Octavius, Antony and Lepidus, between Malcolm and Macduff,between the Capulets, between Laertes and the King, keep us at thepitch, I do not say of the crisis, but even of the action which led upto it? Good critics--writers who have criticised Shakespeare's dramasfrom within, instead of applying to them some standard ready-made bythemselves or derived from dramas and a theatre of quite other kindsthan his--have held that some of his greatest tragedies fall off in theFourth Act, and that one or two never wholly recover themselves. And Ibelieve most readers would find, if they examined their impressions,that to their minds _Julius Caesar_, _Hamlet_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_have all a tendency to 'drag' in this section of the play, and that thefirst and perhaps also the last of these four fail even in thecatastrophe to reach the height of the greatest scenes that havepreceded the Fourth Act. I will not ask how far these impressions arejustified. The difficulties in question will become clearer and willgain in interest if we look rather at the means which have been employedto meet them, and which certainly have in part, at least, overcome them. (_a_) The first of these is always strikingly effective, sometimesmarvellously so. The crisis in which the ascending force reaches itszenith is followed quickly, or even without the slightest pause, by areverse or counter-blow not less emphatic and in some cases even moreexciting. And the effect is to make us feel a sudden and tragic changein the direction of the movement, which, after ascending more or lessgradually, now turns sharply downward. To the assassination of Caesar(III. i. ) succeeds the scene in the Forum (III. ii. ), where Antonycarries the people away in a storm of sympathy with the dead man and offury against the conspirators. We have hardly realised their victorybefore we are forced to anticipate their ultimate defeat and to take theliveliest interest in their chief antagonist. In _Hamlet_ the thrillingsuccess of the play-scene (III. ii. ) is met and undone at once by thecounter-stroke of Hamlet's failure to take vengeance (III. iii. ) and hismisfortune in killing Polonius (III. iv. ). Coriolanus has no soonergained the consulship than he is excited to frenzy by the tribunes anddriven into exile. On the marriage of Romeo follows immediately thebrawl which leads to Mercutio's death and the banishment of the hero(II. vi. and III. i. ). In all of these instances excepting that of_Hamlet_ the scene of the counter-stroke is at least as exciting as thatof the crisis, perhaps more so. Most people, if asked to mention thescene that occupies the _centre_ of the action in _Julius Caesar_ and in_Coriolanus_, would mention the scenes of Antony's speech andCoriolanus' banishment. Thus that apparently necessary pause in theaction does not, in any of these dramas, come directly after the crisis. It is deferred; and in several cases it is by various devices deferredfor some little time; _e. g. _ in _Romeo and Juliet_ till the hero hasleft Verona, and Juliet is told that her marriage with Paris is to takeplace 'next Thursday morn' (end of Act III. ); in _Macbeth_ till themurder of Duncan has been followed by that of Banquo, and this by thebanquet-scene. Hence the point where this pause occurs is very rarelyreached before the end of the Third Act. (_b_) Either at this point, or in the scene of the counter-stroke whichprecedes it, we sometimes find a peculiar effect. We are reminded of thestate of affairs in which the conflict began. The opening of _JuliusCaesar_ warned us that, among a people so unstable and so easily ledthis way or that, the enterprise of Brutus is hopeless; the days of theRepublic are done. In the scene of Antony's speech we see this samepeople again. At the beginning of _Antony and Cleopatra_ the hero isabout to leave Cleopatra for Rome. Where the play takes, as it were, afresh start after the crisis, he leaves Octavia for Egypt. In _Hamlet_,when the counter-stroke succeeds to the crisis, the Ghost, who hadappeared in the opening scenes, reappears. Macbeth's action in the firstpart of the tragedy followed on the prediction of the Witches whopromised him the throne. When the action moves forward again after thebanquet-scene the Witches appear once more, and make those freshpromises which again drive him forward. This repetition of a firsteffect produces a fateful feeling. It generally also stimulatesexpectation as to the new movement about to begin. In _Macbeth_ thescene is, in addition, of the greatest consequence from the purelytheatrical point of view. (_c_) It has yet another function. It shows, in Macbeth's furiousirritability and purposeless savagery, the internal reaction whichaccompanies the outward decline of his fortunes. And in other plays alsothe exhibition of such inner changes forms a means by which interest issustained in this difficult section of a tragedy. There is no point in_Hamlet_ where we feel more hopeless than that where the hero, havingmissed his chance, moralises over his irresolution and determines tocherish now only thoughts of blood, and then departs without an effortfor England. One purpose, again, of the quarrel-scene between Brutus andCassius (IV. iii), as also of the appearance of Caesar's ghost justafterwards, is to indicate the inward changes. Otherwise theintroduction of this famous and wonderful scene can hardly be defendedon strictly dramatic grounds. No one would consent to part with it, andit is invaluable in sustaining interest during the progress of thereaction, but it is an episode, the removal of which would not affectthe actual sequence of events (unless we may hold that, but for theemotion caused by the quarrel and reconciliation, Cassius would not haveallowed Brutus to overcome his objection to the fatal policy of offeringbattle at Philippi). (_d_) The quarrel-scene illustrates yet another favourite expedient. Inthis section of a tragedy Shakespeare often appeals to an emotiondifferent from any of those excited in the first half of the play, andso provides novelty and generally also relief. As a rule this newemotion is pathetic; and the pathos is not terrible or lacerating, but,even if painful, is accompanied by the sense of beauty and by an outflowof admiration or affection, which come with an inexpressible sweetnessafter the tension of the crisis and the first counter-stroke. So it iswith the reconciliation of Brutus and Cassius, and the arrival of thenews of Portia's death. The most famous instance of this effect is thescene (IV. vii. ) where Lear wakes from sleep and finds Cordelia bendingover him, perhaps the most tear-compelling passage in literature. Another is the short scene (IV. ii. ) in which the talk of Lady Macduffand her little boy is interrupted by the entrance of the murderers, apassage of touching beauty and heroism. Another is the introduction ofOphelia in her madness (twice in different parts of IV. v. ), where theeffect, though intensely pathetic, is beautiful and moving rather thanharrowing; and this effect is repeated in a softer tone in thedescription of Ophelia's death (end of Act IV. ). And in _Othello_ thepassage where pathos of _this_ kind reaches its height is certainly thatwhere Desdemona and Emilia converse, and the willow-song is sung, on theeve of the catastrophe (IV. iii. ). (_e_) Sometimes, again, in this section of a tragedy we find humorous orsemi-humorous passages. On the whole such passages occur most frequentlyin the early or middle part of the play, which naturally grows moresombre as it nears the close; but their occasional introduction in theFourth Act, and even later, affords variety and relief, and alsoheightens by contrast the tragic feelings. For example, there is a touchof comedy in the conversation of Lady Macduff with her little boy. Purely and delightfully humorous are the talk and behaviour of theservants in that admirable scene where Coriolanus comes disguised inmean apparel to the house of Aufidius (IV. v. ); of a more mingled kindis the effect of the discussion between Menenius and the sentinels in V. ii. ; and in the very middle of the supreme scene between the hero,Volumnia and Virgilia, little Marcius makes us burst out laughing (V. iii. ) A little before the catastrophe in _Hamlet_ comes the grave-diggerpassage, a passage ever welcome, but of a length which could hardly bedefended on purely dramatic grounds; and still later, occupying somehundred and twenty lines of the very last scene, we have the chatter ofOsric with Hamlet's mockery of it. But the acme of audacity is reachedin _Antony and Cleopatra_, where, quite close to the end, the oldcountryman who brings the asps to Cleopatra discourses on the virtuesand vices of the worm, and where his last words, 'Yes, forsooth: I wishyou joy o' the worm,' are followed, without the intervention of a line,by the glorious speech,     Give me my robe; put on my crown; I have     Immortal longings in me. . . . In some of the instances of pathos or humour just mentioned we have beenbrought to that part of the play which immediately precedes, or evencontains, the catastrophe. And I will add at once three remarks whichrefer specially to this final section of a tragedy. (_f_) In several plays Shakespeare makes here an appeal which in his owntime was evidently powerful: he introduces scenes of battle. This is thecase in _Richard III. _, _Julius Caesar_, _King Lear_, _Macbeth_ and_Antony and Cleopatra_. Richard, Brutus and Cassius, and Macbeth die onthe battlefield. Even if his use of this expedient were not enough toshow that battle-scenes were extremely popular in the Elizabethantheatre, we know it from other sources. It is a curious comment on thefutility of our spectacular effects that in our theatre these scenes, inwhich we strive after an 'illusion' of which the Elizabethans neverdreamt, produce comparatively little excitement, and to many spectatorsare even somewhat distasteful. [22] And although some of them thrill theimagination of the reader, they rarely, I think, quite satisfy the_dramatic_ sense. Perhaps this is partly because a battle is not themost favourable place for the exhibition of tragic character; and it isworth notice that Brutus, Cassius and Antony do not die fighting, butcommit suicide after defeat. The actual battle, however, does make usfeel the greatness of Antony, and still more does it help us to regardRichard and Macbeth in their day of doom as heroes, and to minglesympathy and enthusiastic admiration with desire for their defeat. (_g_) In some of the tragedies, again, an expedient is used, whichFreytag has pointed out (though he sometimes finds it, I think, where itis not really employed). Shakespeare very rarely makes the least attemptto surprise by his catastrophes. They are felt to be inevitable, thoughthe precise way in which they will be brought about is not, of course,foreseen. Occasionally, however, where we dread the catastrophe becausewe love the hero, a moment occurs, just before it, in which a gleam offalse hope lights up the darkening scene; and, though we know it isfalse, it affects us. Far the most remarkable example is to be found inthe final Act of _King Lear_. Here the victory of Edgar and the deathsof Edmund and the two sisters have almost made us forget the design onthe lives of Lear and Cordelia. Even when we are reminded of it there isstill room for hope that Edgar, who rushes away to the prison, will bein time to save them; and, however familiar we are with the play, thesudden entrance of Lear, with Cordelia dead in his arms, comes on uswith a shock. Much slighter, but quite perceptible, is the effect ofAntony's victory on land, and of the last outburst of pride and joy ashe and Cleopatra meet (IV. viii. ). The frank apology of Hamlet toLaertes, their reconciliation, and a delusive appearance of quiet andeven confident firmness in the tone of the hero's conversation withHoratio, almost blind us to our better knowledge, and give to thecatastrophe an added pain. Those in the audience who are ignorant of_Macbeth_, and who take more simply than most readers now can do themysterious prophecies concerning Birnam Wood and the man not born ofwoman, feel, I imagine, just before the catastrophe, a false fear thatthe hero may yet escape. (_h_) I will mention only one point more. In some cases Shakespearespreads the catastrophe out, so to speak, over a considerable space, andthus shortens that difficult section which has to show the developmentof the counter-action. This is possible only where there is, besides thehero, some character who engages our interest in the highest degree, andwith whose fate his own is bound up. Thus the murder of Desdemona isseparated by some distance from the death of Othello. The mostimpressive scene in _Macbeth_, after that of Duncan's murder, is thesleep-walking scene; and it may truly, if not literally, be said to showthe catastrophe of Lady Macbeth. Yet it is the opening scene of theFifth Act, and a number of scenes in which Macbeth's fate is stillapproaching intervene before the close. Finally, in _Antony andCleopatra_ the heroine equals the hero in importance, and here the deathof Antony actually occurs in the Fourth Act, and the whole of the Fifthis devoted to Cleopatra.       *       *       *       *       *Let us now turn to _Othello_ and consider briefly its exceptional schemeof construction. The advantage of this scheme is obvious. In the secondhalf of the tragedy there is no danger of 'dragging,' of any awkwardpause, any undue lowering of pitch, any need of scenes which, howeverfine, are more or less episodic. The tension is extreme, and it isrelaxed only for brief intervals to permit of some slight relief. Fromthe moment when Iago begins to poison Othello's mind we hold our breath. _Othello_ from this point onwards is certainly the most exciting ofShakespeare's plays, unless possibly _Macbeth_ in its first part may beheld to rival it. And _Othello_ is such a masterpiece that we arescarcely conscious of any disadvantage attending its method ofconstruction, and may even wonder why Shakespeare employed thismethod--at any rate in its purity--in this tragedy alone. Nor is it anyanswer to say that it would not elsewhere have suited his material. Evenif this be granted, how was it that he only once chose a story to whichthis method was appropriate? To his eyes, or for his instinct, theremust have been some disadvantage in it. And dangers in it are in factnot hard to see. In the first place, where the conflict develops very slowly, or, as in_Othello_, remains in a state of incubation during the first part of atragedy, that part cannot produce the tension proper to thecorresponding part of a tragedy like _Macbeth_, and may even run therisk of being somewhat flat. This seems obvious, and it is none the lesstrue because in _Othello_ the difficulty is overcome. We may even seethat in _Othello_ a difficulty was felt. The First Act is full of stir,but it is so because Shakespeare has filled it with a kind ofpreliminary conflict between the hero and Brabantio,--a personage whothen vanishes from the stage. The long first scene of the Second Act islargely occupied with mere conversations, artfully drawn out todimensions which can scarcely be considered essential to the plot. Theseexpedients are fully justified by their success, and nothing moreconsummate in their way is to be found in Shakespeare than Othello'sspeech to the Senate and Iago's two talks with Roderigo. But the factthat Shakespeare can make a plan succeed does not show that the plan is,abstractedly considered, a good plan; and if the scheme of constructionin _Othello_ were placed, in the shape of a mere outline, before aplay-wright ignorant of the actual drama, he would certainly, I believe,feel grave misgivings about the first half of the play. There is a second difficulty in the scheme. When the middle of thetragedy is reached, the audience is not what it was at the beginning. Ithas been attending for some time, and has been through a certain amountof agitation. The extreme tension which now arises may therefore easilytire and displease it, all the more if the matter which produces thetension is very painful, if the catastrophe is not less so, and if thelimits of the remainder of the play (not to speak of any otherconsideration) permit of very little relief. It is one thing to watchthe scene of Duncan's assassination at the beginning of the Second Act,and another thing to watch the murder of Desdemona at the beginning ofthe Fifth. If Shakespeare has wholly avoided this difficulty in_Othello_, it is by treating the first part of the play in such a mannerthat the sympathies excited are predominantly pleasant and therefore notexhausting. The scene in the Council Chamber, and the scene of thereunion at Cyprus, give almost unmixed happiness to the audience;however repulsive Iago may be, the humour of his gulling of Roderigo isagreeable; even the scene of Cassio's intoxication is not, on the whole,painful. Hence we come to the great temptation-scene, where the conflictemerges into life (III. iii. ), with nerves unshaken and feelings muchfresher than those with which we greet the banquet-scene in _Macbeth_(III. iv. ), or the first of the storm-scenes in _King Lear_ (III. i. ). The same skill may be observed in _Antony and Cleopatra_, where, as wesaw, the second half of the tragedy is the more exciting. But, again,the success due to Shakespeare's skill does not show that the scheme ofconstruction is free from a characteristic danger; and on the whole itwould appear to be best fitted for a plot which, though it may causepainful agitation as it nears the end, actually ends with a solutioninstead of a catastrophe. But for Shakespeare's scanty use of this method there may have been adeeper, though probably an unconscious, reason. The method suits a plotbased on intrigue. It may produce intense suspense. It may stir mostpowerfully the tragic feelings of pity and fear. And it throws intorelief that aspect of tragedy in which great or beautiful lives seemcaught in the net of fate. But it is apt to be less favourable to theexhibition of character, to show less clearly how an act returns uponthe agent, and to produce less strongly the impression of an inexorableorder working in the passions and actions of men, and labouring throughtheir agony and waste towards good. Now, it seems clear from histragedies that what appealed most to Shakespeare was this latter classof effects. I do not ask here whether _Othello_ fails to produce, in thesame degree as the other tragedies, these impressions; but Shakespeare'spreference for them may have been one reason why he habitually chose ascheme of construction which produces in the final Acts but little ofstrained suspense, and presents the catastrophe as a thing foreseen andfollowing with a psychological and moral necessity on the actionexhibited in the first part of the tragedy. 4The more minute details of construction cannot well be examined here,and I will not pursue the subject further. But its discussion suggests aquestion which will have occurred to some of my hearers. They may haveasked themselves whether I have not used the words 'art' and 'device'and 'expedient' and 'method' too boldly, as though Shakespeare were aconscious artist, and not rather a writer who constructed in obedienceto an extraordinary dramatic instinct, as he composed mainly byinspiration. And a brief explanation on this head will enable me toallude to a few more points, chiefly of construction, which are not tootechnical for a lecture. In speaking, for convenience, of devices and expedients, I did notintend to imply that Shakespeare always deliberately aimed at theeffects which he produced. But _no_ artist always does this, and I seeno reason to doubt that Shakespeare often did it, or to suppose that hismethod of constructing and composing differed, except in degree, fromthat of the most 'conscious' of artists. The antithesis of art andinspiration, though not meaningless, is often most misleading. Inspiration is surely not incompatible with considerate workmanship.

Thetwo may be severed, but they need not be so, and where a genuinelypoetic result is being produced they cannot be so. The glow of a firstconception must in some measure survive or rekindle itself in the workof planning and executing; and what is called a technical expedient may'come' to a man with as sudden a glory as a splendid image. Verse may beeasy and unpremeditated, as Milton says his was, and yet many a word init may be changed many a time, and the last change be more 'inspired'than the original. The difference between poets in these matters is nodoubt considerable, and sometimes important, but it can only be adifference of less and more. It is probable that Shakespeare often wrotefluently, for Jonson (a better authority than Heminge and Condell) saysso; and for anything we can tell he may also have constructed withunusual readiness. But we know that he revised and re-wrote (forinstance in _Love's Labour's Lost_ and _Romeo and Juliet_ and _Hamlet_);it is almost impossible that he can have worked out the plots of hisbest plays without much reflection and many experiments; and it appearsto me scarcely more possible to mistake the signs of deliberate care insome of his famous speeches. If a 'conscious artist' means one who holdshis work away from him, scrutinises and judges it, and, if need be,alters it and alters it till it comes as near satisfying him as he canmake it, I am sure that Shakespeare frequently employed such consciousart. If it means, again, an artist who consciously aims at the effectshe produces, what ground have we for doubting that he frequentlyemployed such art, though probably less frequently than a good manyother poets? But perhaps the notion of a 'conscious artist' in drama is that of onewho studies the theory of the art, and even writes with an eye to its'rules. ' And we know it was long a favourite idea that Shakespeare wastotally ignorant of the 'rules. ' Yet this is quite incredible. Therules referred to, such as they were, were not buried in Aristotle'sGreek nor even hidden away in Italian treatises. He could find prettywell all of them in a book so current and famous as Sidney's _Defenceof Poetry_. Even if we suppose that he refused to open this book(which is most unlikely), how could he possibly remain ignorant of therules in a society of actors and dramatists and amateurs who must havebeen incessantly talking about plays and play-writing, and some ofwhom were ardent champions of the rules and full of contempt for thelawlessness of the popular drama? Who can doubt that at the MermaidShakespeare heard from Jonson's lips much more censure of his offencesagainst 'art' than Jonson ever confided to Drummond or to paper? Andis it not most probable that those battles between the two whichFuller imagines, were waged often on the field of dramatic criticism? If Shakespeare, then, broke some of the 'rules,' it was not fromignorance. Probably he refused, on grounds of art itself, to troublehimself with rules derived from forms of drama long extinct. And it isnot unlikely that he was little interested in theory as such, and morethan likely that he was impatient of pedantic distinctions between'pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical,tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable or poemunlimited. ' But that would not prove that he never reflected on hisart, or could not explain, if he cared to, what _he_ thought would begood general rules for the drama of his own time. He could give adviceabout play-acting. Why should we suppose that he could not give adviceabout play-making? Still Shakespeare, though in some considerable degree a 'conscious'artist, frequently sins against art; and if his sins were not due toignorance or inspiration, they must be accounted for otherwise. Neithercan there be much doubt about their causes (for they have more than onecause), as we shall see if we take some illustrations of the defectsthemselves. Among these are not to be reckoned certain things which in dramaswritten at the present time would rightly be counted defects. There are,for example, in most Elizabethan plays peculiarities of constructionwhich would injure a play written for our stage but were perfectlywell-fitted for that very different stage,--a stage on which again someof the best-constructed plays of our time would appear absurdly faulty. Or take the charge of improbability. Shakespeare certainly hasimprobabilities which are defects. They are most frequent in the windingup of his comedies (and how many comedies are there in the world whichend satisfactorily? ). But his improbabilities are rarely psychological,and in some of his plays there occurs one kind of improbability which isno defect, but simply a characteristic which has lost in our day much ofits former attraction. I mean that the story, in most of the comediesand many of the tragedies of the Elizabethans, was _intended_ to bestrange and wonderful. These plays were tales of romance dramatised, andthey were meant in part to satisfy the same love of wonder to which theromances appealed. It is no defect in the Arthurian legends, or the oldFrench romances, or many of the stories in the _Decameron_, that theyare improbable: it is a virtue. To criticise them as though they were ofthe same species as a realistic novel, is, we should all say, merelystupid. Is it anything else to criticise in the same way _Twelfth Night_or _As You Like It_? And so, even when the difference between comedy andtragedy is allowed for, the improbability of the opening of _King Lear_,so often censured, is no defect. It is not out of character, it is onlyextremely unusual and strange. But it was meant to be so; like themarriage of the black Othello with Desdemona, the Venetian senator'sdaughter. To come then to real defects, (_a_) one may be found in places whereShakespeare strings together a number of scenes, some very short, inwhich the _dramatis personae_ are frequently changed; as though anovelist were to tell his story in a succession of short chapters, inwhich he flitted from one group of his characters to another. Thismethod shows itself here and there in the pure tragedies (_e. g. _ in thelast Act of _Macbeth_), but it appears most decidedly where thehistorical material was undramatic, as in the middle part of _Antony andCleopatra_. It was made possible by the absence of scenery, anddoubtless Shakespeare used it because it was the easiest way out of adifficulty. But, considered abstractedly, it is a defective method, and,even as used by Shakespeare, it sometimes reminds us of the merelynarrative arrangement common in plays before his time. (_b_) We may take next the introduction or excessive development ofmatter neither required by the plot nor essential to the exhibition ofcharacter: _e. g. _ the references in _Hamlet_ to theatre-quarrels of theday, and the length of the player's speech and also of Hamlet'sdirections to him respecting the delivery of the lines to be inserted inthe 'Murder of Gonzago. ' All this was probably of great interest at thetime when _Hamlet_ was first presented; most of it we should be verysorry to miss; some of it seems to bring us close to Shakespearehimself; but who can defend it from the point of view of constructiveart? (_c_) Again, we may look at Shakespeare's soliloquies. It will be agreedthat in listening to a soliloquy we ought never to feel that we arebeing addressed. And in this respect, as in others, many of thesoliloquies are master-pieces. But certainly in some the purpose ofgiving information lies bare, and in one or two the actor openly speaksto the audience. Such faults are found chiefly in the early plays,though there is a glaring instance at the end of Belarius's speech in_Cymbeline_ (III. iii. 99 ff. ), and even in the mature tragediessomething of this kind may be traced. Let anyone compare, for example,Edmund's soliloquy in _King Lear_, I. ii. , 'This is the excellentfoppery of the world,' with Edgar's in II. iii. , and he will beconscious that in the latter the purpose of giving information isimperfectly disguised. [23](_d_) It cannot be denied, further, that in many of Shakespeare's plays,if not in all, there are inconsistencies and contradictions, and alsothat questions are suggested to the reader which it is impossible forhim to answer with certainty. For instance, some of the indications ofthe lapse of time between Othello's marriage and the events of the laterActs flatly contradict one another; and it is impossible to make outwhether Hamlet was at Court or at the University when his father wasmurdered. But it should be noticed that often what seems a defect ofthis latter kind is not really a defect. For instance, the difficultyabout Hamlet's age (even if it cannot be resolved by the text alone) didnot exist for Shakespeare's audience. The moment Burbage entered it musthave been clear whether the hero was twenty or thirty. And in likemanner many questions of dramatic interpretation which trouble us couldnever have arisen when the plays were first produced, for the actorwould be instructed by the author how to render any critical andpossibly ambiguous passage. (I have heard it remarked, and the remark Ibelieve is just, that Shakespeare seems to have relied on suchinstructions less than most of his contemporaries; one fact out ofseveral which might be adduced to prove that he did not regard his playsas mere stage-dramas of the moment. )(_e_) To turn to another field, the early critics were no doubt oftenprovokingly wrong when they censured the language of particular passagesin Shakespeare as obscure, inflated, tasteless, or 'pestered withmetaphors'; but they were surely right in the general statement that hislanguage often shows these faults. And this is a subject which latercriticism has never fairly faced and examined. (_f_) Once more, to say that Shakespeare makes all his seriouscharacters talk alike,[24] and that he constantly speaks through themouths of his _dramatis personae_ without regard to their individualnatures, would be to exaggerate absurdly; but it is true that in hisearlier plays these faults are traceable in some degree, and even in_Hamlet_ there are striking passages where dramatic appropriateness issacrificed to some other object. When Laertes speaks the linesbeginning,     For nature, crescent, does not grow alone     In thews and bulk,who can help feeling that Shakespeare is speaking rather than Laertes? Or when the player-king discourses for more than twenty lines on theinstability of human purpose, and when King Claudius afterwards insiststo Laertes on the same subject at almost equal length, who does not seethat Shakespeare, thinking but little of dramatic fitness, wishes inpart simply to write poetry, and partly to impress on the audiencethoughts which will help them to understand, not the player-king nor yetKing Claudius, but Hamlet himself, who, on his side,--and here quite incharacter--has already enlarged on the same topic in the most famous ofhis soliloquies? (_g_) Lastly, like nearly all the dramatists of his day and of timesmuch earlier, Shakespeare was fond of 'gnomic' passages, and introducesthem probably not more freely than his readers like, but more freelythan, I suppose, a good play-wright now would care to do. Thesepassages, it may be observed, are frequently rhymed (_e. g. _ _Othello_,I. iii. 201 ff. , II. i. 149 ff. ). Sometimes they were printed in earlyeditions with inverted commas round them, as are in the First QuartoPolonius's 'few precepts' to Laertes. If now we ask whence defects like these arose, we shall observe thatsome of them are shared by the majority of Shakespeare's contemporaries,and abound in the dramas immediately preceding his time. They arecharacteristics of an art still undeveloped, and, no doubt, were notperceived to be defects. But though it is quite probable that in regardto one or two kinds of imperfection (such as the superabundance of'gnomic' passages) Shakespeare himself erred thus ignorantly, it is veryunlikely that in most cases he did so, unless in the first years of hiscareer of authorship. And certainly he never can have thought itartistic to leave inconsistencies, obscurities, or passages of bombastin his work. Most of the defects in his writings must be due toindifference or want of care. I do not say that all were so. In regard, for example, to his occasionalbombast and other errors of diction, it seems hardly doubtful that hisperception was sometimes at fault, and that, though he used the Englishlanguage like no one else, he had not that _sureness_ of taste in wordswhich has been shown by some much smaller writers. And it seems notunlikely that here he suffered from his comparative want of'learning,'--that is, of familiarity with the great writers ofantiquity. But nine-tenths of his defects are not, I believe, the errorsof an inspired genius, ignorant of art, but the sins of a great butnegligent artist. He was often, no doubt, over-worked and pressed fortime. He knew that the immense majority of his audience were incapableof distinguishing between rough and finished work. He often felt thedegradation of having to live by pleasing them. Probably in hours ofdepression he was quite indifferent to fame, and perhaps in another moodthe whole business of play-writing seemed to him a little thing. None ofthese thoughts and feelings influenced him when his subject had caughthold of him. To imagine that _then_ he 'winged his roving flight' for'gain' or 'glory,' or wrote from any cause on earth but the necessity ofexpression, with all its pains and raptures, is mere folly. He waspossessed: his mind must have been in a white heat: he worked, no doubt,with the _furia_ of Michael Angelo. And if he did not succeed atonce--and how can even he have always done so? --he returned to thematter again and again. Such things as the scenes of Duncan's murder orOthello's temptation, such speeches as those of the Duke to Claudio andof Claudio to his sister about death, were not composed in an hour andtossed aside; and if they have defects, they have not what Shakespearethought defects. Nor is it possible that his astonishingly individualconceptions of character can have been struck out at a heat: prolongedand repeated thought must have gone to them. But of smallinconsistencies in the plot he was often quite careless. He seems tohave finished off some of his comedies with a hasty and evencontemptuous indifference, as if it mattered nothing how the people gotmarried, or even who married whom, so long as enough were marriedsomehow. And often, when he came to parts of his scheme that werenecessary but not interesting to him, he wrote with a slack hand, like acraftsman of genius who knows that his natural gift and acquired skillwill turn out something more than good enough for his audience: wroteprobably fluently but certainly negligently, sometimes only half sayingwhat he meant, and sometimes saying the opposite, and now and then, whenpassion was required, lapsing into bombast because he knew he mustheighten his style but would not take the trouble to inflame hisimagination. It may truly be said that what injures such passages is notinspiration, but the want of it. But, as they are mostly passages whereno poet could expect to be inspired, it is even more true to say thathere Shakespeare lacked the conscience of the artist who is determinedto make everything as good as he can. Such poets as Milton, Pope,Tennyson, habitually show this conscience. They left probably scarcelyanything that they felt they could improve. No one could dream of sayingthat of Shakespeare. Hence comes what is perhaps the chief difficulty in interpreting hisworks. Where his power or art is fully exerted it really does resemblethat of nature. It organises and vitalises its product from the centreoutward to the minutest markings on the surface, so that when you turnupon it the most searching light you can command, when you dissect itand apply to it the test of a microscope, still you find in it nothingformless, general or vague, but everywhere structure, character,individuality. In this his great things, which seem to come wheneverthey are wanted, have no companions in literature except the fewgreatest things in Dante; and it is a fatal error to allow hiscarelessness elsewhere to make one doubt whether here one is not seekingmore than can be found. It is very possible to look for subtlety in thewrong places in Shakespeare, but in the right places it is not possibleto find too much. But then this characteristic, which is one source ofhis endless attraction, is also a source of perplexity. For in thoseparts of his plays which show him neither in his most intense nor in hismost negligent mood, we are often unable to decide whether somethingthat seems inconsistent, indistinct, feeble, exaggerated, is really so,or whether it was definitely meant to be as it is, and has an intentionwhich we ought to be able to divine; whether, for example, we havebefore us some unusual trait in character, some abnormal movement ofmind, only surprising to us because we understand so very much less ofhuman nature than Shakespeare did, or whether he wanted to get his workdone and made a slip, or in using an old play adopted hastily somethingthat would not square with his own conception, or even refused totrouble himself with minutiae which we notice only because we study him,but which nobody ever notices in a stage performance. We know wellenough what Shakespeare is doing when at the end of _Measure forMeasure_ he marries Isabella to the Duke--and a scandalous proceeding itis; but who can ever feel sure that the doubts which vex him as to somenot unimportant points in _Hamlet_ are due to his own want of eyesightor to Shakespeare's want of care? FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 16: The famous critics of the Romantic Revival seem to havepaid very little attention to this subject. Mr. R. G. Moulton has writtenan interesting book on _Shakespeare as a Dramatic Artist_ (1885). Inparts of my analysis I am much indebted to Gustav Freytag's _Technik desDramas_, a book which deserves to be much better known than it appearsto be to Englishmen interested in the drama. I may add, for the benefitof classical scholars, that Freytag has a chapter on Sophocles. Thereader of his book will easily distinguish, if he cares to, the placeswhere I follow Freytag, those where I differ from him, and those where Iwrite in independence of him. I may add that in speaking of constructionI have thought it best to assume in my hearers no previous knowledge ofthe subject; that I have not attempted to discuss how much of what issaid of Shakespeare would apply also to other dramatists; and that Ihave illustrated from the tragedies generally, not only from the chosenfour. ][Footnote 17: This word throughout the lecture bears the sense it hashere, which, of course, is not its usual dramatic sense. ][Footnote 18: In the same way a comedy will consist of three parts,showing the 'situation,' the 'complication' or 'entanglement,' and the_dénouement_ or 'solution. '][Footnote 19: It is possible, of course, to open the tragedy with theconflict already begun, but Shakespeare never does so. ][Footnote 20: When the subject comes from English history, andespecially when the play forms one of a series, some knowledge may beassumed. So in _Richard III. _ Even in _Richard II. _ not a littleknowledge seems to be assumed, and this fact points to the existence ofa popular play on the earlier part of Richard's reign. Such a playexists, though it is not clear that it is a genuine Elizabethan work. See the _Jahrbuch d. deutschen Sh. -gesellschaft_ for 1899. ][Footnote 21: This is one of several reasons why many people enjoyreading him, who, on the whole, dislike reading plays. A main cause ofthis very general dislike is that the reader has not a lively enoughimagination to carry him with pleasure through the exposition, though inthe theatre, where his imagination is helped, he would experience littledifficulty. ][Footnote 22: The end of _Richard III. _ is perhaps an exception. ][Footnote 23: I do not discuss the general question of the justificationof soliloquy, for it concerns not Shakespeare only, but practically alldramatists down to quite recent times. I will only remark that neithersoliloquy nor the use of verse can be condemned on the mere ground thatthey are 'unnatural. ' No dramatic language is 'natural'; _all_ dramaticlanguage is idealised. So that the question as to soliloquy must be oneas to the degree of idealisation and the balance of advantages anddisadvantages. (Since this lecture was written I have read some remarkson Shakespeare's soliloquies to much the same effect by E. Kilian in the_Jahrbuch d. deutschen Shakespeare-Gesellschaft_ for 1903. )][Footnote 24: If by this we mean that these characters all speak what isrecognisably Shakespeare's style, of course it is true; but it is noaccusation. Nor does it follow that they all speak alike; and in factthey are far from doing so. ]LECTURE IIISHAKESPEARE'S TRAGIC PERIOD--HAMLET1Before we come to-day to _Hamlet_, the first of our four tragedies, afew remarks must be made on their probable place in Shakespeare'sliterary career. But I shall say no more than seems necessary for ourrestricted purpose, and, therefore, for the most part shall merely bestating widely accepted results of investigation, without going into theevidence on which they rest. [25]Shakespeare's tragedies fall into two distinct groups, and these groupsare separated by a considerable interval. He wrote tragedy--pure, like_Romeo and Juliet_; historical, like _Richard III. _--in the early yearsof his career of authorship, when he was also writing such comedies as_Love's Labour's Lost_ and the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_. Then came atime, lasting some half-dozen years, during which he composed the mostmature and humorous of his English History plays (the plays withFalstaff in them), and the best of his romantic comedies (the plays withBeatrice and Jaques and Viola in them). There are no tragedies belongingto these half-dozen years, nor any dramas approaching tragedy. But now,from about 1601 to about 1608, comes tragedy after tragedy--_JuliusCaesar_, _Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_, _Timon of Athens_, _Macbeth_,_Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_; and their companions are playswhich cannot indeed be called tragedies, but certainly are not comediesin the same sense as _As You Like It_ or the _Tempest_. These sevenyears, accordingly, might, without much risk of misunderstanding, becalled Shakespeare's tragic period. [26] And after it he wrote no moretragedies, but chiefly romances more serious and less sunny than _As YouLike It_, but not much less serene. The existence of this distinct tragic period, of a time when thedramatist seems to have been occupied almost exclusively with deep andpainful problems, has naturally helped to suggest the idea that the'man' also, in these years of middle age, from thirty-seven toforty-four, was heavily burdened in spirit; that Shakespeare turned totragedy not merely for change, or because he felt it to be the greatestform of drama and felt himself equal to it, but also because the worldhad come to look dark and terrible to him; and even that the railings ofThersites and the maledictions of Timon express his own contempt andhatred for mankind. Discussion of this large and difficult subject,however, is not necessary to the dramatic appreciation of any of hisworks, and I shall say nothing of it here, but shall pass on at once todraw attention to certain stages and changes which may be observedwithin the tragic period. For this purpose too it is needless to raiseany question as to the respective chronological positions of _Othello_,_King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. What is important is also generally admitted:that _Julius Caesar_ and _Hamlet_ precede these plays, and that _Antonyand Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_ follow them. [27]If we consider the tragedies first on the side of their substance, wefind at once an obvious difference between the first two and theremainder. Both Brutus and Hamlet are highly intellectual by nature andreflective by habit. Both may even be called, in a popular sense,philosophic; Brutus may be called so in a stricter sense. Each, beingalso a 'good' man, shows accordingly, when placed in criticalcircumstances, a sensitive and almost painful anxiety to do right. Andthough they fail--of course in quite different ways--to dealsuccessfully with these circumstances, the failure in each case isconnected rather with their intellectual nature and reflective habitthan with any yielding to passion. Hence the name 'tragedy of thought,'which Schlegel gave to _Hamlet_, may be given also, as in effect it hasbeen by Professor Dowden, to _Julius Caesar_. The later heroes, on theother hand, Othello, Lear, Timon, Macbeth, Antony, Coriolanus, have, oneand all, passionate natures, and, speaking roughly, we may attribute thetragic failure in each of these cases to passion. Partly for thisreason, the later plays are wilder and stormier than the first two. Wesee a greater mass of human nature in commotion, and we seeShakespeare's own powers exhibited on a larger scale. Finally,examination would show that, in all these respects, the first tragedy,_Julius Caesar_, is further removed from the later type than is thesecond, _Hamlet_. These two earlier works are both distinguished from most of thesucceeding tragedies in another though a kindred respect. Moral evil isnot so intently scrutinised or so fully displayed in them. In _JuliusCaesar_, we may almost say, everybody means well. In _Hamlet_, though wehave a villain, he is a small one. The murder which gives rise to theaction lies outside the play, and the centre of attention within theplay lies in the hero's efforts to do his duty. It seems clear thatShakespeare's interest, since the early days when under Marlowe'sinfluence he wrote _Richard III. _, has not been directed to the moreextreme or terrible forms of evil. But in the tragedies that follow_Hamlet_ the presence of this interest is equally clear. In Iago, in the'bad' people of _King Lear_, even in Macbeth and Lady Macbeth, humannature assumes shapes which inspire not mere sadness or repulsion buthorror and dismay. If in _Timon_ no monstrous cruelty is done, we stillwatch ingratitude and selfishness so blank that they provoke a loathingwe never felt for Claudius; and in this play and _King Lear_ we canfancy that we hear at times the _saeva indignatio_, if not the despair,of Swift. This prevalence of abnormal or appalling forms of evil, sideby side with vehement passion, is another reason why the convulsiondepicted in these tragedies seems to come from a deeper source, and tobe vaster in extent, than the conflict in the two earlier plays. Andhere again _Julius Caesar_ is further removed than _Hamlet_ from_Othello_, _King Lear_, and _Macbeth_. But in regard to this second point of difference a reservation must bemade, on which I will speak a little more fully, because, unlike thematter hitherto touched on, its necessity seems hardly to have beenrecognised. _All_ of the later tragedies may be called tragedies ofpassion, but not all of them display these extreme forms of evil. Neither of the last two does so. Antony and Coriolanus are, from onepoint of view, victims of passion; but the passion that ruins Antonyalso exalts him, he touches the infinite in it; and the pride andself-will of Coriolanus, though terrible in bulk, are scarcely so inquality; there is nothing base in them, and the huge creature whom theydestroy is a noble, even a lovable, being. Nor does either of thesedramas, though the earlier depicts a corrupt civilisation, include evenamong the minor characters anyone who can be called villainous orhorrible. Consider, finally, the impression left on us at the close ofeach. It is remarkable that this impression, though very strong, canscarcely be called purely tragic; or, if we call it so, at least thefeeling of reconciliation which mingles with the obviously tragicemotions is here exceptionally well-marked. The death of Antony, it willbe remembered, comes before the opening of the Fifth Act. The death ofCleopatra, which closes the play, is greeted by the reader with sympathyand admiration, even with exultation at the thought that she has foiledOctavius; and these feelings are heightened by the deaths of Charmianand Iras, heroically faithful to their mistress, as Emilia was to hers. In _Coriolanus_ the feeling of reconciliation is even stronger. Thewhole interest towards the close has been concentrated on the questionwhether the hero will persist in his revengeful design of storming andburning his native city, or whether better feelings will at lastoverpower his resentment and pride. He stands on the edge of a crimebeside which, at least in outward dreadfulness, the slaughter of anindividual looks insignificant. And when, at the sound of his mother'svoice and the sight of his wife and child, nature asserts itself and hegives way, although we know he will lose his life, we care little forthat: he has saved his soul. Our relief, and our exultation in the powerof goodness, are so great that the actual catastrophe which follows andmingles sadness with these feelings leaves them but little diminished,and as we close the book we feel, it seems to me, more as we do at theclose of _Cymbeline_ than as we do at the close of _Othello_. In sayingthis I do not in the least mean to criticise _Coriolanus_. It is a muchnobler play as it stands than it would have been if Shakespeare had madethe hero persist, and we had seen him amid the flaming ruins of Rome,awaking suddenly to the enormity of his deed and taking vengeance onhimself; but that would surely have been an ending more strictly tragicthan the close of Shakespeare's play. Whether this close was simply dueto his unwillingness to contradict his historical authority on a pointof such magnitude we need not ask. In any case _Coriolanus_ is, in morethan an outward sense, the end of his tragic period. It marks thetransition to his latest works, in which the powers of repentance andforgiveness charm to rest the tempest raised by error and guilt. If we turn now from the substance of the tragedies to their style andversification, we find on the whole a corresponding difference betweenthe earlier and the later. The usual assignment of _Julius Caesar_, andeven of _Hamlet_, to the end of Shakespeare's Second Period--the periodof _Henry V. _--is based mainly, we saw, on considerations of form. Thegeneral style of the serious parts of the last plays from Englishhistory is one of full, noble and comparatively equable eloquence. The'honey-tongued' sweetness and beauty of Shakespeare's early writing, asseen in _Romeo and Juliet_ or the _Midsummer-Night's Dream_, remain; theease and lucidity remain; but there is an accession of force and weight. We find no great change from this style when we come to _JuliusCaesar_,[28] which may be taken to mark its culmination. At this pointin Shakespeare's literary development he reaches, if the phrase may bepardoned, a limited perfection. Neither thought on the one side, norexpression on the other, seems to have any tendency to outrun or contendwith its fellow. We receive an impression of easy mastery and completeharmony, but not so strong an impression of inner power bursting intoouter life. Shakespeare's style is perhaps nowhere else so free fromdefects, and yet almost every one of his subsequent plays containswriting which is greater. To speak familiarly, we feel in _JuliusCaesar_ that, although not even Shakespeare could better the style hehas chosen, he has not let himself go. In reading _Hamlet_ we have no such feeling, and in many parts (forthere is in the writing of _Hamlet_ an unusual variety[29]) we areconscious of a decided change. The style in these parts is more rapidand vehement, less equable and less simple; and there is a change of thesame kind in the versification. But on the whole the _type_ is the sameas in _Julius Caesar_, and the resemblance of the two plays is decidedlymore marked than the difference. If Hamlet's soliloquies, consideredsimply as compositions, show a great change from Jaques's speech, 'Allthe world's a stage,' and even from the soliloquies of Brutus, yet_Hamlet_ (for instance in the hero's interview with his mother) is like_Julius Caesar_, and unlike the later tragedies, in the fulness of itseloquence, and passages like the following belong quite definitely tothe style of the Second Period:     _Mar. _ It faded on the crowing of the cock.     Some say that ever 'gainst that season comes     Wherein our Saviour's birth is celebrated,     The bird of dawning singeth all night long;     And then, they say, no spirit dare stir abroad;     The nights are wholesome; then no planets strike,     No fairy takes, nor witch hath power to charm,     So hallow'd and so gracious is the time.     _Hor. _ So have I heard and do in part believe it.     But, look, the morn, in russet mantle clad,     Walks o'er the dew of yon high eastward hill. This bewitching music is heard again in Hamlet's farewell to Horatio:     If thou didst ever hold me in thy heart,     Absent thee from felicity awhile,     And in this harsh world draw thy breath in pain,     To tell my story. But after _Hamlet_ this music is heard no more. It is followed by amusic vaster and deeper, but not the same. The changes observable in _Hamlet_ are afterwards, and gradually, sogreatly developed that Shakespeare's style and versification at lastbecome almost new things. It is extremely difficult to illustrate thisbriefly in a manner to which no just exception can be taken, for it isalmost impossible to find in two plays passages bearing a sufficientlyclose resemblance to one another in occasion and sentiment. But I willventure to put by the first of those quotations from _Hamlet_ this from_Macbeth_:     _Dun. _ This castle hath a pleasant seat; the air     Nimbly and sweetly recommends itself     Unto our gentle senses.     _Ban. _                 This guest of summer,     The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,     By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath     Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,     Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird     Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle;     Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed,     The air is delicate;and by the second quotation from _Hamlet_ this from _Antony andCleopatra_:     The miserable change now at my end     Lament nor sorrow at; but please your thoughts     In feeding them with those my former fortunes     Wherein I lived, the greatest prince o' the world,     The noblest; and do now not basely die,     Not cowardly put off my helmet to     My countryman,--a Roman by a Roman     Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going;     I can no more. It would be almost an impertinence to point out in detail how greatlythese two passages, and especially the second, differ in effect fromthose in _Hamlet_, written perhaps five or six years earlier. Theversification, by the time we reach _Antony and Cleopatra_, has assumeda new type; and although this change would appear comparatively slightin a typical passage from _Othello_ or even from _King Lear_, itsapproach through these plays to _Timon_ and _Macbeth_ can easily betraced. It is accompanied by a similar change in diction andconstruction. After _Hamlet_ the style, in the more emotional passages,is heightened. It becomes grander, sometimes wilder, sometimes moreswelling, even tumid. It is also more concentrated, rapid, varied, and,in construction, less regular, not seldom twisted or elliptical. It is,therefore, not so easy and lucid, and in the more ordinary dialogue itis sometimes involved and obscure, and from these and other causesdeficient in charm. [30] On the other hand, it is always full of life andmovement, and in great passages produces sudden, strange, electrifyingeffects which are rarely found in earlier plays, and not so often evenin _Hamlet_. The more pervading effect of beauty gives place to what mayalmost be called explosions of sublimity or pathos. There is room for differences of taste and preference as regards thestyle and versification of the end of Shakespeare's Second Period, andthose of the later tragedies and last romances. But readers who miss inthe latter the peculiar enchantment of the earlier will not deny thatthe changes in form are in entire harmony with the inward changes. Ifthey object to passages where, to exaggerate a little, the sense hasrather to be discerned beyond the words than found in them, and if theydo not wholly enjoy the movement of so typical a speech as this,     Yes, like enough, high-battled Caesar will     Unstate his happiness, and be staged to the show,     Against a sworder! I see men's judgements are     A parcel of their fortunes; and things outward     Do draw the inward quality after them,     To suffer all alike. That he should dream,     Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will     Answer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdued     His judgement too,they will admit that, in traversing the impatient throng of thoughts notalways completely embodied, their minds move through an astonishingvariety of ideas and experiences, and that a style less generally poeticthan that of _Hamlet_ is also a style more invariably dramatic. It maybe that, for the purposes of tragedy, the highest point was reachedduring the progress of these changes, in the most critical passages of_Othello_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_. [31]2Suppose you were to describe the plot of _Hamlet_ to a person quiteignorant of the play, and suppose you were careful to tell your hearernothing about Hamlet's character, what impression would your sketch makeon him? Would he not exclaim: 'What a sensational story! Why, here aresome eight violent deaths, not to speak of adultery, a ghost, a madwoman, and a fight in a grave! If I did not know that the play wasShakespeare's, I should have thought it must have been one of thoseearly tragedies of blood and horror from which he is said to haveredeemed the stage'? And would he not then go on to ask: 'But why in theworld did not Hamlet obey the Ghost at once, and so save seven of thoseeight lives? 'This exclamation and this question both show the same thing, that thewhole story turns upon the peculiar character of the hero. For withoutthis character the story would appear sensational and horrible; and yetthe actual _Hamlet_ is very far from being so, and even has a lessterrible effect than _Othello_, _King Lear_ or _Macbeth_. And again, ifwe had no knowledge of this character, the story would hardly beintelligible; it would at any rate at once suggest that wonderingquestion about the conduct of the hero; while the story of any of theother three tragedies would sound plain enough and would raise no suchquestion. It is further very probable that the main change made byShakespeare in the story as already represented on the stage, lay in anew conception of Hamlet's character and so of the cause of his delay. And, lastly, when we examine the tragedy, we observe two things whichillustrate the same point. First, we find by the side of the hero noother figure of tragic proportions, no one like Lady Macbeth or Iago, noone even like Cordelia or Desdemona; so that, in Hamlet's absence, theremaining characters could not yield a Shakespearean tragedy at all. And, secondly, we find among them two, Laertes and Fortinbras, who areevidently designed to throw the character of the hero into relief. Evenin the situations there is a curious parallelism; for Fortinbras, likeHamlet, is the son of a king, lately dead, and succeeded by his brother;and Laertes, like Hamlet, has a father slain, and feels bound to avengehim. And with this parallelism in situation there is a strong contrastin character; for both Fortinbras and Laertes possess in abundance thevery quality which the hero seems to lack, so that, as we read, we aretempted to exclaim that either of them would have accomplished Hamlet'stask in a day. Naturally, then, the tragedy of _Hamlet_ with Hamlet leftout has become the symbol of extreme absurdity; while the characteritself has probably exerted a greater fascination, and certainly hasbeen the subject of more discussion, than any other in the wholeliterature of the world. Before, however, we approach the task of examining it, it is as well toremind ourselves that the virtue of the play by no means wholly dependson this most subtle creation. We are all aware of this, and if we werenot so the history of _Hamlet_, as a stage-play, might bring the facthome to us. It is to-day the most popular of Shakespeare's tragedies onour stage; and yet a large number, perhaps even the majority of thespectators, though they may feel some mysterious attraction in the hero,certainly do not question themselves about his character or the cause ofhis delay, and would still find the play exceptionally effective, evenif he were an ordinary brave young man and the obstacles in his pathwere purely external. And this has probably always been the case. _Hamlet_ seems from the first to have been a favourite play; but untillate in the eighteenth century, I believe, scarcely a critic showed thathe perceived anything specially interesting in the character. Hanmer, in1730, to be sure, remarks that 'there appears no reason at all in naturewhy this young prince did not put the usurper to death as soon aspossible'; but it does not even cross his mind that this apparent'absurdity' is odd and might possibly be due to some design on the partof the poet. He simply explains the absurdity by observing that, ifShakespeare had made the young man go 'naturally to work,' the playwould have come to an end at once! Johnson, in like manner, notices that'Hamlet is, through the whole piece, rather an instrument than anagent,' but it does not occur to him that this peculiar circumstance canbe anything but a defect in Shakespeare's management of the plot. Seeing, they saw not. Henry Mackenzie, the author of _The Man ofFeeling_, was, it would seem, the first of our critics to feel the'indescribable charm' of Hamlet, and to divine something ofShakespeare's intention. 'We see a man,' he writes, 'who in othercircumstances would have exercised all the moral and social virtues,placed in a situation in which even the amiable qualities of his mindserve but to aggravate his distress and to perplex his conduct. '[32] Howsignificant is the fact (if it be the fact) that it was only when theslowly rising sun of Romance began to flush the sky that the wonder,beauty and pathos of this most marvellous of Shakespeare's creationsbegan to be visible! We do not know that they were perceived even in hisown day, and perhaps those are not wholly wrong who declare that thiscreation, so far from being a characteristic product of the time, was avision of                  the prophetic soul     Of the wide world dreaming on things to come. But the dramatic splendour of the whole tragedy is another matter, andmust have been manifest not only in Shakespeare's day but even inHanmer's. It is indeed so obvious that I pass it by, and proceed at once to thecentral question of Hamlet's character. And I believe time will besaved, and a good deal of positive interpretation may be introduced, if,without examining in detail any one theory, we first distinguish classesor types of theory which appear to be in various ways and degreesinsufficient or mistaken. And we will confine our attention to sanetheories;--for on this subject, as on all questions relating toShakespeare, there are plenty of merely lunatic views: the view, forexample, that Hamlet, being a disguised woman in love with Horatio,could hardly help seeming unkind to Ophelia; or the view that, being avery clever and wicked young man who wanted to oust his innocent unclefrom the throne, he 'faked' the Ghost with this intent. But, before we come to our types of theory, it is necessary to touch onan idea, not unfrequently met with, which would make it vain labour todiscuss or propose any theory at all. It is sometimes said that Hamlet'scharacter is not only intricate but unintelligible. Now this statementmight mean something quite unobjectionable and even perhaps true andimportant. It might mean that the character cannot be _wholly_understood. As we saw, there may be questions which we cannot answerwith certainty now, because we have nothing but the text to guide us,but which never arose for the spectators who saw _Hamlet_ acted inShakespeare's day; and we shall have to refer to such questions in theselectures. Again, it may be held without any improbability that, fromcarelessness or because he was engaged on this play for several years,Shakespeare left inconsistencies in his exhibition of the characterwhich must prevent us from being certain of his ultimate meaning. Or,possibly, we may be baffled because he has illustrated in it certainstrange facts of human nature, which he had noticed but of which we areignorant. But then all this would apply in some measure to othercharacters in Shakespeare, and it is not this that is meant by thestatement that Hamlet is unintelligible. What is meant is thatShakespeare _intended_ him to be so, because he himself was feelingstrongly, and wished his audience to feel strongly, what a mystery lifeis, and how impossible it is for us to understand it. Now here, surely,we have mere confusion of mind. The mysteriousness of life is one thing,the psychological unintelligibility of a dramatic character is quiteanother; and the second does not show the first, it shows only theincapacity or folly of the dramatist. If it did show the first, it wouldbe very easy to surpass Shakespeare in producing a sense of mystery: weshould simply have to portray an absolutely nonsensical character. Ofcourse _Hamlet_ appeals powerfully to our sense of the mystery of life,but so does _every_ good tragedy; and it does so not because the hero isan enigma to us, but because, having a fair understanding of him, wefeel how strange it is that strength and weakness should be so mingledin one soul, and that this soul should be doomed to such misery andapparent failure. (1) To come, then, to our typical views, we may lay it down, first, thatno theory will hold water which finds the cause of Hamlet's delaymerely, or mainly, or even to any considerable extent, in externaldifficulties. Nothing is easier than to spin a plausible theory of thiskind. What, it may be asked,[33] was Hamlet to do when the Ghost hadleft him with its commission of vengeance? The King was surrounded notmerely by courtiers but by a Swiss body-guard: how was Hamlet to get athim? Was he then to accuse him publicly of the murder? If he did, whatwould happen? How would he prove the charge? All that he had to offer inproof was--a ghost-story! Others, to be sure, had seen the Ghost, but noone else had heard its revelations. Obviously, then, even if the courthad been honest, instead of subservient and corrupt, it would have votedHamlet mad, or worse, and would have shut him up out of harm's way. Hecould not see what to do, therefore, and so he waited. Then came theactors, and at once with admirable promptness he arranged for theplay-scene, hoping that the King would betray his guilt to the wholecourt. Unfortunately the King did not. It is true that immediatelyafterwards Hamlet got his chance; for he found the King defenceless onhis knees. But what Hamlet wanted was not a private revenge, to befollowed by his own imprisonment or execution; it was public justice. Sohe spared the King; and, as he unluckily killed Polonius justafterwards, he had to consent to be despatched to England. But, on thevoyage there, he discovered the King's commission, ordering the King ofEngland to put him immediately to death; and, with this in his pocket,he made his way back to Denmark. For now, he saw, the proof of theKing's attempt to murder him would procure belief also for the story ofthe murder of his father. His enemy, however, was too quick for him, andhis public arraignment of that enemy was prevented by his own death. A theory like this sounds very plausible--so long as you do not rememberthe text. But no unsophisticated mind, fresh from the reading of_Hamlet_, will accept it; and, as soon as we begin to probe it, fatalobjections arise in such numbers that I choose but a few, and indeed Ithink the first of them is enough. (_a_) From beginning to end of the play, Hamlet never makes theslightest reference to any external difficulty. How is it possible toexplain this fact in conformity with the theory? For what conceivablereason should Shakespeare conceal from us so carefully the key to theproblem? (_b_) Not only does Hamlet fail to allude to such difficulties, but healways assumes that he _can_ obey the Ghost,[34] and he once assertsthis in so many words ('Sith I have cause and will and strength andmeans To do't,' IV. iv. 45). (_c_) Again, why does Shakespeare exhibit Laertes quite easily raisingthe people against the King? Why but to show how much more easilyHamlet, whom the people loved, could have done the same thing, if thatwas the plan he preferred? (_d_) Again, Hamlet did _not_ plan the play-scene in the hope that theKing would betray his guilt to the court. He planned it, according tohis own account, in order to convince _himself_ by the King's agitationthat the Ghost had spoken the truth. This is perfectly clear from II. ii. 625 ff. and from III. ii. 80 ff. Some readers are misled by thewords in the latter passage:                     if his occulted guilt     Do not itself unkennel in one speech,     It is a damned ghost that we have seen. The meaning obviously is, as the context shows, 'if his hidden guilt donot betray itself _on occasion of_ one speech,' viz. , the 'dozen orsixteen lines' with which Hamlet has furnished the player, and of whichonly six are delivered, because the King does not merely show his guiltin his face (which was all Hamlet had hoped, III. ii. 90) butrushes from the room. It may be as well to add that, although Hamlet's own account of hisreason for arranging the play-scene may be questioned, it is impossibleto suppose that, if his real design had been to provoke an openconfession of guilt, he could have been unconscious of this design. (_e_) Again, Hamlet never once talks, or shows a sign of thinking, ofthe plan of bringing the King to public justice; he always talks ofusing his 'sword' or his 'arm. ' And this is so just as much after he hasreturned to Denmark with the commission in his pocket as it was beforethis event. When he has told Horatio the story of the voyage, he doesnot say, 'Now I can convict him': he says, 'Now am I not justified inusing this arm? 'This class of theory, then, we must simply reject. But it suggests tworemarks. It is of course quite probable that, when Hamlet was 'thinkingtoo precisely on the event,' he was considering, among other things, thequestion how he could avenge his father without sacrificing his own lifeor freedom. And assuredly, also, he was anxious that his act ofvengeance should not be misconstrued, and would never have been contentto leave a 'wounded name' behind him. His dying words prove that. (2) Assuming, now, that Hamlet's main difficulty--almost the whole ofhis difficulty--was internal, I pass to views which, acknowledging this,are still unsatisfactory because they isolate one element in hischaracter and situation and treat it as the whole. According to the first of these typical views, Hamlet was restrained byconscience or a moral scruple; he could not satisfy himself that it wasright to avenge his father. This idea, like the first, can easily be made to look very plausible ifwe vaguely imagine the circumstances without attending to the text. Butattention to the text is fatal to it. For, on the one hand, scarcelyanything can be produced in support of it, and, on the other hand, agreat deal can be produced in its disproof. To take the latter pointfirst, Hamlet, it is impossible to deny, habitually assumes, without anyquestioning, that he _ought_ to avenge his father. Even when he doubts,or thinks that he doubts, the honesty of the Ghost, he expresses nodoubt as to what his duty will be if the Ghost turns out honest: 'If hebut blench I know my course. ' In the two soliloquies where he reviewshis position (II. ii. , 'O what a rogue and peasant slave am I,'and IV. iv. , 'How all occasions do inform against me') hereproaches himself bitterly for the neglect of his duty. When hereflects on the possible causes of this neglect he never mentions amongthem a moral scruple. When the Ghost appears in the Queen's chamber heconfesses, conscience-stricken, that, lapsed in time and passion, he haslet go by the acting of its command; but he does not plead that hisconscience stood in his way. The Ghost itself says that it comes to whethis 'almost blunted purpose'; and conscience may unsettle a purpose butdoes not blunt it. What natural explanation of all this can be given onthe conscience theory? And now what can be set against this evidence? One solitary passage. [35]Quite late, after Hamlet has narrated to Horatio the events of hisvoyage, he asks him (V. ii. 63):     Does it not, thinks't thee, stand me now upon--     He that hath kill'd my king and whored my mother,     Popp'd in between the election and my hopes,     Thrown out his angle for my proper life,     And with such cozenage--is't not perfect conscience     To quit him with this arm? and is't not to be damn'd     To let this canker of our nature come     In further evil? Here, certainly, is a question of conscience in the usual present senseof the word; and, it may be said, does not this show that all alongHamlet really has been deterred by moral scruples? But I ask first how,in that case, the facts just adduced are to be explained: for they mustbe explained, not ignored. Next, let the reader observe that even ifthis passage did show that _one_ hindrance to Hamlet's action was hisconscience, it by no means follows that this was the sole or the chiefhindrance. And, thirdly, let him observe, and let him ask himselfwhether the coincidence is a mere accident, that Hamlet is here almostrepeating the words he used in vain self-reproach some time before(IV. iv. 56):                             How stand I then,     That have a father kill'd, a mother stain'd,     Excitements of my reason and my blood,     And let all sleep? Is it not clear that he is speculating just as vainly now, and that thisquestion of conscience is but one of his many unconscious excuses fordelay? And, lastly, is it not so that Horatio takes it? He declines todiscuss that unreal question, and answers simply,     It must be shortly known to him from England     What is the issue of the business there. In other words, 'Enough of this endless procrastination. What is wantedis not reasons for the deed, but the deed itself. ' What can be moresignificant? Perhaps, however, it may be answered: 'Your explanation of this passagemay be correct, and the facts you have mentioned do seem to be fatal tothe theory of conscience in its usual form. But there is another andsubtler theory of conscience. According to it, Hamlet, so far as hisexplicit consciousness went, was sure that he ought to obey the Ghost;but in the depths of his nature, and unknown to himself, there was amoral repulsion to the deed. The conventional moral ideas of his time,which he shared with the Ghost, told him plainly that he ought to avengehis father; but a deeper conscience in him, which was in advance of histime, contended with these explicit conventional ideas. It is becausethis deeper conscience remains below the surface that he fails torecognise it, and fancies he is hindered by cowardice or sloth orpassion or what not; but it emerges into light in that speech toHoratio. And it is just because he has this nobler moral nature in himthat we admire and love him. 'Now I at once admit not only that this view is much more attractive andmore truly tragic than the ordinary conscience theory, but that it hasmore verisimilitude. But I feel no doubt that it does not answer toShakespeare's meaning, and I will simply mention, out of many objectionsto it, three which seem to be fatal. (_a_) If it answers toShakespeare's meaning, why in the world did he conceal that meaninguntil the last Act? The facts adduced above seem to show beyond questionthat, on the hypothesis, he did so. That he did so is surely next doorto incredible. In any case, it certainly requires an explanation, andcertainly has not received one. (_b_) Let us test the theory byreference to a single important passage, that where Hamlet finds theKing at prayer and spares him. The reason Hamlet gives himself forsparing the King is that, if he kills him now, he will send him toheaven, whereas he desires to send him to hell. Now, this reason may bean unconscious excuse, but is it believable that, if the real reason hadbeen the stirrings of his deeper conscience, _that_ could have maskeditself in the form of a desire to send his enemy's soul to hell? Is notthe idea quite ludicrous? (_c_) The theory requires us to suppose that,when the Ghost enjoins Hamlet to avenge the murder of his father, it islaying on him a duty which _we_ are to understand to be no duty but thevery reverse. And is not that supposition wholly contrary to the naturalimpression which we all receive in reading the play? Surely it is clearthat, whatever we in the twentieth century may think about Hamlet'sduty, we are meant in the play to assume that he _ought_ to have obeyedthe Ghost. The conscience theory, then, in either of its forms we must reject. Butit may remind us of points worth noting. In the first place, it iscertainly true that Hamlet, in spite of some appearances to thecontrary, was, as Goethe said, of a most moral nature, and had a greatanxiety to do right. In this anxiety he resembles Brutus, and it isstronger in him than in any of the later heroes. And, secondly, it ishighly probable that in his interminable broodings the kind of paralysiswith which he was stricken masked itself in the shape of conscientiousscruples as well as in many other shapes. And, finally, in his shrinkingfrom the deed there was probably, together with much else, somethingwhich may be called a moral, though not a conscientious, repulsion: Imean a repugnance to the idea of falling suddenly on a man who could notdefend himself. This, so far as we can see, was the only plan thatHamlet ever contemplated. There is no positive evidence in the play thathe regarded it with the aversion that any brave and honourable man, onemust suppose, would feel for it; but, as Hamlet certainly was brave andhonourable, we may presume that he did so. (3) We come next to what may be called the sentimental view of Hamlet, aview common both among his worshippers and among his defamers. Its germmay perhaps be found in an unfortunate phrase of Goethe's (who of courseis not responsible for the whole view): 'a lovely, pure and most moralnature, _without the strength of nerve which forms a hero_, sinksbeneath a burden which it cannot bear and must not cast away. ' When thisidea is isolated, developed and popularised, we get the picture of agraceful youth, sweet and sensitive, full of delicate sympathies andyearning aspirations, shrinking from the touch of everything gross andearthly; but frail and weak, a kind of Werther, with a face likeShelley's and a voice like Mr. Tree's. And then we ask in tender pity,how could such a man perform the terrible duty laid on him? How, indeed! And what a foolish Ghost even to suggest such a duty! Butthis conception, though not without its basis in certain beautifultraits of Hamlet's nature, is utterly untrue. It is too kind to Hamleton one side, and it is quite unjust to him on another. The 'conscience'theory at any rate leaves Hamlet a great nature which you can admire andeven revere. But for the 'sentimental' Hamlet you can feel only pity notunmingled with contempt. Whatever else he is, he is no _hero_. But consider the text. This shrinking, flower-like youth--how could hepossibly have done what we _see_ Hamlet do? What likeness to him isthere in the Hamlet who, summoned by the Ghost, bursts from histerrified friends with the cry:                          Unhand me, gentlemen!     By heaven, I'll make a ghost of him that lets me;the Hamlet who scarcely once speaks to the King without an insult, or toPolonius without a gibe; the Hamlet who storms at Ophelia and speaksdaggers to his mother; the Hamlet who, hearing a cry behind the arras,whips out his sword in an instant and runs the eavesdropper through; theHamlet who sends his 'school-fellows' to their death and never troubleshis head about them more; the Hamlet who is the first man to board apirate ship, and who fights with Laertes in the grave; the Hamlet of thecatastrophe, an omnipotent fate, before whom all the court standshelpless, who, as the truth breaks upon him, rushes on the King, driveshis foil right through his body,[36] then seizes the poisoned cup andforces it violently between the wretched man's lips, and in the throesof death has force and fire enough to wrest the cup from Horatio's hand('By heaven, I'll have it! ') lest he should drink and die? This man, theHamlet of the play, is a heroic, terrible figure. He would have beenformidable to Othello or Macbeth. If the sentimental Hamlet had crossedhim, he would have hurled him from his path with one sweep of his arm. This view, then, or any view that approaches it, is grossly unjust toHamlet, and turns tragedy into mere pathos. But, on the other side, itis too kind to him. It ignores the hardness and cynicism which wereindeed no part of his nature, but yet, in this crisis of his life, areindubitably present and painfully marked. His sternness, itself left outof sight by this theory, is no defect; but he is much more than stern. Polonius possibly deserved nothing better than the words addressed tohis corpse:     Thou wretched, rash, intruding fool, farewell!     I took thee for thy better: take thy fortune:     Thou find'st to be too busy is some danger;yet this was Ophelia's father, and, whatever he deserved, it pains us,for Hamlet's own sake, to hear the words:     This man shall set me packing:     I'll lug the guts into the neighbour room. There is the same insensibility in Hamlet's language about the fate ofRosencrantz and Guildenstern; and, observe, their deaths were not in theleast required by his purpose. Grant, again, that his cruelty to Opheliawas partly due to misunderstanding, partly forced on him, partlyfeigned; still one surely cannot altogether so account for it, and stillless can one so account for the disgusting and insulting grossness ofhis language to her in the play-scene. I know this is said to be merelyan example of the custom of Shakespeare's time. But it is not so. It issuch language as you will find addressed to a woman by no other hero ofShakespeare's, not even in that dreadful scene where Othello accusesDesdemona. It is a great mistake to ignore these things, or to try tosoften the impression which they naturally make on one. That thisembitterment, callousness, grossness, brutality, should be induced on asoul so pure and noble is profoundly tragic; and Shakespeare's businesswas to show this tragedy, not to paint an ideally beautiful soulunstained and undisturbed by the evil of the world and the anguish ofconscious failure. [37](4) There remains, finally, that class of view which may be named afterSchlegel and Coleridge. According to this, _Hamlet_ is the tragedy ofreflection. The cause of the hero's delay is irresolution; and the causeof this irresolution is excess of the reflective or speculative habit ofmind. He has a general intention to obey the Ghost, but 'the native hueof resolution is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought. ' He is'thought-sick. ' 'The whole,' says Schlegel, 'is intended to show how acalculating consideration which aims at exhausting, so far as humanforesight can, all the relations and possible consequences of a deed,cripples[38] the power of acting. . . . Hamlet is a hypocrite towardshimself; his far-fetched scruples are often mere pretexts to cover hiswant of determination. . . . He has no firm belief in himself or inanything else. . . . He loses himself in labyrinths of thought. ' SoColeridge finds in Hamlet 'an almost enormous intellectual activity anda proportionate aversion to real action consequent upon it' (theaversion, that is to say, is consequent on the activity). ProfessorDowden objects to this view, very justly, that it neglects the emotionalside of Hamlet's character, 'which is quite as important as theintellectual'; but, with this supplement, he appears on the whole toadopt it. Hamlet, he says, 'loses a sense of fact because with him eachobject and event transforms and expands itself into an idea. . . . Hecannot steadily keep alive within himself a sense of the importance ofany positive, limited thing,--a deed, for example.

' And Professor Dowdenexplains this condition by reference to Hamlet's life. 'When the playopens he has reached the age of thirty years . . . and he has receivedculture of every kind except the culture of active life. During thereign of the strong-willed elder Hamlet there was no call to action forhis meditative son. He has slipped on into years of full manhood still ahaunter of the university, a student of philosophies, an amateur in art,a ponderer on the things of life and death, who has never formed aresolution or executed a deed' (_Shakspere, his Mind and Art_, 4th ed. ,pp. 132, 133). On the whole, the Schlegel-Coleridge theory (with or without ProfessorDowden's modification and amplification) is the most widely receivedview of Hamlet's character. And with it we come at last into closecontact with the text of the play. It not only answers, in somefundamental respects, to the general impression produced by the drama,but it can be supported by Hamlet's own words in his soliloquies--suchwords, for example, as those about the native hue of resolution, orthose about the craven scruple of thinking too precisely on the event. It is confirmed, also, by the contrast between Hamlet on the one sideand Laertes and Fortinbras on the other; and, further, by the occurrenceof those words of the King to Laertes (IV. vii. 119 f. ), which,if they are not in character, are all the more important as showing whatwas in Shakespeare's mind at the time:                     that we would do     We should do when we would; for this 'would' changes,     And hath abatements and delays as many     As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents;     And then this 'should' is like a spendthrift sigh     That hurts by easing. And, lastly, even if the view itself does not suffice, the _description_given by its adherents of Hamlet's state of mind, as we see him in thelast four Acts, is, on the whole and so far as it goes, a truedescription. The energy of resolve is dissipated in an endless broodingon the deed required. When he acts, his action does not proceed fromthis deliberation and analysis, but is sudden and impulsive, evoked byan emergency in which he has no time to think. And most of the reasonshe assigns for his procrastination are evidently not the true reasons,but unconscious excuses. Nevertheless this theory fails to satisfy. And it fails not merely inthis or that detail, but as a whole. We feel that its Hamlet does notfully answer to our imaginative impression. He is not nearly soinadequate to this impression as the sentimental Hamlet, but still wefeel he is inferior to Shakespeare's man and does him wrong. And when wecome to examine the theory we find that it is partial and leaves muchunexplained. I pass that by for the present, for we shall see, Ibelieve, that the theory is also positively misleading, and that in amost important way. And of this I proceed to speak. Hamlet's irresolution, or his aversion to real action, is, according tothe theory, the _direct_ result of 'an almost enormous intellectualactivity' in the way of 'a calculating consideration which attempts toexhaust all the relations and possible consequences of a deed. ' And thisagain proceeds from an original one-sidedness of nature, strengthened byhabit, and, perhaps, by years of speculative inaction. The theorydescribes, therefore, a man in certain respects like Coleridge himself,on one side a man of genius, on the other side, the side of will,deplorably weak, always procrastinating and avoiding unpleasant duties,and often reproaching himself in vain; a man, observe, who at _any_ timeand in _any_ circumstances would be unequal to the task assigned toHamlet. And thus, I must maintain, it degrades Hamlet and travesties theplay. For Hamlet, according to all the indications in the text, was notnaturally or normally such a man, but rather, I venture to affirm, a manwho at any _other_ time and in any _other_ circumstances than thosepresented would have been perfectly equal to his task; and it is, infact, the very cruelty of his fate that the crisis of his life comes onhim at the one moment when he cannot meet it, and when his highestgifts, instead of helping him, conspire to paralyse him. This aspect ofthe tragedy the theory quite misses; and it does so because itmisconceives the cause of that irresolution which, on the whole, ittruly describes. For the cause was not directly or mainly an habitualexcess of reflectiveness. The direct cause was a state of mind quiteabnormal and induced by special circumstances,--a state of profoundmelancholy. Now, Hamlet's reflectiveness doubtless played a certain partin the _production_ of that melancholy, and was thus one indirectcontributory cause of his irresolution. And, again, the melancholy, onceestablished, displayed, as one of its _symptoms_, an excessivereflection on the required deed. But excess of reflection was not, asthe theory makes it, the _direct_ cause of the irresolution at all; norwas it the _only_ indirect cause; and in the Hamlet of the last fourActs it is to be considered rather a symptom of his state than a causeof it. These assertions may be too brief to be at once clear, but I hope theywill presently become so. 3Let us first ask ourselves what we can gather from the play, immediatelyor by inference, concerning Hamlet as he was just before his father'sdeath. And I begin by observing that the text does not bear out the ideathat he was one-sidedly reflective and indisposed to action. Nobody whoknew him seems to have noticed this weakness. Nobody regards him as amere scholar who has 'never formed a resolution or executed a deed. ' Ina court which certainly would not much admire such a person he is theobserved of all observers. Though he has been disappointed of the throneeveryone shows him respect; and he is the favourite of the people, whoare not given to worship philosophers. Fortinbras, a sufficientlypractical man, considered that he was likely, had he been put on, tohave proved most royally. He has Hamlet borne by four captains 'like asoldier' to his grave; and Ophelia says that Hamlet _was_ a soldier. Ifhe was fond of acting, an aesthetic pursuit, he was equally fond offencing, an athletic one: he practised it assiduously even in his worstdays. [39] So far as we can conjecture from what we see of him in thosebad days, he must normally have been charmingly frank, courteous andkindly to everyone, of whatever rank, whom he liked or respected, but byno means timid or deferential to others; indeed, one would gather thathe was rather the reverse, and also that he was apt to be decided andeven imperious if thwarted or interfered with. He must always have beenfearless,--in the play he appears insensible to fear of any ordinarykind. And, finally, he must have been quick and impetuous in action; forit is downright impossible that the man we see rushing after the Ghost,killing Polonius, dealing with the King's commission on the ship,boarding the pirate, leaping into the grave, executing his finalvengeance, could _ever_ have been shrinking or slow in an emergency. Imagine Coleridge doing any of these things! If we consider all this, how can we accept the notion that Hamlet's wasa weak and one-sided character? 'Oh, but he spent ten or twelve years ata University! ' Well, even if he did, it is possible to do that withoutbecoming the victim of excessive thought. But the statement that he didrests upon a most insecure foundation. [40]Where then are we to look for the seeds of danger? (1) Trying to reconstruct from the Hamlet of the play, one would notjudge that his temperament was melancholy in the present sense of theword; there seems nothing to show that; but one would judge that bytemperament he was inclined to nervous instability, to rapid andperhaps extreme changes of feeling and mood, and that he was disposed tobe, for the time, absorbed in the feeling or mood that possessed him,whether it were joyous or depressed. This temperament the Elizabethanswould have called melancholic; and Hamlet seems to be an example of it,as Lear is of a temperament mixedly choleric and sanguine. And thedoctrine of temperaments was so familiar in Shakespeare's time--asBurton, and earlier prose-writers, and many of the dramatists show--thatShakespeare may quite well have given this temperament to Hamletconsciously and deliberately. Of melancholy in its developed form, ahabit, not a mere temperament, he often speaks. He more than once laughsat the passing and half-fictitious melancholy of youth and love; in DonJohn in _Much Ado_ he had sketched the sour and surly melancholy ofdiscontent; in Jaques a whimsical self-pleasing melancholy; in Antonioin the _Merchant of Venice_ a quiet but deep melancholy, for whichneither the victim nor his friends can assign any cause. [41] He gives toHamlet a temperament which would not develop into melancholy unlessunder some exceptional strain, but which still involved a danger. In theplay we see the danger realised, and find a melancholy quite unlike anythat Shakespeare had as yet depicted, because the temperament of Hamletis quite different. (2) Next, we cannot be mistaken in attributing to the Hamlet of earlierdays an exquisite sensibility, to which we may give the name 'moral,' ifthat word is taken in the wide meaning it ought to bear. This, thoughit suffers cruelly in later days, as we saw in criticising thesentimental view of Hamlet, never deserts him; it makes all hiscynicism, grossness and hardness appear to us morbidities, and has aninexpressibly attractive and pathetic effect. He had the soul of theyouthful poet as Shelley and Tennyson have described it, an unboundeddelight and faith in everything good and beautiful. We know this fromhimself. The world for him was _herrlich wie am ersten Tag_--'thisgoodly frame the earth, this most excellent canopy the air, this braveo'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted with golden fire. 'And not nature only: 'What a piece of work is a man! how noble inreason! how infinite in faculty! in form and moving how express andadmirable! in action how like an angel! in apprehension how like a god! 'This is no commonplace to Hamlet; it is the language of a heart thrilledwith wonder and swelling into ecstasy. Doubtless it was with the same eager enthusiasm he turned to thosearound him. Where else in Shakespeare is there anything like Hamlet'sadoration of his father? The words melt into music whenever he speaks ofhim. And, if there are no signs of any such feeling towards his mother,though many signs of love, it is characteristic that he evidently neverentertained a suspicion of anything unworthy in her,--characteristic,and significant of his tendency to see only what is good unless he isforced to see the reverse. For we find this tendency elsewhere, and findit going so far that we must call it a disposition to idealise, to seesomething better than what is there, or at least to ignore deficiencies. He says to Laertes, 'I loved you ever,' and he describes Laertes as a'very noble youth,' which he was far from being. In his first greetingof Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, where his old self revives, we tracethe same affectionateness and readiness to take men at their best. Hislove for Ophelia, too, which seems strange to some, is surely the mostnatural thing in the world. He saw her innocence, simplicity andsweetness, and it was like him to ask no more; and it is noticeable thatHoratio, though entirely worthy of his friendship, is, like Ophelia,intellectually not remarkable. To the very end, however clouded, thisgenerous disposition, this 'free and open nature,' this unsuspiciousnesssurvive. They cost him his life; for the King knew them, and was surethat he was too 'generous and free from all contriving' to 'peruse thefoils. ' To the very end, his soul, however sick and tortured it may be,answers instantaneously when good and evil are presented to it, lovingthe one and hating the other. He is called a sceptic who has no firmbelief in anything, but he is never sceptical about _them_. And the negative side of his idealism, the aversion to evil, is perhapseven more developed in the hero of the tragedy than in the Hamlet ofearlier days. It is intensely characteristic. Nothing, I believe, is tobe found elsewhere in Shakespeare (unless in the rage of thedisillusioned idealist Timon) of quite the same kind as Hamlet's disgustat his uncle's drunkenness, his loathing of his mother's sensuality, hisastonishment and horror at her shallowness, his contempt for everythingpretentious or false, his indifference to everything merely external. This last characteristic appears in his choice of the friend of hisheart, and in a certain impatience of distinctions of rank or wealth. When Horatio calls his father 'a goodly king,' he answers, surely withan emphasis on 'man,'     He was a man, take him for all in all,     I shall not look upon his like again. He will not listen to talk of Horatio being his 'servant. ' When theothers speak of their 'duty' to him, he answers, 'Your love, as mine toyou. ' He speaks to the actor precisely as he does to an honest courtier. He is not in the least a revolutionary, but still, in effect, a king anda beggar are all one to him. He cares for nothing but human worth, andhis pitilessness towards Polonius and Osric and his 'school-fellows' isnot wholly due to morbidity, but belongs in part to his originalcharacter. Now, in Hamlet's moral sensibility there undoubtedly lay a danger. Anygreat shock that life might inflict on it would be felt with extremeintensity. Such a shock might even produce tragic results. And, in fact,_Hamlet_ deserves the title 'tragedy of moral idealism' quite as much asthe title 'tragedy of reflection. '(3) With this temperament and this sensibility we find, lastly, in theHamlet of earlier days, as of later, intellectual genius. It is chieflythis that makes him so different from all those about him, good and badalike, and hardly less different from most of Shakespeare's otherheroes. And this, though on the whole the most important trait in hisnature, is also so obvious and so famous that I need not dwell on it atlength. But against one prevalent misconception I must say a word ofwarning. Hamlet's intellectual power is not a specific gift, like agenius for music or mathematics or philosophy. It shows itself,fitfully, in the affairs of life as unusual quickness of perception,great agility in shifting the mental attitude, a striking rapidity andfertility in resource; so that, when his natural belief in others doesnot make him unwary, Hamlet easily sees through them and masters them,and no one can be much less like the typical helpless dreamer. It showsitself in conversation chiefly in the form of wit or humour; and, alikein conversation and in soliloquy, it shows itself in the form ofimagination quite as much as in that of thought in the stricter sense. Further, where it takes the latter shape, as it very often does, it isnot philosophic in the technical meaning of the word. There is reallynothing in the play to show that Hamlet ever was 'a student ofphilosophies,' unless it be the famous lines which, comically enough,exhibit this supposed victim of philosophy as its critic:     There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,     Than are dreamt of in your philosophy. [42]His philosophy, if the word is to be used, was, like Shakespeare's own,the immediate product of the wondering and meditating mind; and suchthoughts as that celebrated one, 'There is nothing either good or badbut thinking makes it so,' surely needed no special training to producethem. Or does Portia's remark, 'Nothing is good without respect,'_i. e. _, out of relation, prove that she had studied metaphysics? Still Hamlet had speculative genius without being a philosopher, just ashe had imaginative genius without being a poet. Doubtless in happierdays he was a close and constant observer of men and manners, noting hisresults in those tables which he afterwards snatched from his breast tomake in wild irony his last note of all, that one may smile and smileand be a villain. Again and again we remark that passion forgeneralisation which so occupied him, for instance, in reflectionssuggested by the King's drunkenness that he quite forgot what it was hewas waiting to meet upon the battlements. Doubtless, too, he was alwaysconsidering things, as Horatio thought, too curiously. There was anecessity in his soul driving him to penetrate below the surface and toquestion what others took for granted. That fixed habitual look whichthe world wears for most men did not exist for him. He was for everunmaking his world and rebuilding it in thought, dissolving what toothers were solid facts, and discovering what to others were old truths. There were no old truths for Hamlet. It is for Horatio a thing of coursethat there's a divinity that shapes our ends, but for Hamlet it is adiscovery hardly won. And throughout this kingdom of the mind, where hefelt that man, who in action is only like an angel, is in apprehensionlike a god, he moved (we must imagine) more than content, so that evenin his dark days he declares he could be bounded in a nutshell and yetcount himself a king of infinite space, were it not that he had baddreams. If now we ask whether any special danger lurked _here_, how shall weanswer? We must answer, it seems to me, 'Some danger, no doubt, but,granted the ordinary chances of life, not much. ' For, in the firstplace, that idea which so many critics quietly take for granted--theidea that the gift and the habit of meditative and speculative thoughttend to produce irresolution in the affairs of life--would be found byno means easy to verify. Can you verify it, for example, in the lives ofthe philosophers, or again in the lives of men whom you have personallyknown to be addicted to such speculation? I cannot. Of course,individual peculiarities being set apart, absorption in _any_intellectual interest, together with withdrawal from affairs, may make aman slow and unskilful in affairs; and doubtless, individualpeculiarities being again set apart, a mere student is likely to be moreat a loss in a sudden and great practical emergency than a soldier or alawyer. But in all this there is no difference between a physicist, ahistorian, and a philosopher; and again, slowness, want of skill, andeven helplessness are something totally different from the peculiar kindof irresolution that Hamlet shows. The notion that speculative thinkingspecially tends to produce _this_ is really a mere illusion. In the second place, even if this notion were true, it has appeared thatHamlet did _not_ live the life of a mere student, much less of a meredreamer, and that his nature was by no means simply or even one-sidedlyintellectual, but was healthily active. Hence, granted the ordinarychances of life, there would seem to be no great danger in hisintellectual tendency and his habit of speculation; and I would gofurther and say that there was nothing in them, taken alone, to unfithim even for the extraordinary call that was made upon him. In fact, ifthe message of the Ghost had come to him within a week of his father'sdeath, I see no reason to doubt that he would have acted on it asdecisively as Othello himself, though probably after a longer and moreanxious deliberation. And therefore the Schlegel-Coleridge view (apartfrom its descriptive value) seems to me fatally untrue, for it impliesthat Hamlet's procrastination was the normal response of anover-speculative nature confronted with a difficult practical problem. On the other hand, under conditions of a peculiar kind, Hamlet'sreflectiveness certainly might prove dangerous to him, and his geniusmight even (to exaggerate a little) become his doom. Suppose thatviolent shock to his moral being of which I spoke; and suppose thatunder this shock, any possible action being denied to him, he began tosink into melancholy; then, no doubt, his imaginative and generalisinghabit of mind might extend the effects of this shock through his wholebeing and mental world. And if, the state of melancholy being thusdeepened and fixed, a sudden demand for difficult and decisive action ina matter connected with the melancholy arose, this state might well havefor one of its symptoms an endless and futile mental dissection of therequired deed. And, finally, the futility of this process, and the shameof his delay, would further weaken him and enslave him to his melancholystill more. Thus the speculative habit would be _one_ indirect cause ofthe morbid state which hindered action; and it would also reappear in adegenerate form as one of the _symptoms_ of this morbid state.       *       *       *       *       *Now this is what actually happens in the play. Turn to the first wordsHamlet utters when he is alone; turn, that is to say, to the place wherethe author is likely to indicate his meaning most plainly. What do youhear?     O, that this too too solid flesh would melt,     Thaw and resolve itself into a dew!     Or that the Everlasting had not fix'd     His canon 'gainst self-slaughter! O God! God!     How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable,     Seem to me all the uses of this world!     Fie on't! ah fie! 'tis an unweeded garden,     That grows to seed; things rank and gross in nature     Possess it merely. Here are a sickness of life, and even a longing for death, so intensethat nothing stands between Hamlet and suicide except religious awe. Andwhat has caused them? The rest of the soliloquy so thrusts the answerupon us that it might seem impossible to miss it. It was not hisfather's death; that doubtless brought deep grief, but mere grief forsome one loved and lost does not make a noble spirit loathe the world asa place full only of things rank and gross. It was not the vaguesuspicion that we know Hamlet felt. Still less was it the loss of thecrown; for though the subserviency of the electors might well disgusthim, there is not a reference to the subject in the soliloquy, nor anysign elsewhere that it greatly occupied his mind. It was the moral shockof the sudden ghastly disclosure of his mother's true nature, falling onhim when his heart was aching with love, and his body doubtless wasweakened by sorrow. And it is essential, however disagreeable, torealise the nature of this shock. It matters little here whetherHamlet's age was twenty or thirty: in either case his mother was amatron of mature years. All his life he had believed in her, we may besure, as such a son would. He had seen her not merely devoted to hisfather, but hanging on him like a newly-wedded bride, hanging on him     As if increase of appetite had grown     By what it fed on. He had seen her following his body 'like Niobe, all tears. ' And thenwithin a month--'O God! a beast would have mourned longer'--she marriedagain, and married Hamlet's uncle, a man utterly contemptible andloathsome in his eyes; married him in what to Hamlet was incestuouswedlock;[43] married him not for any reason of state, nor even out ofold family affection, but in such a way that her son was forced to seein her action not only an astounding shallowness of feeling but aneruption of coarse sensuality, 'rank and gross,'[44] speeding post-hasteto its horrible delight. Is it possible to conceive an experience moredesolating to a man such as we have seen Hamlet to be; and is its resultanything but perfectly natural? It brings bewildered horror, thenloathing, then despair of human nature. His whole mind is poisoned. Hecan never see Ophelia in the same light again: she is a woman, and hismother is a woman: if she mentions the word 'brief' to him, the answerdrops from his lips like venom, 'as woman's love. ' The last words of thesoliloquy, which is _wholly_ concerned with this subject, are,     But break, my heart, for I must hold my tongue! He can do nothing. He must lock in his heart, not any suspicion of hisuncle that moves obscurely there, but that horror and loathing; and ifhis heart ever found relief, it was when those feelings, mingled withthe love that never died out in him, poured themselves forth in a floodas he stood in his mother's chamber beside his father'smarriage-bed. [45]If we still wonder, and ask why the effect of this shock should be sotremendous, let us observe that _now_ the conditions have arisen underwhich Hamlet's highest endowments, his moral sensibility and his genius,become his enemies. A nature morally blunter would have felt even sodreadful a revelation less keenly. A slower and more limited andpositive mind might not have extended so widely through its world thedisgust and disbelief that have entered it. But Hamlet has theimagination which, for evil as well as good, feels and sees all thingsin one. Thought is the element of his life, and his thought isinfected. He cannot prevent himself from probing and lacerating thewound in his soul. One idea, full of peril, holds him fast, and he criesout in agony at it, but is impotent to free himself ('Must I remember? ''Let me not think on't'). And when, with the fading of his passion, thevividness of this idea abates, it does so only to leave behind aboundless weariness and a sick longing for death. And this is the time which his fate chooses. In this hour of uttermostweakness, this sinking of his whole being towards annihilation, therecomes on him, bursting the bounds of the natural world with a shock ofastonishment and terror, the revelation of his mother's adultery and hisfather's murder, and, with this, the demand on him, in the name ofeverything dearest and most sacred, to arise and act. And for a moment,though his brain reels and totters,[46] his soul leaps up in passion toanswer this demand. But it comes too late. It does but strike home thelast rivet in the melancholy which holds him bound.     The time is out of joint! O cursed spite     That ever I was born to set it right,--so he mutters within an hour of the moment when he vowed to give hislife to the duty of revenge; and the rest of the story exhibits his vainefforts to fulfil this duty, his unconscious self-excuses and unavailingself-reproaches, and the tragic results of his delay. 4'Melancholy,' I said, not dejection, nor yet insanity. That Hamlet wasnot far from insanity is very probable. His adoption of the pretence ofmadness may well have been due in part to fear of the reality; to aninstinct of self-preservation, a fore-feeling that the pretence wouldenable him to give some utterance to the load that pressed on his heartand brain, and a fear that he would be unable altogether to repress suchutterance. And if the pathologist calls his state melancholia, and evenproceeds to determine its species, I see nothing to object to in that; Iam grateful to him for emphasising the fact that Hamlet's melancholy wasno mere common depression of spirits; and I have no doubt that manyreaders of the play would understand it better if they read an accountof melancholia in a work on mental diseases. If we like to use the word'disease' loosely, Hamlet's condition may truly be called diseased. Noexertion of will could have dispelled it. Even if he had been able atonce to do the bidding of the Ghost he would doubtless have stillremained for some time under the cloud. It would be absurdly unjust tocall _Hamlet_ a study of melancholy, but it contains such a study. But this melancholy is something very different from insanity, inanything like the usual meaning of that word. No doubt it might developinto insanity. The longing for death might become an irresistibleimpulse to self-destruction; the disorder of feeling and will mightextend to sense and intellect; delusions might arise; and the man mightbecome, as we say, incapable and irresponsible. But Hamlet's melancholyis some way from this condition. It is a totally different thing fromthe madness which he feigns; and he never, when alone or in company withHoratio alone, exhibits the signs of that madness. Nor is the dramaticuse of this melancholy, again, open to the objections which would justlybe made to the portrayal of an insanity which brought the hero to atragic end. The man who suffers as Hamlet suffers--and thousands goabout their business suffering thus in greater or less degree--isconsidered irresponsible neither by other people nor by himself: he isonly too keenly conscious of his responsibility. He is therefore, sofar, quite capable of being a tragic agent, which an insane person, atany rate according to Shakespeare's practice, is not. [47] And, finally,Hamlet's state is not one which a healthy mind is unable sufficiently toimagine. It is probably not further from average experience, nor moredifficult to realise, than the great tragic passions of Othello, Antonyor Macbeth. Let me try to show now, briefly, how much this melancholy accounts for. It accounts for the main fact, Hamlet's inaction. For the _immediate_cause of that is simply that his habitual feeling is one of disgust atlife and everything in it, himself included,--a disgust which varies inintensity, rising at times into a longing for death, sinking often intoweary apathy, but is never dispelled for more than brief intervals. Sucha state of feeling is inevitably adverse to _any_ kind of decidedaction; the body is inert, the mind indifferent or worse; its responseis, 'it does not matter,' 'it is not worth while,' 'it is no good. ' Andthe action required of Hamlet is very exceptional. It is violent,dangerous, difficult to accomplish perfectly, on one side repulsive to aman of honour and sensitive feeling, on another side involved in acertain mystery (here come in thus, in their subordinate place, variouscauses of inaction assigned by various theories). These obstacles wouldnot suffice to prevent Hamlet from acting, if his state were normal; andagainst them there operate, even in his morbid state, healthy andpositive feelings, love of his father, loathing of his uncle, desire ofrevenge, desire to do duty. But the retarding motives acquire anunnatural strength because they have an ally in something far strongerthan themselves, the melancholic disgust and apathy; while the healthymotives, emerging with difficulty from the central mass of diseasedfeeling, rapidly sink back into it and 'lose the name of action. ' We_see_ them doing so; and sometimes the process is quite simple, noanalytical reflection on the deed intervening between the outburst ofpassion and the relapse into melancholy. [48] But this melancholy isperfectly consistent also with that incessant dissection of the taskassigned, of which the Schlegel-Coleridge theory makes so much. Forthose endless questions (as we may imagine them), 'Was I deceived by theGhost? How am I to do the deed? When? Where? What will be theconsequence of attempting it--success, my death, utter misunderstanding,mere mischief to the State? Can it be right to do it, or noble to kill adefenceless man? What is the good of doing it in such a world asthis? '--all this, and whatever else passed in a sickening round throughHamlet's mind, was not the healthy and right deliberation of a man withsuch a task, but otiose thinking hardly deserving the name of thought,an unconscious weaving of pretexts for inaction, aimless tossings on asick bed, symptoms of melancholy which only increased it by deepeningself-contempt. Again, (_a_) this state accounts for Hamlet's energy as well as for hislassitude, those quick decided actions of his being the outcome of anature normally far from passive, now suddenly stimulated, and producinghealthy impulses which work themselves out before they have time tosubside. (_b_) It accounts for the evidently keen satisfaction whichsome of these actions give to him. He arranges the play-scene withlively interest, and exults in its success, not really because it bringshim nearer to his goal, but partly because it has hurt his enemy andpartly because it has demonstrated his own skill (III. ii. 286-304). He looks forward almost with glee to countermining the King'sdesigns in sending him away (III. iv. 209), and looks back withobvious satisfaction, even with pride, to the address and vigour hedisplayed on the voyage (V. ii. 1-55). These were not _the_action on which his morbid self-feeling had centred; he feels in themhis old force, and escapes in them from his disgust. (_c_) It accountsfor the pleasure with which he meets old acquaintances, like his'school-fellows' or the actors. The former observed (and we can observe)in him a 'kind of joy' at first, though it is followed by 'much forcingof his disposition' as he attempts to keep this joy and his courtesyalive in spite of the misery which so soon returns upon him and thesuspicion he is forced to feel. (_d_) It accounts no less for thepainful features of his character as seen in the play, his almost savageirritability on the one hand, and on the other his self-absorption, hiscallousness, his insensibility to the fates of those whom he despises,and to the feelings even of those whom he loves. These are frequentsymptoms of such melancholy, and (_e_) they sometimes alternate, as theydo in Hamlet, with bursts of transitory, almost hysterical, and quitefruitless emotion. It is to these last (of which a part of thesoliloquy, 'O what a rogue,' gives a good example) that Hamlet alludeswhen, to the Ghost, he speaks of himself as 'lapsed in _passion_,' andit is doubtless partly his conscious weakness in regard to them thatinspires his praise of Horatio as a man who is not 'passion'sslave. '[49]Finally, Hamlet's melancholy accounts for two things which seem to beexplained by nothing else. The first of these is his apathy or'lethargy. ' We are bound to consider the evidence which the textsupplies of this, though it is usual to ignore it. When Hamlet mentions,as one possible cause of his inaction, his 'thinking too precisely onthe event,' he mentions another, 'bestial oblivion'; and the thingagainst which he inveighs in the greater part of that soliloquy(IV. iv. ) is not the excess or the misuse of reason (which forhim here and always is god-like), but this _bestial_ oblivion or'_dullness_,' this 'letting all _sleep_,' this allowing of heaven-sentreason to 'fust unused':                            What is a man,     If his chief good and market of his time     Be but to _sleep_ and feed? a _beast_, no more. [50]So, in the soliloquy in II. ii. he accuses himself of being 'a_dull_ and muddy-mettled rascal,' who 'peaks [mopes] like John-a-dreams,unpregnant of his cause,' dully indifferent to his cause. [51] So, whenthe Ghost appears to him the second time, he accuses himself of beingtardy and lapsed in _time_; and the Ghost speaks of his purpose beingalmost _blunted_, and bids him not to _forget_ (cf. 'oblivion'). And so,what is emphasised in those undramatic but significant speeches of theplayer-king and of Claudius is the mere dying away of purpose or oflove. [52] Surely what all this points to is not a condition of excessivebut useless mental activity (indeed there is, in reality, curiouslylittle about that in the text), but rather one of dull, apathetic,brooding gloom, in which Hamlet, so far from analysing his duty, is notthinking of it at all, but for the time literally _forgets_ it. It seemsto me we are driven to think of Hamlet _chiefly_ thus during the longtime which elapsed between the appearance of the Ghost and the eventspresented in the Second Act. The Ghost, in fact, had more reason than wesuppose at first for leaving with Hamlet as his parting injunction thecommand, 'Remember me,' and for greeting him, on re-appearing, with thecommand, 'Do not forget. '[53] These little things in Shakespeare are notaccidents. The second trait which is fully explained only by Hamlet's melancholy ishis own inability to understand why he delays. This emerges in a markeddegree when an occasion like the player's emotion or the sight ofFortinbras's army stings Hamlet into shame at his inaction. '_Why_,' heasks himself in genuine bewilderment, 'do I linger? Can the cause becowardice? Can it be sloth? Can it be thinking too precisely of theevent? And does _that_ again mean cowardice? What is it that makes mesit idle when I feel it is shameful to do so, and when I have _cause,and will, and strength, and means_, to act? ' A man irresolute merelybecause he was considering a proposed action too minutely would not feelthis bewilderment. A man might feel it whose conscience secretlycondemned the act which his explicit consciousness approved; but we haveseen that there is no sufficient evidence to justify us in conceivingHamlet thus. These are the questions of a man stimulated for the momentto shake off the weight of his melancholy, and, because for the momenthe is free from it, unable to understand the paralysing pressure whichit exerts at other times. I have dwelt thus at length on Hamlet's melancholy because, from thepsychological point of view, it is the centre of the tragedy, and toomit it from consideration or to underrate its intensity is to makeShakespeare's story unintelligible. But the psychological point of viewis not equivalent to the tragic; and, having once given its due weightto the fact of Hamlet's melancholy, we may freely admit, or rather maybe anxious to insist, that this pathological condition would excite butlittle, if any, tragic interest if it were not the condition of a naturedistinguished by that speculative genius on which the Schlegel-Coleridgetype of theory lays stress. Such theories misinterpret the connectionbetween that genius and Hamlet's failure, but still it is thisconnection which gives to his story its peculiar fascination and makesit appear (if the phrase may be allowed) as the symbol of a tragicmystery inherent in human nature. Wherever this mystery touches us,wherever we are forced to feel the wonder and awe of man's godlike'apprehension' and his 'thoughts that wander through eternity,' and atthe same time are forced to see him powerless in his petty sphere ofaction, and powerless (it would appear) from the very divinity of histhought, we remember Hamlet. And this is the reason why, in the greatideal movement which began towards the close of the eighteenth century,this tragedy acquired a position unique among Shakespeare's dramas, andshared only by Goethe's _Faust_. It was not that _Hamlet_ isShakespeare's greatest tragedy or most perfect work of art; it was that_Hamlet_ most brings home to us at once the sense of the soul'sinfinity, and the sense of the doom which not only circumscribes thatinfinity but appears to be its offspring. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 25: It may be convenient to some readers for the purposes ofthis book to have by them a list of Shakespeare's plays, arranged inperiods. No such list, of course, can command general assent, but thefollowing (which does not throughout represent my own views) wouldperhaps meet with as little objection from scholars as any other. Forsome purposes the Third and Fourth Periods are better considered to beone. Within each period the so-called Comedies, Histories, and Tragediesare respectively grouped together; and for this reason, as well as forothers, the order within each period does not profess to bechronological (_e. g. _ it is not implied that the _Comedy of Errors_preceded _1 Henry VI. _ or _Titus Andronicus_). Where Shakespeare'sauthorship of any considerable part of a play is questioned, widely orby specially good authority, the name of the play is printed in italics. _First Period_ (to 1595? ). --Comedy of Errors, Love's Labour's Lost, TwoGentlemen of Verona, Midsummer-Night's Dream; _1 Henry VI. _, _2 HenryVI. _, _3 Henry VI. _, Richard III. , Richard II. ; _Titus Andronicus_,Romeo and Juliet. _Second Period_ (to 1602? ). --Merchant of Venice, All's Well (better inThird Period? ), _Taming of the Shrew_, Much Ado, As You Like it, MerryWives, Twelfth Night; King John, 1 Henry IV. , 2 Henry IV. , Henry V. ;Julius Caesar, Hamlet. _Third Period_ (to 1608? ). --Troilus and Cressida, Measure for Measure;Othello, King Lear, _Timon of Athens_, Macbeth, Antony and Cleopatra,Coriolanus. _Fourth Period. _--_Pericles_, Cymbeline, Winter's Tale, Tempest, _TwoNoble Kinsmen_, _Henry VIII. _][Footnote 26: The reader will observe that this 'tragic period' wouldnot exactly coincide with the 'Third Period' of the division given inthe last note. For _Julius Caesar_ and _Hamlet_ fall in the SecondPeriod, not the Third; and I may add that, as _Pericles_ was entered atStationers' Hall in 1608 and published in 1609, it ought strictly to beput in the Third Period--not the Fourth. The truth is that _JuliusCaesar_ and _Hamlet_ are given to the Second Period mainly on the groundof style; while a Fourth Period is admitted, not mainly on that ground(for there is no great difference here between _Antony_ and _Coriolanus_on the one side and _Cymbeline_ and the _Tempest_ on the other), butbecause of a difference in substance and spirit. If a Fourth Period wereadmitted on grounds of form, it ought to begin with _Antony andCleopatra_. ][Footnote 27: I should go perhaps too far if I said that it is generallyadmitted that _Timon of Athens_ also precedes the two Roman tragedies;but its precedence seems to me so nearly certain that I assume it inwhat follows. ][Footnote 28: That play, however, is distinguished, I think, by adeliberate endeavour after a dignified and unadorned simplicity,--aRoman simplicity perhaps. ][Footnote 29: It is quite probable that this may arise in part from thefact, which seems hardly doubtful, that the tragedy was revised, and inplaces re-written, some little time after its first composition. ][Footnote 30: This, if we confine ourselves to the tragedies, is, Ithink, especially the case in _King Lear_ and _Timon_. ][Footnote 31: The first, at any rate, of these three plays is, ofcourse, much nearer to _Hamlet_, especially in versification, than to_Antony and Cleopatra_, in which Shakespeare's final style first showsitself practically complete. It has been impossible, in the brieftreatment of this subject, to say what is required of the individualplays. ][Footnote 32: _The Mirror_, 18th April, 1780, quoted by Furness,_Variorum Hamlet_, ii. 148. In the above remarks I have relied mainly onFurness's collection of extracts from early critics. ][Footnote 33: I do not profess to reproduce any one theory, and, stillless, to do justice to the ablest exponent of this kind of view, Werder(_Vorlesungen über Hamlet_, 1875), who by no means regards Hamlet'sdifficulties as _merely_ external. ][Footnote 34: I give one instance. When he spares the King, he speaks ofkilling him when he is drunk asleep, when he is in his rage, when he isawake in bed, when he is gaming, as if there were in none of these casesthe least obstacle (III. iii. 89 ff. ). ][Footnote 35: It is surprising to find quoted, in support of theconscience view, the line 'Thus conscience does make cowards of us all,'and to observe the total misinterpretation of the soliloquy _To be ornot to be_, from which the line comes. In this soliloquy Hamlet is notthinking of the duty laid upon him at all. He is debating the questionof suicide. No one oppressed by the ills of life, he says, wouldcontinue to bear them if it were not for speculation about his possiblefortune in another life. And then, generalising, he says (what appliesto himself, no doubt, though he shows no consciousness of the fact) thatsuch speculation or reflection makes men hesitate and shrink likecowards from great actions and enterprises. 'Conscience' does not meanmoral sense or scrupulosity, but this reflection on the _consequences_of action. It is the same thing as the 'craven scruple of thinking tooprecisely on the event' of the speech in IV. iv. As to this useof 'conscience,' see Schmidt, _s. v. _ and the parallels there given. The_Oxford Dictionary_ also gives many examples of similar uses of'conscience,' though it unfortunately lends its authority to themisinterpretation criticised. ][Footnote 36: The King does not die of the _poison_ on the foil, likeLaertes and Hamlet. They were wounded before he was, but they die afterhim. ][Footnote 37: I may add here a word on one small matter. It isconstantly asserted that Hamlet wept over the body of Polonius. Now, ifhe did, it would make no difference to my point in the paragraph above;but there is no warrant in the text for the assertion. It is based onsome words of the Queen (IV. i. 24), in answer to the King'squestion, 'Where is he gone? ':     To draw apart the body he hath killed:     O'er whom his very madness, like some ore     Among a mineral of metals base,     Shows itself pure; he weeps for what is done. But the Queen, as was pointed out by Doering, is trying to screen herson. She has already made the false statement that when Hamlet, crying,'A rat! a rat! ', ran his rapier through the arras, it was because heheard _something stir_ there, whereas we know that what he heard was aman's voice crying, 'What ho! help, help, help! ' And in this scene shehas come straight from the interview with her son, terribly agitated,shaken with 'sighs' and 'profound heaves,' in the night (line 30). Nowwe know what Hamlet said to the body, and of the body, in thatinterview; and there is assuredly no sound of tears in the voice thatsaid those things and others. The only sign of relenting is in the words(III. iv. 171):                         For this same lord,     I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so,     To punish me with this and this with me,     That I must be their scourge and minister. His mother's statement, therefore, is almost certainly untrue, though itmay be to her credit. (It is just conceivable that Hamlet wept atIII. iv. 130, and that the Queen supposed he was weeping forPolonius. )Perhaps, however, he may have wept over Polonius's body afterwards? Well, in the _next_ scene (IV. ii. ) we see him _alone_ with thebody, and are therefore likely to witness his genuine feelings. And hisfirst words are, 'Safely stowed'! ][Footnote 38: Not 'must cripple,' as the English translation has it. ][Footnote 39: He says so to Horatio, whom he has no motive for deceiving(V. ii. 218). His contrary statement (II. ii. 308) is made toRosencrantz and Guildenstern. ][Footnote 40: See Note B. ][Footnote 41: The critics have laboured to find a cause, but it seems tome Shakespeare simply meant to portray a pathological condition; and avery touching picture he draws. Antonio's sadness, which he describes inthe opening lines of the play, would never drive him to suicide, but itmakes him indifferent to the issue of the trial, as all his speeches inthe trial-scene show. ][Footnote 42: Of course 'your' does not mean Horatio's philosophy inparticular. 'Your' is used as the Gravedigger uses it when he says that'your water is a sore decayer of your . . . dead body. '][Footnote 43: This aspect of the matter leaves _us_ comparativelyunaffected, but Shakespeare evidently means it to be of importance. TheGhost speaks of it twice, and Hamlet thrice (once in his last furiouswords to the King). If, as we must suppose, the marriage was universallyadmitted to be incestuous, the corrupt acquiescence of the court and theelectors to the crown would naturally have a strong effect on Hamlet'smind. ][Footnote 44: It is most significant that the metaphor of this soliloquyreappears in Hamlet's adjuration to his mother (III. iv. 150):     Repent what's past; avoid what is to come;     And do not spread the compost on the weeds     To make them ranker. ][Footnote 45: If the reader will now look at the only speech of Hamlet'sthat precedes the soliloquy, and is more than one line in length--thespeech beginning 'Seems, madam! nay, it _is_'--he will understand what,surely, when first we come to it, sounds very strange and almostboastful. It is not, in effect, about Hamlet himself at all; it is abouthis mother (I do not mean that it is intentionally and consciously so;and still less that she understood it so). ][Footnote 46: See Note D. ][Footnote 47: See p. 13. ][Footnote 48: _E. g. _ in the transition, referred to above, fromdesire for vengeance into the wish never to have been born; inthe soliloquy, 'O what a rogue'; in the scene at Ophelia's grave. The Schlegel-Coleridge theory does not account for the psychologicalmovement in these passages. ][Footnote 49: Hamlet's violence at Ophelia's grave, though probablyintentionally exaggerated, is another example of this want ofself-control. The Queen's description of him (V. i. 307),               This is mere madness;     And thus awhile the fit will work on him;     Anon, as patient as the female dove,     When that her golden couplets are disclosed,     His silence will sit drooping. may be true to life, though it is evidently prompted by anxiety toexcuse his violence on the ground of his insanity. On this passage seefurther Note G. ][Footnote 50: Throughout, I italicise to show the connection of ideas. ][Footnote 51: Cf. _Measure for Measure_, IV. iv. 23, 'This deed . . . makes me unpregnant and dull to all proceedings. '][Footnote 52: III. ii. 196 ff. , IV. vii. 111 ff. :_e. g. _,     Purpose is but the slave to _memory_,     Of violent birth but poor validity. ][Footnote 53: So, before, he had said to him:     And duller should'st thou be than the fat weed     That roots itself in ease on Lethe wharf,     Would'st thou not stir in this. On Hamlet's soliloquy after the Ghost's disappearance see Note D. ]LECTURE IVHAMLETThe only way, if there is any way, in which a conception of Hamlet'scharacter could be proved true, would be to show that it, and it alone,explains all the relevant facts presented by the text of the drama. Toattempt such a demonstration here would obviously be impossible, even ifI felt certain of the interpretation of all the facts. But I propose nowto follow rapidly the course of the action in so far as it speciallyillustrates the character, reserving for separate consideration oneimportant but particularly doubtful point. 1We left Hamlet, at the close of the First Act, when he had just receivedhis charge from the spirit of his father; and his condition was vividlydepicted in the fact that, within an hour of receiving this charge, hehad relapsed into that weariness of life or longing for death which isthe immediate cause of his later inaction. When next we meet him, at theopening of the Second Act, a considerable time has elapsed, apparentlyas much as two months. [54] The ambassadors sent to the King of Norway(I. ii. 27) are just returning. Laertes, whom we saw leaving Elsinore(I. iii. ), has been in Paris long enough to be in want of freshsupplies. Ophelia has obeyed her father's command (given in I. iii. ),and has refused to receive Hamlet's visits or letters. What has Hamletdone? He has put on an 'antic disposition' and established a reputationfor lunacy, with the result that his mother has become deeply anxiousabout him, and with the further result that the King, who was formerlyso entirely at ease regarding him that he wished him to stay on atCourt, is now extremely uneasy and very desirous to discover the causeof his 'transformation. ' Hence Rosencrantz and Guildenstern have beensent for, to cheer him by their company and to worm his secret out ofhim; and they are just about to arrive. Beyond exciting thus theapprehensions of his enemy Hamlet has done absolutely nothing; and, aswe have seen, we must imagine him during this long period sunk for themost part in 'bestial oblivion' or fruitless broodings, and fallingdeeper and deeper into the slough of despond. Now he takes a further step. He suddenly appears unannounced inOphelia's chamber; and his appearance and behaviour are such as tosuggest both to Ophelia and to her father that his brain is turned bydisappointment in love. How far this step was due to the design ofcreating a false impression as to the origin of his lunacy, how far toother causes, is a difficult question; but such a design seems certainlypresent. It succeeds, however, only in part; for, although Polonius isfully convinced, the King is not so, and it is therefore arranged thatthe two shall secretly witness a meeting between Ophelia and Hamlet. Meanwhile Rosencrantz and Guildenstern arrive, and at the King's requestbegin their attempts, easily foiled by Hamlet, to pluck out the heart ofhis mystery. Then the players come to Court, and for a little while oneof Hamlet's old interests revives, and he is almost happy. But only fora little while. The emotion shown by the player in reciting the speechwhich tells of Hecuba's grief for her slaughtered husband awakes intoburning life the slumbering sense of duty and shame. He must act. Withthe extreme rapidity which always distinguishes him in his healthiermoments, he conceives and arranges the plan of having the 'Murder ofGonzago' played before the King and Queen, with the addition of a speechwritten by himself for the occasion. Then, longing to be alone, heabruptly dismisses his guests, and pours out a passion of self-reproachfor his delay, asks himself in bewilderment what can be its cause,lashes himself into a fury of hatred against his foe, checks himself indisgust at his futile emotion, and quiets his conscience for the momentby trying to convince himself that he has doubts about the Ghost, and byassuring himself that, if the King's behaviour at the play-scene showsbut a sign of guilt, he 'knows his course. 'Nothing, surely, can be clearer than the meaning of this famoussoliloquy. The doubt which appears at its close, instead of being thenatural conclusion of the preceding thoughts, is totally inconsistentwith them. For Hamlet's self-reproaches, his curses on his enemy, andhis perplexity about his own inaction, one and all imply his faith inthe identity and truthfulness of the Ghost. Evidently this sudden doubt,of which there has not been the slightest trace before, is no genuinedoubt; it is an unconscious fiction, an excuse for his delay--and forits continuance. A night passes, and the day that follows it brings the crisis. Firsttakes place that interview from which the King is to learn whetherdisappointed love is really the cause of his nephew's lunacy. Hamlet issent for; poor Ophelia is told to walk up and down, reading herprayer-book; Polonius and the King conceal themselves behind the arras. And Hamlet enters, so deeply absorbed in thought that for some time hesupposes himself to be alone. What is he thinking of? 'The Murder ofGonzago,' which is to be played in a few hours, and on which everythingdepends? Not at all. He is meditating on suicide; and he finds that whatstands in the way of it, and counterbalances its infinite attraction, isnot any thought of a sacred unaccomplished duty, but the doubt, quiteirrelevant to that issue, whether it is not ignoble in the mind to endits misery, and, still more, whether death _would_ end it. Hamlet, thatis to say, is here, in effect, precisely where he was at the time of hisfirst soliloquy ('O that this too too solid flesh would melt') twomonths ago, before ever he heard of his father's murder. [55] Hisreflections have no reference to this particular moment; they representthat habitual weariness of life with which his passing outbursts ofemotion or energy are contrasted. What can be more significant than thefact that he is sunk in these reflections on the very day which is todetermine for him the truthfulness of the Ghost? And how is it possiblefor us to hope that, if that truthfulness should be established, Hamletwill be any nearer to his revenge? [56]His interview with Ophelia follows; and its result shows that his delayis becoming most dangerous to himself. The King is satisfied that,whatever else may be the hidden cause of Hamlet's madness, it is notlove. He is by no means certain even that Hamlet is mad at all. He hasheard that infuriated threat, 'I say, we will have no more marriages;those that are married, all but one, shall live; the rest shall keep asthey are. ' He is thoroughly alarmed.

He at any rate will not delay. Onthe spot he determines to send Hamlet to England. But, as Polonius ispresent, we do not learn at once the meaning of this purpose. Evening comes. The approach of the play-scene raises Hamlet's spirits. He is in his element. He feels that he is doing _something_ towards hisend, striking a stroke, but a stroke of intellect. In his instructionsto the actor on the delivery of the inserted speech, and again in hisconversation with Horatio just before the entry of the Court, we see thetrue Hamlet, the Hamlet of the days before his father's death. But howcharacteristic it is that he appears quite as anxious that his speechshould not be ranted as that Horatio should observe its effect upon theKing! This trait appears again even at that thrilling moment when theactor is just going to deliver the speech. Hamlet sees him beginning tofrown and glare like the conventional stage-murderer, and calls to himimpatiently, 'Leave thy damnable faces and begin! '[57]Hamlet's device proves a triumph far more complete than he had dared toexpect. He had thought the King might 'blench,' but he does much more. When only six of the 'dozen or sixteen lines' have been spoken he startsto his feet and rushes from the hall, followed by the whole dismayedCourt. In the elation of success--an elation at first almosthysterical--Hamlet treats Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, who are sent tohim, with undisguised contempt. Left to himself, he declares that now hecould                   drink hot blood,     And do such bitter business as the day     Would quake to look on. He has been sent for by his mother, and is going to her chamber; and sovehement and revengeful is his mood that he actually fancies himself indanger of using daggers to her as well as speaking them. [58]In this mood, on his way to his mother's chamber, he comes upon theKing, alone, kneeling, conscience-stricken and attempting to pray. Hisenemy is delivered into his hands.     Now might I do it pat, now he is praying:     And now I'll do it: and so he goes to heaven:     And so am I revenged. [59] That would be scanned. He scans it; and the sword that he drew at the words, 'And now I'll doit,' is thrust back into its sheath. If he killed the villain now hewould send his soul to heaven; and he would fain kill soul as well asbody. That this again is an unconscious excuse for delay is now prettygenerally agreed, and it is needless to describe again the state of mindwhich, on the view explained in our last lecture, is the real cause ofHamlet's failure here. The first five words he utters, 'Now might I doit,' show that he has no effective _desire_ to 'do it'; and in thelittle sentences that follow, and the long pauses between them, theendeavour at a resolution, and the sickening return of melancholicparalysis, however difficult a task they set to the actor, are plainenough to a reader. And any reader who may retain a doubt should observethe fact that, when the Ghost reappears, Hamlet does not think ofjustifying his delay by the plea that he was waiting for a more perfectvengeance. But in one point the great majority of critics, I think, goastray. The feeling of intense hatred which Hamlet expresses is not thecause of his sparing the King, and in his heart he knows this; but itdoes not at all follow that this feeling is unreal. All the evidenceafforded by the play goes to show that it is perfectly genuine, and Isee no reason whatever to doubt that Hamlet would have been very sorryto send his father's murderer to heaven, nor much to doubt that he wouldhave been glad to send him to perdition. The reason for refusing toaccept his own version of his motive in sparing Claudius is not that hissentiments are horrible, but that elsewhere, and also in the opening ofhis speech here, we can see that his reluctance to act is due to othercauses. The incident of the sparing of the King is contrived with extraordinarydramatic insight. On the one side we feel that the opportunity wasperfect. Hamlet could not possibly any longer tell himself that he hadno certainty as to his uncle's guilt. And the external conditions weremost favourable; for the King's remarkable behaviour at the play-scenewould have supplied a damning confirmation of the story Hamlet had totell about the Ghost. Even now, probably, in a Court so corrupt as thatof Elsinore, he could not with perfect security have begun by chargingthe King with the murder; but he could quite safely have killed himfirst and given his justification afterwards, especially as he wouldcertainly have had on his side the people, who loved him and despisedClaudius. On the other hand, Shakespeare has taken care to give thisperfect opportunity so repulsive a character that we can hardly bringourselves to wish that the hero should accept it. One of his minordifficulties, we have seen, probably was that he seemed to be requiredto attack a defenceless man; and here this difficulty is at its maximum. This incident is, again, the turning-point of the tragedy. So far,Hamlet's delay, though it is endangering his freedom and his life, hasdone no irreparable harm; but his failure here is the cause of all thedisasters that follow. In sparing the King, he sacrifices Polonius,Ophelia, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, Laertes, the Queen and himself. This central significance of the passage is dramatically indicated inthe following scene by the reappearance of the Ghost and the repetitionof its charge. Polonius is the first to fall. The old courtier, whose vanity would notallow him to confess that his diagnosis of Hamlet's lunacy was mistaken,had suggested that, after the theatricals, the Queen should endeavour ina private interview with her son to penetrate the mystery, while hehimself would repeat his favourite part of eaves-dropper (III. i. 184ff. ). It has now become quite imperative that the Prince should bebrought to disclose his secret; for his choice of the 'Murder ofGonzago,' and perhaps his conduct during the performance, have shown aspirit of exaggerated hostility against the King which has excitedgeneral alarm. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern discourse to Claudius on theextreme importance of his preserving his invaluable life, as thoughHamlet's insanity had now clearly shown itself to be homicidal. [60]When, then, at the opening of the interview between Hamlet and hismother, the son, instead of listening to her remonstrances, roughlyassumes the offensive, she becomes alarmed; and when, on her attemptingto leave the room, he takes her by the arm and forces her to sit down,she is terrified, cries out, 'Thou wilt not murder me? ' and screams forhelp. Polonius, behind the arras, echoes her call; and in a momentHamlet, hoping the concealed person is the King, runs the old manthrough the body. Evidently this act is intended to stand in sharp contrast with Hamlet'ssparing of his enemy. The King would have been just as defencelessbehind the arras as he had been on his knees; but here Hamlet is alreadyexcited and in action, and the chance comes to him so suddenly that hehas no time to 'scan' it. It is a minor consideration, but still for thedramatist not unimportant, that the audience would wholly sympathisewith Hamlet's attempt here, as directed against an enemy who is lurkingto entrap him, instead of being engaged in a business which perhaps tothe bulk of the audience then, as now, seemed to have a 'relish ofsalvation in't. 'We notice in Hamlet, at the opening of this interview, something of theexcited levity which followed the _dénouement_ of the play-scene. Thedeath of Polonius sobers him; and in the remainder of the interview heshows, together with some traces of his morbid state, the peculiarbeauty and nobility of his nature. His chief desire is not by any meansto ensure his mother's silent acquiescence in his design of revenge; itis to save her soul. And while the rough work of vengeance is repugnantto him, he is at home in this higher work. Here that fatal feeling, 'itis no matter,' never shows itself. No father-confessor could be moreselflessly set upon his end of redeeming a fellow-creature fromdegradation, more stern or pitiless in denouncing the sin, or more eagerto welcome the first token of repentance. There is something infinitelybeautiful in that sudden sunshine of faith and love which breaks outwhen, at the Queen's surrender,     O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain,he answers,     O throw away the worser part of it,     And live the purer with the other half. The truth is that, though Hamlet hates his uncle and acknowledges theduty of vengeance, his whole heart is never in this feeling or thistask; but his whole heart is in his horror at his mother's fall and inhis longing to raise her. The former of these feelings was theinspiration of his first soliloquy; it combines with the second to formthe inspiration of his eloquence here. And Shakespeare never wrote moreeloquently than here. I have already alluded to the significance of the reappearance of theGhost in this scene; but why does Shakespeare choose for the particularmoment of its reappearance the middle of a speech in which Hamlet israving against his uncle? There seems to be more than one reason. In thefirst place, Hamlet has already attained his object of stirring shameand contrition in his mother's breast, and is now yielding to the oldtemptation of unpacking his heart with words, and exhausting in uselessemotion the force which should be stored up in his will. And, next, indoing this he is agonising his mother to no purpose, and in despite ofher piteous and repeated appeals for mercy. But the Ghost, when it gavehim his charge, had expressly warned him to spare her; and here againthe dead husband shows the same tender regard for his weak unfaithfulwife. The object of his return is to repeat his charge:     Do not forget: this visitation     Is but to whet thy almost blunted purpose;but, having uttered this reminder, he immediately bids the son to helpthe mother and 'step between her and her fighting soul. 'And, whether intentionally or not, another purpose is served byShakespeare's choice of this particular moment. It is a moment when thestate of Hamlet's mind is such that we cannot suppose the Ghost to bemeant for an hallucination; and it is of great importance here that thespectator or reader should not suppose any such thing. He is furtherguarded by the fact that the Ghost proves, so to speak, his identity byshowing the same traits as were visible on his first appearance--thesame insistence on the duty of remembering, and the same concern for theQueen. And the result is that we construe the Ghost's interpretation ofHamlet's delay ('almost blunted purpose') as the truth, the dramatist'sown interpretation. Let me add that probably no one in Shakespeare'saudience had any doubt of his meaning here. The idea of later criticsand readers that the Ghost is an hallucination is due partly to failureto follow the indications just noticed, but partly also to two mistakes,the substitution of our present intellectual atmosphere for theElizabethan, and the notion that, because the Queen does not see andhear the Ghost, it is meant to be unreal. But a ghost, in Shakespeare'sday, was able for any sufficient reason to confine its manifestation toa single person in a company; and here the sufficient reason, that ofsparing the Queen, is obvious. [61]At the close of this scene it appears that Hamlet has somehow learned ofthe King's design of sending him to England in charge of his two'school-fellows. ' He has no doubt that this design covers somevillainous plot against himself, but neither does he doubt that he willsucceed in defeating it; and, as we saw, he looks forward with pleasureto this conflict of wits. The idea of refusing to go appears not tooccur to him. Perhaps (for here we are left to conjecture) he feels thathe could not refuse unless at the same time he openly accused the Kingof his father's murder (a course which he seems at no time tocontemplate); for by the slaughter of Polonius he has supplied his enemywith the best possible excuse for getting him out of the country. Besides, he has so effectually warned this enemy that, after the deathof Polonius is discovered, he is kept under guard (IV. iii. 14). Heconsents, then, to go. But on his way to the shore he meets the army ofFortinbras on its march to Poland; and the sight of these men goingcheerfully to risk death 'for an egg-shell,' and 'making mouths at theinvisible event,' strikes him with shame as he remembers how he, with somuch greater cause for action, 'lets all sleep;' and he breaks out intothe soliloquy, 'How all occasions do inform against me! 'This great speech, in itself not inferior to the famous 'To be or not tobe,' is absent not only from the First Quarto but from the Folio. It istherefore probable that, at any rate by the time when the Folio appeared(1623), it had become customary to omit it in theatrical representation;and this is still the custom. But, while no doubt it is dramatically theleast indispensable of the soliloquies, it has a direct dramatic value,and a great value for the interpretation of Hamlet's character. It showsthat Hamlet, though he is leaving Denmark, has not relinquished the ideaof obeying the Ghost. It exhibits very strikingly his inability tounderstand why he has delayed so long. It contains that assertion whichso many critics forget, that he has 'cause and will and strength andmeans to do it. ' On the other hand--and this was perhaps the principalpurpose of the speech--it convinces us that he has learnt little ornothing from his delay, or from his failure to seize the opportunitypresented to him after the play-scene. For, we find, both the motive andthe gist of the speech are precisely the same as those of the soliloquyat the end of the Second Act ('O what a rogue'). There too he wasstirred to shame when he saw a passionate emotion awakened by a causewhich, compared with his, was a mere egg-shell. There too he stoodbewildered at the sight of his own dulness, and was almost ready tobelieve--what was justly incredible to him--that it was the mask of merecowardice. There too he determined to delay no longer: if the Kingshould but blench, he knew his course. Yet this determination led tonothing then; and why, we ask ourselves in despair, should the bloodythoughts he now resolves to cherish ever pass beyond the realm ofthought? Between this scene (IV. iv. ) and the remainder of the play we must againsuppose an interval, though not a very long one. When the actionrecommences, the death of Polonius has led to the insanity of Opheliaand the secret return of Laertes from France. The young man comes backbreathing slaughter. For the King, afraid to put Hamlet on his trial (acourse likely to raise the question of his own behaviour at the play,and perhaps to provoke an open accusation),[62] has attempted to hush upthe circumstances of Polonius's death, and has given him a hurried andinglorious burial. The fury of Laertes, therefore, is directed in thefirst instance against the King: and the ease with which he raises thepeople, like the King's fear of a judicial enquiry, shows us how purelyinternal were the obstacles which the hero had to overcome. Thisimpression is intensified by the broad contrast between Hamlet andLaertes, who rushes headlong to his revenge, and is determined to haveit though allegiance, conscience, grace and damnation stand in his way(IV. v. 130). But the King, though he has been hard put to it, is now inhis element and feels safe. Knowing that he will very soon hear ofHamlet's execution in England, he tells Laertes that his father died byHamlet's hand, and expresses his willingness to let the friends ofLaertes judge whether he himself has any responsibility for the deed. And when, to his astonishment and dismay, news comes that Hamlet hasreturned to Denmark, he acts with admirable promptitude and address,turns Laertes round his finger, and arranges with him for the murder oftheir common enemy. If there were any risk of the young man's resolutionfaltering, it is removed by the death of Ophelia. And now the King hasbut one anxiety,--to prevent the young men from meeting before thefencing-match. For who can tell what Hamlet might say in his defence, orhow enchanting his tongue might prove? [63]Hamlet's return to Denmark is due partly to his own action, partly toaccident. On the voyage he secretly possesses himself of the royalcommission, and substitutes for it another, which he himself writes andseals, and in which the King of England is ordered to put to death, notHamlet, but Rosencrantz and Guildenstern. Then the ship is attacked by apirate, which, apparently, finds its intended prize too strong for it,and makes off. But as Hamlet 'in the grapple,' eager for fighting, hasboarded the assailant, he is carried off in it, and by promises inducesthe pirates to put him ashore in Denmark. In what spirit does he return? Unquestionably, I think, we can observe acertain change, though it is not great. First, we notice here and therewhat seems to be a consciousness of power, due probably to his successin counter-mining Claudius and blowing the courtiers to the moon, and tohis vigorous action in the sea-fight. But I doubt if this sense of poweris more marked than it was in the scenes following the success of the'Murder of Gonzago. ' Secondly, we nowhere find any direct expression ofthat weariness of life and that longing for death which were so markedin the first soliloquy and in the speech 'To be or not to be. ' This maybe a mere accident, and it must be remembered that in the Fifth Act wehave no soliloquy. But in the earlier Acts the feelings referred to donot appear _merely_ in soliloquy, and I incline to think thatShakespeare means to show in the Hamlet of the Fifth Act a slightthinning of the dark cloud of melancholy, and means us to feel it tragicthat this change comes too late. And, in the third place, there is atrait about which doubt is impossible,--a sense in Hamlet that he is inthe hands of Providence. This had, indeed, already shown itself at thedeath of Polonius,[64] and perhaps at Hamlet's farewell to the King,[65]but the idea seems now to be constantly present in his mind. 'There's adivinity that shapes our ends,' he declares to Horatio in speaking ofthe fighting in his heart that would not let him sleep, and of hisrashness in groping his way to the courtiers to find their commission. How was he able, Horatio asks, to seal the substituted commission?     Why, even in that was heaven ordinant,Hamlet answers; he had his father's signet in his purse. And though hehas a presentiment of evil about the fencing-match he refuses to yieldto it: 'we defy augury: there is special providence in the fall of asparrow . . . the readiness is all. 'Though these passages strike us more when put together thus than whenthey come upon us at intervals in reading the play, they have a markedeffect on our feeling about Hamlet's character and still more about theevents of the action. But I find it impossible to believe, with somecritics, that they indicate any material change in his generalcondition, or the formation of any effective resolution to fulfil theappointed duty. On the contrary, they seem to express that kind ofreligious resignation which, however beautiful in one aspect, reallydeserves the name of fatalism rather than that of faith in Providence,because it is not united to any determination to do what is believed tobe the will of Providence. In place of this determination, the Hamlet ofthe Fifth Act shows a kind of sad or indifferent self-abandonment, as ifhe secretly despaired of forcing himself to action, and were ready toleave his duty to some other power than his own. _This_ is really themain change which appears in him after his return to Denmark, and whichhad begun to show itself before he went,--this, and not a determinationto act, nor even an anxiety to do so. For when he returns he stands in a most perilous position. On one sideof him is the King, whose safety depends on his death, and who has donehis best to murder him; on the other, Laertes, whose father and sisterhe has sent to their graves, and of whose behaviour and probableattitude he must surely be informed by Horatio. What is required of him,therefore, if he is not to perish with his duty undone, is the utmostwariness and the swiftest resolution. Yet it is not too much to saythat, except when Horatio forces the matter on his attention, he showsno consciousness of this position. He muses in the graveyard on thenothingness of life and fame, and the base uses to which our dustreturns, whether it be a court-jester's or a world-conqueror's. Helearns that the open grave over which he muses has been dug for thewoman he loved; and he suffers one terrible pang, from which he gainsrelief in frenzied words and frenzied action,--action which must needsintensify, if that were possible, the fury of the man whom he has,however unwittingly, so cruelly injured. Yet he appears absolutelyunconscious that he has injured Laertes at all, and asks him:     What is the reason that you use me thus? And as the sharpness of the first pang passes, the old weary miseryreturns, and he might almost say to Ophelia, as he does to her brother:     I loved you ever: but it is no matter. 'It is no matter': _nothing_ matters. The last scene opens. He narrates to Horatio the events of the voyageand his uncle's attempt to murder him. But the conclusion of the storyis no plan of action, but the old fatal question, 'Ought I not toact? '[66] And, while he asks it, his enemies have acted. Osric enterswith an invitation to him to take part in a fencing-match with Laertes. This match--he is expressly told so--has been arranged by his deadlyenemy the King; and his antagonist is a man whose hands but a few hoursago were at his throat, and whose voice he had heard shouting 'The deviltake thy soul! ' But he does not think of that. To fence is to show acourtesy, and to himself it is a relief,--action, and not the onehateful action. There is something noble in his carelessness, and alsoin his refusal to attend to the presentiment which he suddenly feels(and of which he says, not only 'the readiness is all,' but also 'it isno matter'). Something noble; and yet, when a sacred duty is stillundone, ought one to be so ready to die? With the same carelessness, andwith that trustfulness which makes us love him, but which is here sofatally misplaced, he picks up the first foil that comes to his hand,asks indifferently, 'These foils have all a length? ' and begins. AndFate descends upon his enemies, and his mother, and himself. But he is not left in utter defeat. Not only is his task at lastaccomplished, but Shakespeare seems to have determined that his heroshould exhibit in his latest hour all the glorious power and all thenobility and sweetness of his nature. Of the first, the power, I spokebefore,[67] but there is a wonderful beauty in the revelation of thesecond. His body already labouring in the pangs of death, his mind soarsabove them. He forgives Laertes; he remembers his wretched mother andbids her adieu, ignorant that she has preceded him. We hear now no wordof lamentation or self-reproach. He has will, and just time, to think,not of the past or of what might have been, but of the future; to forbidhis friend's death in words more pathetic in their sadness than even hisagony of spirit had been; and to take care, so far as in him lies, forthe welfare of the State which he himself should have guided. Then inspite of shipwreck he reaches the haven of silence where he would be. What else could his world-wearied flesh desire? But _we_ desire more; and we receive it. As those mysterious words, 'Therest is silence,' die upon Hamlet's lips, Horatio answers:     Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince,     And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest. Why did Shakespeare here, so much against his custom, introduce thisreference to another life? Did he remember that Hamlet is the only oneof his tragic heroes whom he has not allowed us to see in the days whenthis life smiled on him? Did he feel that, while for the others we mightbe content to imagine after life's fitful fever nothing more thanrelease and silence, we must ask more for one whose 'godlike reason' andpassionate love of goodness have only gleamed upon us through the heavyclouds of melancholy, and yet have left us murmuring, as we bow ourheads, 'This was the noblest spirit of them all'? 2How many things still remain to say of Hamlet! Before I touch on hisrelation to Ophelia, I will choose but two. Neither of them, comparedwith the matters so far considered, is of great consequence, but bothare interesting, and the first seems to have quite escaped observation. (1) Most people have, beside their more essential traits of character,little peculiarities which, for their intimates, form an indissolublepart of their personality. In comedy, and in other humorous works offiction, such peculiarities often figure prominently, but they rarely doso, I think, in tragedy. Shakespeare, however, seems to have given onesuch idiosyncrasy to Hamlet. It is a trick of speech, a habit of repetition. And these are simpleexamples of it from the first soliloquy:                            O _God! God! _     How weary, stale, flat and unprofitable     Seem to me all the uses of this world!     _Fie_ on't! ah _fie! _Now I ask your patience. You will say: 'There is nothing individualhere. Everybody repeats words thus. And the tendency, in particular, touse such repetitions in moments of great emotion is well-known, andfrequently illustrated in literature--for example, in David's cry oflament for Absalom. 'This is perfectly true, and plenty of examples could be drawn fromShakespeare himself. But what we find in Hamlet's case is, I believe,_not_ common. In the first place, this repetition is a _habit_ with him. Here are some more instances: 'Thrift, thrift, Horatio'; 'Indeed,indeed, sirs, but this troubles me'; 'Come, deal justly with me: come,come'; 'Wormwood, wormwood! ' I do not profess to have made an exhaustivesearch, but I am much mistaken if this _habit_ is to be found in anyother serious character of Shakespeare. [68]And, in the second place--and here I appeal with confidence to lovers ofHamlet--some of these repetitions strike us as intensely characteristic. Some even of those already quoted strike one thus, and still more do thefollowing:     (_a_)  _Horatio. _   It would have much amazed you.            _Hamlet. _    Very like, very like. Stay'd it long?     (_b_)  _Polonius. _  What do you read, my lord?            _Hamlet. _    Words, words, words.     (_c_)  _Polonius. _  My honourable lord, I will most humbly take                           my leave of you.            _Hamlet. _    You cannot, sir, take from me anything that I                           will more willingly part withal: except my                           life, except my life, except my life.     (_d_)  _Ophelia. _                  Good my lord,                         How does your honour for this many a day?            _Hamlet. _    I humbly thank you, well, well, well. Is there anything that Hamlet says or does in the whole play moreunmistakably individual than these replies? [69](2) Hamlet, everyone has noticed, is fond of quibbles and word-play, andof 'conceits' and turns of thought such as are common in the poets whomJohnson called Metaphysical. Sometimes, no doubt, he plays with wordsand ideas chiefly in order to mystify, thwart and annoy. To some extent,again, as we may see from the conversation where Rosencrantz andGuildenstern first present themselves (II. ii. 227), he is merelyfollowing the fashion of the young courtiers about him, just as in hislove-letter to Ophelia[70] he uses for the most part the fantasticlanguage of Court Euphuism. Nevertheless in this trait there issomething very characteristic. We should be greatly surprised to find itmarked in Othello or Lear or Timon, in Macbeth or Antony or Coriolanus;and, in fact, we find it in them hardly at all. One reason of this mayperhaps be that these characters are all later creations than Hamlet,and that Shakespeare's own fondness for this kind of play, like thefondness of the theatrical audience for it, diminished with time. Butthe main reason is surely that this tendency, as we see it in Hamlet,betokens a nimbleness and flexibility of mind which is characteristic ofhim and not of the later less many-sided heroes. Macbeth, for instance,has an imagination quite as sensitive as Hamlet's to certainimpressions, but he has none of Hamlet's delight in freaks and twists ofthought, or of his tendency to perceive and play with resemblances inthe most diverse objects and ideas. Though Romeo shows this tendency,the only tragic hero who approaches Hamlet here is Richard II. , whoindeed in several ways recalls the emasculated Hamlet of some critics,and may, like the real Hamlet, have owed his existence in part toShakespeare's personal familiarity with the weaknesses and dangers of animaginative temperament. That Shakespeare meant this trait to be characteristic of Hamlet isbeyond question. The very first line the hero speaks contains a play onwords:     A little more than kin and less than kind. The fact is significant, though the pun itself is not speciallycharacteristic. Much more so, and indeed absolutely individual, are theuses of word-play in moments of extreme excitement. Remember the awe andterror of the scene where the Ghost beckons Hamlet to leave his friendsand follow him into the darkness, and then consider this dialogue:     _Hamlet. _                    It waves me still.                   Go on; I'll follow thee.     _Marcellus. _  You shall not go, my lord.     _Hamlet. _                    Hold off your hands.     _Horatio. _    Be ruled; you shall not go.     _Hamlet. _                    My fate cries out,                   And makes each petty artery in this body                   As hardy as the Nemean lion's nerve.                   Still am I called. Unhand me, gentlemen.                   _By heaven I'll make a ghost of him that lets me. _Would any other character in Shakespeare have used those words? And,again, where is Hamlet more Hamlet than when he accompanies with a punthe furious action by which he compels his enemy to drink the 'poisontempered by himself'?     Here, thou incestuous, murderous, damn'd Dane,     Drink off this potion. Is thy union here?     Follow my mother. The 'union' was the pearl which Claudius professed to throw into thecup, and in place of which (as Hamlet supposes) he dropped poison in. But the 'union' is also that incestuous marriage which must not bebroken by his remaining alive now that his partner is dead. What ragethere is in the words, and what a strange lightning of the mind! Much of Hamlet's play with words and ideas is imaginatively humorous. That of Richard II. is fanciful, but rarely, if ever, humorous. Antonyhas touches of humour, and Richard III. has more; but Hamlet, we maysafely assert, is the only one of the tragic heroes who can be called ahumorist, his humour being first cousin to that speculative tendencywhich keeps his mental world in perpetual movement. Some of his quipsare, of course, poor enough, and many are not distinctive. Those of hisretorts which strike one as perfectly individual do so, I think, chieflybecause they suddenly reveal the misery and bitterness below thesurface; as when, to Rosencrantz's message from his mother, 'She desiresto speak with you in her closet, ere you go to bed,' he answers, 'Weshall obey, were she ten times our mother'; or as when he replies toPolonius's invitation, 'Will you walk out of the air, my lord? ' withwords that suddenly turn one cold, 'Into my grave. ' Otherwise, what wejustly call Hamlet's characteristic humour is not his exclusiveproperty, but appears in passages spoken by persons as different asMercutio, Falstaff and Rosalind. The truth probably is that it was thekind of humour most natural to Shakespeare himself, and that here, as insome other traits of the poet's greatest creation, we come into closecontact with Shakespeare the man. 3The actor who plays the part of Hamlet must make up his mind as to theinterpretation of every word and deed of the character. Even if at somepoint he feels no certainty as to which of two interpretations is right,he must still choose one or the other. The mere critic is not obliged todo this. Where he remains in doubt he may say so, and, if the matter isof importance, he ought to say so. This is the position in which I find myself in regard to Hamlet's lovefor Ophelia. I am unable to arrive at a conviction as to the meaning ofsome of his words and deeds, and I question whether from the mere textof the play a sure interpretation of them can be drawn. For this reasonI have reserved the subject for separate treatment, and have, so far aspossible, kept it out of the general discussion of Hamlet's character. On two points no reasonable doubt can, I think, be felt. (1) Hamlet wasat one time sincerely and ardently in love with Ophelia. For she herselfsays that he had importuned her with love in honourable fashion, and hadgiven countenance to his speech with almost all the holy vows of heaven(I. iii. 110 f. ). (2) When, at Ophelia's grave, he declared,     I loved Ophelia; forty thousand brothers     Could not, with all their quantity of love,     Make up my sum,he must have spoken sincerely; and, further, we may take it for grantedthat he used the past tense, 'loved,' merely because Ophelia was dead,and not to imply that he had once loved her but no longer did so. So much being assumed, we come to what is doubtful, and I will begin bystating what is probably the most popular view. According to this view,Hamlet's love for Ophelia never changed. On the revelation made by theGhost, however, he felt that he must put aside all thoughts of it; andit also seemed to him necessary to convince Ophelia, as well as others,that he was insane, and so to destroy her hopes of any happy issue totheir love. This was the purpose of his appearance in her chamber,though he was probably influenced also by a longing to see her and bidher a silent farewell, and possibly by a faint hope that he might safelyentrust his secret to her. If he entertained any such hope his study ofher face dispelled it; and thereafter, as in the Nunnery-scene (III. i. )and again at the play-scene, he not only feigned madness, but, toconvince her that he had quite lost his love for her, he also addressedher in bitter and insulting language. In all this he was acting a partintensely painful to himself; the very violence of his language in theNunnery-scene arose from this pain; and so the actor should make himshow, in that scene, occasional signs of a tenderness which with all hisefforts he cannot wholly conceal. Finally, over her grave the truthbursts from him in the declaration quoted just now, though it is stillimpossible for him to explain to others why he who loved her soprofoundly was forced to wring her heart. Now this theory, if the view of Hamlet's character which I have taken isanywhere near the truth, is certainly wrong at one point, viz. , in sofar as it supposes that Hamlet's bitterness to Ophelia was a _mere_pretence forced on him by his design of feigning to be insane; and Iproceed to call attention to certain facts and considerations, of whichthe theory seems to take no account. 1. How is it that in his first soliloquy Hamlet makes no referencewhatever to Ophelia? 2. How is it that in his second soliloquy, on the departure of theGhost, he again says nothing about her? When the lover is feeling thathe must make a complete break with his past, why does it not occur tohim at once that he must give up his hopes of happiness in love? 3. Hamlet does not, as the popular theory supposes, break with Opheliadirectly after the Ghost appears to him; on the contrary, he tries tosee her and sends letters to her (II. i. 109). What really happens isthat Ophelia suddenly repels his visits and letters. Now, _we_ know thatshe is simply obeying her father's order; but how would her actionappear to Hamlet, already sick at heart because of his mother'sfrailty,[71] and now finding that, the moment fortune has turned againsthim, the woman who had welcomed his love turns against him too? Even ifhe divined (as his insults to Polonius suggest) that her father wasconcerned in this change, would he not still, in that morbid conditionof mind, certainly suspect her of being less simple than she hadappeared to him? [72] Even if he remained free from _this_ suspicion, andmerely thought her deplorably weak, would he not probably feel angeragainst _her_, an anger like that of the hero of _Locksley Hall_ againsthis Amy? 4. When Hamlet made his way into Ophelia's room, why did he go in thegarb, the conventionally recognised garb, of the distracted _lover_? Ifit was necessary to convince Ophelia of his insanity, how was itnecessary to convince her that disappointment in _love_ was the cause ofhis insanity? His _main_ object in the visit appears to have been toconvince _others_, through her, that his insanity was not due to anymysterious unknown cause, but to this disappointment, and so to allaythe suspicions of the King. But if his feeling for her had been simplythat of love, however unhappy, and had not been in any degree that ofsuspicion or resentment, would he have adopted a plan which must involveher in so much suffering? [73]5. In what way are Hamlet's insults to Ophelia at the play-scenenecessary either to his purpose of convincing her of his insanity or tohis purpose of revenge? And, even if he did regard them as somehow meansto these ends, is it conceivable that he would have uttered them, if hisfeeling for her were one of hopeless but unmingled love? 6. How is it that neither when he kills Polonius, nor afterwards, doeshe appear to reflect that he has killed Ophelia's father, or what theeffect on Ophelia is likely to be? 7. We have seen that there is no reference to Ophelia in the soliloquiesof the First Act. Neither is there the faintest allusion to her in anyone of the soliloquies of the subsequent Acts, unless possibly in thewords (III. i. 72) 'the pangs of despised love. '[74] If the populartheory is true, is not this an astounding fact? 8. Considering this fact, is there no significance in the further fact(which, by itself, would present no difficulty) that in speaking toHoratio Hamlet never alludes to Ophelia, and that at his death he saysnothing of her? 9. If the popular theory is true, how is it that neither in theNunnery-scene nor at the play-scene does Shakespeare insert anything tomake the truth plain? Four words like Othello's 'O hardness todissemble' would have sufficed. These considerations, coupled with others as to Hamlet's state of mind,seem to point to two conclusions. They suggest, first, that Hamlet'slove, though never lost, was, after Ophelia's apparent rejection of him,mingled with suspicion and resentment, and that his treatment of her wasdue in part to this cause. And I find it impossible to resist thisconclusion. But the question how much of his harshness is meant to bereal, and how much assumed, seems to me impossible in some places toanswer. For example, his behaviour at the play-scene seems to me to showan intention to hurt and insult; but in the Nunnery-scene (which cannotbe discussed briefly) he is evidently acting a part and sufferingacutely, while at the same time his invective, however exaggerated,seems to spring from real feelings; and what is pretence, and whatsincerity, appears to me an insoluble problem. Something depends here onthe further question whether or no Hamlet suspects or detects thepresence of listeners; but, in the absence of an authentic stagetradition, this question too seems to be unanswerable. But something further seems to follow from the considerations adduced. Hamlet's love, they seem to show, was not only mingled with bitterness,it was also, like all his healthy feelings, weakened and deadened by hismelancholy. [75] It was far from being extinguished; probably it was_one_ of the causes which drove him to force his way to Ophelia;whenever he saw Ophelia, it awoke and, the circumstances being what theywere, tormented him. But it was not an absorbing passion; it did nothabitually occupy his thoughts; and when he declared that it was such alove as forty thousand brothers could not equal, he spoke sincerelyindeed but not truly. What he said was true, if I may put it thus, ofthe inner healthy self which doubtless in time would have fullyreasserted itself; but it was only partly true of the Hamlet whom we seein the play. And the morbid influence of his melancholy on his love isthe cause of those strange facts, that he never alludes to her in hissoliloquies, and that he appears not to realise how the death of herfather must affect her. The facts seem almost to force this idea on us. That it is less'romantic' than the popular view is no argument against it. Andpsychologically it is quite sound, for a frequent symptom of suchmelancholy as Hamlet's is a more or less complete paralysis, or evenperversion, of the emotion of love. And yet, while feeling no doubt thatup to a certain point it is true, I confess I am not satisfied that theexplanation of Hamlet's silence regarding Ophelia lies in it. And thereason of this uncertainty is that scarcely any spectators or readers of_Hamlet_ notice this silence at all; that I never noticed it myself tillI began to try to solve the problem of Hamlet's relation to Ophelia; andthat even now, when I read the play through without pausing to considerparticular questions, it scarcely strikes me. Now Shakespeare wroteprimarily for the theatre and not for students, and therefore greatweight should be attached to the immediate impressions made by hisworks. And so it seems at least possible that the explanation ofHamlet's silence may be that Shakespeare, having already a verydifficult task to perform in the soliloquies--that of showing the stateof mind which caused Hamlet to delay his vengeance--did not choose tomake his task more difficult by introducing matter which would not onlyadd to the complexity of the subject but might, from its 'sentimental'interest, distract attention from the main point; while, from histheatrical experience, he knew that the audience would not observe howunnatural it was that a man deeply in love, and forced not only torenounce but to wound the woman he loved, should not think of her whenhe was alone. But, as this explanation is no more completely convincingto me than the other, I am driven to suspend judgment, and also tosuspect that the text admits of no sure interpretation. [This paragraphstates my view imperfectly. ]This result may seem to imply a serious accusation against Shakespeare. But it must be remembered that if we could see a contemporaryrepresentation of _Hamlet_, our doubts would probably disappear. Theactor, instructed by the author, would make it clear to us by looks,tones, gestures, and by-play how far Hamlet's feigned harshness toOphelia was mingled with real bitterness, and again how far hismelancholy had deadened his love. 4As we have seen, all the persons in _Hamlet_ except the hero are minorcharacters, who fail to rise to the tragic level. They are not lessinteresting on that account, but the hero has occupied us so long that Ishall refer only to those in regard to whom Shakespeare's intentionappears to be not seldom misunderstood or overlooked. It may seem strange that Ophelia should be one of these; and yetShakespearean literature and the experience of teachers show that thereis much difference of opinion regarding her, and in particular that alarge number of readers feel a kind of personal irritation against her. They seem unable to forgive her for not having been a heroine, and theyfancy her much weaker than she was. They think she ought to have beenable to help Hamlet to fulfil his task. And they betray, it appears tome, the strangest misconceptions as to what she actually did. Now it was essential to Shakespeare's purpose that too great an interestshould not be aroused in the love-story; essential, therefore, thatOphelia should be merely one of the subordinate characters; andnecessary, accordingly, that she should not be the equal, in spirit,power or intelligence, of his famous heroines. If she had been anImogen, a Cordelia, even a Portia or a Juliet, the story must have takenanother shape. Hamlet would either have been stimulated to do his duty,or (which is more likely) he would have gone mad, or (which islikeliest) he would have killed himself in despair. Ophelia, therefore,was made a character who could not help Hamlet, and for whom on theother hand he would not naturally feel a passion so vehement or profoundas to interfere with the main motive of the play. [76] And in the loveand the fate of Ophelia herself there was introduced an element, not ofdeep tragedy but of pathetic beauty, which makes the analysis of hercharacter seem almost a desecration. Ophelia is plainly quite young and inexperienced. She has lost hermother, and has only a father and a brother, affectionate but worldly,to take care of her. Everyone in the drama who has any heart is drawn toher. To the persons in the play, as to the readers of it, she brings thethought of flowers. 'Rose of May' Laertes names her.             Lay her in the earth,     And from her fair and unpolluted flesh     May violets spring! --so he prays at her burial. 'Sweets to the sweet' the Queen murmurs, asshe scatters flowers on the grave; and the flowers which Ophelia herselfgathered--those which she gave to others, and those which floated abouther in the brook--glimmer in the picture of the mind. Her affection forher brother is shown in two or three delicate strokes. Her love for herfather is deep, though mingled with fear. For Hamlet she has, some say,no deep love--and perhaps she is so near childhood that old affectionshave still the strongest hold; but certainly she has given to Hamlet allthe love of which her nature is as yet capable. Beyond these threebeloved ones she seems to have eyes and ears for no one. The Queen isfond of her, but there is no sign of her returning the Queen'saffection. Her existence is wrapped up in these three. On this childlike nature and on Ophelia's inexperience everythingdepends. The knowledge that 'there's tricks in the world' has reachedher only as a vague report. Her father and brother are jealously anxiousfor her because of her ignorance and innocence; and we resent theiranxiety chiefly because we know Hamlet better than they. Her wholecharacter is that of simple unselfish affection. Naturally she isincapable of understanding Hamlet's mind, though she can feel itsbeauty. Naturally, too, she obeys her father when she is forbidden toreceive Hamlet's visits and letters. If we remember not what _we_ knowbut what _she_ knows of her lover and her father; if we remember thatshe had not, like Juliet, confessed her love; and if we remember thatshe was much below her suitor in station, her compliance surely mustseem perfectly natural, apart from the fact that the standard ofobedience to a father was in Shakespeare's day higher than in ours. 'But she does more than obey,' we are told; 'she runs off frightened toreport to her father Hamlet's strange visit and behaviour; she shows toher father one of Hamlet's letters, and tells him[77] the whole story ofthe courtship; and she joins in a plot to win Hamlet's secret from him. 'One must remember, however, that she had never read the tragedy. Consider for a moment how matters looked to _her_. She knows nothingabout the Ghost and its disclosures. She has undergone for some time thepain of repelling her lover and appearing to have turned against him. She sees him, or hears of him, sinking daily into deeper gloom, and sotransformed from what he was that he is considered to be out of hismind. She hears the question constantly discussed what the cause of thissad change can be; and her heart tells her--how can it fail to tellher? --that her unkindness is the chief cause. Suddenly Hamlet forces hisway into her chamber; and his appearance and his behaviour are those ofa man crazed with love. She is frightened--why not? She is not LadyMacbeth. Rosalind would have been frightened. Which of her censors wouldbe wholly unmoved if his room were invaded by a lunatic? She isfrightened, then; frightened, if you will, like a child. Yes, but,observe, her one idea is to help Hamlet. She goes, therefore, at once toher father. To whom else should she go? Her brother is away. Her father,whom she saw with her own eyes and not with Shakespeare's, is kind, andthe wisest of men, and concerned about Hamlet's state. Her father finds,in her report, the solution of the mystery: Hamlet is mad because shehas repulsed him. Why should she not tell her father the whole story andgive him an old letter which may help to convince the King and theQueen? Nay, why should she not allow herself to be used as a 'decoy' tosettle the question why Hamlet is mad? It is all-important that itshould be settled, in order that he may be cured; all her seniors aresimply and solely anxious for his welfare; and, if her unkindness _is_the cause of his sad state, they will permit her to restore him bykindness (III. i. 40). Was she to refuse to play a part just because itwould be painful to her to do so? I find in her joining the 'plot' (asit is absurdly called) a sign not of weakness, but of unselfishness andstrength. 'But she practised deception; she even told a lie. Hamlet asked herwhere her father was, and she said he was at home, when he was reallylistening behind a curtain. ' Poor Ophelia! It is considered angelic inDesdemona to say untruly that she killed herself, but most immoral orpusillanimous in Ophelia to tell _her_ lie. I will not discuss thesecasuistical problems; but, if ever an angry lunatic asks me a questionwhich I cannot answer truly without great danger to him and to one of myrelations, I hope that grace may be given me to imitate Ophelia. Seriously, at such a terrible moment was it weak, was it not ratherheroic, in a simple girl not to lose her presence of mind and not toflinch, but to go through her task for Hamlet's sake and her father's? And, finally, is it really a thing to be taken as matter of course, andno matter for admiration, in this girl that, from beginning to end, andafter a storm of utterly unjust reproach, not a thought of resentmentshould even cross her mind? Still, we are told, it was ridiculously weak in her to lose her reason. And here again her critics seem hardly to realise the situation, hardlyto put themselves in the place of a girl whose lover, estranged fromher, goes mad and kills her father. They seem to forget also thatOphelia must have believed that these frightful calamities were not merecalamities, but followed from _her_ action in repelling her lover. Nordo they realise the utter loneliness that must have fallen on her. Ofthe three persons who were all the world to her, her father has beenkilled, Hamlet has been sent out of the country insane, and her brotheris abroad. Horatio, when her mind gives way, tries to befriend her, butthere is no sign of any previous relation between them, or of Hamlet'shaving commended her to his friend's care. What support she can gainfrom the Queen we can guess from the Queen's character, and from thefact that, when Ophelia is most helpless, the Queen shrinks from thevery sight of her (IV. v. 1). She was left, thus, absolutely alone, andif she looked for her brother's return (as she did, IV. v. 70), shemight reflect that it would mean danger to Hamlet. Whether this idea occurred to her we cannot tell. In any case it waswell for her that her mind gave way before Laertes reached Elsinore; andpathetic as Ophelia's madness is, it is also, we feel, the kindeststroke that now could fall on her. It is evident, I think, that this wasthe effect Shakespeare intended to produce. In her madness Opheliacontinues sweet and lovable.     Thought and affliction, passion, hell itself,     She turns to favour and to prettiness. In her wanderings we hear from time to time an undertone of the deepestsorrow, but never the agonised cry of fear or horror which makes madnessdreadful or shocking. [78] And the picture of her death, if our eyes growdim in watching it, is still purely beautiful. Coleridge was true toShakespeare when he wrote of 'the affecting death of Ophelia,--who inthe beginning lay like a little projection of land into a lake orstream, covered with spray-flowers quietly reflected in the quietwaters, but at length is undermined or loosened, and becomes a fairyisle, and after a brief vagrancy sinks almost without an eddy. '[79]5I reluctantly pass by Polonius, Laertes and the beautiful character ofHoratio, to say something in conclusion of the Queen and the King. The answers to two questions asked about the Queen are, it seems to me,practically certain, (1) She did not merely marry a second time withindecent haste; she was false to her husband while he lived. This issurely the most natural interpretation of the words of the Ghost (I. v. 41 f. ), coming, as they do, before his account of the murder. Andagainst this testimony what force has the objection that the queen inthe 'Murder of Gonzago' is not represented as an adulteress? Hamlet'smark in arranging the play-scene was not his mother, whom besides he hadbeen expressly ordered to spare (I. v. 84 f. ). (2) On the other hand, she was _not_ privy to the murder of her husband,either before the deed or after it. There is no sign of her being so,and there are clear signs that she was not. The representation of themurder in the play-scene does not move her; and when her husband startsfrom his throne, she innocently asks him, 'How fares my lord? ' In theinterview with Hamlet, when her son says of his slaughter of Polonius,     'A bloody deed! ' Almost as bad, good mother,     As kill a king and marry with his brother,the astonishment of her repetition 'As kill a king! ' is evidentlygenuine; and, if it had not been so, she would never have had thehardihood to exclaim:     What have I done, that thou darest wag thy tongue     In noise so rude against me? Further, it is most significant that when she and the King speaktogether alone, nothing that is said by her or to her implies herknowledge of the secret. The Queen was not a bad-hearted woman, not at all the woman to thinklittle of murder. But she had a soft animal nature, and was very dulland very shallow. She loved to be happy, like a sheep in the sun; and,to do her justice, it pleased her to see others happy, like more sheepin the sun. She never saw that drunkenness is disgusting till Hamlettold her so; and, though she knew that he considered her marriage'o'er-hasty' (II. ii. 57), she was untroubled by any shame at thefeelings which had led to it. It was pleasant to sit upon her throne andsee smiling faces round her, and foolish and unkind in Hamlet to persistin grieving for his father instead of marrying Ophelia and makingeverything comfortable. She was fond of Ophelia and genuinely attachedto her son (though willing to see her lover exclude him from thethrone); and, no doubt, she considered equality of rank a mere triflecompared with the claims of love. The belief at the bottom of her heartwas that the world is a place constructed simply that people may behappy in it in a good-humoured sensual fashion. Her only chance was to be made unhappy. When affliction comes to her,the good in her nature struggles to the surface through the heavy massof sloth. Like other faulty characters in Shakespeare's tragedies, shedies a better woman than she had lived. When Hamlet shows her what shehas done she feels genuine remorse. It is true, Hamlet fears it will notlast, and so at the end of the interview (III. iv. 180 ff. ) he adds awarning that, if she betrays him, she will ruin herself as well. [80] Itis true too that there is no sign of her obeying Hamlet in breaking offher most intimate connection with the King. Still she does feel remorse;and she loves her son, and does not betray him.

She gives her husband afalse account of Polonius's death, and is silent about the appearance ofthe Ghost. She becomes miserable;     To her sick soul, as sin's true nature is,     Each toy seems prologue to some great amiss. She shows spirit when Laertes raises the mob, and one respects her forstanding up for her husband when she can do nothing to help her son. Ifshe had sense to realise Hamlet's purpose, or the probability of theKing's taking some desperate step to foil it, she must have sufferedtorture in those days. But perhaps she was too dull. The last we see of her, at the fencing-match, is most characteristic. She is perfectly serene. Things have slipped back into their groove, andshe has no apprehensions. She is, however, disturbed and full ofsympathy for her son, who is out of condition and pants and perspires. These are afflictions she can thoroughly feel for, though they are evenmore common than the death of a father. But then she meets her deathbecause she cannot resist the wish to please her son by drinking to hissuccess. And more: when she falls dying, and the King tries to make outthat she is merely swooning at the sight of blood, she collects herenergies to deny it and to warn Hamlet:     No, no, the drink, the drink,--O my dear Hamlet,--     The drink, the drink! I am poison'd.                [_Dies. _Was ever any other writer at once so pitiless and so just asShakespeare? Did ever any other mingle the grotesque and the patheticwith a realism so daring and yet so true to 'the modesty of nature'?       *       *       *       *       *King Claudius rarely gets from the reader the attention he deserves. Buthe is very interesting, both psychologically and dramatically. On theone hand, he is not without respectable qualities. As a king he iscourteous and never undignified; he performs his ceremonial dutiesefficiently; and he takes good care of the national interests. Henowhere shows cowardice, and when Laertes and the mob force their wayinto the palace, he confronts a dangerous situation with coolness andaddress. His love for his ill-gotten wife seems to be quite genuine, andthere is no ground for suspecting him of having used her as a mere meansto the crown. [81] His conscience, though ineffective, is far from beingdead. In spite of its reproaches he plots new crimes to ensure the prizeof the old one; but still it makes him unhappy (III. i. 49 f. , III. iii. 35 f. ). Nor is he cruel or malevolent. On the other hand, he is no tragic character. He had a small nature. IfHamlet may be trusted, he was a man of mean appearance--a mildewed ear,a toad, a bat; and he was also bloated by excess in drinking. Peoplemade mouths at him in contempt while his brother lived; and though, whenhe came to the throne, they spent large sums in buying his portrait, heevidently put little reliance on their loyalty. He was no villain offorce, who thought of winning his brother's crown by a bold and openstroke, but a cut-purse who stole the diadem from a shelf and put it inhis pocket. He had the inclination of natures physically weak andmorally small towards intrigue and crooked dealing. His instinctivepredilection was for poison: this was the means he used in his firstmurder, and he at once recurred to it when he had failed to get Hamletexecuted by deputy. Though in danger he showed no cowardice, his firstthought was always for himself.     I like him not, nor stands it safe with _us_     To let his madness range,--these are the first words we hear him speak after the play-scene. Hisfirst comment on the death of Polonius is,     It had been so with _us_ had we been there;and his second is,     Alas, how shall this bloody deed be answered?     It will be laid to _us_. He was not, however, stupid, but rather quick-witted and adroit. He wonthe Queen partly indeed by presents (how pitifully characteristic ofher! ), but also by 'witch-craft of his wit' or intellect. He seems tohave been soft-spoken, ingratiating in manner, and given to smiling onthe person he addressed ('that one may smile, and smile, and be avillain'). We see this in his speech to Laertes about the young man'sdesire to return to Paris (I. ii. 42 f. ). Hamlet scarcely ever speaks tohim without an insult, but he never shows resentment, hardly evenannoyance. He makes use of Laertes with great dexterity. He hadevidently found that a clear head, a general complaisance, a willingnessto bend and oblige where he could not overawe, would lead him to hisobjects,--that he could trick men and manage them. Unfortunately heimagined he could trick something more than men. This error, together with a decided trait of temperament, leads him tohis ruin. He has a sanguine disposition. When first we see him, all hasfallen out to his wishes, and he confidently looks forward to a happylife. He believes his secret to be absolutely safe, and he is quiteready to be kind to Hamlet, in whose melancholy he sees only excess ofgrief. He has no desire to see him leave the court; he promises him hisvoice for the succession (I. ii. 108, III. ii. 355); he will be a fatherto him. Before long, indeed, he becomes very uneasy, and then more andmore alarmed; but when, much later, he has contrived Hamlet's death inEngland, he has still no suspicion that he need not hope for happiness:                       till I know 'tis done,     Howe'er my haps, my _joys_ were ne'er begun. Nay, his very last words show that he goes to death unchanged:     Oh yet defend me, friends, I am but hurt [=wounded],he cries, although in half a minute he is dead. That his crime hasfailed, and that it could do nothing else, never once comes home to him. He thinks he can over-reach Heaven. When he is praying for pardon, he isall the while perfectly determined to keep his crown; and he knows it. More--it is one of the grimmest things in Shakespeare, but he puts suchthings so quietly that we are apt to miss them--when the King is prayingfor pardon for his first murder he has just made his final arrangementsfor a second, the murder of Hamlet. But he does not allude to that factin his prayer. If Hamlet had really wished to kill him at a moment thathad no relish of salvation in it, he had no need to wait. [82] So we areinclined to say; and yet it was not so. For this was the crisis forClaudius as well as Hamlet. He had better have died at once, before hehad added to his guilt a share in the responsibility for all the woe anddeath that followed. And so, we may allow ourselves to say, here alsoHamlet's indiscretion served him well. The power that shaped his endshaped the King's no less. For--to return in conclusion to the action of the play--in all thathappens or is done we seem to apprehend some vaster power. We do notdefine it, or even name it, or perhaps even say to ourselves that it isthere; but our imagination is haunted by the sense of it, as it worksits way through the deeds or the delays of men to its inevitable end. And most of all do we feel this in regard to Hamlet and the King. Forthese two, the one by his shrinking from his appointed task, and theother by efforts growing ever more feverish to rid himself of his enemy,seem to be bent on avoiding each other. But they cannot. Through deviouspaths, the very paths they take in order to escape, something is pushingthem silently step by step towards one another, until they meet and itputs the sword into Hamlet's hand. He himself must die, for he neededthis compulsion before he could fulfil the demand of destiny; but he_must_ fulfil it. And the King too, turn and twist as he may, must reachthe appointed goal, and is only hastening to it by the windings whichseem to lead elsewhere. Concentration on the character of the hero isapt to withdraw our attention from this aspect of the drama; but in noother tragedy of Shakespeare's, not even in _Macbeth_, is this aspect soimpressive. [83]I mention _Macbeth_ for a further reason. In _Macbeth_ and _Hamlet_ notonly is the feeling of a supreme power or destiny peculiarly marked, butit has also at times a peculiar tone, which may be called, in a sense,religious. I cannot make my meaning clear without using language toodefinite to describe truly the imaginative impression produced; but itis roughly true that, while we do not imagine the supreme power as adivine being who avenges crime, or as a providence which supernaturallyinterferes, our sense of it is influenced by the fact that Shakespeareuses current religious ideas here much more decidedly than in _Othello_or _King Lear_. The horror in Macbeth's soul is more than oncerepresented as desperation at the thought that he is eternally 'lost';the same idea appears in the attempt of Claudius at repentance; and as_Hamlet_ nears its close the 'religious' tone of the tragedy is deepenedin two ways. In the first place, 'accident' is introduced into the plotin its barest and least dramatic form, when Hamlet is brought back toDenmark by the chance of the meeting with the pirate ship. This incidenthas been therefore severely criticised as a lame expedient,[84] but itappears probable that the 'accident' is meant to impress the imaginationas the very reverse of accidental, and with many readers it certainlydoes so. And that this was the intention is made the more likely by asecond fact, the fact that in connection with the events of the voyageShakespeare introduces that feeling, on Hamlet's part, of his being inthe hands of Providence. The repeated expressions of this feeling arenot, I have maintained, a sign that Hamlet has now formed a fixedresolution to do his duty forthwith; but their effect is to strengthenin the spectator the feeling that, whatever may become of Hamlet, andwhether he wills it or not, his task will surely be accomplished,because it is the purpose of a power against which both he and his enemyare impotent, and which makes of them the instruments of its own will. Observing this, we may remember another significant point of resemblancebetween _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, the appearance in each play of aGhost,--a figure which seems quite in place in either, whereas it wouldseem utterly out of place in _Othello_ or _King Lear_. Much might besaid of the Ghost in _Hamlet_, but I confine myself to the matter whichwe are now considering. What is the effect of the appearance of theGhost? And, in particular, why does Shakespeare make this Ghost so_majestical_ a phantom, giving it that measured and solemn utterance,and that air of impersonal abstraction which forbids, for example, allexpression of affection for Hamlet and checks in Hamlet the outburst ofpity for his father? Whatever the intention may have been, the result isthat the Ghost affects imagination not simply as the apparition of adead king who desires the accomplishment of _his_ purposes, but also asthe representative of that hidden ultimate power, the messenger ofdivine justice set upon the expiation of offences which it appearedimpossible for man to discover and avenge, a reminder or a symbol of theconnexion of the limited world of ordinary experience with the vasterlife of which it is but a partial appearance. And as, at the beginningof the play, we have this intimation, conveyed through the medium of thereceived religious idea of a soul come from purgatory, so at the end,conveyed through the similar idea of a soul carried by angels to itsrest, we have an intimation of the same character, and a reminder thatthe apparent failure of Hamlet's life is not the ultimate truthconcerning him. If these various peculiarities of the tragedy are considered, it will beagreed that, while _Hamlet_ certainly cannot be called in the specificsense a 'religious drama,' there is in it nevertheless both a freer useof popular religious ideas, and a more decided, though alwaysimaginative, intimation of a supreme power concerned in human evil andgood, than can be found in any other of Shakespeare's tragedies. Andthis is probably one of the causes of the special popularity of thisplay, just as _Macbeth_, the tragedy which in these respects most nearlyapproaches it, has also the place next to it in general esteem. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 54: In the First Act (I. ii. 138) Hamlet says that his fatherhas been dead not quite two months. In the Third Act (III. ii. 135)Ophelia says King Hamlet has been dead 'twice two months. ' The events ofthe Third Act are separated from those of the Second by one night (II. ii. 565). ][Footnote 55: The only difference is that in the 'To be or not to be'soliloquy there is no reference to the idea that suicide is forbidden by'the Everlasting. ' Even this, however, seems to have been present in theoriginal form of the speech, for the version in the First Quarto has aline about our being 'borne before an everlasting Judge. '][Footnote 56: The present position of the 'To be or not to be'soliloquy, and of the interview with Ophelia, appears to have been dueto an after-thought of Shakespeare's; for in the First Quarto theyprecede, instead of following, the arrival of the players, andconsequently the arrangement for the play-scene. This is a notableinstance of the truth that 'inspiration' is by no means confined to apoet's first conceptions. ][Footnote 57: Cf. again the scene at Ophelia's grave, where a strongstrain of aesthetic disgust is traceable in Hamlet's 'towering passion'with Laertes: 'Nay, an thou'lt mouth, I'll rant as well as thou' (V. i. 306). ][Footnote 58:     O heart, lose not thy nature; let not ever     The soul of Nero enter this firm bosom:Nero, who put to death his mother who had poisoned her husband. Thispassage is surely remarkable. And so are the later words (III. iv. 28):     A bloody deed! almost as bad, good mother,     As kill a king, and marry with his brother. Are we to understand that at this time he really suspected her ofcomplicity in the murder? We must remember that the Ghost had not toldhim she was innocent of that. ][Footnote 59: I am inclined to think that the note of interrogation putafter 'revenged' in a late Quarto is right. ][Footnote 60: III. iii. 1-26. The state of affairs at Court at thistime, though I have not seen it noticed by critics, seems to mepuzzling. It is quite clear from III. ii. 310 ff. , from the passage justcited, and from IV. vii. 1-5 and 30 ff. , that everyone sees in theplay-scene a gross and menacing insult to the King. Yet no one shows anysign of perceiving in it also an accusation of murder. Surely that isstrange. Are we perhaps meant to understand that they do perceive this,but out of subservience choose to ignore the fact? If that wereShakespeare's meaning, the actors could easily indicate it by theirlooks. And if it were so, any sympathy we may feel for Rosencrantz andGuildenstern in their fate would be much diminished. But the mere textdoes not suffice to decide either this question or the question whetherthe two courtiers were aware of the contents of the commission they boreto England. ][Footnote 61: This passage in _Hamlet_ seems to have been in Heywood'smind when, in _The Second Part of the Iron Age_ (Pearson's reprint, vol. iii. , p. 423), he makes the Ghost of Agamemnon appear in order tosatisfy the doubts of Orestes as to his mother's guilt. No reader couldpossibly think that this Ghost was meant to be an hallucination; yetClytemnestra cannot see it. The Ghost of King Hamlet, I may add, goesfurther than that of Agamemnon, for he is audible, as well as visible,to the privileged person. ][Footnote 62: I think it is clear that it is this fear which stands inthe way of the obvious plan of bringing Hamlet to trial and getting himshut up or executed. It is much safer to hurry him off to his doom inEngland before he can say anything about the murder which he has somehowdiscovered. Perhaps the Queen's resistance, and probably Hamlet's greatpopularity with the people, are additional reasons. (It should beobserved that as early as III. i. 194 we hear of the idea of 'confining'Hamlet as an alternative to sending him to England. )][Footnote 63: I am inferring from IV. vii. , 129, 130, and the last wordsof the scene. ][Footnote 64: III. iv. 172:                         For this same lord,     I do repent: but heaven hath pleased it so,     To punish me with this and this with me,     That I must be their scourge and minister:_i. e. _ the scourge and minister of 'heaven,' which has a plural senseelsewhere also in Shakespeare. ][Footnote 65: IV. iii. 48:     _Ham. _   For England!     _King. _               Ay, Hamlet.     _Ham. _                            Good.     _King. _  So is it, if thou knew'st our purposes.     _Ham. _   I see a cherub that sees them. ][Footnote 66: On this passage see p. 98. Hamlet's reply to Horatio'swarning sounds, no doubt, determined; but so did 'I know my course. ' Andis it not significant that, having given it, he abruptly changes thesubject? ][Footnote 67: P. 102. ][Footnote 68: It should be observed also that many of Hamlet'srepetitions can hardly be said to occur at moments of great emotion,like Cordelia's 'And so I am, I am,' and 'No cause, no cause. 'Of course, a habit of repetition quite as marked as Hamlet's may befound in comic persons, _e. g. _ Justice Shallow in _2 Henry IV. _][Footnote 69: Perhaps it is from noticing this trait that I findsomething characteristic too in this coincidence of phrase: 'Alas, poorghost! ' (I. v. 4), 'Alas, poor Yorick! ' (V. i. 202). ][Footnote 70: This letter, of course, was written before the time whenthe action of the drama begins, for we know that Ophelia, after herfather's commands in I. iii. , received no more letters (II. i. 109). ][Footnote 71: 'Frailty, thy name is woman! ' he had exclaimed in thefirst soliloquy. Cf. what he says of his mother's act (III. iv. 40):                               Such an act     That blurs the grace and blush of modesty,     Calls virtue hypocrite, takes off the rose     From the fair forehead of an innocent love     And sets a blister there. ][Footnote 72: There are signs that Hamlet was haunted by the horribleidea that he had been deceived in Ophelia as he had been in his mother;that she was shallow and artificial, and even that what had seemedsimple and affectionate love might really have been something verydifferent. The grossness of his language at the play-scene, and somelines in the Nunnery-scene, suggest this; and, considering the state ofhis mind, there is nothing unnatural in his suffering from such asuspicion. I do not suggest that he _believed_ in it, and in theNunnery-scene it is clear that his healthy perception of her innocenceis in conflict with it. He seems to have divined that Polonius suspected him of dishonourableintentions towards Ophelia; and there are also traces of the idea thatPolonius had been quite ready to let his daughter run the risk as longas Hamlet was prosperous. But it is dangerous, of course, to lay stresson inferences drawn from his conversations with Polonius. ][Footnote 73: Many readers and critics imagine that Hamlet went straightto Ophelia's room after his interview with the Ghost. But we have justseen that on the contrary he tried to visit her and was repelled, and itis absolutely certain that a long interval separates the events of I. v. and II. i. They think also, of course, that Hamlet's visit to Opheliawas the first announcement of his madness. But the text flatlycontradicts that idea also. Hamlet has for some time appeared totallychanged (II. ii. 1-10); the King is very uneasy at his 'transformation,'and has sent for his school-fellows in order to discover its cause. Polonius now, after Ophelia has told him of the interview, comes toannounce his discovery, not of Hamlet's madness, but of its cause (II. ii. 49). That, it would seem, was the effect Hamlet aimed at in hisinterview. I may add that Ophelia's description of his intentexamination of her face suggests doubt rather as to her 'honesty' orsincerity than as to her strength of mind. I cannot believe that he everdreamed of confiding his secret to her. ][Footnote 74: If this _is_ an allusion to his own love, the adjective'despised' is significant. But I doubt the allusion. The othercalamities mentioned by Hamlet, 'the oppressor's wrong, the proud man'scontumely, the law's delay, the insolence of office, and the spurns thatpatient merit of the unworthy takes,' are not at all specially his own. ][Footnote 75: It should be noticed that it was not apparently of longstanding. See the words 'of late' in I. iii. 91, 99. ][Footnote 76: This, I think, may be said on almost any sane view ofHamlet's love. ][Footnote 77: Polonius says so, and it _may_ be true. ][Footnote 78: I have heard an actress in this part utter such a cry asis described above, but there is absolutely nothing in the text tojustify her rendering. Even the exclamation 'O, ho! ' found in theQuartos at IV. v. 33, but omitted in the Folios and by almost all moderneditors, coming as it does after the stanza, 'He is dead and gone,lady,' evidently expresses grief, not terror. ][Footnote 79: In the remarks above I have not attempted, of course, acomplete view of the character, which has often been well described; butI cannot forbear a reference to one point which I do not remember tohave seen noticed. In the Nunnery-scene Ophelia's first wordspathetically betray her own feeling:                       Good my lord,     How does your honour _for this many a day_? She then offers to return Hamlet's presents. This has not been suggestedto her by her father: it is her own thought. And the next lines, inwhich she refers to the sweet words which accompanied those gifts, andto the unkindness which has succeeded that kindness, imply a reproach. So again do those most touching little speeches:     _Hamlet. _    . . . I did love you once.     _Ophelia. _  Indeed, my lord, you made me believe so.     _Hamlet. _   You should not have believed me . . . I loved you not.     _Ophelia. _  I was the more deceived. Now the obvious surface fact was not that Hamlet had forsaken her, butthat _she_ had repulsed _him_; and here, with his usual unobtrusivesubtlety, Shakespeare shows how Ophelia, even though she may haveaccepted from her elders the theory that her unkindness has drivenHamlet mad, knows within herself that she is forsaken, and cannotrepress the timid attempt to win her lover back by showing that her ownheart is unchanged. I will add one note. There are critics who, after all the help giventhem in different ways by Goethe and Coleridge and Mrs. Jameson, stillshake their heads over Ophelia's song, 'To-morrow is Saint Valentine'sday. ' Probably they are incurable, but they may be asked to considerthat Shakespeare makes Desdemona, 'as chaste as ice, as pure as snow,'sing an old song containing the line,     If I court moe women, you'll couch with moe men. ][Footnote 80: _I. e. _ the King will kill _her_ to make all sure. ][Footnote 81: I do not rely so much on his own statement to Laertes (IV. vii. 12 f. ) as on the absence of contrary indications, on his tone inspeaking to her, and on such signs as his mention of her in soliloquy(III. iii. 55). ][Footnote 82: This also is quietly indicated. Hamlet spares the King, hesays, because if the King is killed praying he will _go to heaven_. OnHamlet's departure, the King rises from his knees, and mutters:     My words fly up, my thoughts remain below:     Words without thoughts _never to heaven go_. ][Footnote 83: I am indebted to Werder in this paragraph. ][Footnote 84: The attempt to explain this meeting as pre-arranged byHamlet is scarcely worth mention. ]LECTURE VOTHELLOThere is practically no doubt that _Othello_ was the tragedy writtennext after _Hamlet_. Such external evidence as we possess points to thisconclusion, and it is confirmed by similarities of style, diction andversification, and also by the fact that ideas and phrases of theearlier play are echoed in the later. [85] There is, further (not tospeak of one curious point, to be considered when we come to Iago), acertain resemblance in the subjects. The heroes of the two plays aredoubtless extremely unlike, so unlike that each could have dealt withoutmuch difficulty with the situation which proved fatal to the other; butstill each is a man exceptionally noble and trustful, and each enduresthe shock of a terrible disillusionment. This theme is treated byShakespeare for the first time in _Hamlet_, for the second in _Othello_. It recurs with modifications in _King Lear_, and it probably formed theattraction which drew Shakespeare to refashion in part another writer'stragedy of _Timon_. These four dramas may so far be grouped together indistinction from the remaining tragedies. But in point of substance, and, in certain respects, in point of style,the unlikeness of _Othello_ to _Hamlet_ is much greater than thelikeness, and the later play belongs decidedly to one group with itssuccessors. We have seen that, like them, it is a tragedy of passion, adescription inapplicable to _Julius Caesar_ or _Hamlet_. And with thischange goes another, an enlargement in the stature of the hero. There isin most of the later heroes something colossal, something which remindsus of Michael Angelo's figures. They are not merely exceptional men,they are huge men; as it were, survivors of the heroic age living in alater and smaller world. We do not receive this impression from Romeo orBrutus or Hamlet, nor did it lie in Shakespeare's design to allow morethan touches of this trait to Julius Caesar himself; but it is stronglymarked in Lear and Coriolanus, and quite distinct in Macbeth and even inAntony. Othello is the first of these men, a being essentially large andgrand, towering above his fellows, holding a volume of force which inrepose ensures preeminence without an effort, and in commotion remindsus rather of the fury of the elements than of the tumult of common humanpassion. 1What is the peculiarity of _Othello_? What is the distinctive impressionthat it leaves? Of all Shakespeare's tragedies, I would answer, not evenexcepting _King Lear_, _Othello_ is the most painfully exciting and themost terrible. From the moment when the temptation of the hero begins,the reader's heart and mind are held in a vice, experiencing theextremes of pity and fear, sympathy and repulsion, sickening hope anddreadful expectation. Evil is displayed before him, not indeed with theprofusion found in _King Lear_, but forming, as it were, the soul of asingle character, and united with an intellectual superiority so greatthat he watches its advance fascinated and appalled. He sees it, initself almost irresistible, aided at every step by fortunate accidentsand the innocent mistakes of its victims. He seems to breathe anatmosphere as fateful as that of _King Lear_, but more confined andoppressive, the darkness not of night but of a close-shut murderousroom. His imagination is excited to intense activity, but it is theactivity of concentration rather than dilation. I will not dwell now on aspects of the play which modify thisimpression, and I reserve for later discussion one of its principalsources, the character of Iago. But if we glance at some of its othersources, we shall find at the same time certain distinguishingcharacteristics of _Othello_. (1) One of these has been already mentioned in our discussion ofShakespeare's technique. _Othello_ is not only the most masterly of thetragedies in point of construction, but its method of construction isunusual. And this method, by which the conflict begins late, andadvances without appreciable pause and with accelerating speed to thecatastrophe, is a main cause of the painful tension just described. Tothis may be added that, after the conflict has begun, there is verylittle relief by way of the ridiculous. Henceforward at any rate Iago'shumour never raises a smile. The clown is a poor one; we hardly attendto him and quickly forget him; I believe most readers of Shakespeare, ifasked whether there is a clown in _Othello_, would answer No. (2) In the second place, there is no subject more exciting than sexualjealousy rising to the pitch of passion; and there can hardly be anyspectacle at once so engrossing and so painful as that of a great naturesuffering the torment of this passion, and driven by it to a crime whichis also a hideous blunder. Such a passion as ambition, however terribleits results, is not itself ignoble; if we separate it in thought fromthe conditions which make it guilty, it does not appear despicable; itis not a kind of suffering, its nature is active; and therefore we canwatch its course without shrinking. But jealousy, and especially sexualjealousy, brings with it a sense of shame and humiliation. For thisreason it is generally hidden; if we perceive it we ourselves areashamed and turn our eyes away; and when it is not hidden it commonlystirs contempt as well as pity. Nor is this all. Such jealousy asOthello's converts human nature into chaos, and liberates the beast inman; and it does this in relation to one of the most intense and alsothe most ideal of human feelings. What spectacle can be more painfulthan that of this feeling turned into a tortured mixture of longing andloathing, the 'golden purity' of passion split by poison into fragments,the animal in man forcing itself into his consciousness in nakedgrossness, and he writhing before it but powerless to deny it entrance,gasping inarticulate images of pollution, and finding relief only in abestial thirst for blood? This is what we have to witness in one who wasindeed 'great of heart' and no less pure and tender than he was great. And this, with what it leads to, the blow to Desdemona, and the scenewhere she is treated as the inmate of a brothel, a scene far morepainful than the murder scene, is another cause of the special effect ofthis tragedy. [86](3) The mere mention of these scenes will remind us painfully of a thirdcause; and perhaps it is the most potent of all. I mean the suffering ofDesdemona. This is, unless I mistake, the most nearly intolerablespectacle that Shakespeare offers us. For one thing, it is _mere_suffering; and, _ceteris paribus_, that is much worse to witness thansuffering that issues in action. Desdemona is helplessly passive. Shecan do nothing whatever. She cannot retaliate even in speech; no, noteven in silent feeling. And the chief reason of her helplessness onlymakes the sight of her suffering more exquisitely painful. She ishelpless because her nature is infinitely sweet and her love absolute. Iwould not challenge Mr. Swinburne's statement that we _pity_ Othelloeven more than Desdemona; but we watch Desdemona with more unmitigateddistress. We are never wholly uninfluenced by the feeling that Othellois a man contending with another man; but Desdemona's suffering is likethat of the most loving of dumb creatures tortured without cause by thebeing he adores. (4) Turning from the hero and heroine to the third principal character,we observe (what has often been pointed out) that the action andcatastrophe of _Othello_ depend largely on intrigue. We must not saymore than this. We must not call the play a tragedy of intrigue asdistinguished from a tragedy of character. Iago's plot is Iago'scharacter in action; and it is built on his knowledge of Othello'scharacter, and could not otherwise have succeeded. Still it remains truethat an elaborate plot was necessary to elicit the catastrophe; forOthello was no Leontes, and his was the last nature to engender suchjealousy from itself. Accordingly Iago's intrigue occupies a position inthe drama for which no parallel can be found in the other tragedies; theonly approach, and that a distant one, being the intrigue of Edmund inthe secondary plot of _King Lear_. Now in any novel or play, even if thepersons rouse little interest and are never in serious danger, askilfully-worked intrigue will excite eager attention and suspense. Andwhere, as in _Othello_, the persons inspire the keenest sympathy andantipathy, and life and death depend on the intrigue, it becomes thesource of a tension in which pain almost overpowers pleasure. Nowhereelse in Shakespeare do we hold our breath in such anxiety and for solong a time as in the later Acts of _Othello_. (5) One result of the prominence of the element of intrigue is that_Othello_ is less unlike a story of private life than any other of thegreat tragedies. And this impression is strengthened in further ways. Inthe other great tragedies the action is placed in a distant period, sothat its general significance is perceived through a thin veil whichseparates the persons from ourselves and our own world. But _Othello_ isa drama of modern life; when it first appeared it was a drama almost ofcontemporary life, for the date of the Turkish attack on Cyprus is 1570. The characters come close to us, and the application of the drama toourselves (if the phrase may be pardoned) is more immediate than it canbe in _Hamlet_ or _Lear_. Besides this, their fortunes affect us asthose of private individuals more than is possible in any of the latertragedies with the exception of _Timon_. I have not forgotten theSenate, nor Othello's position, nor his service to the State;[87] buthis deed and his death have not that influence on the interests of anation or an empire which serves to idealise, and to remove far from ourown sphere, the stories of Hamlet and Macbeth, of Coriolanus and Antony. Indeed he is already superseded at Cyprus when his fate is consummated,and as we leave him no vision rises on us, as in other tragedies, ofpeace descending on a distracted land. (6) The peculiarities so far considered combine with others to producethose feelings of oppression, of confinement to a comparatively narrowworld, and of dark fatality, which haunt us in reading _Othello_. In_Macbeth_ the fate which works itself out alike in the external conflictand in the hero's soul, is obviously hostile to evil; and theimagination is dilated both by the consciousness of its presence and bythe appearance of supernatural agencies. These, as we have seen, producein _Hamlet_ a somewhat similar effect, which is increased by the hero'sacceptance of the accidents as a providential shaping of his end. _KingLear_ is undoubtedly the tragedy which comes nearest to _Othello_ in theimpression of darkness and fatefulness, and in the absence of directindications of any guiding power. [88] But in _King Lear_, apart fromother differences to be considered later, the conflict assumesproportions so vast that the imagination seems, as in _Paradise Lost_,to traverse spaces wider than the earth. In reading _Othello_ the mindis not thus distended. It is more bound down to the spectacle of noblebeings caught in toils from which there is no escape; while theprominence of the intrigue diminishes the sense of the dependence of thecatastrophe on character, and the part played by accident[89] in thiscatastrophe accentuates the feeling of fate. This influence of accidentis keenly felt in _King Lear_ only once, and at the very end of theplay. In _Othello_, after the temptation has begun, it is incessant andterrible. The skill of Iago was extraordinary, but so was his goodfortune. Again and again a chance word from Desdemona, a chance meetingof Othello and Cassio, a question which starts to our lips and whichanyone but Othello would have asked, would have destroyed Iago's plotand ended his life. In their stead, Desdemona drops her handkerchief atthe moment most favourable to him,[90] Cassio blunders into the presenceof Othello only to find him in a swoon, Bianca arrives precisely whenshe is wanted to complete Othello's deception and incense his anger intofury. All this and much more seems to us quite natural, so potent is theart of the dramatist; but it confounds us with a feeling, such as weexperience in the _Oedipus Tyrannus_, that for these star-crossedmortals--both [Greek: dysdaimones]--there is no escape from fate, andeven with a feeling, absent from that play, that fate has taken sideswith villainy. [91] It is not surprising, therefore, that _Othello_should affect us as _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ never do, and as _King Lear_does only in slighter measure. On the contrary, it is marvellous that,before the tragedy is over, Shakespeare should have succeeded in toningdown this impression into harmony with others more solemn and serene. But has he wholly succeeded? Or is there a justification for the fact--afact it certainly is--that some readers, while acknowledging, of course,the immense power of _Othello_, and even admitting that it isdramatically perhaps Shakespeare's greatest triumph, still regard itwith a certain distaste, or, at any rate, hardly allow it a place intheir minds beside _Hamlet_, _King Lear_ and _Macbeth_? The distaste to which I refer is due chiefly to two causes. First, tomany readers in our time, men as well as women, the subject of sexualjealousy, treated with Elizabethan fulness and frankness, is not merelypainful but so repulsive that not even the intense tragic emotions whichthe story generates can overcome this repulsion. But, while it is easyto understand a dislike of _Othello_ thus caused, it does not seemnecessary to discuss it, for it may fairly be called personal orsubjective. It would become more than this, and would amount to acriticism of the play, only if those who feel it maintained that thefulness and frankness which are disagreeable to them are also needlessfrom a dramatic point of view, or betray a design of appealing tounpoetic feelings in the audience. But I do not think that this ismaintained, or that such a view would be plausible. To some readers, again, parts of _Othello_ appear shocking or evenhorrible. They think--if I may formulate their objection--that in theseparts Shakespeare has sinned against the canons of art, by representingon the stage a violence or brutality the effect of which isunnecessarily painful and rather sensational than tragic. The passageswhich thus give offence are probably those already referred to,--thatwhere Othello strikes Desdemona (IV. i. 251), that where he affects totreat her as an inmate of a house of ill-fame (IV. ii. ), and finally thescene of her death. The issues thus raised ought not to be ignored or impatiently dismissed,but they cannot be decided, it seems to me, by argument. All we canprofitably do is to consider narrowly our experience, and to askourselves this question: If we feel these objections, do we feel themwhen we are reading the play with all our force, or only when we arereading it in a half-hearted manner? For, however matters may stand inthe former case, in the latter case evidently the fault is ours and notShakespeare's. And if we try the question thus, I believe we shall findthat on the whole the fault is ours. The first, and least important, ofthe three passages--that of the blow--seems to me the most doubtful. Iconfess that, do what I will, I cannot reconcile myself with it. Itseems certain that the blow is by no means a tap on the shoulder with aroll of paper, as some actors, feeling the repulsiveness of the passage,have made it. It must occur, too, on the open stage. And there is not, Ithink, a sufficiently overwhelming tragic feeling in the passage to makeit bearable. But in the other two scenes the case is different. There,it seems to me, if we fully imagine the inward tragedy in the souls ofthe persons as we read, the more obvious and almost physical sensationsof pain or horror do not appear in their own likeness, and only serve tointensify the tragic feelings in which they are absorbed. Whether thiswould be so in the murder-scene if Desdemona had to be imagined asdragged about the open stage (as in some modern performances) may bedoubtful; but there is absolutely no warrant in the text for imaginingthis, and it is also quite clear that the bed where she is stifled waswithin the curtains,[92] and so, presumably, in part concealed. Here, then, _Othello_ does not appear to be, unless perhaps at onepoint,[93] open to criticism, though it has more passages than the otherthree tragedies where, if imagination is not fully exerted, it isshocked or else sensationally excited. If nevertheless we feel it tooccupy a place in our minds a little lower than the other three (and Ibelieve this feeling, though not general, is not rare), the reason liesnot here but in another characteristic, to which I have alreadyreferred,--the comparative confinement of the imaginative atmosphere. _Othello_ has not equally with the other three the power of dilating theimagination by vague suggestions of huge universal powers working in theworld of individual fate and passion. It is, in a sense, less'symbolic. ' We seem to be aware in it of a certain limitation, a partialsuppression of that element in Shakespeare's mind which unites him withthe mystical poets and with the great musicians and philosophers. In oneor two of his plays, notably in _Troilus and Cressida_, we are almostpainfully conscious of this suppression; we feel an intense intellectualactivity, but at the same time a certain coldness and hardness, asthough some power in his soul, at once the highest and the sweetest,were for a time in abeyance. In other plays, notably in the _Tempest_,we are constantly aware of the presence of this power; and in such caseswe seem to be peculiarly near to Shakespeare himself. Now this is so in_Hamlet_ and _King Lear_, and, in a slighter degree, in _Macbeth_; butit is much less so in _Othello_. I do not mean that in _Othello_ thesuppression is marked, or that, as in _Troilus and Cressida_, it strikesus as due to some unpleasant mood; it seems rather to follow simply fromthe design of a play on a contemporary and wholly mundane subject. Stillit makes a difference of the kind I have attempted to indicate, and itleaves an impression that in _Othello_ we are not in contact with thewhole of Shakespeare. And it is perhaps significant in this respect thatthe hero himself strikes us as having, probably, less of the poet'spersonality in him than many characters far inferior both as dramaticcreations and as men. 2The character of Othello is comparatively simple, but, as I have dwelton the prominence of intrigue and accident in the play, it is desirableto show how essentially the success of Iago's plot is connected withthis character. Othello's description of himself as              one not easily jealous, but, being wrought,     Perplexed in the extreme,is perfectly just. His tragedy lies in this--that his whole nature wasindisposed to jealousy, and yet was such that he was unusually open todeception, and, if once wrought to passion, likely to act with littlereflection, with no delay, and in the most decisive manner conceivable. Let me first set aside a mistaken view. I do not mean the ridiculousnotion that Othello was jealous by temperament, but the idea, which hassome little plausibility, that the play is primarily a study of a noblebarbarian, who has become a Christian and has imbibed some of thecivilisation of his employers, but who retains beneath the surface thesavage passions of his Moorish blood and also the suspiciousnessregarding female chastity common among Oriental peoples, and that thelast three Acts depict the outburst of these original feelings throughthe thin crust of Venetian culture. It would take too long to discussthis idea,[94] and it would perhaps be useless to do so, for allarguments against it must end in an appeal to the reader's understandingof Shakespeare. If he thinks it is like Shakespeare to look at things inthis manner; that he had a historical mind and occupied himself withproblems of 'Culturgeschichte'; that he laboured to make his Romansperfectly Roman, to give a correct view of the Britons in the days ofLear or Cymbeline, to portray in Hamlet a stage of the moralconsciousness not yet reached by the people around him, the reader willalso think this interpretation of _Othello_ probable. To me it appearshopelessly un-Shakespearean. I could as easily believe that Chaucermeant the Wife of Bath for a study of the peculiarities ofSomersetshire. I do not mean that Othello's race is a matter of noaccount. It has, as we shall presently see, its importance in the play. It makes a difference to our idea of him; it makes a difference to theaction and catastrophe. But in regard to the essentials of his characterit is not important; and if anyone had told Shakespeare that noEnglishman would have acted like the Moor, and had congratulated him onthe accuracy of his racial psychology, I am sure he would have laughed. Othello is, in one sense of the word, by far the most romantic figureamong Shakespeare's heroes; and he is so partly from the strange life ofwar and adventure which he has lived from childhood. He does not belongto our world, and he seems to enter it we know not whence--almost as iffrom wonderland. There is something mysterious in his descent from menof royal siege; in his wanderings in vast deserts and among marvellouspeoples; in his tales of magic handkerchiefs and prophetic Sibyls; inthe sudden vague glimpses we get of numberless battles and sieges inwhich he has played the hero and has borne a charmed life; even inchance references to his baptism, his being sold to slavery, his sojournin Aleppo. And he is not merely a romantic figure; his own nature is romantic. Hehas not, indeed, the meditative or speculative imagination of Hamlet;but in the strictest sense of the word he is more poetic than Hamlet. Indeed, if one recalls Othello's most famous speeches--those that begin,'Her father loved me,' 'O now for ever,' 'Never, Iago,' 'Had it pleasedHeaven,' 'It is the cause,' 'Behold, I have a weapon,' 'Soft you, a wordor two before you go'--and if one places side by side with thesespeeches an equal number by any other hero, one will not doubt thatOthello is the greatest poet of them all. There is the same poetry inhis casual phrases--like 'These nine moons wasted,' 'Keep up your brightswords, for the dew will rust them,' 'You chaste stars,' 'It is a swordof Spain, the ice-brook's temper,' 'It is the very error of themoon'--and in those brief expressions of intense feeling which eversince have been taken as the absolute expression, like                      If it were now to die,     'Twere now to be most happy; for, I fear,     My soul hath her content so absolute     That not another comfort like to this     Succeeds in unknown fate,or     If she be false, O then Heaven mocks itself.     I'll not believe it;or     No, my heart is turned to stone; I strike it, and it hurts my hand,or     But yet the pity of it, Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! or                                 O thou weed,     Who art so lovely fair and smell'st so sweet     That the sense aches at thee, would thou hadst ne'er been born. And this imagination, we feel, has accompanied his whole life. He haswatched with a poet's eye the Arabian trees dropping their med'cinablegum, and the Indian throwing away his chance-found pearl; and has gazedin a fascinated dream at the Pontic sea rushing, never to return, to thePropontic and the Hellespont; and has felt as no other man ever felt(for he speaks of it as none other ever did) the poetry of the pride,pomp, and circumstance of glorious war. So he comes before us, dark and grand, with a light upon him from thesun where he was born; but no longer young, and now grave,self-controlled, steeled by the experience of countless perils,hardships and vicissitudes, at once simple and stately in bearing and inspeech, a great man naturally modest but fully conscious of his worth,proud of his services to the state, unawed by dignitaries and unelatedby honours, secure, it would seem, against all dangers from without andall rebellion from within. And he comes to have his life crowned withthe final glory of love, a love as strange, adventurous and romantic asany passage of his eventful history, filling his heart with tendernessand his imagination with ecstasy. For there is no love, not that ofRomeo in his youth, more steeped in imagination than Othello's. The sources of danger in this character are revealed but too clearly bythe story. In the first place, Othello's mind, for all its poetry, isvery simple. He is not observant. His nature tends outward. He is quitefree from introspection, and is not given to reflection. Emotion exciteshis imagination, but it confuses and dulls his intellect. On this sidehe is the very opposite of Hamlet, with whom, however, he shares a greatopenness and trustfulness of nature. In addition, he has littleexperience of the corrupt products of civilised life, and is ignorant ofEuropean women. In the second place, for all his dignity and massive calm (and he hasgreater dignity than any other of Shakespeare's men), he is by naturefull of the most vehement passion. Shakespeare emphasises hisself-control, not only by the wonderful pictures of the First Act, butby references to the past. Lodovico, amazed at his violence, exclaims:     Is this the noble Moor whom our full Senate     Call all in all sufficient? Is this the nature     Whom passion could not shake? whose solid virtue     The shot of accident nor dart of chance     Could neither graze nor pierce? Iago, who has here no motive for lying, asks:     Can he be angry? I have seen the cannon     When it hath blown his ranks into the air,     And, like the devil, from his very arm     Puffed his own brother--and can he be angry? [95]This, and other aspects of his character, are best exhibited by a singleline--one of Shakespeare's miracles--the words by which Othello silencesin a moment the night-brawl between his attendants and those ofBrabantio:     Keep up your bright swords, for the dew will rust them. And the same self-control is strikingly shown where Othello endeavoursto elicit some explanation of the fight between Cassio and Montano. Here, however, there occur ominous words, which make us feel hownecessary was this self-control, and make us admire it the more:                          Now, by heaven,     My blood begins my safer guides to rule,     And passion, having my best judgment collied,     Assays to lead the way. We remember these words later, when the sun of reason is 'collied,'blackened and blotted out in total eclipse. Lastly, Othello's nature is all of one piece. His trust, where hetrusts, is absolute. Hesitation is almost impossible to him. He isextremely self-reliant, and decides and acts instantaneously. If stirredto indignation, as 'in Aleppo once,' he answers with one lightningstroke. Love, if he loves, must be to him the heaven where either hemust live or bear no life. If such a passion as jealousy seizes him, itwill swell into a well-nigh incontrollable flood. He will press forimmediate conviction or immediate relief. Convinced, he will act withthe authority of a judge and the swiftness of a man in mortal pain. Undeceived, he will do like execution on himself. This character is so noble, Othello's feelings and actions follow soinevitably from it and from the forces brought to bear on it, and hissufferings are so heart-rending, that he stirs, I believe, in mostreaders a passion of mingled love and pity which they feel for no otherhero in Shakespeare, and to which not even Mr. Swinburne can do morethan justice. Yet there are some critics and not a few readers whocherish a grudge against him. They do not merely think that in the laterstages of his temptation he showed a certain obtuseness, and that, tospeak pedantically, he acted with unjustifiable precipitance andviolence; no one, I suppose, denies that. But, even when they admit thathe was not of a jealous temper, they consider that he _was_ 'easilyjealous'; they seem to think that it was inexcusable in him to feel anysuspicion of his wife at all; and they blame him for never suspectingIago or asking him for evidence. I refer to this attitude of mindchiefly in order to draw attention to certain points in the story. Itcomes partly from mere inattention (for Othello did suspect Iago and didask him for evidence); partly from a misconstruction of the text whichmakes Othello appear jealous long before he really is so;[96] and partlyfrom failure to realise certain essential facts. I will begin withthese. (1) Othello, we have seen, was trustful, and thorough in his trust. Heput entire confidence in the honesty of Iago, who had not only been hiscompanion in arms, but, as he believed, had just proved his faithfulnessin the matter of the marriage. This confidence was misplaced, and wehappen to know it; but it was no sign of stupidity in Othello. For hisopinion of Iago was the opinion of practically everyone who knew him:and that opinion was that Iago was before all things 'honest,' his veryfaults being those of excess in honesty. This being so, even if Othellohad not been trustful and simple, it would have been quite unnatural inhim to be unmoved by the warnings of so honest a friend, warningsoffered with extreme reluctance and manifestly from a sense of afriend's duty. [97] _Any_ husband would have been troubled by them. (2) Iago does not bring these warnings to a husband who had lived with awife for months and years and knew her like his sister or hisbosom-friend. Nor is there any ground in Othello's character forsupposing that, if he had been such a man, he would have felt and actedas he does in the play.

But he was newly married; in the circumstanceshe cannot have known much of Desdemona before his marriage; and furtherhe was conscious of being under the spell of a feeling which can giveglory to the truth but can also give it to a dream. (3) This consciousness in any imaginative man is enough, in suchcircumstances, to destroy his confidence in his powers of perception. InOthello's case, after a long and most artful preparation, there nowcomes, to reinforce its effect, the suggestions that he is not anItalian, not even a European; that he is totally ignorant of thethoughts and the customary morality of Venetian women;[98] that he hadhimself seen in Desdemona's deception of her father how perfect anactress she could be. As he listens in horror, for a moment at least thepast is revealed to him in a new and dreadful light, and the groundseems to sink under his feet. These suggestions are followed by atentative but hideous and humiliating insinuation of what his honest andmuch-experienced friend fears may be the true explanation of Desdemona'srejection of acceptable suitors, and of her strange, and naturallytemporary, preference for a black man. Here Iago goes too far. He seessomething in Othello's face that frightens him, and he breaks off. Nordoes this idea take any hold of Othello's mind. But it is not surprisingthat his utter powerlessness to repel it on the ground of knowledge ofhis wife, or even of that instinctive interpretation of character whichis possible between persons of the same race,[99] should complete hismisery, so that he feels he can bear no more, and abruptly dismisses hisfriend (III. iii. 238). Now I repeat that _any_ man situated as Othello was would have beendisturbed by Iago's communications, and I add that many men would havebeen made wildly jealous. But up to this point, where Iago is dismissed,Othello, I must maintain, does not show jealousy. His confidence isshaken, he is confused and deeply troubled, he feels even horror; but heis not yet jealous in the proper sense of that word. In his soliloquy(III. iii. 258 ff. ) the beginning of this passion may be traced; but itis only after an interval of solitude, when he has had time to dwell onthe idea presented to him, and especially after statements of fact, notmere general grounds of suspicion, are offered, that the passion layshold of him. Even then, however, and indeed to the very end, he is quiteunlike the essentially jealous man, quite unlike Leontes. No doubt thethought of another man's possessing the woman he loves is intolerable tohim; no doubt the sense of insult and the impulse of revenge are attimes most violent; and these are the feelings of jealousy proper. Butthese are not the chief or the deepest source of Othello's suffering. Itis the wreck of his faith and his love. It is the feeling,     If she be false, oh then Heaven mocks itself;the feeling,     O Iago, the pity of it, Iago! the feeling,     But there where I have garner'd up my heart,     Where either I must live, or bear no life;     The fountain from the which my current runs,     Or else dries up--to be discarded thence. . . . You will find nothing like this in Leontes. Up to this point, it appears to me, there is not a syllable to be saidagainst Othello. But the play is a tragedy, and from this point we mayabandon the ungrateful and undramatic task of awarding praise and blame. When Othello, after a brief interval, re-enters (III. iii. 330), we seeat once that the poison has been at work and 'burns like the mines ofsulphur. '     Look where he comes! Not poppy, nor mandragora,     Nor all the drowsy syrups of the world,     Shall ever medicine thee to that sweet sleep     Which thou owedst yesterday. He is 'on the rack,' in an agony so unbearable that he cannot endure thesight of Iago. Anticipating the probability that Iago has spared him thewhole truth, he feels that in that case his life is over and his'occupation gone' with all its glories. But he has not abandoned hope. The bare possibility that his friend is deliberately deceivinghim--though such a deception would be a thing so monstrously wicked thathe can hardly conceive it credible--is a kind of hope. He furiouslydemands proof, ocular proof. And when he is compelled to see that he isdemanding an impossibility he still demands evidence. He forces it fromthe unwilling witness, and hears the maddening tale of Cassio's dream. It is enough. And if it were not enough, has he not sometimes seen ahandkerchief spotted with strawberries in his wife's hand? Yes, it washis first gift to her.     I know not that; but such a handkerchief--     I am sure it was your wife's--did I to-day     See Cassio wipe his beard with. 'If it be that,' he answers--but what need to test the fact? The'madness of revenge' is in his blood, and hesitation is a thing he neverknew. He passes judgment, and controls himself only to make his sentencea solemn vow. The Othello of the Fourth Act is Othello in his fall. His fall is nevercomplete, but he is much changed. Towards the close of theTemptation-scene he becomes at times most terrible, but his grandeurremains almost undiminished. Even in the following scene (III. iv. ),where he goes to test Desdemona in the matter of the handkerchief, andreceives a fatal confirmation of her guilt, our sympathy with him ishardly touched by any feeling of humiliation. But in the Fourth Act'Chaos has come. ' A slight interval of time may be admitted here. It isbut slight; for it was necessary for Iago to hurry on, and terriblydangerous to leave a chance for a meeting of Cassio with Othello; andhis insight into Othello's nature taught him that his plan was todeliver blow on blow, and never to allow his victim to recover from theconfusion of the first shock. Still there is a slight interval; and whenOthello reappears we see at a glance that he is a changed man. He isphysically exhausted, and his mind is dazed. [100] He sees everythingblurred through a mist of blood and tears. He has actually forgotten theincident of the handkerchief, and has to be reminded of it. When Iago,perceiving that he can now risk almost any lie, tells him that Cassiohas confessed his guilt, Othello, the hero who has seemed to us onlysecond to Coriolanus in physical power, trembles all over; he muttersdisjointed words; a blackness suddenly intervenes between his eyes andthe world; he takes it for the shuddering testimony of nature to thehorror he has just heard,[101] and he falls senseless to the ground. When he recovers it is to watch Cassio, as he imagines, laughing overhis shame. It is an imposition so gross, and should have been one soperilous, that Iago would never have ventured it before. But he is safenow. The sight only adds to the confusion of intellect the madness ofrage; and a ravenous thirst for revenge, contending with motions ofinfinite longing and regret, conquers them. The delay till night-fall istorture to him. His self-control has wholly deserted him, and he strikeshis wife in the presence of the Venetian envoy. He is so lost to allsense of reality that he never asks himself what will follow the deathsof Cassio and his wife. An ineradicable instinct of justice, rather thanany last quiver of hope, leads him to question Emilia; but nothing couldconvince him now, and there follows the dreadful scene of accusation;and then, to allow us the relief of burning hatred and burning tears,the interview of Desdemona with Iago, and that last talk of hers withEmilia, and her last song. But before the end there is again a change. The supposed death of Cassio(V. i. ) satiates the thirst for vengeance. The Othello who enters thebed-chamber with the words,     It is the cause, it is the cause, my soul,is not the man of the Fourth Act. The deed he is bound to do is nomurder, but a sacrifice. He is to save Desdemona from herself, not inhate but in honour; in honour, and also in love. His anger has passed; aboundless sorrow has taken its place; and                  this sorrow's heavenly:     It strikes where it doth love. Even when, at the sight of her apparent obduracy, and at the hearing ofwords which by a crowning fatality can only reconvince him of her guilt,these feelings give way to others, it is to righteous indignation theygive way, not to rage; and, terribly painful as this scene is, there isalmost nothing here to diminish the admiration and love which heightenpity. [102] And pity itself vanishes, and love and admiration aloneremain, in the majestic dignity and sovereign ascendancy of the close. Chaos has come and gone; and the Othello of the Council-chamber and thequay of Cyprus has returned, or a greater and nobler Othello still. Ashe speaks those final words in which all the glory and agony of hislife--long ago in India and Arabia and Aleppo, and afterwards in Venice,and now in Cyprus--seem to pass before us, like the pictures that flashbefore the eyes of a drowning man, a triumphant scorn for the fetters ofthe flesh and the littleness of all the lives that must survive himsweeps our grief away, and when he dies upon a kiss the most painful ofall tragedies leaves us for the moment free from pain, and exulting inthe power of 'love and man's unconquerable mind. '3The words just quoted come from Wordsworth's sonnet to Toussaintl'Ouverture. Toussaint was a Negro; and there is a question, which,though of little consequence, is not without dramatic interest, whetherShakespeare imagined Othello as a Negro or as a Moor. Now I will not saythat Shakespeare imagined him as a Negro and not as a Moor, for thatmight imply that he distinguished Negroes and Moors precisely as we do;but what appears to me nearly certain is that he imagined Othello as ablack man, and not as a light-brown one. In the first place, we must remember that the brown or bronze to whichwe are now accustomed in the Othellos of our theatres is a recentinnovation. Down to Edmund Kean's time, so far as is known, Othello wasalways quite black. This stage-tradition goes back to the Restoration,and it almost settles our question. For it is impossible that the colourof the original Othello should have been forgotten so soon afterShakespeare's time, and most improbable that it should have been changedfrom brown to black. If we turn to the play itself, we find many references to Othello'scolour and appearance. Most of these are indecisive; for the word'black' was of course used then where we should speak of a 'dark'complexion now; and even the nickname 'thick-lips,' appealed to as proofthat Othello was a Negro, might have been applied by an enemy to what wecall a Moor. On the other hand, it is hard to believe that, if Othellohad been light-brown, Brabantio would have taunted him with having a'sooty bosom,' or that (as Mr. Furness observes) he himself would haveused the words,                    her name, that was as fresh     As Dian's visage, is now begrimed and black     As mine own face. These arguments cannot be met by pointing out that Othello was of royalblood, is not called an Ethiopian, is called a Barbary horse, and issaid to be going to Mauritania. All this would be of importance if wehad reason to believe that Shakespeare shared our ideas, knowledge andterms. Otherwise it proves nothing. And we know that sixteenth-centurywriters called any dark North-African a Moor, or a black Moor, or ablackamoor. Sir Thomas Elyot, according to Hunter,[103] calls EthiopiansMoors; and the following are the first two illustrations of 'Blackamoor'in the Oxford _English Dictionary_: 1547, 'I am a blake More borne inBarbary'; 1548, '_Ethiopo_, a blake More, or a man of Ethiope. ' Thusgeographical names can tell us nothing about the question howShakespeare imagined Othello. He may have known that a Mauritanian isnot a Negro nor black, but we cannot assume that he did. He may haveknown, again, that the Prince of Morocco, who is described in the_Merchant of Venice_ as having, like Othello, the complexion of a devil,was no Negro. But we cannot tell: nor is there any reason why he shouldnot have imagined the Prince as a brown Moor and Othello as aBlackamoor. _Titus Andronicus_ appeared in the Folio among Shakespeare's works. Itis believed by some good critics to be his: hardly anyone doubts that hehad a hand in it: it is certain that he knew it, for reminiscences of itare scattered through his plays. Now no one who reads _Titus Andronicus_with an open mind can doubt that Aaron was, in our sense, black; and heappears to have been a Negro. To mention nothing else, he is twicecalled 'coal-black'; his colour is compared with that of a raven and aswan's legs; his child is coal-black and thick-lipped; he himself has a'fleece of woolly hair. ' Yet he is 'Aaron the Moor,' just as Othello is'Othello the Moor. ' In the _Battle of Alcazar_ (Dyce's _Peele_, p. 421)Muly the Moor is called 'the negro'; and Shakespeare himself in a singleline uses 'negro' and 'Moor' of the same person (_Merchant of Venice_,III. v. 42). The horror of most American critics (Mr. Furness is a bright exception)at the idea of a black Othello is very amusing, and their arguments arehighly instructive. But they were anticipated, I regret to say, byColeridge, and we will hear him. 'No doubt Desdemona saw Othello'svisage in his mind; yet, as we are constituted, and most surely as anEnglish audience was disposed in the beginning of the seventeenthcentury, it would be something monstrous to conceive this beautifulVenetian girl falling in love with a veritable negro. It would argue adisproportionateness, a want of balance, in Desdemona, which Shakespearedoes not appear to have in the least contemplated. '[104] Could anyargument be more self-destructive? It actually _did_ appear to Brabantio'something monstrous to conceive' his daughter falling in love withOthello,--so monstrous that he could account for her love only by drugsand foul charms. And the suggestion that such love would argue'disproportionateness' is precisely the suggestion that Iago _did_ makein Desdemona's case:     Foh! one may smell in such a will most rank,     Foul _disproportion_, thoughts unnatural. In fact he spoke of the marriage exactly as a filthy-minded cynic nowmight speak of the marriage of an English lady to a negro likeToussaint. Thus the argument of Coleridge and others points straight tothe conclusion against which they argue. But this is not all. The question whether to Shakespeare Othello wasblack or brown is not a mere question of isolated fact or historicalcuriosity; it concerns the character of Desdemona. Coleridge, and stillmore the American writers, regard her love, in effect, as Brabantioregarded it, and not as Shakespeare conceived it. They are simplyblurring this glorious conception when they try to lessen the distancebetween her and Othello, and to smooth away the obstacle which his'visage' offered to her romantic passion for a hero. Desdemona, the'eternal womanly' in its most lovely and adorable form, simple andinnocent as a child, ardent with the courage and idealism of a saint,radiant with that heavenly purity of heart which men worship the morebecause nature so rarely permits it to themselves, had no theories aboutuniversal brotherhood, and no phrases about 'one blood in all thenations of the earth' or 'barbarian, Scythian, bond and free'; but whenher soul came in sight of the noblest soul on earth, she made nothing ofthe shrinking of her senses, but followed her soul until her senses tookpart with it, and 'loved him with the love which was her doom. ' It wasnot prudent. It even turned out tragically. She met in life with thereward of those who rise too far above our common level; and we continueto allot her the same reward when we consent to forgive her for loving abrown man, but find it monstrous that she should love a black one. [105]There is perhaps a certain excuse for our failure to rise toShakespeare's meaning, and to realise how extraordinary and splendid athing it was in a gentle Venetian girl to love Othello, and to assailfortune with such a 'downright violence and storm' as is expected onlyin a hero. It is that when first we hear of her marriage we have not yetseen the Desdemona of the later Acts; and therefore we do not perceivehow astonishing this love and boldness must have been in a maiden soquiet and submissive. And when we watch her in her suffering and deathwe are so penetrated by the sense of her heavenly sweetness andself-surrender that we almost forget that she had shown herself quite asexceptional in the active assertion of her own soul and will. She tendsto become to us predominantly pathetic, the sweetest and most patheticof Shakespeare's women, as innocent as Miranda and as loving as Viola,yet suffering more deeply than Cordelia or Imogen. And she seems to lackthat independence and strength of spirit which Cordelia and Imogenpossess, and which in a manner raises them above suffering. She appearspassive and defenceless, and can oppose to wrong nothing but theinfinite endurance and forgiveness of a love that knows not how toresist or resent. She thus becomes at once the most beautiful example ofthis love, and the most pathetic heroine in Shakespeare's world. If herpart were acted by an artist equal to Salvini, and with a Salvini forOthello, I doubt if the spectacle of the last two Acts would not bepronounced intolerable. Of course this later impression of Desdemona is perfectly right, but itmust be carried back and united with the earlier before we can see whatShakespeare imagined. Evidently, we are to understand, innocence,gentleness, sweetness, lovingness were the salient and, in a sense, theprincipal traits in Desdemona's character. She was, as her fathersupposed her to be,                         a maiden never bold,     Of spirit so still and quiet that her motion     Blushed at herself. But suddenly there appeared something quite different--something whichcould never have appeared, for example, in Ophelia--a love not only fullof romance but showing a strange freedom and energy of spirit, andleading to a most unusual boldness of action; and this action wascarried through with a confidence and decision worthy of Juliet orCordelia. Desdemona does not shrink before the Senate; and her languageto her father, though deeply respectful, is firm enough to stir in ussome sympathy with the old man who could not survive his daughter'sloss. This then, we must understand, was the emergence in Desdemona, asshe passed from girlhood to womanhood, of an individuality and strengthwhich, if she had lived, would have been gradually fused with her moreobvious qualities and have issued in a thousand actions, sweet and good,but surprising to her conventional or timid neighbours. And, indeed, wehave already a slight example in her overflowing kindness, her boldnessand her ill-fated persistence in pleading Cassio's cause. But the fullripening of her lovely and noble nature was not to be. In her briefwedded life she appeared again chiefly as the sweet and submissive beingof her girlhood; and the strength of her soul, first evoked by love,found scope to show itself only in a love which, when harshly repulsed,blamed only its own pain; when bruised, only gave forth a more exquisitefragrance; and, when rewarded with death, summoned its last labouringbreath to save its murderer. Many traits in Desdemona's character have been described withsympathetic insight by Mrs. Jameson, and I will pass them by and add buta few words on the connection between this character and the catastropheof _Othello_. Desdemona, as Mrs. Jameson remarks, shows less quicknessof intellect and less tendency to reflection than most of Shakespeare'sheroines; but I question whether the critic is right in adding that sheshows much of the 'unconscious address common in women. ' She seems to medeficient in this address, having in its place a frank childlikeboldness and persistency, which are full of charm but are unhappilyunited with a certain want of perception. And these graces and thisdeficiency appear to be inextricably intertwined, and in thecircumstances conspire tragically against her. They, with her innocence,hinder her from understanding Othello's state of mind, and lead her tothe most unlucky acts and words; and unkindness or anger subdues her socompletely that she becomes passive and seems to drift helplesslytowards the cataract in front. In Desdemona's incapacity to resist there is also, in addition to herperfect love, something which is very characteristic. She is, in asense, a child of nature. That deep inward division which leads to clearand conscious oppositions of right and wrong, duty and inclination,justice and injustice, is alien to her beautiful soul. She is not good,kind and true in spite of a temptation to be otherwise, any more thanshe is charming in spite of a temptation to be otherwise. She seems toknow evil only by name, and, her inclinations being good, she acts oninclination. This trait, with its results, may be seen if we compareher, at the crises of the story, with Cordelia. In Desdemona's place,Cordelia, however frightened at Othello's anger about the losthandkerchief, would not have denied its loss. Painful experience hadproduced in her a conscious principle of rectitude and a proud hatred offalseness, which would have made a lie, even one wholly innocent inspirit, impossible to her; and the clear sense of justice and rightwould have led her, instead, to require an explanation of Othello'sagitation which would have broken Iago's plot to pieces. In the sameway, at the final crisis, no instinctive terror of death would havecompelled Cordelia suddenly to relinquish her demand for justice and toplead for life. But these moments are fatal to Desdemona, who actsprecisely as if she were guilty; and they are fatal because they ask forsomething which, it seems to us, could hardly be united with thepeculiar beauty of her nature. This beauty is all her own. Something as beautiful may be found inCordelia, but not the same beauty. Desdemona, confronted with Lear'sfoolish but pathetic demand for a profession of love, could have done, Ithink, what Cordelia could not do--could have refused to compete withher sisters, and yet have made her father feel that she loved him well. And I doubt if Cordelia, 'falsely murdered,' would have been capable ofthose last words of Desdemona--her answer to Emilia's 'O, who hath donethis deed? '               Nobody: I myself. Farewell.     Commend me to my kind lord. O, farewell! Were we intended to remember, as we hear this last 'falsehood,' thatother falsehood, 'It is not lost,' and to feel that, alike in themomentary child's fear and the deathless woman's love, Desdemona isherself and herself alone? [106]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 85: One instance is worth pointing out, because the passage in_Othello_ has, oddly enough, given trouble. Desdemona says of the maidBarbara: 'She was in love, and he she loved proved mad And did forsakeher. ' Theobald changed 'mad' to 'bad. ' Warburton read 'and he she lovedforsook her, And she proved mad'! Johnson said 'mad' meant only 'wild,frantic, uncertain. ' But what Desdemona says of Barbara is just whatOphelia might have said of herself. ][Footnote 86: The whole force of the passages referred to can be feltonly by a reader. The Othello of our stage can never be Shakespeare'sOthello, any more than the Cleopatra of our stage can be his Cleopatra. ][Footnote 87: See p. 9. ][Footnote 88: Even here, however, there is a great difference; foralthough the idea of such a power is not suggested by _King Lear_ as itis by _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, it is repeatedly expressed by persons _in_the drama. Of such references there are very few in _Othello_. But forsomewhat frequent allusions to hell and the devil the view of thecharacters is almost strictly secular. Desdemona's sweetness andforgivingness are not based on religion, and her only way of accountingfor her undeserved suffering is by an appeal to Fortune: 'It is mywretched fortune' (IV. ii. 128). In like manner Othello can only appealto Fate (V. ii. 264):           but, oh vain boast!     Who can control his fate? ][Footnote 89: Ulrici has good remarks, though he exaggerates, on thispoint and the element of intrigue. ][Footnote 90: And neither she nor Othello observes what handkerchief itis. Else she would have remembered how she came to lose it, and wouldhave told Othello; and Othello, too, would at once have detected Iago'slie (III. iii. 438) that he had seen Cassio wipe his beard with thehandkerchief 'to-day. ' For in fact the handkerchief had been lost _notan hour_ before Iago told that lie (line 288 of the _same scene_), andit was at that moment in his pocket. He lied therefore most rashly, butwith his usual luck. ][Footnote 91: For those who know the end of the story there is aterrible irony in the enthusiasm with which Cassio greets the arrival ofDesdemona in Cyprus. Her ship (which is also Iago's) sets out fromVenice a week later than the others, but reaches Cyprus on the same daywith them:     Tempests themselves, high seas and howling winds,     The gutter'd rocks and congregated sands--     Traitors ensteep'd to clog the guiltless keel--     As having sense of beauty, do omit     Their mortal natures, letting go safely by     The divine Desdemona. So swiftly does Fate conduct her to her doom. ][Footnote 92: The dead bodies are not carried out at the end, as theymust have been if the bed had been on the main stage (for this had nofront curtain). The curtains within which the bed stood were drawntogether at the words, 'Let it be hid' (V. ii. 365). ][Footnote 93: Against which may be set the scene of the blinding ofGloster in _King Lear_. ][Footnote 94: The reader who is tempted by it should, however, first askhimself whether Othello does act like a barbarian, or like a man who,though wrought almost to madness, does 'all in honour. '][Footnote 95: For the actor, then, to represent him as violently angrywhen he cashiers Cassio is an utter mistake. ][Footnote 96: I cannot deal fully with this point in the lecture. SeeNote L. ][Footnote 97: It is important to observe that, in his attempt to arriveat the facts about Cassio's drunken misdemeanour, Othello had just hadan example of Iago's unwillingness to tell the whole truth where it mustinjure a friend. No wonder he feels in the Temptation-scene that 'thishonest creature doubtless Sees and knows more, much more, than heunfolds. '][Footnote 98: To represent that Venetian women do not regard adultery soseriously as Othello does, and again that Othello would be wise toaccept the situation like an Italian husband, is one of Iago's mostartful and most maddening devices. ][Footnote 99: If the reader has ever chanced to see an African violentlyexcited, he may have been startled to observe how completely at a losshe was to interpret those bodily expressions of passion which in afellow-countryman he understands at once, and in a European foreignerwith somewhat less certainty. The effect of difference in blood inincreasing Othello's bewilderment regarding his wife is not sufficientlyrealised. The same effect has to be remembered in regard to Desdemona'smistakes in dealing with Othello in his anger. ][Footnote 100: See Note M. ][Footnote 101: Cf. _Winter's Tale_, I. ii. 137 ff. :              Can thy dam? --may't be? --     Affection! thy intention stabs the centre:     Thou dost make possible things not so held,     Communicatest with dreams;--how can this be?     With what's unreal thou coactive art,     And fellow'st nothing: then 'tis very credent     Thou may'st cojoin with something; and thou dost,     And that beyond commission, and I find it,     And that to the infection of my brains     And hardening of my brows. ][Footnote 102: See Note O. ][Footnote 103: New Illustrations, ii. 281. ][Footnote 104: _Lectures on Shakespeare_, ed. Ashe, p. 386. ][Footnote 105: I will not discuss the further question whether, grantedthat to Shakespeare Othello was a black, he should be represented as ablack in our theatres now. I dare say not. We do not like the realShakespeare. We like to have his language pruned and his conceptionsflattened into something that suits our mouths and minds. And even if wewere prepared to make an effort, still, as Lamb observes, to imagine isone thing and to see is another. Perhaps if we saw Othello coal-blackwith the bodily eye, the aversion of our blood, an aversion which comesas near to being merely physical as anything human can, would overpowerour imagination and sink us below not Shakespeare only but the audiencesof the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. As I have mentioned Lamb, I may observe that he differed from Coleridgeas to Othello's colour, but, I am sorry to add, thought Desdemona tostand in need of excuse. 'This noble lady, with a singularity rather tobe wondered at than imitated, had chosen for the object of heraffections a Moor, a black. . . . Neither is Desdemona to be altogethercondemned for the unsuitableness of the person whom she selected for herlover' (_Tales from Shakespeare_). Others, of course, have gone muchfurther and have treated all the calamities of the tragedy as a sort ofjudgment on Desdemona's rashness, wilfulness and undutifulness. There isno arguing with opinions like this; but I cannot believe that even Lambis true to Shakespeare in implying that Desdemona is in some degree tobe condemned. What is there in the play to show that Shakespeareregarded her marriage differently from Imogen's? ][Footnote 106: When Desdemona spoke her last words, perhaps that line ofthe ballad which she sang an hour before her death was still busy in herbrain,     Let nobody blame him: his scorn I approve. Nature plays such strange tricks, and Shakespeare almost alone amongpoets seems to create in somewhat the same manner as Nature. In the sameway, as Malone pointed out, Othello's exclamation, 'Goats and monkeys! '(IV. i. 274) is an unconscious reminiscence of Iago's words at III. iii. 403. ]LECTURE VIOTHELLO1Evil has nowhere else been portrayed with such mastery as in thecharacter of Iago. Richard III. , for example, beside being less subtlyconceived, is a far greater figure and a less repellent. His physicaldeformity, separating him from other men, seems to offer some excuse forhis egoism. In spite of his egoism, too, he appears to us more than amere individual: he is the representative of his family, the Fury of theHouse of York. Nor is he so negative as Iago: he has strong passions, hehas admirations, and his conscience disturbs him. There is the glory ofpower about him. Though an excellent actor, he prefers force to fraud,and in his world there is no general illusion as to his true nature. Again, to compare Iago with the Satan of _Paradise Lost_ seems almostabsurd, so immensely does Shakespeare's man exceed Milton's Fiend inevil. That mighty Spirit, whose                   form had yet not lost     All her original brightness, nor appeared     Less than archangel ruined and the excess     Of glory obscured;who knew loyalty to comrades and pity for victims; who               felt how awful goodness is, and saw     Virtue in her shape how lovely; saw, and pined     His loss;who could still weep--how much further distant is he than Iago fromspiritual death, even when, in procuring the fall of Man, he completeshis own fall! It is only in Goethe's Mephistopheles that a fit companionfor Iago can be found. Here there is something of the same deadlycoldness, the same gaiety in destruction. But then Mephistopheles, likeso many scores of literary villains, has Iago for his father. AndMephistopheles, besides, is not, in the strict sense, a character. He ishalf person, half symbol. A metaphysical idea speaks through him. He isearthy, but could never live upon the earth. Of Shakespeare's characters Falstaff, Hamlet, Iago, and Cleopatra (Iname them in the order of their births) are probably the most wonderful. Of these, again, Hamlet and Iago, whose births come nearest together,are perhaps the most subtle. And if Iago had been a person as attractiveas Hamlet, as many thousands of pages might have been written about him,containing as much criticism good and bad. As it is, the majority ofinterpretations of his character are inadequate not only toShakespeare's conception, but, I believe, to the impressions of mostreaders of taste who are unbewildered by analysis. These falseinterpretations, if we set aside the usual lunacies,[107] fall into twogroups. The first contains views which reduce Shakespeare tocommonplace. In different ways and degrees they convert his Iago intoan ordinary villain. Their Iago is simply a man who has been slightedand revenges himself; or a husband who believes he has been wronged, andwill make his enemy suffer a jealousy worse than his own; or anambitious man determined to ruin his successful rival--one of these, ora combination of these, endowed with unusual ability and cruelty. Theseare the more popular views. The second group of false interpretations ismuch smaller, but it contains much weightier matter than the first. HereIago is a being who hates good simply because it is good, and loves evilpurely for itself. His action is not prompted by any plain motive likerevenge, jealousy or ambition. It springs from a 'motiveless malignity,'or a disinterested delight in the pain of others; and Othello, Cassioand Desdemona are scarcely more than the material requisite for the fullattainment of this delight. This second Iago, evidently, is noconventional villain, and he is much nearer to Shakespeare's Iago thanthe first. Only he is, if not a psychological impossibility, at any ratenot a _human_ being. He might be in place, therefore, in a symbolicalpoem like _Faust_, but in a purely human drama like _Othello_ he wouldbe a ruinous blunder. Moreover, he is not in _Othello_: he is a productof imperfect observation and analysis. Coleridge, the author of that misleading phrase 'motiveless malignity,'has some fine remarks on Iago; and the essence of the character has beendescribed, first in some of the best lines Hazlitt ever wrote, and thenrather more fully by Mr. Swinburne,--so admirably described that I amtempted merely to read and illustrate these two criticisms. This plan,however, would make it difficult to introduce all that I wish to say. Ipropose, therefore, to approach the subject directly, and, first, toconsider how Iago appeared to those who knew him, and what inferencesmay be drawn from their illusions; and then to ask what, if we judgefrom the play, his character really was. And I will indicate the pointswhere I am directly indebted to the criticisms just mentioned. But two warnings are first required. One of these concerns Iago'snationality. It has been held that he is a study of that peculiarlyItalian form of villainy which is considered both too clever and toodiabolical for an Englishman. I doubt if there is much more to be saidfor this idea than for the notion that Othello is a study of Moorishcharacter. No doubt the belief in that Italian villainy was prevalent inShakespeare's time, and it may perhaps have influenced him in someslight degree both here and in drawing the character of Iachimo in_Cymbeline_. But even this slight influence seems to me doubtful. If DonJohn in _Much Ado_ had been an Englishman, critics would have admiredShakespeare's discernment in making his English villain sulky andstupid. If Edmund's father had been Duke of Ferrara instead of Earl ofGloster, they would have said that Edmund could have been nothing but anItalian. Change the name and country of Richard III. , and he would becalled a typical despot of the Italian Renaissance. Change those ofJuliet, and we should find her wholesome English nature contrasted withthe southern dreaminess of Romeo. But this way of interpretingShakespeare is not Shakespearean. With him the differences of period,race, nationality and locality have little bearing on the inwardcharacter, though they sometimes have a good deal on the totalimaginative effect, of his figures. When he does lay stress on suchdifferences his intention is at once obvious, as in characters likeFluellen or Sir Hugh Evans, or in the talk of the French princes beforethe battle of Agincourt. I may add that Iago certainly cannot be takento exemplify the popular Elizabethan idea of a disciple of Macchiavelli. There is no sign that he is in theory an atheist or even an unbelieverin the received religion. On the contrary, he uses its language, andsays nothing resembling the words of the prologue to the _Jew of Malta_:     I count religion but a childish toy,     And hold there is no sin but ignorance. Aaron in _Titus Andronicus_ might have said this (and is not more likelyto be Shakespeare's creation on that account), but not Iago. I come to a second warning. One must constantly remember not to believea syllable that Iago utters on any subject, including himself, until onehas tested his statement by comparing it with known facts and with otherstatements of his own or of other people, and by considering whether hehad in the particular circumstances any reason for telling a lie or fortelling the truth. The implicit confidence which his acquaintancesplaced in his integrity has descended to most of his critics; and this,reinforcing the comical habit of quoting as Shakespeare's own statementeverything said by his characters, has been a fruitful source ofmisinterpretation. I will take as an instance the very first assertionsmade by Iago. In the opening scene he tells his dupe Roderigo that threegreat men of Venice went to Othello and begged him to make Iago hislieutenant; that Othello, out of pride and obstinacy, refused; that inrefusing he talked a deal of military rigmarole, and ended by declaring(falsely, we are to understand) that he had already filled up thevacancy; that Cassio, whom he chose, had absolutely no practicalknowledge of war, nothing but bookish theoric, mere prattle, arithmetic,whereas Iago himself had often fought by Othello's side, and by 'oldgradation' too ought to have been preferred. Most or all of this isrepeated by some critics as though it were information given byShakespeare, and the conclusion is quite naturally drawn that Iago hadsome reason to feel aggrieved. But if we ask ourselves how much of allthis is true we shall answer, I believe, as follows. It is absolutelycertain that Othello appointed Cassio his lieutenant, and _nothing_ elseis absolutely certain. But there is no reason to doubt the statementthat Iago had seen service with him, nor is there anything inherentlyimprobable in the statement that he was solicited by three greatpersonages on Iago's behalf. On the other hand, the suggestions that herefused out of pride and obstinacy, and that he lied in saying he hadalready chosen his officer, have no verisimilitude; and if there is anyfact at all (as there probably is) behind Iago's account of theconversation, it doubtless is the fact that Iago himself was ignorant ofmilitary science, while Cassio was an expert, and that Othello explainedthis to the great personages. That Cassio, again, was an interloper anda mere closet-student without experience of war is incredible,considering first that Othello chose him for lieutenant, and secondlythat the senate appointed him to succeed Othello in command at Cyprus;and we have direct evidence that part of Iago's statement is a lie, forDesdemona happens to mention that Cassio was a man who 'all his time hadfounded his good fortunes' on Othello's love and had 'shared dangers'with him (III. iv. 93). There remains only the implied assertion that,if promotion had gone by old gradation, Iago, as the senior, would havebeen preferred. It may be true: Othello was not the man to hesitate topromote a junior for good reasons. But it is just as likely to be a pureinvention; and, though Cassio was young, there is nothing to show thathe was younger, in years or in service, than Iago. Iago, for instance,never calls him 'young,' as he does Roderigo; and a mere youth would nothave been made Governor of Cyprus. What is certain, finally, in thewhole business is that Othello's mind was perfectly at ease about theappointment, and that he never dreamed of Iago's being discontented atit, not even when the intrigue was disclosed and he asked himself how hehad offended Iago. 2It is necessary to examine in this manner every statement made by Iago. But it is not necessary to do so in public, and I proceed to thequestion what impression he made on his friends and acquaintances. Inthe main there is here no room for doubt. Nothing could be less likeIago than the melodramatic villain so often substituted for him on thestage, a person whom everyone in the theatre knows for a scoundrel atthe first glance. Iago, we gather, was a Venetian[108] soldier,eight-and-twenty years of age, who had seen a good deal of service andhad a high reputation for courage. Of his origin we are ignorant, but,unless I am mistaken, he was not of gentle birth or breeding. [109] Hedoes not strike one as a degraded man of culture: for all his greatpowers, he is vulgar, and his probable want of military science may wellbe significant. He was married to a wife who evidently lackedrefinement, and who appears in the drama almost in the relation of aservant to Desdemona. His manner was that of a blunt, bluff soldier, whospoke his mind freely and plainly. He was often hearty, and could bethoroughly jovial; but he was not seldom rather rough and caustic ofspeech, and he was given to making remarks somewhat disparaging to humannature. He was aware of this trait in himself, and frankly admitted thathe was nothing if not critical, and that it was his nature to spy intoabuses. In these admissions he characteristically exaggerated his fault,as plain-dealers are apt to do; and he was liked none the less for it,seeing that his satire was humorous, that on serious matters he did notspeak lightly (III. iii. 119), and that the one thing perfectly obviousabout him was his honesty. 'Honest' is the word that springs to the lipsof everyone who speaks of him. It is applied to him some fifteen timesin the play, not to mention some half-dozen where he employs it, inderision, of himself. In fact he was one of those sterling men who, indisgust at gush, say cynical things which they do not believe, and then,the moment you are in trouble, put in practice the very sentiment theyhad laughed at. On such occasions he showed the kindliest sympathy andthe most eager desire to help. When Cassio misbehaved so dreadfully andwas found fighting with Montano, did not Othello see that 'honest Iagolooked dead with grieving'? With what difficulty was he induced, nay,compelled, to speak the truth against the lieutenant! Another man mighthave felt a touch of satisfaction at the thought that the post he hadcoveted was now vacant; but Iago not only comforted Cassio, talking tohim cynically about reputation, just to help him over his shame, but heset his wits to work and at once perceived that the right plan forCassio to get his post again was to ask Desdemona to intercede. Sotroubled was he at his friend's disgrace that his own wife was sure 'itgrieved her husband as if the case was his. ' What wonder that anyone insore trouble, like Desdemona, should send at once for Iago (IV. ii. 106)? If this rough diamond had any flaw, it was that Iago's warm loyalheart incited him to too impulsive action. If he merely heard a friendlike Othello calumniated, his hand flew to his sword; and though herestrained himself he almost regretted his own virtue (I. ii. 1-10). Such seemed Iago to the people about him, even to those who, likeOthello, had known him for some time. And it is a fact too littlenoticed but most remarkable, that he presented an appearance not verydifferent to his wife. There is no sign either that Emilia's marriagewas downright unhappy, or that she suspected the true nature of herhusband. [110] No doubt she knew rather more of him than others. Thus wegather that he was given to chiding and sometimes spoke shortly andsharply to her (III. iii. 300 f. ); and it is quite likely that she gavehim a good deal of her tongue in exchange (II. i. 101 f. ). He was alsounreasonably jealous; for his own statement that he was jealous ofOthello is confirmed by Emilia herself, and must therefore be believed(IV. ii. 145). [111] But it seems clear that these defects of his had notseriously impaired Emilia's confidence in her husband or her affectionfor him. She knew in addition that he was not quite so honest as heseemed, for he had often begged her to steal Desdemona's handkerchief. But Emilia's nature was not very delicate or scrupulous about trifles. She thought her husband odd and 'wayward,' and looked on his fancy forthe handkerchief as an instance of this (III. iii. 292); but she neverdreamed he was a villain, and there is no reason to doubt the sincerityof her belief that he was heartily sorry for Cassio's disgrace. Herfailure, on seeing Othello's agitation about the handkerchief, to formany suspicion of an intrigue, shows how little she doubted her husband. Even when, later, the idea strikes her that some scoundrel has poisonedOthello's mind, the tone of all her speeches, and her mention of therogue who (she believes) had stirred up Iago's jealousy of her, provebeyond doubt that the thought of Iago's being the scoundrel has notcrossed her mind (IV. ii. 115-147). And if any hesitation on the subjectcould remain, surely it must be dispelled by the thrice-repeated cry ofastonishment and horror, 'My husband! ', which follows Othello's words,'Thy husband knew it all'; and by the choking indignation and desperatehope which we hear in her appeal when Iago comes in:     Disprove this villain if thou be'st a man:     He says thou told'st him that his wife was false:     I know thou did'st not, thou'rt not such a villain:     Speak, for my heart is full. Even if Iago _had_ betrayed much more of his true self to his wife thanto others, it would make no difference to the contrast between his trueself and the self he presented to the world in general. But he never didso. Only the feeble eyes of the poor gull Roderigo were allowed aglimpse into that pit. The bearing of this contrast upon the apparently excessive credulity ofOthello has been already pointed out. What further conclusions can bedrawn from it? Obviously, to begin with, the inference, which isaccompanied by a thrill of admiration, that Iago's powers ofdissimulation and of self-control must have been prodigious: for he wasnot a youth, like Edmund, but had worn this mask for years, and he hadapparently never enjoyed, like Richard, occasional explosions of thereality within him. In fact so prodigious does his self-control appearthat a reader might be excused for feeling a doubt of its possibility. But there are certain observations and further inferences which, apartfrom confidence in Shakespeare, would remove this doubt. It is to beobserved, first, that Iago was able to find a certain relief from thediscomfort of hypocrisy in those caustic or cynical speeches which,being misinterpreted, only heightened confidence in his honesty. Theyacted as a safety-valve, very much as Hamlet's pretended insanity did. Next, I would infer from the entire success of his hypocrisy--what mayalso be inferred on other grounds, and is of great importance--that hewas by no means a man of strong feelings and passions, like Richard, butdecidedly cold by temperament. Even so, his self-control was wonderful,but there never was in him any violent storm to be controlled. Thirdly,I would suggest that Iago, though thoroughly selfish and unfeeling, wasnot by nature malignant, nor even morose, but that, on the contrary, hehad a superficial good-nature, the kind of good-nature that winspopularity and is often taken as the sign, not of a good digestion, butof a good heart. And lastly, it may be inferred that, before the giantcrime which we witness, Iago had never been detected in any seriousoffence and may even never have been guilty of one, but had pursued aselfish but outwardly decent life, enjoying the excitement of war and ofcasual pleasures, but never yet meeting with any sufficient temptationto risk his position and advancement by a dangerous crime. So that, infact, the tragedy of _Othello_ is in a sense his tragedy too. It showsus not a violent man, like Richard, who spends his life in murder, but athoroughly bad, _cold_ man, who is at last tempted to let loose theforces within him, and is at once destroyed. 3In order to see how this tragedy arises let us now look more closelyinto Iago's inner man. We find here, in the first place, as has beenimplied in part, very remarkable powers both of intellect and of will. Iago's insight, within certain limits, into human nature; his ingenuityand address in working upon it; his quickness and versatility in dealingwith sudden difficulties and unforeseen opportunities, have probably noparallel among dramatic characters. Equally remarkable is his strengthof will. Not Socrates himself, not the ideal sage of the Stoics, wasmore lord of himself than Iago appears to be. It is not merely that henever betrays his true nature; he seems to be master of _all_ themotions that might affect his will. In the most dangerous moments of hisplot, when the least slip or accident would be fatal, he never shows atrace of nervousness. When Othello takes him by the throat he merelyshifts his part with his usual instantaneous adroitness. When he isattacked and wounded at the end he is perfectly unmoved. As Mr. Swinburne says, you cannot believe for a moment that the pain of torturewill ever open Iago's lips. He is equally unassailable by thetemptations of indolence or of sensuality. It is difficult to imaginehim inactive; and though he has an obscene mind, and doubtless took hispleasures when and how he chose, he certainly took them by choice andnot from weakness, and if pleasure interfered with his purposes theholiest of ascetics would not put it more resolutely by. 'What should Ido? ' Roderigo whimpers to him; 'I confess it is my shame to be so fond;but it is not in my virtue to amend it. ' He answers: 'Virtue! a fig! 'tis in ourselves that we are thus and thus. It all depends on our will. Love is merely a lust of the blood and a permission of the will. Come,be a man. . . . Ere I would say I would drown myself for the love of aguinea-hen, I would change my humanity with a baboon. ' Forget for amoment that love is for Iago the appetite of a baboon; forget that he isas little assailable by pity as by fear or pleasure; and you willacknowledge that this lordship of the will, which is his practice aswell as his doctrine, is great, almost sublime. Indeed, in intellect(always within certain limits) and in will (considered as a mere power,and without regard to its objects) Iago _is_ great. To what end does he use these great powers? His creed--for he is nosceptic, he has a definite creed--is that absolute egoism is the onlyrational and proper attitude, and that conscience or honour or any kindof regard for others is an absurdity. He does not deny that thisabsurdity exists. He does not suppose that most people secretly sharehis creed, while pretending to hold and practise another. On thecontrary, he regards most people as honest fools. He declares that hehas never yet met a man who knew how to love himself; and his oneexpression of admiration in the play is for servants     Who, trimmed in forms and visages of duty,     Keep yet their hearts attending on themselves. 'These fellows,' he says, 'have some soul. ' He professes to stand, andhe, attempts to stand, wholly outside the world of morality. The existence of Iago's creed and of his corresponding practice isevidently connected with a characteristic in which he surpasses nearlyall the other inhabitants of Shakespeare's world. Whatever he may oncehave been, he appears, when we meet him, to be almost destitute ofhumanity, of sympathetic or social feeling. He shows no trace ofaffection, and in presence of the most terrible suffering he showseither pleasure or an indifference which, if not complete, is nearly so. Here, however, we must be careful. It is important to realise, and fewreaders are in danger of ignoring, this extraordinary deadness offeeling, but it is also important not to confuse it with a generalpositive ill-will. When Iago has no dislike or hostility to a person hedoes _not_ show pleasure in the suffering of that person: he shows atmost the absence of pain. There is, for instance, not the least sign ofhis enjoying the distress of Desdemona. But his sympathetic feelings areso abnormally feeble and cold that, when his dislike is roused, or whenan indifferent person comes in the way of his purpose, there is scarcelyanything within him to prevent his applying the torture. What is it that provokes his dislike or hostility? Here again we mustlook closely. Iago has been represented as an incarnation of envy, as aman who, being determined to get on in the world, regards everyone elsewith enmity as his rival. But this idea, though containing truth, seemsmuch exaggerated. Certainly he is devoted to himself; but if he were aneagerly ambitious man, surely we should see much more positive signs ofthis ambition; and surely too, with his great powers, he would alreadyhave risen high, instead of being a mere ensign, short of money, andplaying Captain Rook to Roderigo's Mr. Pigeon. Taking all the facts, onemust conclude that his desires were comparatively moderate and hisambition weak; that he probably enjoyed war keenly, but, if he had moneyenough, did not exert himself greatly to acquire reputation or position;and, therefore, that he was not habitually burning with envy andactively hostile to other men as possible competitors. But what is clear is that Iago is keenly sensitive to anything thattouches his pride or self-esteem. It would be most unjust to call himvain, but he has a high opinion of himself and a great contempt forothers. He is quite aware of his superiority to them in certainrespects; and he either disbelieves in or despises the qualities inwhich they are superior to him. Whatever disturbs or wounds his sense ofsuperiority irritates him at once; and in _that_ sense he is highlycompetitive. This is why the appointment of Cassio provokes him. This iswhy Cassio's scientific attainments provoke him. This is the reason ofhis jealousy of Emilia. He does not care for his wife; but the fear ofanother man's getting the better of him, and exposing him to pity orderision as an unfortunate husband, is wormwood to him; and as he issure that no woman is virtuous at heart, this fear is ever with him. Formuch the same reason he has a spite against goodness in men (for it ischaracteristic that he is less blind to its existence in men, thestronger, than in women, the weaker). He has a spite against it, notfrom any love of evil for evil's sake, but partly because it annoys hisintellect as a stupidity; partly (though he hardly knows this) becauseit weakens his satisfaction with himself, and disturbs his faith thategoism is the right and proper thing; partly because, the world beingsuch a fool, goodness is popular and prospers. But he, a man ten timesas able as Cassio or even Othello, does not greatly prosper. Somehow,for all the stupidity of these open and generous people, they get onbetter than the 'fellow of some soul' And this, though he is notparticularly eager to get on, wounds his pride. Goodness thereforeannoys him. He is always ready to scoff at it, and would like to strikeat it. In ordinary circumstances these feelings of irritation are notvivid in Iago--_no_ feeling is so--but they are constantly present. 4Our task of analysis is not finished; but we are now in a position toconsider the rise of Iago's tragedy.

Why did he act as we see him actingin the play? What is the answer to that appeal of Othello's:     Will you, I pray, demand that demi-devil     Why he hath thus ensnared my soul and body? This question Why? is _the_ question about Iago, just as the questionWhy did Hamlet delay? is _the_ question about Hamlet. Iago refused toanswer it; but I will venture to say that he _could_ not have answeredit, any more than Hamlet could tell why he delayed. But Shakespeare knewthe answer, and if these characters are great creations and not blunderswe ought to be able to find it too. Is it possible to elicit it from Iago himself against his will? He makesvarious statements to Roderigo, and he has several soliloquies. Fromthese sources, and especially from the latter, we should learnsomething. For with Shakespeare soliloquy generally gives informationregarding the secret springs as well as the outward course of the plot;and, moreover, it is a curious point of technique with him that thesoliloquies of his villains sometimes read almost like explanationsoffered to the audience. [112] Now, Iago repeatedly offers explanationseither to Roderigo or to himself. In the first place, he says more thanonce that he 'hates' Othello. He gives two reasons for his hatred. Othello has made Cassio lieutenant; and he suspects, and has heard itreported, that Othello has an intrigue with Emilia. Next there isCassio. He never says he hates Cassio, but he finds in him three causesof offence: Cassio has been preferred to him; he suspects _him_ too ofan intrigue with Emilia; and, lastly, Cassio has a daily beauty in hislife which makes Iago ugly. In addition to these annoyances he wantsCassio's place. As for Roderigo, he calls him a snipe, and who can hatea snipe? But Roderigo knows too much; and he is becoming a nuisance,getting angry, and asking for the gold and jewels he handed to Iago togive to Desdemona. So Iago kills Roderigo. Then for Desdemona: afig's-end for her virtue! but he has no ill-will to her. In fact he'loves' her, though he is good enough to explain, varying the word, thathis 'lust' is mixed with a desire to pay Othello in his own coin. To besure she must die, and so must Emilia, and so would Bianca if only theauthorities saw things in their true light; but he did not set out withany hostile design against these persons. Is the account which Iago gives of the causes of his action the trueaccount? The answer of the most popular view will be, 'Yes. Iago was, ashe says, chiefly incited by two things, the desire of advancement, and ahatred of Othello due principally to the affair of the lieutenancy. These are perfectly intelligible causes; we have only to add to themunusual ability and cruelty, and all is explained. Why should Coleridgeand Hazlitt and Swinburne go further afield? ' To which last question Iwill at once oppose these: If your view is correct, why should Iago beconsidered an extraordinary creation; and is it not odd that the peoplewho reject it are the people who elsewhere show an exceptionalunderstanding of Shakespeare? The difficulty about this popular view is, in the first place, that itattributes to Iago what cannot be found in the Iago of the play. ItsIago is impelled by _passions_, a passion of ambition and a passion ofhatred; for no ambition or hatred short of passion could drive a man whois evidently so clear-sighted, and who must hitherto have been soprudent, into a plot so extremely hazardous. Why, then, in the Iago ofthe play do we find no sign of these passions or of anything approachingto them? Why, if Shakespeare meant that Iago was impelled by them, doeshe suppress the signs of them? Surely not from want of ability todisplay them. The poet who painted Macbeth and Shylock understood hisbusiness. Who ever doubted Macbeth's ambition or Shylock's hate? Andwhat resemblance is there between these passions and any feeling that wecan trace in Iago? The resemblance between a volcano in eruption and aflameless fire of coke; the resemblance between a consuming desire tohack and hew your enemy's flesh, and the resentful wish, only toofamiliar in common life, to inflict pain in return for a slight. Passion, in Shakespeare's plays, is perfectly easy to recognise. Whatvestige of it, of passion unsatisfied or of passion gratified, isvisible in Iago? None: that is the very horror of him. He has _less_passion than an ordinary man, and yet he does these frightful things. The only ground for attributing to him, I do not say a passionatehatred, but anything deserving the name of hatred at all, is his ownstatement, 'I hate Othello'; and we know what his statements are worth. But the popular view, beside attributing to Iago what he does not show,ignores what he does show. It selects from his own account of hismotives one or two, and drops the rest; and so it makes everythingnatural. But it fails to perceive how unnatural, how strange andsuspicious, his own account is. Certainly he assigns motives enough; thedifficulty is that he assigns so many. A man moved by simple passionsdue to simple causes does not stand fingering his feelings,industriously enumerating their sources, and groping about for new ones. But this is what Iago does. And this is not all. These motives appearand disappear in the most extraordinary manner. Resentment at Cassio'sappointment is expressed in the first conversation with Roderigo, andfrom that moment is never once mentioned again in the whole play. Hatredof Othello is expressed in the First Act alone. Desire to get Cassio'splace scarcely appears after the first soliloquy, and when it isgratified Iago does not refer to it by a single word. The suspicion ofCassio's intrigue with Emilia emerges suddenly, as an after-thought, notin the first soliloquy but the second, and then disappears forever. [113] Iago's 'love' of Desdemona is alluded to in the secondsoliloquy; there is not the faintest trace of it in word or deed eitherbefore or after. The mention of jealousy of Othello is followed bydeclarations that Othello is infatuated about Desdemona and is of aconstant nature, and during Othello's sufferings Iago never shows a signof the idea that he is now paying his rival in his own coin. In thesecond soliloquy he declares that he quite believes Cassio to be in lovewith Desdemona; it is obvious that he believes no such thing, for henever alludes to the idea again, and within a few hours describes Cassioin soliloquy as an honest fool. His final reason for ill-will to Cassionever appears till the Fifth Act. What is the meaning of all this? Unless Shakespeare was out of his mind,it must have a meaning. And certainly this meaning is not contained inany of the popular accounts of Iago. Is it contained then in Coleridge's word 'motive-hunting'? Yes,'motive-hunting' exactly answers to the impression that Iago'ssoliloquies produce. He is pondering his design, and unconsciouslytrying to justify it to himself. He speaks of one or two real feelings,such as resentment against Othello, and he mentions one or two realcauses of these feelings. But these are not enough for him. Along withthem, or alone, there come into his head, only to leave it again, ideasand suspicions, the creations of his own baseness or uneasiness, someold, some new, caressed for a moment to feed his purpose and give it areasonable look, but never really believed in, and never the main forceswhich are determining his action. In fact, I would venture to describeIago in these soliloquies as a man setting out on a project whichstrongly attracts his desire, but at the same time conscious of aresistance to the desire, and unconsciously trying to argue theresistance away by assigning reasons for the project. He is thecounterpart of Hamlet, who tries to find reasons for his delay inpursuing a design which excites his aversion. And most of Iago's reasonsfor action are no more the real ones than Hamlet's reasons for delaywere the real ones. Each is moved by forces which he does notunderstand; and it is probably no accident that these two studies ofstates psychologically so similar were produced at about the sameperiod. What then were the real moving forces of Iago's action? Are we to fallback on the idea of a 'motiveless malignity;'[114] that is to say, adisinterested love of evil, or a delight in the pain of others as simpleand direct as the delight in one's own pleasure? Surely not. I will notinsist that this thing or these things are inconceivable, mere phrases,not ideas; for, even so, it would remain possible that Shakespeare hadtried to represent an inconceivability. But there is not the slightestreason to suppose that he did so. Iago's action is intelligible; andindeed the popular view contains enough truth to refute this desperatetheory. It greatly exaggerates his desire for advancement, and theill-will caused by his disappointment, and it ignores other forces moreimportant than these; but it is right in insisting on the presence ofthis desire and this ill-will, and their presence is enough to destroyIago's claims to be more than a demi-devil. For love of the evil thatadvances my interest and hurts a person I dislike, is a very differentthing from love of evil simply as evil; and pleasure in the pain of aperson disliked or regarded as a competitor is quite distinct frompleasure in the pain of others simply as others. The first isintelligible, and we find it in Iago. The second, even if it wereintelligible, we do not find in Iago. Still, desire of advancement and resentment about the lieutenancy,though factors and indispensable factors in the cause of Iago's action,are neither the principal nor the most characteristic factors. To findthese, let us return to our half-completed analysis of the character. Let us remember especially the keen sense of superiority, the contemptof others, the sensitiveness to everything which wounds these feelings,the spite against goodness in men as a thing not only stupid but, bothin its nature and by its success, contrary to Iago's nature andirritating to his pride. Let us remember in addition the annoyance ofhaving always to play a part, the consciousness of exceptional butunused ingenuity and address, the enjoyment of action, and the absenceof fear. And let us ask what would be the greatest pleasure of such aman, and what the situation which might tempt him to abandon hishabitual prudence and pursue this pleasure. Hazlitt and Mr. Swinburne donot put this question, but the answer I proceed to give to it is inprinciple theirs. [115]The most delightful thing to such a man would be something that gave anextreme satisfaction to his sense of power and superiority; and if itinvolved, secondly, the triumphant exertion of his abilities, and,thirdly, the excitement of danger, his delight would be consummated. Andthe moment most dangerous to such a man would be one when his sense ofsuperiority had met with an affront, so that its habitual craving wasreinforced by resentment, while at the same time he saw an opportunityof satisfying it by subjecting to his will the very persons who hadaffronted it. Now, this is the temptation that comes to Iago. Othello'seminence, Othello's goodness, and his own dependence on Othello, musthave been a perpetual annoyance to him. At _any_ time he would haveenjoyed befooling and tormenting Othello. Under ordinary circumstanceshe was restrained, chiefly by self-interest, in some slight degreeperhaps by the faint pulsations of conscience or humanity. Butdisappointment at the loss of the lieutenancy supplied the touch oflively resentment that was required to overcome these obstacles; and theprospect of satisfying the sense of power by mastering Othello throughan intricate and hazardous intrigue now became irresistible. Iago didnot clearly understand what was moving his desire; though he tried togive himself reasons for his action, even those that had some realitymade but a small part of the motive force; one may almost say they wereno more than the turning of the handle which admits the driving powerinto the machine. Only once does he appear to see something of thetruth. It is when he uses the phrase '_to plume up my will_ in doubleknavery. 'To 'plume up the will,' to heighten the sense of power orsuperiority--this seems to be the unconscious motive of many acts ofcruelty which evidently do not spring chiefly from ill-will, and whichtherefore puzzle and sometimes horrify us most. It is often this thatmakes a man bully the wife or children of whom he is fond. The boy whotorments another boy, as we say, 'for no reason,' or who without anyhatred for frogs tortures a frog, is pleased with his victim's pain, notfrom any disinterested love of evil or pleasure in pain, but mainlybecause this pain is the unmistakable proof of his own power over hisvictim. So it is with Iago. His thwarted sense of superiority wantssatisfaction. What fuller satisfaction could it find than theconsciousness that he is the master of the General who has undervaluedhim and of the rival who has been preferred to him; that these worthypeople, who are so successful and popular and stupid, are mere puppetsin his hands, but living puppets, who at the motion of his finger mustcontort themselves in agony, while all the time they believe that he istheir one true friend and comforter? It must have been an ecstasy ofbliss to him. And this, granted a most abnormal deadness of humanfeeling, is, however horrible, perfectly intelligible. There is nomystery in the psychology of Iago; the mystery lies in a furtherquestion, which the drama has not to answer, the question why such abeing should exist. Iago's longing to satisfy the sense of power is, I think, the strongestof the forces that drive him on. But there are two others to be noticed. One is the pleasure in an action very difficult and perilous and,therefore, intensely exciting. This action sets all his powers on thestrain. He feels the delight of one who executes successfully a featthoroughly congenial to his special aptitude, and only just within hiscompass; and, as he is fearless by nature, the fact that a single slipwill cost him his life only increases his pleasure. His exhilarationbreaks out in the ghastly words with which he greets the sunrise afterthe night of the drunken tumult which has led to Cassio's disgrace: 'Bythe mass, 'tis morning. Pleasure and action make the hours seem short. 'Here, however, the joy in exciting action is quickened by otherfeelings. It appears more simply elsewhere in such a way as to suggestthat nothing but such actions gave him happiness, and that his happinesswas greater if the action was destructive as well as exciting. We findit, for instance, in his gleeful cry to Roderigo, who proposes to shoutto Brabantio in order to wake him and tell him of his daughter's flight:     Do, with like timorous[116] accent and dire yell     As when, by night and negligence, the fire     Is spied in populous cities. All through that scene; again, in the scene where Cassio is attacked andRoderigo murdered; everywhere where Iago is in physical action, we catchthis sound of almost feverish enjoyment. His blood, usually so cold andslow, is racing through his veins. But Iago, finally, is not simply a man of action; he is an artist. Hisaction is a plot, the intricate plot of a drama, and in the conceptionand execution of it he experiences the tension and the joy of artisticcreation. 'He is,' says Hazlitt, 'an amateur of tragedy in real life;and, instead of employing his invention on imaginary characters orlong-forgotten incidents, he takes the bolder and more dangerous courseof getting up his plot at home, casts the principal parts among hisnewest friends and connections, and rehearses it in downright earnest,with steady nerves and unabated resolution. ' Mr. Swinburne lays evengreater stress on this aspect of Iago's character, and even declaresthat 'the very subtlest and strongest component of his complex nature'is 'the instinct of what Mr. Carlyle would call an inarticulate poet. 'And those to whom this idea is unfamiliar, and who may suspect it atfirst sight of being fanciful, will find, if they examine the play inthe light of Mr. Swinburne's exposition, that it rests on a true anddeep perception, will stand scrutiny, and might easily be illustrated. They may observe, to take only one point, the curious analogy betweenthe early stages of dramatic composition and those soliloquies in whichIago broods over his plot, drawing at first only an outline, puzzled howto fix more than the main idea, and gradually seeing it develop andclarify as he works upon it or lets it work. Here at any rateShakespeare put a good deal of himself into Iago. But the tragedian inreal life was not the equal of the tragic poet. His psychology, as weshall see, was at fault at a critical point, as Shakespeare's never was. And so his catastrophe came out wrong, and his piece was ruined. Such, then, seem to be the chief ingredients of the force which,liberated by his resentment at Cassio's promotion, drives Iago frominactivity into action, and sustains him through it. And, to pass to anew point, this force completely possesses him; it is his fate. It islike the passion with which a tragic hero wholly identifies himself, andwhich bears him on to his doom. It is true that, once embarked on hiscourse, Iago _could_ not turn back, even if this passion did abate; andit is also true that he is compelled, by his success in convincingOthello, to advance to conclusions of which at the outset he did notdream. He is thus caught in his own web, and could not liberate himselfif he would. But, in fact, he never shows a trace of wishing to do so,not a trace of hesitation, of looking back, or of fear, any more than ofremorse; there is no ebb in the tide. As the crisis approaches therepasses through his mind a fleeting doubt whether the deaths of Cassioand Roderigo are indispensable; but that uncertainty, which does notconcern the main issue, is dismissed, and he goes forward withundiminished zest. Not even in his sleep--as in Richard's before hisfinal battle--does any rebellion of outraged conscience or pity, or anyforeboding of despair, force itself into clear consciousness. Hisfate--which is himself--has completely mastered him: so that, in thelater scenes, where the improbability of the entire success of a designbuilt on so many different falsehoods forces itself on the reader, Iagoappears for moments not as a consummate schemer, but as a man absolutelyinfatuated and delivered over to certain destruction. 5Iago stands supreme among Shakespeare's evil characters because thegreatest intensity and subtlety of imagination have gone to his making,and because he illustrates in the most perfect combination the two factsconcerning evil which seem to have impressed Shakespeare most. The firstof these is the fact that perfectly sane people exist in whomfellow-feeling of any kind is so weak that an almost absolute egoismbecomes possible to them, and with it those hard vices--such asingratitude and cruelty--which to Shakespeare were far the worst. Thesecond is that such evil is compatible, and even appears to ally itselfeasily, with exceptional powers of will and intellect. In the latterrespect Iago is nearly or quite the equal of Richard, in egoism he isthe superior, and his inferiority in passion and massive force onlymakes him more repulsive. How is it then that we can bear to contemplatehim; nay, that, if we really imagine him, we feel admiration and somekind of sympathy? Henry the Fifth tells us:     There is some soul of goodness in things evil,     Would men observingly distil it out;but here, it may be said, we are shown a thing absolutely evil,and--what is more dreadful still--this absolute evil is united withsupreme intellectual power. Why is the representation tolerable, and whydo we not accuse its author either of untruth or of a desperatepessimism? To these questions it might at once be replied: Iago does not standalone; he is a factor in a whole; and we perceive him there and not inisolation, acted upon as well as acting, destroyed as well asdestroying. [117] But, although this is true and important, I pass it byand, continuing to regard him by himself, I would make three remarks inanswer to the questions. In the first place, Iago is not merely negative or evil--far from it. Those very forces that moved him and made his fate--sense of power,delight in performing a difficult and dangerous action, delight in theexercise of artistic skill--are not at all evil things. We sympathisewith one or other of them almost every day of our lives. And,accordingly, though in Iago they are combined with something detestableand so contribute to evil, our perception of them is accompanied withsympathy. In the same way, Iago's insight, dexterity, quickness,address, and the like, are in themselves admirable things; the perfectman would possess them. And certainly he would possess also Iago'scourage and self-control, and, like Iago, would stand above the impulsesof mere feeling, lord of his inner world. All this goes to evil ends inIago, but in itself it has a great worth; and, although in reading, ofcourse, we do not sift it out and regard it separately, it inevitablyaffects us and mingles admiration with our hatred or horror. All this, however, might apparently co-exist with absolute egoism andtotal want of humanity. But, in the second place, it is not true that inIago this egoism and this want are absolute, and that in this sense heis a thing of mere evil. They are frightful, but if they were absoluteIago would be a monster, not a man. The fact is, he _tries_ to make themabsolute and cannot succeed; and the traces of conscience, shame andhumanity, though faint, are discernible. If his egoism were absolute hewould be perfectly indifferent to the opinion of others; and he clearlyis not so. His very irritation at goodness, again, is a sign that hisfaith in his creed is not entirely firm; and it is not entirely firmbecause he himself has a perception, however dim, of the goodness ofgoodness. What is the meaning of the last reason he gives himself forkilling Cassio:     He hath a daily beauty in his life     That makes me ugly? Does he mean that he is ugly to others? Then he is not an absoluteegoist. Does he mean that he is ugly to himself? Then he makes an openconfession of moral sense. And, once more, if he really possessed nomoral sense, we should never have heard those soliloquies which soclearly betray his uneasiness and his unconscious desire to persuadehimself that he has some excuse for the villainy he contemplates. Theseseem to be indubitable proofs that, against his will, Iago is a littlebetter than his creed, and has failed to withdraw himself wholly fromthe human atmosphere about him. And to these proofs I would add, thoughwith less confidence, two others. Iago's momentary doubt towards the endwhether Roderigo and Cassio must be killed has always surprised me. As amere matter of calculation it is perfectly obvious that they must; and Ibelieve his hesitation is not merely intellectual, it is another symptomof the obscure working of conscience or humanity. Lastly, is it notsignificant that, when once his plot has begun to develop, Iago neverseeks the presence of Desdemona; that he seems to leave her as quicklyas he can (III. iv. 138); and that, when he is fetched byEmilia to see her in her distress (IV. ii. 110 ff. ), we fail tocatch in his words any sign of the pleasure he shows in Othello'smisery, and seem rather to perceive a certain discomfort, and, if onedare say it, a faint touch of shame or remorse? This interpretation ofthe passage, I admit, is not inevitable, but to my mind (quite apartfrom any theorising about Iago) it seems the natural one. [118] And if itis right, Iago's discomfort is easily understood; for Desdemona is theone person concerned against whom it is impossible for him even toimagine a ground of resentment, and so an excuse for cruelty. [119]There remains, thirdly, the idea that Iago is a man of supremeintellect who is at the same time supremely wicked. That he is supremelywicked nobody will doubt; and I have claimed for him nothing that willinterfere with his right to that title. But to say that his intellectualpower is supreme is to make a great mistake. Within certain limits hehas indeed extraordinary penetration, quickness, inventiveness,adaptiveness; but the limits are defined with the hardest of lines, andthey are narrow limits. It would scarcely be unjust to call him simplyastonishingly clever, or simply a consummate master of intrigue. Butcompare him with one who may perhaps be roughly called a bad man ofsupreme intellectual power, Napoleon, and you see how small and negativeIago's mind is, incapable of Napoleon's military achievements, and muchmore incapable of his political constructions. Or, to keep within theShakespearean world, compare him with Hamlet, and you perceive howmiserably close is his intellectual horizon; that such a thing as athought beyond the reaches of his soul has never come near him; that heis prosaic through and through, deaf and blind to all but a tinyfragment of the meaning of things. Is it not quite absurd, then, to callhim a man of supreme intellect? And observe, lastly, that his failure in perception is closely connectedwith his badness. He was destroyed by the power that he attacked, thepower of love; and he was destroyed by it because he could notunderstand it; and he could not understand it because it was not in him. Iago never meant his plot to be so dangerous to himself. He knew thatjealousy is painful, but the jealousy of a love like Othello's he couldnot imagine, and he found himself involved in murders which were no partof his original design. That difficulty he surmounted, and his changedplot still seemed to prosper. Roderigo and Cassio and Desdemona oncedead, all will be well. Nay, when he fails to kill Cassio, all may stillbe well. He will avow that he told Othello of the adultery, and persistthat he told the truth, and Cassio will deny it in vain. And then, in amoment, his plot is shattered by a blow from a quarter where he neverdreamt of danger. He knows his wife, he thinks. She is notover-scrupulous, she will do anything to please him, and she has learntobedience. But one thing in her he does not know--that she _loves_ hermistress and would face a hundred deaths sooner than see her fair famedarkened. There is genuine astonishment in his outburst 'What! Are youmad? ' as it dawns upon him that she means to speak the truth about thehandkerchief. But he might well have applied to himself the words sheflings at Othello,                          O gull! O dolt!     As ignorant as dirt! The foulness of his own soul made him so ignorant that he built into themarvellous structure of his plot a piece of crass stupidity. To the thinking mind the divorce of unusual intellect from goodness is athing to startle; and Shakespeare clearly felt it so. The combination ofunusual intellect with extreme evil is more than startling, it isfrightful. It is rare, but it exists; and Shakespeare represented it inIago. But the alliance of evil like Iago's with _supreme_ intellect isan impossible fiction; and Shakespeare's fictions were truth. 6The characters of Cassio and Emilia hardly require analysis, and I willtouch on them only from a single point of view. In their combination ofexcellences and defects they are good examples of that truth to naturewhich in dramatic art is the one unfailing source of moral instruction. Cassio is a handsome, light-hearted, good-natured young fellow, whotakes life gaily, and is evidently very attractive and popular. Othello,who calls him by his Christian name, is fond of him; Desdemona likes himmuch; Emilia at once interests herself on his behalf. He has warmgenerous feelings, an enthusiastic admiration for the General, and achivalrous adoration for his peerless wife. But he is too easy-going. Hefinds it hard to say No; and accordingly, although he is aware that hehas a very weak head, and that the occasion is one on which he is boundto run no risk, he gets drunk--not disgustingly so, but ludicrouslyso. [120] And, besides, he amuses himself without any scruple byfrequenting the company of a woman of more than doubtful reputation, whohas fallen in love with his good looks. Moralising critics point outthat he pays for the first offence by losing his post, and for thesecond by nearly losing his life. They are quite entitled to do so,though the careful reader will not forget Iago's part in thesetransactions. But they ought also to point out that Cassio's loosenessdoes not in the least disturb our confidence in him in his relationswith Desdemona and Othello. He is loose, and we are sorry for it; but wenever doubt that there was 'a daily beauty in his life,' or that hisrapturous admiration of Desdemona was as wholly beautiful a thing as itappears, or that Othello was perfectly safe when in his courtship heemployed Cassio to 'go between' Desdemona and himself. It is fortunatelya fact in human nature that these aspects of Cassio's character arequite compatible. Shakespeare simply sets it down; and it is justbecause he is truthful in these smaller things that in greater things wetrust him absolutely never to pervert the truth for the sake of somedoctrine or purpose of his own. There is something very lovable about Cassio, with his fresh eagerfeelings; his distress at his disgrace and still more at having lostOthello's trust; his hero-worship; and at the end his sorrow and pity,which are at first too acute for words. He is carried in, wounded, on achair. He looks at Othello and cannot speak. His first words come laterwhen, to Lodovico's question, 'Did you and he consent in Cassio'sdeath? ' Othello answers 'Ay. ' Then he falters out, 'Dear General, Inever gave you cause. ' One is sure he had never used that adjectivebefore. The love in it makes it beautiful, but there is something elsein it, unknown to Cassio, which goes to one's heart. It tells us thathis hero is no longer unapproachably above him. Few of Shakespeare's minor characters are more distinct than Emilia, andtowards few do our feelings change so much within the course of a play. Till close to the end she frequently sets one's teeth on edge; and atthe end one is ready to worship her. She nowhere shows any sign ofhaving a bad heart; but she is common, sometimes vulgar, in minormatters far from scrupulous, blunt in perception and feeling, and quitedestitute of imagination. She let Iago take the handkerchief though sheknew how much its loss would distress Desdemona; and she said nothingabout it though she saw that Othello was jealous. We rightly resent herunkindness in permitting the theft, but--it is an important point--weare apt to misconstrue her subsequent silence, because we know thatOthello's jealousy was intimately connected with the loss of thehandkerchief. Emilia, however, certainly failed to perceive this; forotherwise, when Othello's anger showed itself violently and she wasreally distressed for her mistress, she could not have failed to thinkof the handkerchief, and would, I believe, undoubtedly have told thetruth about it. But, in fact, she never thought of it, although sheguessed that Othello was being deceived by some scoundrel. Even afterDesdemona's death, nay, even when she knew that Iago had brought itabout, she still did not remember the handkerchief; and when Othello atlast mentions, as a proof of his wife's guilt, that he had seen thehandkerchief in Cassio's hand, the truth falls on Emilia like athunder-bolt. 'O God! ' she bursts out, 'O heavenly God! '[121] Herstupidity in this matter is gross, but it is stupidity and nothingworse. But along with it goes a certain coarseness of nature. The contrastbetween Emilia and Desdemona in their conversation about the infidelityof wives (IV. iii. ) is too famous to need a word,--unless it be a wordof warning against critics who take her light talk too seriously. Butthe contrast in the preceding scene is hardly less remarkable. Othello,affecting to treat Emilia as the keeper of a brothel, sends her away,bidding her shut the door behind her; and then he proceeds to torturehimself as well as Desdemona by accusations of adultery. But, as acritic has pointed out, Emilia listens at the door, for we find, as soonas Othello is gone and Iago has been summoned, that she knows whatOthello has said to Desdemona. And what could better illustrate thosedefects of hers which make one wince, than her repeating again and againin Desdemona's presence the word Desdemona could not repeat; than hertalking before Desdemona of Iago's suspicions regarding Othello andherself; than her speaking to Desdemona of husbands who strike theirwives; than the expression of her honest indignation in the words,     Has she forsook so many noble matches,     Her father and her country and her friends,     To be called whore? If one were capable of laughing or even of smiling when this point inthe play is reached, the difference between Desdemona's anguish at theloss of Othello's love, and Emilia's recollection of the noble matchesshe might have secured, would be irresistibly ludicrous. And yet how all this, and all her defects, vanish into nothingness whenwe see her face to face with that which she can understand and feel! From the moment of her appearance after the murder to the moment of herdeath she is transfigured; and yet she remains perfectly true toherself, and we would not have her one atom less herself. She is theonly person who utters for us the violent common emotions which we feel,together with those more tragic emotions which she does not comprehend. She has done this once already, to our great comfort. When she suggeststhat some villain has poisoned Othello's mind, and Iago answers,     Fie, there is no such man; it is impossible;and Desdemona answers,     If any such there be, Heaven pardon him;Emilia's retort,     A halter pardon him, and Hell gnaw his bones,says what we long to say, and helps us. And who has not felt in the lastscene how her glorious carelessness of her own life, and her outburstsagainst Othello--even that most characteristic one,     She was too fond of her most filthy bargain--lift the overwhelming weight of calamity that oppresses us, and bring usan extraordinary lightening of the heart? Terror and pity are here toomuch to bear; we long to be allowed to feel also indignation, if notrage; and Emilia lets us feel them and gives them words. She brings ustoo the relief of joy and admiration,--a joy that is not lessened by herdeath. Why should she live? If she lived for ever she never could soar ahigher pitch, and nothing in her life became her like the losingit. [122]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 107: It has been held, for example, that Othello treated Iagoabominably in preferring Cassio to him; that he _did_ seduce Emilia;that he and Desdemona were too familiar before marriage; and that in anycase his fate was a moral judgment on his sins, and Iago a righteous, ifsharp, instrument of Providence. ][Footnote 108: See III. iii. 201, V. i. 89 f. The statements are hisown, but he has no particular reason for lying. One reason of hisdisgust at Cassio's appointment was that Cassio was a Florentine (I. i. 20). When Cassio says (III. i. 42) 'I never knew a Florentine more kindand honest,' of course he means, not that Iago is a Florentine, but thathe could not be kinder and honester if he were one. ][Footnote 109: I am here merely recording a general impression. There isno specific evidence, unless we take Cassio's language in his drink (II. ii. 105 f. ) to imply that Iago was not a 'man of quality' like himself. I do not know if it has been observed that Iago uses more nauticalphrases and metaphors than is at all usual with Shakespeare'scharacters. This might naturally be explained by his roving militarylife, but it is curious that almost all the examples occur in theearlier scenes (see _e. g. _ I. i. 30, 153, 157; I. ii. 17, 50; I. iii. 343; II. iii. 65), so that the use of these phrases and metaphors maynot be characteristic of Iago but symptomatic of a particular state ofShakespeare's mind. ][Footnote 110: See further Note P. ][Footnote 111: But it by no means follows that we are to believe hisstatement that there was a report abroad about an intrigue between hiswife and Othello (I. iii. 393), or his statement (which may be divinedfrom IV. ii. 145) that someone had spoken to him on the subject. ][Footnote 112: See, for instance, Aaron in _Titus Andronicus_, II. iii. ;Richard in _3 Henry VI. _, III. ii. and V. vi. , and in _Richard III. _, I. i. (twice), I. ii. ; Edmund in _King Lear_, I. ii. (twice), III. iii. andv. , V. i. ][Footnote 113: See, further, Note Q. ][Footnote 114: On the meaning which this phrase had for its author,Coleridge, see note on p. 228. ][Transcriber's note: Reference is toFootnote 115. ][Footnote 115: Coleridge's view is not materially different, though lesscomplete. When he speaks of 'the motive-hunting of a motivelessmalignity,' he does not mean by the last two words that 'disinterestedlove of evil' or 'love of evil for evil's sake' of which I spoke justnow, and which other critics attribute to Iago. He means really thatIago's malignity does not spring from the causes to which Iago himselfrefers it, nor from any 'motive' in the sense of an idea present toconsciousness. But unfortunately his phrase suggests the theory whichhas been criticised above. On the question whether there is such a thingas this supposed pure malignity, the reader may refer to a discussionbetween Professor Bain and F. H. Bradley in _Mind_, vol. viii. ][Footnote 116: _I. e. _ terrifying. ][Footnote 117: Cf. note at end of lecture. ][Transcriber's note: Refersto Footnote 122. ][Footnote 118: It was suggested to me by a Glasgow student. ][Footnote 119: A curious proof of Iago's inability to hold by his creedthat absolute egoism is the only proper attitude, and that loyalty andaffection are mere stupidity or want of spirit, may be found in his onemoment of real passion, where he rushes at Emilia with the cry,'Villainous whore! ' (V. ii. 229). There is more than fury in his cry,there is indignation. She has been false to him, she has betrayed him. Well, but why should she not, if his creed is true? And what amelancholy exhibition of human inconsistency it is that he should use asterms of reproach words which, according to him, should be quiteneutral, if not complimentary! ][Footnote 120: Cassio's invective against drink may be compared withHamlet's expressions of disgust at his uncle's drunkenness. Possibly thesubject may for some reason have been prominent in Shakespeare's mindabout this time. ][Footnote 121: So the Quarto, and certainly rightly, though moderneditors reprint the feeble alteration of the Folio, due to fear of theCensor, 'O heaven! O heavenly Powers! '][Footnote 122: The feelings evoked by Emilia are one of the causes whichmitigate the excess of tragic pain at the conclusion. Others are thedownfall of Iago, and the fact, already alluded to, that both Desdemonaand Othello show themselves at their noblest just before death. ]LECTURE VIIKING LEAR_King Lear_ has again and again been described as Shakespeare's greatestwork, the best of his plays, the tragedy in which he exhibits most fullyhis multitudinous powers; and if we were doomed to lose all his dramasexcept one, probably the majority of those who know and appreciate himbest would pronounce for keeping _King Lear_. Yet this tragedy is certainly the least popular of the famous four. The'general reader' reads it less often than the others, and, though heacknowledges its greatness, he will sometimes speak of it with a certaindistaste. It is also the least often presented on the stage, and theleast successful there. And when we look back on its history we find acurious fact. Some twenty years after the Restoration, Nahum Tatealtered _King Lear_ for the stage, giving it a happy ending, and puttingEdgar in the place of the King of France as Cordelia's lover. From thattime Shakespeare's tragedy in its original form was never seen on thestage for a century and a half. Betterton acted Tate's version; Garrickacted it and Dr. Johnson approved it. Kemble acted it, Kean acted it. In1823 Kean, 'stimulated by Hazlitt's remonstrances and Charles Lamb'sessays,' restored the original tragic ending. At last, in 1838, Macreadyreturned to Shakespeare's text throughout. What is the meaning of these opposite sets of facts? Are the lovers ofShakespeare wholly in the right; and is the general reader andplay-goer, were even Tate and Dr. Johnson, altogether in the wrong? Iventure to doubt it. When I read _King Lear_ two impressions are left onmy mind, which seem to answer roughly to the two sets of facts. _KingLear_ seems to me Shakespeare's greatest achievement, but it seems to me_not_ his best play. And I find that I tend to consider it from tworather different points of view. When I regard it strictly as a drama,it appears to me, though in certain parts overwhelming, decidedlyinferior as a whole to _Hamlet_, _Othello_ and _Macbeth_. When I amfeeling that it is greater than any of these, and the fullest revelationof Shakespeare's power, I find I am not regarding it simply as a drama,but am grouping it in my mind with works like the _Prometheus Vinctus_and the _Divine Comedy_, and even with the greatest symphonies ofBeethoven and the statues in the Medici Chapel. This two-fold character of the play is to some extent illustrated by theaffinities and the probable chronological position of _King Lear_. It isallied with two tragedies, _Othello_ and _Timon of Athens_; and thesetwo tragedies are utterly unlike. [123] _Othello_ was probably composedabout 1604, and _King Lear_ about 1605; and though there is a somewhatmarked change in style and versification, there are obvious resemblancesbetween the two. The most important have been touched on already: theseare the most painful and the most pathetic of the four tragedies, thosein which evil appears in its coldest and most inhuman forms, and thosewhich exclude the supernatural from the action. But there is also in_King Lear_ a good deal which sounds like an echo of _Othello_,--a factwhich should not surprise us, since there are other instances where thematter of a play seems to go on working in Shakespeare's mind andre-appears, generally in a weaker form, in his next play. So, in _KingLear_, the conception of Edmund is not so fresh as that of Goneril. Goneril has no predecessor; but Edmund, though of course essentiallydistinguished from Iago, often reminds us of him, and the soliloquy,'This is the excellent foppery of the world,' is in the very tone ofIago's discourse on the sovereignty of the will. The gulling of Gloster,again, recalls the gulling of Othello. Even Edmund's idea (not carriedout) of making his father witness, without over-hearing, hisconversation with Edgar, reproduces the idea of the passage whereOthello watches Iago and Cassio talking about Bianca; and the conclusionof the temptation, where Gloster says to Edmund:                              and of my land,     Loyal and natural boy, I'll work the means     To make thee capable,reminds us of Othello's last words in the scene of temptation, 'Now artthou my lieutenant. ' This list might be extended; and the appearance ofcertain unusual words and phrases in both the plays increases thelikelihood that the composition of the one followed at no great distanceon that of the other. [124]When we turn from _Othello_ to _Timon of Athens_ we find a play of quiteanother kind. _Othello_ is dramatically the most perfect of thetragedies. _Timon_, on the contrary, is weak, ill-constructed andconfused; and, though care might have made it clear, no mere care couldmake it really dramatic. Yet it is undoubtedly Shakespearean in part,probably in great part; and it immediately reminds us of _King Lear_. Both plays deal with the tragic effects of ingratitude. In both thevictim is exceptionally unsuspicious, soft-hearted and vehement. In bothhe is completely overwhelmed, passing through fury to madness in the onecase, to suicide in the other. Famous passages in both plays are curses. The misanthropy of Timon pours itself out in a torrent of maledictionson the whole race of man; and these at once recall, alike by their formand their substance, the most powerful speeches uttered by Lear in hismadness. In both plays occur repeated comparisons between man and thebeasts; the idea that 'the strain of man's bred out into baboon,' wolf,tiger, fox; the idea that this bestial degradation will end in a furiousstruggle of all with all, in which the race will perish. The'pessimistic' strain in _Timon_ suggests to many readers, even moreimperatively than _King Lear_, the notion that Shakespeare was givingvent to some personal feeling, whether present or past; for the signs ofhis hand appear most unmistakably when the hero begins to pour the vialsof his wrath upon mankind. _Timon_, lastly, in some of theunquestionably Shakespearean parts, bears (as it appears to me) sostrong a resemblance to _King Lear_ in style and in versification thatit is hard to understand how competent judges can suppose that itbelongs to a time at all near that of the final romances, or even thatit was written so late as the last Roman plays. It is more likely tohave been composed immediately after _King Lear_ and before_Macbeth_. [125]Drawing these comparisons together, we may say that, while as a work ofart and in tragic power _King Lear_ is infinitely nearer to _Othello_than to _Timon_, in its spirit and substance its affinity with _Timon_is a good deal the stronger. And, returning to the point from whichthese comparisons began, I would now add that there is in _King Lear_ areflection or anticipation, however faint, of the structural weakness of_Timon_. This weakness in _King Lear_ is not due, however, to anythingintrinsically undramatic in the story, but to characteristics which werenecessary to an effect not wholly dramatic. The stage is the test ofstrictly dramatic quality, and _King Lear_ is too huge for the stage. Ofcourse, I am not denying that it is a great stage-play. It has scenesimmensely effective in the theatre; three of them--the two between Learand Goneril and between Lear, Goneril and Regan, and the ineffablybeautiful scene in the Fourth Act between Lear and Cordelia--lose in thetheatre very little of the spell they have for imagination; and thegradual interweaving of the two plots is almost as masterly as in _MuchAdo_. But (not to speak of defects due to mere carelessness) that whichmakes the _peculiar_ greatness of King Lear,--the immense scope of thework; the mass and variety of intense experience which it contains; theinterpenetration of sublime imagination, piercing pathos, and humouralmost as moving as the pathos; the vastness of the convulsion both ofnature and of human passion; the vagueness of the scene where the actiontakes place, and of the movements of the figures which cross this scene;the strange atmosphere, cold and dark, which strikes on us as we enterthis scene, enfolding these figures and magnifying their dim outlineslike a winter mist; the half-realised suggestions of vast universalpowers working in the world of individual fates and passions,--all thisinterferes with dramatic clearness even when the play is read, and inthe theatre not only refuses to reveal itself fully through the sensesbut seems to be almost in contradiction with their reports. This is notso with the other great tragedies. No doubt, as Lamb declared,theatrical representation gives only a part of what we imagine when weread them; but there is no _conflict_ between the representation and theimagination, because these tragedies are, in essentials, perfectlydramatic. But _King Lear_, as a whole, is imperfectly dramatic, andthere is something in its very essence which is at war with the senses,and demands a purely imaginative realisation. It is thereforeShakespeare's greatest work, but it is not what Hazlitt called it, thebest of his plays; and its comparative unpopularity is due, not merelyto the extreme painfulness of the catastrophe, but in part to itsdramatic defects, and in part to a failure in many readers to catch thepeculiar effects to which I have referred,--a failure which is naturalbecause the appeal is made not so much to dramatic perception as to ararer and more strictly poetic kind of imagination. For this reason,too, even the best attempts at exposition of _King Lear_ aredisappointing; they remind us of attempts to reduce to prose theimpalpable spirit of the _Tempest_. I propose to develop some of these ideas by considering, first, thedramatic defects of the play, and then some of the causes of itsextraordinary imaginative effect. 1We may begin, however, by referring to two passages which have oftenbeen criticised with injustice. The first is that where the blindedGloster, believing that he is going to leap down Dover cliff, does infact fall flat on the ground at his feet, and then is persuaded that he_has_ leaped down Dover cliff but has been miraculously preserved. Imagine this incident transferred to _Othello_, and you realise howcompletely the two tragedies differ in dramatic atmosphere. In _Othello_it would be a shocking or a ludicrous dissonance, but it is in harmonywith the spirit of _King Lear_. And not only is this so, but, contraryto expectation, it is not, if properly acted, in the least absurd on thestage. The imagination and the feelings have been worked upon with sucheffect by the description of the cliff, and by the portrayal of the oldman's despair and his son's courageous and loving wisdom, that we areunconscious of the grotesqueness of the incident for common sense. The second passage is more important, for it deals with the origin ofthe whole conflict. The oft-repeated judgment that the first scene of_King Lear_ is absurdly improbable, and that no sane man would think ofdividing his kingdom among his daughters in proportion to the strengthof their several protestations of love, is much too harsh and is basedupon a strange misunderstanding. This scene acts effectively, and toimagination the story is not at all incredible. It is merely strange,like so many of the stories on which our romantic dramas are based. Shakespeare, besides, has done a good deal to soften the improbabilityof the legend, and he has done much more than the casual readerperceives. The very first words of the drama, as Coleridge pointed out,tell us that the division of the kingdom is already settled in all itsdetails, so that only the public announcement of it remains. [126] Laterwe find that the lines of division have already been drawn on the map ofBritain (l. 38), and again that Cordelia's share, which is her dowry, isperfectly well known to Burgundy, if not to France (ll. 197, 245). Thatthen which is censured as absurd, the dependence of the division on thespeeches of the daughters, was in Lear's intention a mere form, devisedas a childish scheme to gratify his love of absolute power and hishunger for assurances of devotion. And this scheme is perfectly incharacter. We may even say that the main cause of its failure was notthat Goneril and Regan were exceptionally hypocritical, but thatCordelia was exceptionally sincere and unbending. And it is essential toobserve that its failure, and the consequent necessity of publiclyreversing his whole well-known intention, is one source of Lear'sextreme anger. He loved Cordelia most and knew that she loved him best,and the supreme moment to which he looked forward was that in which sheshould outdo her sisters in expressions of affection, and should berewarded by that 'third' of the kingdom which was the most 'opulent. 'And then--so it naturally seemed to him--she put him to open shame. There is a further point, which seems to have escaped the attention ofColeridge and others. Part of the absurdity of Lear's plan is taken tobe his idea of living with his three daughters in turn. But he nevermeant to do this. He meant to live with Cordelia, and with heralone. [127] The scheme of his alternate monthly stay with Goneril andRegan is forced on him at the moment by what he thinks the undutifulnessof his favourite child. In fact his whole original plan, though foolishand rash, was not a 'hideous rashness'[128] or incredible folly. Ifcarried out it would have had no such consequences as followed itsalteration. It would probably have led quickly to war,[129] but not tothe agony which culminated in the storm upon the heath. The first scene,therefore, is not absurd, though it must be pronounced dramaticallyfaulty in so far as it discloses the true position of affairs only to anattention more alert than can be expected in a theatrical audience orhas been found in many critics of the play. Let us turn next to two passages of another kind, the two which aremainly responsible for the accusation of excessive painfulness, and sofor the distaste of many readers and the long theatrical eclipse of_King Lear_. The first of these is much the less important; it is thescene of the blinding of Gloster. The blinding of Gloster on the stagehas been condemned almost universally; and surely with justice, becausethe mere physical horror of such a spectacle would in the theatre be asensation so violent as to overpower the purely tragic emotions, andtherefore the spectacle would seem revolting or shocking. But it isotherwise in reading. For mere imagination the physical horror, thoughnot lost, is so far deadened that it can do its duty as a stimulus topity, and to that appalled dismay at the extremity of human crueltywhich it is of the essence of the tragedy to excite. Thus the blindingof Gloster belongs rightly to _King Lear_ in its proper world ofimagination; it is a blot upon _King Lear_ as a stage-play. But what are we to say of the second and far more important passage, theconclusion of the tragedy, the 'unhappy ending,' as it is called, thoughthe word 'unhappy' sounds almost ironical in its weakness? Is this too ablot upon _King Lear_ as a stage-play? The question is not so easilyanswered as might appear. Doubtless we are right when we turn withdisgust from Tate's sentimental alterations, from his marriage of Edgarand Cordelia, and from that cheap moral which every one of Shakespeare'stragedies contradicts, 'that Truth and Virtue shall at last succeed. 'But are we so sure that we are right when we unreservedly condemn thefeeling which prompted these alterations, or at all events the feelingwhich beyond question comes naturally to many readers of _King Lear_ whowould like Tate as little as we? What they wish, though they have notalways the courage to confess it even to themselves, is that the deathsof Edmund, Goneril, Regan and Gloster should be followed by the escapeof Lear and Cordelia from death, and that we should be allowed toimagine the poor old King passing quietly in the home of his belovedchild to the end which cannot be far off. Now, I do not dream of sayingthat we ought to wish this, so long as we regard _King Lear_ simply as awork of poetic imagination. But if _King Lear_ is to be consideredstrictly as a drama, or simply as we consider _Othello_, it is not soclear that the wish is unjustified. In fact I will take my courage inboth hands and say boldly that I share it, and also that I believeShakespeare would have ended his play thus had he taken the subject inhand a few years later, in the days of _Cymbeline_ and the _Winter'sTale_. If I read _King Lear_ simply as a drama, I find that my feelingscall for this 'happy ending. ' I do not mean the human, thephilanthropic, feelings, but the dramatic sense. The former wish Hamletand Othello to escape their doom; the latter does not; but it does wishLear and Cordelia to be saved. Surely, it says, the tragic emotions havebeen sufficiently stirred already. Surely the tragic outcome of Lear'serror and his daughters' ingratitude has been made clear enough andmoving enough. And, still more surely, such a tragic catastrophe as thisshould seem _inevitable_. But this catastrophe, unlike those of all theother mature tragedies, does not seem at all inevitable. It is not evensatisfactorily motived. [130] In fact it seems expressly designed to fallsuddenly like a bolt from a sky cleared by the vanished storm. Andalthough from a wider point of view one may fully recognise the value ofthis effect, and may even reject with horror the wish for a 'happyending,' this wider point of view, I must maintain, is not strictlydramatic or tragic. Of course this is a heresy and all the best authority is against it. Butthen the best authority, it seems to me, is either influencedunconsciously by disgust at Tate's sentimentalism or unconsciously takesthat wider point of view.

When Lamb--there is no higherauthority--writes, 'A happy ending! --as if the living martyrdom thatLear had gone through, the flaying of his feelings alive, did not make afair dismissal from the stage of life the only decorous thing for him,'I answer, first, that it is precisely this _fair_ dismissal which wedesire for him instead of renewed anguish; and, secondly, that what wedesire for him during the brief remainder of his days is not 'thechildish pleasure of getting his gilt robes and sceptre again,' not whatTate gives him, but what Shakespeare himself might have given him--peaceand happiness by Cordelia's fireside. And if I am told that he hassuffered too much for this, how can I possibly believe it with thesewords ringing in my ears:                      Come, let's away to prison:     We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage.     When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,     And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,     And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh     At gilded butterflies? And again when Schlegel declares that, if Lear were saved, 'the whole'would 'lose its significance,' because it would no longer show us thatthe belief in Providence 'requires a wider range than the darkpilgrimage on earth to be established in its whole extent,' I answerthat, if the drama does show us that, it takes us beyond the strictlytragic point of view. [131]A dramatic mistake in regard to the catastrophe, however, even supposingit to exist, would not seriously affect the whole play. The principalstructural weakness of _King Lear_ lies elsewhere. It is felt to someextent in the earlier Acts, but still more (as from our study ofShakespeare's technique we have learnt to expect) in the Fourth and thefirst part of the Fifth. And it arises chiefly from the double action,which is a peculiarity of _King Lear_ among the tragedies. By the sideof Lear, his daughters, Kent, and the Fool, who are the principalfigures in the main plot, stand Gloster and his two sons, the chiefpersons of the secondary plot. Now by means of this double actionShakespeare secured certain results highly advantageous even from thestrictly dramatic point of view, and easy to perceive. But thedisadvantages were dramatically greater. The number of essentialcharacters is so large, their actions and movements are so complicated,and events towards the close crowd on one another so thickly, that thereader's attention,[132] rapidly transferred from one centre of interestto another, is overstrained. He becomes, if not intellectually confused,at least emotionally fatigued. The battle, on which everything turns,scarcely affects him. The deaths of Edmund, Goneril, Regan and Glosterseem 'but trifles here'; and anything short of the incomparable pathosof the close would leave him cold. There is something almost ludicrousin the insignificance of this battle, when it is compared with thecorresponding battles in _Julius Caesar_ and _Macbeth_; and though theremay have been further reasons for its insignificance, the main one issimply that there was no room to give it its due effect among such ahost of competing interests. [133]A comparison of the last two Acts of _Othello_ with the last two Acts of_King Lear_ would show how unfavourable to dramatic clearness is amultiplicity of figures. But that this multiplicity is not in itself afatal obstacle is evident from the last two Acts of _Hamlet_, andespecially from the final scene. This is in all respects one ofShakespeare's triumphs, yet the stage is crowded with characters. Onlythey are not _leading_ characters. The plot is single; Hamlet and theKing are the 'mighty opposites'; and Ophelia, the only other person inwhom we are obliged to take a vivid interest, has already disappeared. It is therefore natural and right that the deaths of Laertes and theQueen should affect us comparatively little. But in _King Lear_, becausethe plot is double, we have present in the last scene no less than fivepersons who are technically of the first importance--Lear, his threedaughters and Edmund; not to speak of Kent and Edgar, of whom the latterat any rate is technically quite as important as Laertes. And again,owing to the pressure of persons and events, and owing to theconcentration of our anxiety on Lear and Cordelia, the combat of Edgarand Edmund, which occupies so considerable a space, fails to excite atithe of the interest of the fencing-match in _Hamlet_. The truth isthat all through these Acts Shakespeare has too vast a material to usewith complete dramatic effectiveness, however essential this veryvastness was for effects of another kind. Added to these defects there are others, which suggest that in _KingLear_ Shakespeare was less concerned than usual with dramatic fitness:improbabilities, inconsistencies, sayings and doings which suggestquestions only to be answered by conjecture. The improbabilities in_King Lear_ surely far surpass those of the other great tragedies innumber and in grossness. And they are particularly noticeable in thesecondary plot. For example, no sort of reason is given why Edgar, wholives in the same house with Edmund, should write a letter to himinstead of speaking; and this is a letter absolutely damning to hischaracter. Gloster was very foolish, but surely not so foolish as topass unnoticed this improbability; or, if so foolish, what need forEdmund to forge a letter rather than a conversation, especially asGloster appears to be unacquainted with his son's handwriting? [134] Isit in character that Edgar should be persuaded without the slightestdemur to avoid his father instead of confronting him and asking him thecause of his anger? Why in the world should Gloster, when expelled fromhis castle, wander painfully all the way to Dover simply in order todestroy himself (IV. i. 80)? And is it not extraordinary that, afterGloster's attempted suicide, Edgar should first talk to him in thelanguage of a gentleman, then to Oswald in his presence in broad peasantdialect, then again to Gloster in gentle language, and yet that Glostershould not manifest the least surprise? Again, to take three instances of another kind; (_a_) only a fortnightseems to have elapsed between the first scene and the breach withGoneril; yet already there are rumours not only of war between Goneriland Regan but of the coming of a French army; and this, Kent says, isperhaps connected with the harshness of _both_ the sisters to theirfather, although Regan has apparently had no opportunity of showing anyharshness till the day before. (_b_) In the quarrel with Goneril Learspeaks of his having to dismiss fifty of his followers at a clap, yetshe has neither mentioned any number nor had any opportunity ofmentioning it off the stage. (_c_) Lear and Goneril, intending to hurryto Regan, both send off messengers to her, and both tell the messengersto bring back an answer. But it does not appear either how themessengers _could_ return or what answer could be required, as theirsuperiors are following them with the greatest speed. Once more, (_a_) why does Edgar not reveal himself to his blind father,as he truly says he ought to have done? The answer is left to mereconjecture. (_b_) Why does Kent so carefully preserve his incognito tillthe last scene? He says he does it for an important purpose, but whatthe purpose is we have to guess. (_c_) Why Burgundy rather than Franceshould have first choice of Cordelia's hand is a question we cannot helpasking, but there is no hint of any answer. [135] (_d_) I have referredalready to the strange obscurity regarding Edmund's delay in trying tosave his victims, and I will not extend this list of examples. No one ofsuch defects is surprising when considered by itself, but their numberis surely significant. Taken in conjunction with other symptoms it meansthat Shakespeare, set upon the dramatic effect of the great scenes andupon certain effects not wholly dramatic, was exceptionally careless ofprobability, clearness and consistency in smaller matters, introducingwhat was convenient or striking for a momentary purpose withouttroubling himself about anything more than the moment. In presence ofthese signs it seems doubtful whether his failure to give informationabout the fate of the Fool was due to anything more than carelessness oran impatient desire to reduce his overloaded material. [136]Before I turn to the other side of the subject I will refer to one morecharacteristic of this play which is dramatically disadvantageous. InShakespeare's dramas, owing to the absence of scenery from theElizabethan stage, the question, so vexatious to editors, of the exactlocality of a particular scene is usually unimportant and oftenunanswerable; but, as a rule, we know, broadly speaking, where thepersons live and what their journeys are. The text makes this plain, forexample, almost throughout _Hamlet_, _Othello_ and _Macbeth_; and theimagination is therefore untroubled. But in _King Lear_ the indicationsare so scanty that the reader's mind is left not seldom both vague andbewildered. Nothing enables us to imagine whereabouts in Britain Lear'spalace lies, or where the Duke of Albany lives. In referring to thedividing-lines on the map, Lear tells us of shadowy forests andplenteous rivers, but, unlike Hotspur and his companions, he studiouslyavoids proper names. The Duke of Cornwall, we presume in the absence ofinformation, is likely to live in Cornwall; but we suddenly find, fromthe introduction of a place-name which all readers take at first for asurname, that he lives at Gloster (I. v. 1). [137] This seems likely tobe also the home of the Earl of Gloster, to whom Cornwall is patron. Butno: it is a night's journey from Cornwall's 'house' to Gloster's, andGloster's is in the middle of an uninhabited heath. [138] Here, for thepurpose of the crisis, nearly all the persons assemble, but they do soin a manner which no casual spectator or reader could follow. Afterwardsthey all drift towards Dover for the purpose of the catastrophe; butagain the localities and movements are unusually indefinite. And thisindefiniteness is found in smaller matters. One cannot help asking, forexample, and yet one feels one had better not ask, where that 'lodging'of Edmund's can be, in which he hides Edgar from his father, and whetherEdgar is mad that he should return from his hollow tree (in a districtwhere 'for many miles about there's scarce a bush') to his father'scastle in order to soliloquise (II. iii. ):--for the favouritestage-direction, 'a wood' (which is more than 'a bush'), howeverconvenient to imagination, is scarcely compatible with the presence ofKent asleep in the stocks. [139] Something of the confusion whichbewilders the reader's mind in _King Lear_ recurs in _Antony andCleopatra_, the most faultily constructed of all the tragedies; butthere it is due not so much to the absence or vagueness of theindications as to the necessity of taking frequent and fatiguingjourneys over thousands of miles. Shakespeare could not help himself inthe Roman play: in _King Lear_ he did not choose to help himself,perhaps deliberately chose to be vague. From these defects, or from some of them, follows one result which mustbe familiar to many readers of _King Lear_. It is far more difficult toretrace in memory the steps of the action in this tragedy than in_Hamlet_, _Othello_, or _Macbeth_. The outline is of course quite clear;anyone could write an 'argument' of the play. But when an attempt ismade to fill in the detail, it issues sooner or later in confusion evenwith readers whose dramatic memory is unusually strong. [140]2How is it, now, that this defective drama so overpowers us that we areeither unconscious of its blemishes or regard them as almost irrelevant? As soon as we turn to this question we recognise, not merely that _KingLear_ possesses purely dramatic qualities which far outweigh itsdefects, but that its greatness consists partly in imaginative effectsof a wider kind. And, looking for the sources of these effects, we findamong them some of those very things which appeared to us dramaticallyfaulty or injurious. Thus, to take at once two of the simplest examplesof this, that very vagueness in the sense of locality which we have justconsidered, and again that excess in the bulk of the material and thenumber of figures, events and movements, while they interfere with theclearness of vision, have at the same time a positive value forimagination. They give the feeling of vastness, the feeling not of ascene or particular place, but of a world; or, to speak more accurately,of a particular place which is also a world. This world is dim to us,partly from its immensity, and partly because it is filled with gloom;and in the gloom shapes approach and recede, whose half-seen faces andmotions touch us with dread, horror, or the most painfulpity,--sympathies and antipathies which we seem to be feeling not onlyfor them but for the whole race. This world, we are told, is calledBritain; but we should no more look for it in an atlas than for theplace, called Caucasus, where Prometheus was chained by Strength andForce and comforted by the daughters of Ocean, or the place whereFarinata stands erect in his glowing tomb, 'Come avesse lo Inferno ingran dispitto. 'Consider next the double action. It has certain strictly dramaticadvantages, and may well have had its origin in purely dramaticconsiderations. To go no further, the secondary plot fills out a storywhich would by itself have been somewhat thin, and it provides a mosteffective contrast between its personages and those of the main plot,the tragic strength and stature of the latter being heightened bycomparison with the slighter build of the former. But its chief valuelies elsewhere, and is not merely dramatic. It lies in the fact--inShakespeare without a parallel--that the sub-plot simply repeats thetheme of the main story. Here, as there, we see an old man 'with a whitebeard. ' He, like Lear, is affectionate, unsuspicious, foolish, andself-willed. He, too, wrongs deeply a child who loves him not less forthe wrong. He, too, meets with monstrous ingratitude from the child whomhe favours, and is tortured and driven to death. This repetition doesnot simply double the pain with which the tragedy is witnessed: itstartles and terrifies by suggesting that the folly of Lear and theingratitude of his daughters are no accidents or merely individualaberrations, but that in that dark cold world some fateful malignantinfluence is abroad, turning the hearts of the fathers against theirchildren and of the children against their fathers, smiting the earthwith a curse, so that the brother gives the brother to death and thefather the son, blinding the eyes, maddening the brain, freezing thesprings of pity, numbing all powers except the nerves of anguish and thedull lust of life. [141]Hence too, as well as from other sources, comes that feeling whichhaunts us in _King Lear_, as though we were witnessing somethinguniversal,--a conflict not so much of particular persons as of thepowers of good and evil in the world. And the treatment of many of thecharacters confirms this feeling. Considered simply as psychologicalstudies few of them, surely, are of the highest interest. Fine andsubtle touches could not be absent from a work of Shakespeare'smaturity; but, with the possible exception of Lear himself, no one ofthe characters strikes us as psychologically a _wonderful_ creation,like Hamlet or Iago or even Macbeth; one or two seem even to be somewhatfaint and thin. And, what is more significant, it is not quite naturalto us to regard them from this point of view at all. Rather we observe amost unusual circumstance. If Lear, Gloster and Albany are set apart,the rest fall into two distinct groups, which are strongly, evenviolently, contrasted: Cordelia, Kent, Edgar, the Fool on one side,Goneril, Regan, Edmund, Cornwall, Oswald on the other. These charactersare in various degrees individualised, most of them completely so; butstill in each group there is a quality common to all the members, or onespirit breathing through them all. Here we have unselfish and devotedlove, there hard self-seeking. On both sides, further, the commonquality takes an extreme form; the love is incapable of being chilled byinjury, the selfishness of being softened by pity; and, it may be added,this tendency to extremes is found again in the characters of Lear andGloster, and is the main source of the accusations of improbabilitydirected against their conduct at certain points. Hence the members ofeach group tend to appear, at least in part, as varieties of onespecies; the radical differences of the two species are emphasized inbroad hard strokes; and the two are set in conflict, almost as ifShakespeare, like Empedocles, were regarding Love and Hate as the twoultimate forces of the universe. The presence in _King Lear_ of so large a number of characters in whomlove or self-seeking is so extreme, has another effect. They do notmerely inspire in us emotions of unusual strength, but they also stirthe intellect to wonder and speculation. How can there be such men andwomen? we ask ourselves. How comes it that humanity can take suchabsolutely opposite forms? And, in particular, to what omission ofelements which should be present in human nature, or, if there is noomission, to what distortion of these elements is it due that suchbeings as some of these come to exist? This is a question which Iago(and perhaps no previous creation of Shakespeare's) forces us to ask,but in _King Lear_ it is provoked again and again. And more, it seems tous that the author himself is asking this question. 'Then let themanatomise Regan, see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause innature that makes these hard hearts? '--the strain of thought whichappears here seems to be present in some degree throughout the play. Weseem to trace the tendency which, a few years later, produced Ariel andCaliban, the tendency of imagination to analyse and abstract, todecompose human nature into its constituent factors, and then toconstruct beings in whom one or more of these factors is absent oratrophied or only incipient. This, of course, is a tendency whichproduces symbols, allegories, personifications of qualities and abstractideas; and we are accustomed to think it quite foreign to Shakespeare'sgenius, which was in the highest degree concrete. No doubt in the mainwe are right here; but it is hazardous to set limits to that genius. TheSonnets, if nothing else, may show us how easy it was to Shakespeare'smind to move in a world of 'Platonic' ideas;[142] and, while it would begoing too far to suggest that he was employing conscious symbolism orallegory in _King Lear_, it does appear to disclose a mode ofimagination not so very far removed from the mode with which, we mustremember, Shakespeare was perfectly familiar in Morality plays and inthe _Fairy Queen_. This same tendency shows itself in _King Lear_ in other forms. To it isdue the idea of monstrosity--of beings, actions, states of mind, whichappear not only abnormal but absolutely contrary to nature; an idea,which, of course, is common enough in Shakespeare, but appears withunusual frequency in _King Lear_, for instance in the lines:     Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend,     More hideous when thou show'st thee in a child     Than the sea-monster! or in the exclamation,                               Filial ingratitude!     Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand     For lifting food to't? It appears in another shape in that most vivid passage where Albany, ashe looks at the face which had bewitched him, now distorted withdreadful passions, suddenly sees it in a new light and exclaims inhorror:     Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame.     Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness     To let these hands obey my blood,     They are apt enough to dislocate and tear     Thy flesh and bones: howe'er thou art a fiend,     A woman's shape doth shield thee. [143]It appears once more in that exclamation of Kent's, as he listens tothe description of Cordelia's grief:                             It is the stars,     The stars above us, govern our conditions;     Else one self mate and mate could not beget     Such different issues. (This is not the only sign that Shakespeare had been musing overheredity, and wondering how it comes about that the composition of twostrains of blood or two parent souls can produce such astonishinglydifferent products. )This mode of thought is responsible, lastly, for a very strikingcharacteristic of _King Lear_--one in which it has no parallel except_Timon_--the incessant references to the lower animals[144] and man'slikeness to them. These references are scattered broadcast through thewhole play, as though Shakespeare's mind were so busy with the subjectthat he could hardly write a page without some allusion to it. The dog,the horse, the cow, the sheep, the hog, the lion, the bear, the wolf,the fox, the monkey, the pole-cat, the civet-cat, the pelican, the owl,the crow, the chough, the wren, the fly, the butterfly, the rat, themouse, the frog, the tadpole, the wall-newt, the water-newt, the worm--Iam sure I cannot have completed the list, and some of them are mentionedagain and again. Often, of course, and especially in the talk of Edgaras the Bedlam, they have no symbolical meaning; but not seldom, even inhis talk, they are expressly referred to for their typicalqualities--'hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog inmadness, lion in prey,' 'The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to't Witha more riotous appetite. ' Sometimes a person in the drama is compared,openly or implicitly, with one of them. Goneril is a kite: heringratitude has a serpent's tooth: she has struck her father mostserpent-like upon the very heart: her visage is wolvish: she has tiedsharp-toothed unkindness like a vulture on her father's breast: for herhusband she is a gilded serpent: to Gloster her cruelty seems to havethe fangs of a boar. She and Regan are dog-hearted: they are tigers, notdaughters: each is an adder to the other: the flesh of each is coveredwith the fell of a beast. Oswald is a mongrel, and the son and heir of amongrel: ducking to everyone in power, he is a wag-tail: white withfear, he is a goose. Gloster, for Regan, is an ingrateful fox: Albany,for his wife, has a cowish spirit and is milk-liver'd: when Edgar as theBedlam first appeared to Lear he made him think a man a worm. As weread, the souls of all the beasts in turn seem to us to have entered thebodies of these mortals; horrible in their venom, savagery, lust,deceitfulness, sloth, cruelty, filthiness; miserable in theirfeebleness, nakedness, defencelessness, blindness; and man, 'considerhim well,' is even what they are. Shakespeare, to whom the idea of thetransmigration of souls was familiar and had once been material forjest,[145] seems to have been brooding on humanity in the light of it. It is remarkable, and somewhat sad, that he seems to find none of man'sbetter qualities in the world of the brutes (though he might well havefound the prototype of the self-less love of Kent and Cordelia in thedog whom he so habitually maligns);[146] but he seems to have beenasking himself whether that which he loathes in man may not be due tosome strange wrenching of this frame of things, through which the loweranimal souls have found a lodgment in human forms, and there found--tothe horror and confusion of the thinking mind--brains to forge, tonguesto speak, and hands to act, enormities which no mere brute can conceiveor execute. He shows us in _King Lear_ these terrible forces burstinginto monstrous life and flinging themselves upon those human beings whoare weak and defenceless, partly from old age, but partly because they_are_ human and lack the dreadful undivided energy of the beast. And theonly comfort he might seem to hold out to us is the prospect that atleast this bestial race, strong only where it is vile, cannot endure:though stars and gods are powerless, or careless, or empty dreams, yetthere must be an end of this horrible world:     It will come;     Humanity must perforce prey on itself     Like monsters of the deep. [147]The influence of all this on imagination as we read _King Lear_ is verygreat; and it combines with other influences to convey to us, not in theform of distinct ideas but in the manner proper to poetry, the wider oruniversal significance of the spectacle presented to the inward eye. Butthe effect of theatrical exhibition is precisely the reverse. There thepoetic atmosphere is dissipated; the meaning of the very words whichcreate it passes half-realised; in obedience to the tyranny of the eyewe conceive the characters as mere particular men and women; and allthat mass of vague suggestion, if it enters the mind at all, appears inthe shape of an allegory which we immediately reject. A similar conflictbetween imagination and sense will be found if we consider the dramaticcentre of the whole tragedy, the Storm-scenes. The temptation of Othelloand the scene of Duncan's murder may lose upon the stage, but they donot lose their essence, and they gain as well as lose. The Storm-scenesin _King Lear_ gain nothing and their very essence is destroyed. It iscomparatively a small thing that the theatrical storm, not to drown thedialogue, must be silent whenever a human being wishes to speak, and iswretchedly inferior to many a storm we have witnessed. Nor is it simplythat, as Lamb observed, the corporal presence of Lear, 'an old mantottering about the stage with a walking-stick,' disturbs and depressesthat sense of the greatness of his mind which fills the imagination. There is a further reason, which is not expressed, but still emerges, inthese words of Lamb's: 'the explosions of his passion are terrible as avolcano: they are storms turning up and disclosing to the bottom thatsea, his mind, with all its vast riches. ' Yes, 'they are _storms_. ' Forimagination, that is to say, the explosions of Lear's passion, and thebursts of rain and thunder, are not, what for the senses they must be,two things, but manifestations of one thing. It is the powers of thetormented soul that we hear and see in the 'groans of roaring wind andrain' and the 'sheets of fire'; and they that, at intervals almost moreoverwhelming, sink back into darkness and silence. Nor yet is even thisall; but, as those incessant references to wolf and tiger made us seehumanity 'reeling back into the beast' and ravening against itself, soin the storm we seem to see Nature herself convulsed by the samehorrible passions; the 'common mother,'     Whose womb immeasurable and infinite breast     Teems and feeds all,turning on her children, to complete the ruin they have wrought uponthemselves. Surely something not less, but much more, than thesehelpless words convey, is what comes to us in these astounding scenes;and if, translated thus into the language of prose, it becomes confusedand inconsistent, the reason is simply that it itself is poetry, andsuch poetry as cannot be transferred to the space behind thefoot-lights, but has its being only in imagination. Here then isShakespeare at his very greatest, but not the mere dramatistShakespeare. [148]And now we may say this also of the catastrophe, which we foundquestionable from the strictly dramatic point of view. Its purpose isnot merely dramatic. This sudden blow out of the darkness, which seemsso far from inevitable, and which strikes down our reviving hopes forthe victims of so much cruelty, seems now only what we might haveexpected in a world so wild and monstrous. It is as if Shakespeare saidto us: 'Did you think weakness and innocence have any chance here? Wereyou beginning to dream that? I will show you it is not so. 'I come to a last point. As we contemplate this world, the questionpresses on us, What can be the ultimate power that moves it, thatexcites this gigantic war and waste, or, perhaps, that suffers them andoverrules them? And in _King Lear_ this question is not left to us toask, it is raised by the characters themselves. References to religiousor irreligious beliefs and feelings are more frequent than is usual inShakespeare's tragedies, as frequent perhaps as in his final plays. Heintroduces characteristic differences in the language of the differentpersons about fortune or the stars or the gods, and shows how thequestion What rules the world? is forced upon their minds. They answerit in their turn: Kent, for instance:                           It is the stars,     The stars above us, govern our condition:Edmund:     Thou, nature, art my goddess; to thy law     My services are bound:and again,     This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are     sick in fortune--often the surfeit of our own behaviour--we     make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon and the stars;     as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly     compulsion, . . . and all that we are evil in by a divine     thrusting on:Gloster:     As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;     They kill us for their sport;Edgar:     Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours     Of men's impossibilities, have preserved thee. Here we have four distinct theories of the nature of the ruling power. And besides this, in such of the characters as have any belief in godswho love good and hate evil, the spectacle of triumphant injustice orcruelty provokes questionings like those of Job, or else the thought,often repeated, of divine retribution. To Lear at one moment the stormseems the messenger of heaven:                         Let the great gods,     That keep this dreadful pother o'er our heads,     Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,     That hast within thee undivulged crimes. . . . At another moment those habitual miseries of the poor, of which he hastaken too little account, seem to him to accuse the gods of injustice:                Take physic, pomp;     Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,     That thou mayst shake the superflux to them     And show the heavens more just;and Gloster has almost the same thought (IV. i. 67 ff. ). Gloster again,thinking of the cruelty of Lear's daughters, breaks out,                       but I shall see     The winged vengeance overtake such children. The servants who have witnessed the blinding of Gloster by Cornwall andRegan, cannot believe that cruelty so atrocious will pass unpunished. One cries,     I'll never care what wickedness I do,     If this man come to good;and another,                       if she live long,     And in the end meet the old course of death,     Women will all turn monsters. Albany greets the news of Cornwall's death with the exclamation,              This shows you are above,     You justicers, that these our nether crimes     So speedily can venge;and the news of the deaths of the sisters with the words,     This judgment[149] of the heavens, that makes us tremble,     Touches us not with pity. Edgar, speaking to Edmund of their father, declares     The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices     Make instruments to plague us,and Edmund himself assents. Almost throughout the latter half of thedrama we note in most of the better characters a pre-occupation with thequestion of the ultimate power, and a passionate need to explain byreference to it what otherwise would drive them to despair. And theinfluence of this pre-occupation and need joins with other influences inaffecting the imagination, and in causing it to receive from _King Lear_an impression which is at least as near of kin to the _Divine Comedy_ asto _Othello_. 3For Dante that which is recorded in the _Divine Comedy_ was the justiceand love of God. What did _King Lear_ record for Shakespeare? Something,it would seem, very different. This is certainly the most terriblepicture that Shakespeare painted of the world. In no other of histragedies does humanity appear more pitiably infirm or more hopelesslybad. What is Iago's malignity against an envied stranger compared withthe cruelty of the son of Gloster and the daughters of Lear? What arethe sufferings of a strong man like Othello to those of helpless age? Much too that we have already observed--the repetition of the main themein that of the under-plot, the comparisons of man with the most wretchedand the most horrible of the beasts, the impression of Nature'shostility to him, the irony of the unexpected catastrophe--these, withmuch else, seem even to indicate an intention to show things at theirworst, and to return the sternest of replies to that question of theultimate power and those appeals for retribution. Is it an accident, forexample, that Lear's first appeal to something beyond the earth,                      O heavens,     If you do love old men, if your sweet sway     Allow[150] obedience, if yourselves are old,     Make it your cause:is immediately answered by the iron voices of his daughters, raising byturns the conditions on which they will give him a humiliatingharbourage; or that his second appeal, heart-rending in its piteousness,     You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,     As full of grief as age; wretched in both:is immediately answered from the heavens by the sounds of the breakingstorm? [151] Albany and Edgar may moralise on the divine justice as theywill, but how, in face of all that we see, shall we believe that theyspeak Shakespeare's mind? Is not his mind rather expressed in the bittercontrast between their faith and the events we witness, or in thescornful rebuke of those who take upon them the mystery of things as ifthey were God's spies? [152] Is it not Shakespeare's judgment on his kindthat we hear in Lear's appeal,                   And thou, all-shaking thunder,     Smite flat the thick rotundity o' the world!     Crack nature's moulds, all germens spill at once,     That make ingrateful man! and Shakespeare's judgment on the worth of existence that we hear inLear's agonised cry, 'No, no, no life! '? Beyond doubt, I think, some such feelings as these possess us, and, ifwe follow Shakespeare, ought to possess us, from time to time as we read_King Lear_. And some readers will go further and maintain that this isalso the ultimate and total impression left by the tragedy. _King Lear_has been held to be profoundly 'pessimistic' in the full meaning of thatword,--the record of a time when contempt and loathing for his kind hadovermastered the poet's soul, and in despair he pronounced man's life tobe simply hateful and hideous. And if we exclude the biographical partof this view,[153] the rest may claim some support even from thegreatest of Shakespearean critics since the days of Coleridge, Hazlittand Lamb. Mr. Swinburne, after observing that _King Lear_ is 'by far themost Aeschylean' of Shakespeare's works, proceeds thus:'But in one main point it differs radically from the work and the spiritof Aeschylus. Its fatalism is of a darker and harder nature. ToPrometheus the fetters of the lord and enemy of mankind were bitter;upon Orestes the hand of heaven was laid too heavily to bear; yet in thenot utterly infinite or everlasting distance we see beyond them thepromise of the morning on which mystery and justice shall be made one;when righteousness and omnipotence at last shall kiss each other. But onthe horizon of Shakespeare's tragic fatalism we see no such twilight ofatonement, such pledge of reconciliation as this. Requital, redemption,amends, equity, explanation, pity and mercy, are words without a meaninghere.     As flies to wanton boys are we to the gods;     They kill us for their sport. Here is no need of the Eumenides, children of Night everlasting; forhere is very Night herself. 'The words just cited are not casual or episodical; they strike thekeynote of the whole poem, lay the keystone of the whole arch ofthought. There is no contest of conflicting forces, no judgment so muchas by casting of lots: far less is there any light of heavenly harmonyor of heavenly wisdom, of Apollo or Athene from above. We have heardmuch and often from theologians of the light of revelation: and somesuch thing indeed we find in Aeschylus; but the darkness of revelationis here. '[154]It is hard to refuse assent to these eloquent words, for they express inthe language of a poet what we feel at times in reading _King Lear_ butcannot express. But do they represent the total and final impressionproduced by the play? If they do, this impression, so far as thesubstance of the drama is concerned (and nothing else is in questionhere), must, it would seem, be one composed almost wholly of painfulfeelings,--utter depression, or indignant rebellion, or appalleddespair. And that would surely be strange. For _King Lear_ is admittedlyone of the world's greatest poems, and yet there is surely no other ofthese poems which produces on the whole this effect, and we regard it asa very serious flaw in any considerable work of art that this should beits ultimate effect. [155] So that Mr. Swinburne's description, if takenas final, and any description of King Lear as 'pessimistic' in theproper sense of that word, would imply a criticism which is notintended, and which would make it difficult to leave the work in theposition almost universally assigned to it. But in fact these descriptions, like most of the remarks made on _KingLear_ in the present lecture, emphasise only certain aspects of the playand certain elements in the total impression; and in that impression theeffect of these aspects, though far from being lost, is modified by thatof others. I do not mean that the final effect resembles that of the_Divine Comedy_ or the _Oresteia_: how should it, when the first ofthese can be called by its author a 'Comedy,' and when the second,ending (as doubtless the _Prometheus_ trilogy also ended) with asolution, is not in the Shakespearean sense a tragedy at all? [156] Nordo I mean that _King Lear_ contains a revelation of righteousomnipotence or heavenly harmony, or even a promise of the reconciliationof mystery and justice. But then, as we saw, neither do Shakespeare'sother tragedies contain these things. Any theological interpretation ofthe world on the author's part is excluded from them, and their effectwould be disordered or destroyed equally by the ideas of righteous or ofunrighteous omnipotence. Nor, in reading them, do we think of 'justice'or 'equity' in the sense of a strict requital or such an adjustment ofmerit and prosperity as our moral sense is said to demand; and therenever was vainer labour than that of critics who try to make out thatthe persons in these dramas meet with 'justice' or their 'deserts. '[157]But, on the other hand, man is not represented in these tragedies as themere plaything of a blind or capricious power, suffering woes which haveno relation to his character and actions; nor is the world representedas given over to darkness. And in these respects _King Lear_, though themost terrible of these works, does not differ in essence from the rest. Its keynote is surely to be heard neither in the words wrung fromGloster in his anguish, nor in Edgar's words 'the gods are just. ' Itsfinal and total result is one in which pity and terror, carried perhapsto the extreme limits of art, are so blended with a sense of law andbeauty that we feel at last, not depression and much less despair, but aconsciousness of greatness in pain, and of solemnity in the mystery wecannot fathom. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 123: I leave undiscussed the position of _King Lear_ inrelation to the 'comedies' of _Measure for Measure_, _Troilus andCressida_ and _All's Well_. ][Footnote 124: See Note R. ][Footnote 125: On some of the points mentioned in this paragraph seeNote S. ][Footnote 126:     '_Kent. _ I thought the king had more affected the Duke of                Albany than Cornwall.      _Glos. _ It did always seem so to us: but now, in the division                of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes                he values most. 'For (Gloster goes on to say) their shares are exactly equal in value. And if the shares of the two elder daughters are fixed, obviously thatof the third is so too. ][Footnote 127:     I loved her most, and thought to set my rest     On her kind nursery. ][Footnote 128: It is to Lear's altered plan that Kent applies thesewords. ][Footnote 129: There is talk of a war between Goneril and Regan within afortnight of the division of the kingdom (II. i. 11 f. ). ][Footnote 130: I mean that no sufficiently clear reason is supplied forEdmund's delay in attempting to save Cordelia and Lear. The matterstands thus. Edmund, after the defeat of the opposing army, sends Learand Cordelia to prison. Then, in accordance with a plan agreed onbetween himself and Goneril, he despatches a captain with secret ordersto put them both to death _instantly_ (V. iii. 26-37, 244, 252). He thenhas to fight with the disguised Edgar. He is mortally wounded, and, ashe lies dying, he says to Edgar (at line 162, _more than a hundredlines_ after he gave that commission to the captain):     What you have charged me with, that have I done;     And more, much more; the time will bring it out;     'Tis past, and so am I. In 'more, much more' he seems to be thinking of the order for the deathsof Lear and Cordelia (what else remained undisclosed? ); yet he saysnothing about it. A few lines later he recognises the justice of hisfate, yet still says nothing. Then he hears the story of his father'sdeath, says it has moved him and 'shall perchance do good' (What goodexcept saving his victims? ); yet he still says nothing. Even when hehears that Goneril is dead and Regan poisoned, he _still_ says nothing. It is only when directly questioned about Lear and Cordelia that hetries to save the victims who were to be killed 'instantly' (242). Howcan we explain his delay? Perhaps, thinking the deaths of Lear andCordelia would be of use to Goneril and Regan, he will not speak till heis sure that both the sisters are dead. Or perhaps, though he canrecognise the justice of his fate and can be touched by the account ofhis father's death, he is still too self-absorbed to rise to the activeeffort to 'do some good, despite of his own nature. ' But, while eitherof these conjectures is possible, it is surely far from satisfactorythat we should be left to mere conjecture as to the cause of the delaywhich permits the catastrophe to take place. The _real_ cause liesoutside the dramatic _nexus_. It is Shakespeare's wish to deliver asudden and crushing blow to the hopes which he has excited. ][Footnote 131: Everything in these paragraphs must, of course, be takenin connection with later remarks. ][Footnote 132: I say 'the reader's,' because on the stage, whenever Ihave seen _King Lear_, the 'cuts' necessitated by modern scenery wouldhave made this part of the play absolutely unintelligible to me if I hadnot been familiar with it. It is significant that Lamb in his _Tale ofKing Lear_ almost omits the sub-plot. ][Footnote 133: Even if Cordelia had won the battle, Shakespeare wouldprobably have hesitated to concentrate interest on it, for her victorywould have been a British defeat. On Spedding's view, that he did meanto make the battle more interesting, and that his purpose has beendefeated by our wrong division of Acts IV. and V. , see Note X. ][Footnote 134: It is vain to suggest that Edmund has only just comehome, and that the letter is supposed to have been sent to him when hewas 'out' See I. ii. 38-40, 65 f. ][Footnote 135: The idea in scene i. , perhaps, is that Cordelia'smarriage, like the division of the kingdom, has really beenpre-arranged, and that the ceremony of choosing between France andBurgundy (I. i. 46 f. ) is a mere fiction. Burgundy is to be her husband,and that is why, when Lear has cast her off, he offers her to Burgundyfirst (l. 192 ff. ). It might seem from 211 ff. that Lear's reason fordoing so is that he prefers France, or thinks him the greater man, andtherefore will not offer him first what is worthless: but the languageof France (240 ff. ) seems to show that he recognises a prior right inBurgundy. ][Footnote 136: See Note T. and p. 315. ][Footnote 137: See Note U. ][Footnote 138: The word 'heath' in the stage-directions of thestorm-scenes is, I may remark, Rowe's, not Shakespeare's, who never usedthe word till he wrote _Macbeth_. ][Footnote 139: It is pointed out in Note V. that what modern editorscall Scenes ii. , iii. , iv. of Act II. are really one scene, for Kent ison the stage through them all. ][Footnote 140: [On the locality of Act I. , Sc. ii. , see _Modern LanguageReview_ for Oct. , 1908, and Jan. , 1909. ]][Footnote 141: This effect of the double action seems to have beenpointed out first by Schlegel. ][Footnote 142: How prevalent these are is not recognised by readersfamiliar only with English poetry. See Simpson's _Introduction to thePhilosophy of Shakespeare's Sonnets_ (1868) and Mr. Wyndham's edition ofShakespeare's Poems. Perhaps both writers overstate, and Simpson'sinterpretations are often forced or arbitrary, but his book is valuableand ought not to remain out of print. ][Footnote 143: The monstrosity here is a being with a woman's body and afiend's soul. For the interpretation of the lines see Note Y. ][Footnote 144: Since this paragraph was written I have found that theabundance of these references has been pointed out and commented on byJ. Kirkman, _New Shaks. Soc. Trans. _, 1877. ][Footnote 145: _E. g. _ in _As You Like It_, III. ii. 187, 'I was never soberhymed since Pythagoras' time, that I was an Irish rat, which I canhardly remember'; _Twelfth Night_, IV. ii. 55, '_Clown. _ What is theopinion of Pythagoras concerning wild fowl? _Mal. _ That the soul of ourgrandam might haply inhabit a bird. _Clown. _ What thinkest thou of hisopinion? _Mal. _ I think nobly of the soul, and no way approve hisopinion,' etc. But earlier comes a passage which reminds us of _KingLear_, _Merchant of Venice_, IV. i. 128:     O be thou damn'd, inexecrable dog!     And for thy life let justice be accused.     Thou almost makest me waver in my faith     To hold opinion with Pythagoras,     That souls of animals infuse themselves     Into the trunks of men: thy currish spirit     Govern'd a wolf, who, hang'd for human slaughter,     Even from the gallows did his fell soul fleet,     And, whilst thou lay'st in thy unhallow'd dam,     Infused itself in thee; for thy desires     Are wolvish, bloody, starved and ravenous. ][Footnote 146: I fear it is not possible, however, to refute, on thewhole, one charge,--that the dog is a snob, in the sense that herespects power and prosperity, and objects to the poor and despised. Itis curious that Shakespeare refers to this trait three times in _KingLear_, as if he were feeling a peculiar disgust at it. See III. vi. 65,'The little dogs and all,' etc. : IV. vi. 159, 'Thou hast seen a farmer'sdog bark at a beggar . . . and the creature run from the cur? There thoumightst behold the great image of authority': V. iii. 186, 'taught me toshift Into a madman's rags; to assume a semblance That very dogsdisdain'd. ' Cf. _Oxford Lectures_, p. 341. ][Footnote 147: With this compare the following lines in the great speechon 'degree' in _Troilus and Cressida_, I. iii. :     Take but degree away, untune that string,     And, hark, what discord follows! Each thing meets     In mere oppugnancy: the bounded waters     Should lift their bosoms higher than the shores     And make a sop of all this solid globe:     Strength should be lord of imbecility,     And the rude son should strike his father dead:     Force should be right; or, rather, right and wrong,     Between whose endless jar justice resides,     Should lose their names, and so should justice too.     Then everything includes itself in power,     Power into will, will into appetite;     And appetite, an universal wolf,     So doubly seconded with will and power,     Must make perforce an universal prey,     And last eat up himself. ][Footnote 148: Nor is it believable that Shakespeare, whose means ofimitating a storm were so greatly inferior even to ours, had thestage-performance only or chiefly in view in composing these scenes. Hemay not have thought of readers (or he may), but he must in any casehave written to satisfy his own imagination. I have taken no notice ofthe part played in these scenes by anyone except Lear. The matter is toohuge, and too strictly poetic, for analysis. I may observe that in ourpresent theatres, owing to the use of elaborate scenery, the threeStorm-scenes are usually combined, with disastrous effect. Shakespeare,as we saw (p. 49), interposed between them short scenes of much lowertone. ][Footnote 149: 'justice,' Qq. ][Footnote 150: =approve. ][Footnote 151: The direction 'Storm and tempest' at the end of thisspeech is not modern, it is in the Folio. ][Footnote 152: The gods are mentioned many times in _King Lear_, but'God' only here (V. ii. 16). ][Footnote 153: The whole question how far Shakespeare's works representhis personal feelings and attitude, and the changes in them, would carryus so far beyond the bounds of the four tragedies, is so needless forthe understanding of them, and is so little capable of decision, that Ihave excluded it from these lectures; and I will add here a note on itonly as it concerns the 'tragic period. 'There are here two distinct sets of facts, equally important, (1) On theone side there is the fact that, so far as we can make out, after_Twelfth Night_ Shakespeare wrote, for seven or eight years, no playwhich, like many of his earlier works, can be called happy, much lessmerry or sunny. He wrote tragedies; and if the chronological order_Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_, _Timon_, _Macbeth_, is correct, thesetragedies show for some time a deepening darkness, and _King Lear_ and_Timon_ lie at the nadir. He wrote also in these years (probably in theearlier of them) certain 'comedies,' _Measure for Measure_ and _Troilusand Cressida_, and perhaps _All's Well_. But about these comedies thereis a peculiar air of coldness; there is humour, of course, but littlemirth; in _Measure for Measure_ perhaps, certainly in _Troilus andCressida_, a spirit of bitterness and contempt seems to pervade anintellectual atmosphere of an intense but hard clearness. With _Macbeth_perhaps, and more decidedly in the two Roman tragedies which followed,the gloom seems to lift; and the final romances show a mellow serenitywhich sometimes warms into radiant sympathy, and even into a mirthalmost as light-hearted as that of younger days. When we consider thesefacts, not as barely stated thus but as they affect us in reading theplays, it is, to my mind, very hard to believe that their origin wassimply and solely a change in dramatic methods or choice of subjects, oreven merely such inward changes as may be expected to accompany thearrival and progress of middle age. (2) On the other side, and over against these facts, we have to set themultitudinousness of Shakespeare's genius, and his almost unlimitedpower of conceiving and expressing human experience of all kinds. And wehave to set more. Apparently during this period of years he never ceasedto write busily, or to exhibit in his writings the greatest mentalactivity. He wrote also either nothing or very little (_Troilus andCressida_ and his part of _Timon_ are the possible exceptions) in whichthere is any appearance of personal feeling overcoming or seriouslyendangering the self-control or 'objectivity' of the artist. And finallyit is not possible to make out any continuously deepening _personal_note: for although _Othello_ is darker than _Hamlet_ it surely strikesone as about as impersonal as a play can be; and, on grounds of styleand versification, it appears (to me, at least) impossible to bring_Troilus and Cressida_ chronologically close to _King Lear_ and _Timon_;even if parts of it are later than others, the late parts must bedecidedly earlier than those plays. The conclusion we may very tentatively draw from these sets of factswould seem to be as follows. Shakespeare during these years was probablynot a happy man, and it is quite likely that he felt at times even anintense melancholy, bitterness, contempt, anger, possibly even loathingand despair. It is quite likely too that he used these experiences ofhis in writing such plays as _Hamlet_, _Troilus and Cressida_, _KingLear_, _Timon_. But it is evident that he cannot have been for anyconsiderable time, if, ever, overwhelmed by such feelings, and there isno appearance of their having issued in any settled 'pessimistic'conviction which coloured his whole imagination and expressed itself inhis works. The choice of the subject of ingratitude, for instance, in_King Lear_ and _Timon_, and the method of handling it, may have beendue in part to personal feeling; but it does not follow that thisfeeling was particularly acute at this particular time, and, even if itwas, it certainly was not so absorbing as to hinder Shakespeare fromrepresenting in the most sympathetic manner aspects of life the veryreverse of pessimistic. Whether the total impression of _King Lear_ canbe called pessimistic is a further question, which is considered in thetext. ][Footnote 154: _A Study of Shakespeare_, pp. 171, 172. ][Footnote 155: A flaw, I mean, in a work of art considered not as amoral or theological document but as a work of art,--an aesthetic flaw. I add the word 'considerable' because we do not regard the effect inquestion as a flaw in a work like a lyric or a short piece of music,which may naturally be taken as expressions merely of a mood or asubordinate aspect of things. ][Footnote 156: Caution is very necessary in making comparisons betweenShakespeare and the Greek dramatists. A tragedy like the _Antigone_stands, in spite of differences, on the same ground as a Shakespeareantragedy; it is a self-contained whole with a catastrophe. A drama likethe _Philoctetes_ is a self-contained whole, but, ending with asolution, it corresponds not with a Shakespearean tragedy but with aplay like _Cymbeline_. A drama like the _Agamemnon_ or the _PrometheusVinctus_ answers to no Shakespearean form of play. It is not aself-contained whole, but a part of a trilogy. If the trilogy isconsidered as a unit, it answers not to _Hamlet_ but to _Cymbeline_. Ifthe part is considered as a whole, it answers to _Hamlet_, but may thenbe open to serious criticism. Shakespeare never made a tragedy end withthe complete triumph of the worse side: the _Agamemnon_ and_Prometheus_, if wrongly taken as wholes, would do this, and would sofar, I must think, be bad tragedies. [It can scarcely be necessary toremind the reader that, in point of 'self-containedness,' there is adifference of degree between the pure tragedies of Shakespeare and someof the historical. ]][Footnote 157: I leave it to better authorities to say how far theseremarks apply also to Greek Tragedy, however much the language of'justice' may be used there. ]LECTURE VIIIKING LEARWe have now to look at the characters in _King Lear_; and I propose toconsider them to some extent from the point of view indicated at theclose of the last lecture, partly because we have so far been regardingthe tragedy mainly from an opposite point of view, and partly becausethese characters are so numerous that it would not be possible withinour limits to examine them fully. 1The position of the hero in this tragedy is in one important respectpeculiar. The reader of _Hamlet_, _Othello_, or _Macbeth_, is in nodanger of forgetting, when the catastrophe is reached, the part playedby the hero in bringing it on. His fatal weakness, error, wrong-doing,continues almost to the end. It is otherwise with _King Lear_. When theconclusion arrives, the old King has for a long while been passive. Wehave long regarded him not only as 'a man more sinned against thansinning,' but almost wholly as a sufferer, hardly at all as an agent. His sufferings too have been so cruel, and our indignation against thosewho inflicted them has been so intense, that recollection of the wronghe did to Cordelia, to Kent, and to his realm, has been well-nigheffaced. Lastly, for nearly four Acts he has inspired in us, togetherwith this pity, much admiration and affection. The force of his passionhas made us feel that his nature was great; and his frankness andgenerosity, his heroic efforts to be patient, the depth of his shame andrepentance, and the ecstasy of his re-union with Cordelia, have meltedour very hearts. Naturally, therefore, at the close we are in somedanger of forgetting that the storm which has overwhelmed him wasliberated by his own deed. Yet it is essential that Lear's contribution to the action of the dramashould be remembered; not at all in order that we may feel that he'deserved' what he suffered, but because otherwise his fate would appearto us at best pathetic, at worst shocking, but certainly not tragic. Andwhen we were reading the earlier scenes of the play we recognised thiscontribution clearly enough. At the very beginning, it is true, we areinclined to feel merely pity and misgivings. The first lines tell usthat Lear's mind is beginning to fail with age. [158] Formerly he hadperceived how different were the characters of Albany and Cornwall, butnow he seems either to have lost this perception or to be unwiselyignoring it. The rashness of his division of the kingdom troubles us,and we cannot but see with concern that its motive is mainly selfish. The absurdity of the pretence of making the division depend onprotestations of love from his daughters, his complete blindness to thehypocrisy which is patent to us at a glance, his piteous delight inthese protestations, the openness of his expressions of preference forhis youngest daughter--all make us smile, but all pain us. But pitybegins to give way to another feeling when we witness the precipitance,the despotism, the uncontrolled anger of his injustice to Cordelia andKent, and the 'hideous rashness' of his persistence in dividing thekingdom after the rejection of his one dutiful child. We feel now thepresence of force, as well as weakness, but we feel also the presence ofthe tragic [Greek: hubris]. Lear, we see, is generous and unsuspicious,of an open and free nature, like Hamlet and Othello and indeed most ofShakespeare's heroes, who in this, according to Ben Jonson, resemble thepoet who made them. Lear, we see, is also choleric by temperament--thefirst of Shakespeare's heroes who is so. And a long life of absolutepower, in which he has been flattered to the top of his bent, hasproduced in him that blindness to human limitations, and thatpresumptuous self-will, which in Greek tragedy we have so often seenstumbling against the altar of Nemesis. Our consciousness that the decayof old age contributes to this condition deepens our pity and our senseof human infirmity, but certainly does not lead us to regard the oldKing as irresponsible, and so to sever the tragic _nexus_ which bindstogether his error and his calamities. The magnitude of this first error is generally fully recognised by thereader owing to his sympathy with Cordelia, though, as we have seen, heoften loses the memory of it as the play advances. But this is not so, Ithink, with the repetition of this error, in the quarrel with Goneril. Here the daughter excites so much detestation, and the father so muchsympathy, that we often fail to receive the due impression of hisviolence. There is not here, of course, the _injustice_ of his rejectionof Cordelia, but there is precisely the same [Greek: hubris]. This hadbeen shown most strikingly in the first scene when, _immediately_ uponthe apparently cold words of Cordelia, 'So young, my lord, and true,'there comes this dreadful answer:     Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower.     For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,     The mysteries of Hecate and the night;     By all the operation of the orbs     From whom we do exist and cease to be;     Here I disclaim all my paternal care,     Propinquity and property of blood,     And as a stranger to my heart and me     Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian,     Or he that makes his generation messes     To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom     Be as well neighbour'd, pitied and relieved,     As thou my sometime daughter. Now the dramatic effect of this passage is exactly, and doubtlessintentionally, repeated in the curse pronounced against Goneril. Thisdoes not come after the daughters have openly and wholly turned againsttheir father. Up to the moment of its utterance Goneril has done no morethan to require him 'a little to disquantity' and reform his train ofknights. Certainly her manner and spirit in making this demand arehateful, and probably her accusations against the knights are false; andwe should expect from any father in Lear's position passionate distressand indignation. But surely the famous words which form Lear's immediatereply were meant to be nothing short of frightful:     Hear, nature, hear; dear goddess, hear!     Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend     To make this creature fruitful!     Into her womb convey sterility!     Dry up in her the organs of increase;     And from her derogate body never spring     A babe to honour her! If she must teem,     Create her child of spleen; that it may live,     And be a thwart disnatured torment to her!     Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth;     With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks;     Turn all her mother's pains and benefits     To laughter and contempt; that she may feel     How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is     To have a thankless child! The question is not whether Goneril deserves these appallingimprecations, but what they tell us about Lear. They show that, althoughhe has already recognised his injustice towards Cordelia, is secretlyblaming himself, and is endeavouring to do better, the disposition fromwhich his first error sprang is still unchanged. And it is precisely thedisposition to give rise, in evil surroundings, to calamities dreadfulbut at the same time tragic, because due in some measure to the personwho endures them. The perception of this connection, if it is not lost as the playadvances, does not at all diminish our pity for Lear, but it makes itimpossible for us permanently to regard the world displayed in thistragedy as subject to a mere arbitrary or malicious power. It makes usfeel that this world is so far at least a rational and a moral order,that there holds in it the law, not of proportionate requital, but ofstrict connection between act and consequence. It is, so far, the worldof all Shakespeare's tragedies. But there is another aspect of Lear's story, the influence of whichmodifies, in a way quite different and more peculiar to this tragedy,the impressions called pessimistic and even this impression of law. There is nothing more noble and beautiful in literature thanShakespeare's exposition of the effect of suffering in reviving thegreatness and eliciting the sweetness of Lear's nature. The occasionalrecurrence, during his madness, of autocratic impatience or of desirefor revenge serves only to heighten this effect, and the moments whenhis insanity becomes merely infinitely piteous do not weaken it. The oldKing who in pleading with his daughters feels so intensely his ownhumiliation and their horrible ingratitude, and who yet, at fourscoreand upward, constrains himself to practise a self-control and patienceso many years disused; who out of old affection for his Fool, and inrepentance for his injustice to the Fool's beloved mistress, toleratesincessant and cutting reminders of his own folly and wrong; in whom therage of the storm awakes a power and a poetic grandeur surpassing eventhat of Othello's anguish; who comes in his affliction to think ofothers first, and to seek, in tender solicitude for his poor boy, theshelter he scorns for his own bare head; who learns to feel and to prayfor the miserable and houseless poor, to discern the falseness offlattery and the brutality of authority, and to pierce below thedifferences of rank and raiment to the common humanity beneath; whosesight is so purged by scalding tears that it sees at last how power andplace and all things in the world are vanity except love; who tastes inhis last hours the extremes both of love's rapture and of its agony, butcould never, if he lived on or lived again, care a jot for aughtbeside--there is no figure, surely, in the world of poetry at once sogrand, so pathetic, and so beautiful as his. Well, but Lear owes thewhole of this to those sufferings which made us doubt whether life werenot simply evil, and men like the flies which wanton boys torture fortheir sport. Should we not be at least as near the truth if we calledthis poem _The Redemption of King Lear_, and declared that the businessof 'the gods' with him was neither to torment him, nor to teach him a'noble anger,' but to lead him to attain through apparently hopelessfailure the very end and aim of life? One can believe that Shakespearehad been tempted at times to feel misanthropy and despair, but it isquite impossible that he can have been mastered by such feelings at thetime when he produced this conception. To dwell on the stages of this process of purification (the word isProfessor Dowden's) is impossible here; and there are scenes, such asthat of the meeting of Lear and Cordelia, which it seems almost aprofanity to touch. [159] But I will refer to two scenes which may remindus more in detail of some of the points just mentioned. The third andfourth scenes of Act III. present one of those contrasts which speak aseloquently even as Shakespeare's words, and which were made possible inhis theatre by the absence of scenery and the consequent absence ofintervals between the scenes. First, in a scene of twenty-three lines,mostly in prose, Gloster is shown, telling his son Edmund how Goneriland Regan have forbidden him on pain of death to succour the houselessKing; how a secret letter has reached him, announcing the arrival of aFrench force; and how, whatever the consequences may be, he isdetermined to relieve his old master. Edmund, left alone, soliloquisesin words which seem to freeze one's blood:     This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke     Instantly know; and of that letter too:     This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me     That which my father loses; no less than all:     The younger rises when the old doth fall. He goes out; and the next moment, as the fourth scene opens, we findourselves in the icy storm with Lear, Kent and the Fool, and yet in theinmost shrine of love. I am not speaking of the devotion of the othersto Lear, but of Lear himself. He had consented, merely for the Fool'ssake, to seek shelter in the hovel:                               Come, your hovel.     Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart     That's sorry yet for thee.

But on the way he has broken down and has been weeping (III. iv. 17),and now he resists Kent's efforts to persuade him to enter. He does notfeel the storm:                               when the mind's free     The body's delicate: the tempest in my mind     Doth from my senses take all feeling else     Save what beats there:and the thoughts that will drive him mad are burning in his brain:                               Filial ingratitude!     Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand     For lifting food to't? But I will punish home.     No, I will weep no more. In such a night     To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.     In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!     Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,--     O, that way madness lies; let me shun that;     No more of that. And then suddenly, as he controls himself, the blessed spirit ofkindness breathes on him 'like a meadow gale of spring,' and he turnsgently to Kent:     Prithee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease:     This tempest will not give me leave to ponder     On things would hurt me more. But I'll go in.     In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty--     Nay, get thee in. I'll pray, and then I'll sleep. But his prayer is not for himself.     Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,it begins, and I need not quote more. This is one of those passageswhich make one worship Shakespeare. [160]Much has been written on the representation of insanity in _King Lear_,and I will confine myself to one or two points which may have escapednotice. The most obvious symptom of Lear's insanity, especially in itsfirst stages, is of course the domination of a fixed idea. Whateverpresents itself to his senses, is seized on by this idea and compelledto express it; as for example in those words, already quoted, whichfirst show that his mind has actually given way:                            Hast thou given all     To thy two daughters? And art thou come to this? [161]But it is remarkable that what we have here is only, in an exaggeratedand perverted form, the very same action of imagination that, justbefore the breakdown of reason, produced those sublime appeals:                         O heavens,     If you do love old men, if your sweet sway     Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,     Make it your cause;and:     Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain!     Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire, are my daughters:     I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness;     I never gave you kingdom, call'd you children,     You owe me no subscription: then let fall     Your horrible pleasure; here I stand, your slave,     A poor, infirm, weak, and despised old man:     But yet I call you servile ministers,     That have with two pernicious daughters join'd     Your high engender'd battles 'gainst a head     So old and white as this. O! O! 'tis foul! Shakespeare, long before this, in the _Midsummer Night's Dream_, hadnoticed the resemblance between the lunatic, the lover, and the poet;and the partial truth that genius is allied to insanity was quitefamiliar to him. But he presents here the supplementary half-truth thatinsanity is allied to genius. He does not, however, put into the mouth of the insane Lear any suchsublime passages as those just quoted. Lear's insanity, which destroysthe coherence, also reduces the poetry of his imagination. What itstimulates is that power of moral perception and reflection which hadalready been quickened by his sufferings. This, however partial andhowever disconnectedly used, first appears, quite soon after theinsanity has declared itself, in the idea that the naked beggarrepresents truth and reality, in contrast with those conventions,flatteries, and corruptions of the great world, by which Lear has solong been deceived and will never be deceived again:     Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the     worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no     perfume. Ha! here's three on's are sophisticated: thou art the     thing itself. Lear regards the beggar therefore with reverence and delight, as aperson who is in the secret of things, and he longs to question himabout their causes. It is this same strain of thought which much later(IV. vi. ), gaining far greater force, though the insanity has otherwiseadvanced, issues in those famous Timon-like speeches which make usrealise the original strength of the old King's mind. And when thisstrain, on his recovery, unites with the streams of repentance and love,it produces that serene renunciation of the world, with its power andglory and resentments and revenges, which is expressed in the speech (V. iii. ):     No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:     We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:     When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,     And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,     And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh     At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues     Talk of court news; and we'll talk with them too,     Who loses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;     And take upon's the mystery of things,     As if we were God's spies: and we'll wear out,     In a wall'd prison, packs and sets of great ones,     That ebb and flow by the moon. This is that renunciation which is at the same time a sacrifice offeredto the gods, and on which the gods themselves throw incense; and, it maybe, it would never have been offered but for the knowledge that came toLear in his madness. I spoke of Lear's 'recovery,' but the word is too strong. The Lear ofthe Fifth Act is not indeed insane, but his mind is greatly enfeebled. The speech just quoted is followed by a sudden flash of the oldpassionate nature, reminding us most pathetically of Lear's efforts,just before his madness, to restrain his tears:                           Wipe thine eyes:     The good-years shall devour them, flesh and fell,     Ere they shall make us weep: we'll see 'em starve first. And this weakness is still more pathetically shown in the blindness ofthe old King to his position now that he and Cordelia are madeprisoners. It is evident that Cordelia knows well what mercy her fatheris likely to receive from her sisters; that is the reason of herweeping. But he does not understand her tears; it never crosses his mindthat they have anything more than imprisonment to fear. And what is thatto them? They have made that sacrifice, and all is well:                          Have I caught thee?     He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,     And fire us hence like foxes. This blindness is most affecting to us, who know in what manner theywill be parted; but it is also comforting. And we find the same minglingof effects in the overwhelming conclusion of the story. If to thereader, as to the bystanders, that scene brings one unbroken pain, it isnot so with Lear himself. His shattered mind passes from the firsttransports of hope and despair, as he bends over Cordelia's body andholds the feather to her lips, into an absolute forgetfulness of thecause of these transports. This continues so long as he can conversewith Kent; becomes an almost complete vacancy; and is disturbed only toyield, as his eyes suddenly fall again on his child's corpse, to anagony which at once breaks his heart. And, finally, though he is killedby an agony of pain, the agony in which he actually dies is one not ofpain but of ecstasy. Suddenly, with a cry represented in the oldest textby a four-times repeated 'O,' he exclaims:     Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,     Look there, look there! These are the last words of Lear. He is sure, at last, that she _lives_:and what had he said when he was still in doubt?                     She lives! if it be so,     It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows     That ever I have felt! To us, perhaps, the knowledge that he is deceived may bring aculmination of pain: but, if it brings _only_ that, I believe we arefalse to Shakespeare, and it seems almost beyond question that any actoris false to the text who does not attempt to express, in Lear's lastaccents and gestures and look, an unbearable _joy_. [162]To dwell on the pathos of Lear's last speech would be an impertinence,but I may add a remark on the speech from the literary point of view. Inthe simplicity of its language, which consists almost wholly ofmonosyllables of native origin, composed in very brief sentences of theplainest structure, it presents an extraordinary contrast to the dyingspeech of Hamlet and the last words of Othello to the by-standers. Thefact that Lear speaks in passion is one cause of the difference, but notthe sole cause. The language is more than simple, it is familiar. Andthis familiarity is characteristic of Lear (except at certain moments,already referred to) from the time of his madness onwards, and is thesource of the peculiarly poignant effect of some of his sentences (suchas 'The little dogs and all. . . . '). We feel in them the loss of power tosustain his royal dignity; we feel also that everything external hasbecome nothingness to him, and that what remains is 'the thing itself,'the soul in its bare greatness. Hence also it is that two lines in thislast speech show, better perhaps than any other passage of poetry, oneof the qualities we have in mind when we distinguish poetry as'romantic. ' Nothing like Hamlet's mysterious sigh 'The rest is silence,'nothing like Othello's memories of his life of marvel and achievement,was possible to Lear. Those last thoughts are romantic in theirstrangeness: Lear's five-times repeated 'Never,' in which the simplestand most unanswerable cry of anguish rises note by note till the heartbreaks, is romantic in its naturalism; and to make a verse out of thisone word required the boldness as well as the inspiration which cameinfallibly to Shakespeare at the greatest moments. But the familiarity,boldness and inspiration are surpassed (if that can be) by the nextline, which shows the bodily oppression asking for bodily relief. Theimagination that produced Lear's curse or his defiance of the storm maybe paralleled in its kind, but where else are we to seek the imaginationthat could venture to follow that cry of 'Never' with such a phrase as'undo this button,' and yet could leave us on the topmost peaks ofpoetry? [163]2Gloster and Albany are the two neutral characters of the tragedy. Theparallel between Lear and Gloster, already noticed, is, up to a certainpoint, so marked that it cannot possibly be accidental. Both are oldwhite-haired men (III. vii. 37); both, it would seem, widowers, withchildren comparatively young. Like Lear, Gloster is tormented, and hislife is sought, by the child whom he favours; he is tended and healed bythe child whom he has wronged. His sufferings, like Lear's, are partlytraceable to his own extreme folly and injustice, and, it may be added,to a selfish pursuit of his own pleasure. [164] His sufferings, again,like Lear's, purify and enlighten him: he dies a better and wiser manthan he showed himself at first. They even learn the same lesson, andGloster's repetition (noticed and blamed by Johnson) of the thought in afamous speech of Lear's is surely intentional. [165] And, finally,Gloster dies almost as Lear dies. Edgar reveals himself to him and askshis blessing (as Cordelia asks Lear's):                       but his flaw'd heart--     Alack, too weak the conflict to support--     'Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,     Burst smilingly. So far, the resemblance of the two stories, and also of the ways inwhich their painful effect is modified, is curiously close. And incharacter too Gloster is, like his master, affectionate,[166] credulousand hasty. But otherwise he is sharply contrasted with the tragic Lear,who is a towering figure, every inch a king,[167] while Gloster is builton a much smaller scale, and has infinitely less force and fire. He is,indeed, a decidedly weak though good-hearted man; and, failing wholly tosupport Kent in resisting Lear's original folly and injustice,[168] heonly gradually takes the better part. Nor is his character either veryinteresting or very distinct. He often gives one the impression of beingwanted mainly to fill a place in the scheme of the play; and, though itwould be easy to give a long list of his characteristics, they scarcely,it seems to me, compose an individual, a person whom we are sure weshould recognise at once. If this is so, the fact is curious,considering how much we see and hear of him. I will add a single note. Gloster is the superstitious character of thedrama,--the only one. He thinks much of 'these late eclipses in the sunand moon. ' His two sons, from opposite points of view, make nothing ofthem. His easy acceptance of the calumny against Edgar is partly due tothis weakness, and Edmund builds upon it, for an evil purpose, when hedescribes Edgar thus:     Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out,     Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon,     To prove's auspicious mistress. Edgar in turn builds upon it, for a good purpose, when he persuades hisblind father that he was led to jump down Dover cliff by the temptationof a fiend in the form of a beggar, and was saved by a miracle:     As I stood here below, methought his eyes     Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,     Horns whelk'd and waved like the enridged sea:     It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy father,     Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours     Of men's impossibilities, have preserved thee. This passage is odd in its collocation of the thousand noses and theclearest gods, of grotesque absurdity and extreme seriousness. Edgarknew that the 'fiend' was really Gloster's 'worser spirit,' and that'the gods' were himself. Doubtless, however--for he is the mostreligious person in the play--he thought that it _was_ the gods who,through him, had preserved his father; but he knew that the truth couldonly enter this superstitious mind in a superstitious form. The combination of parallelism and contrast that we observe in Lear andGloster, and again in the attitude of the two brothers to their father'ssuperstition, is one of many indications that in _King Lear_ Shakespearewas working more than usual on a basis of conscious and reflectiveideas. Perhaps it is not by accident, then, that he makes Edgar and Learpreach to Gloster in precisely the same strain. Lear says to him:     If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes.     I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloster:     Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:     Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the air,     We wawl and cry. I will preach to thee: mark. Edgar's last words to him are:     What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure     Their going hence, even as their coming hither:     Ripeness is all. Albany is merely sketched, and he is so generally neglected that a fewwords about him may be in place. He too ends a better and wiser man thanhe began. When the play opens he is, of course, only just married toGoneril; and the idea is, I think, that he has been bewitched by herfiery beauty not less than by her dowry. He is an inoffensivepeace-loving man, and is overborne at first by his 'great love' for hiswife and by her imperious will. He is not free from responsibility forthe treatment which the King receives in his house; the Knight says toLear, 'there's a great abatement of kindness appears as well in thegeneral dependants as in _the duke himself also_ and your daughter. ' Buthe takes no part in the quarrel, and doubtless speaks truly when heprotests that he is as guiltless as ignorant of the cause of Lear'sviolent passion. When the King departs, he begins to remonstrate withGoneril, but shrinks in a cowardly manner, which is a trifle comical,from contest with her. She leaves him behind when she goes to joinRegan, and he is not further responsible for what follows. When he hearsof it, he is struck with horror: the scales drop from his eyes, Gonerilbecomes hateful to him, he determines to revenge Gloster's eyes. Hisposition is however very difficult, as he is willing to fight againstCordelia in so far as her army is French, and unwilling in so far as sherepresents her father. This difficulty, and his natural inferiority toEdmund in force and ability, pushes him into the background; the battleis not won by him but by Edmund; and but for Edgar he would certainlyhave fallen a victim to the murderous plot against him. When it isdiscovered, however, he is fearless and resolute enough, beside beingfull of kind feeling towards Kent and Edgar, and of sympathetic distressat Gloster's death. And one would be sure that he is meant to retainthis strength till the end, but for his last words. He has announced hisintention of resigning, during Lear's life, the 'absolute power' whichhas come to him; and that may be right. But after Lear's death he saysto Kent and Edgar:                         Friends of my soul, you twain     Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain. If this means that he wishes to hand over his absolute power to them,Shakespeare's intention is certainly to mark the feebleness of awell-meaning but weak man. But possibly he means by 'this realm' onlythat half of Britain which had belonged to Cornwall and Regan. 3I turn now to those two strongly contrasted groups of good and evilbeings; and to the evil first. The members of this group are by no meanson a level. Far the most contemptible of them is Oswald, and Kent hasfortunately expressed our feelings towards him. Yet twice we are able tofeel sympathy with him. Regan cannot tempt him to let her open Goneril'sletter to Edmund; and his last thought as he dies is given to thefulfilment of his trust. It is to a monster that he is faithful, and heis faithful to her in a monstrous design. Still faithfulness isfaithfulness, and he is not wholly worthless. Dr. Johnson says: 'I knownot well why Shakespeare gives to Oswald, who is a mere factor ofwickedness, so much fidelity'; but in any other tragedy this touch, sotrue to human nature, is only what we should expect. If it surprises usin _King Lear_, the reason is that Shakespeare, in dealing with theother members of the group, seems to have been less concerned than usualwith such mingling of light with darkness, and intent rather on makingthe shadows as utterly black as a regard for truth would permit. Cornwall seems to have been a fit mate for Regan; and what worse can besaid of him? It is a great satisfaction to think that he endured what tohim must have seemed the dreadful disgrace of being killed by a servant. He shows, I believe, no redeeming trait, and he is a coward, as may beseen from the sudden rise in his courage when Goneril arrives at thecastle and supports him and Regan against Lear (II. iv. 202). But as hiscruelties are not aimed at a blood-relation, he is not, in this sense, a'monster,' like the remaining three. Which of these three is the least and which the most detestable therecan surely be no question. For Edmund, not to mention otheralleviations, is at any rate not a woman. And the differences betweenthe sisters, which are distinctly marked and need not be exhibited oncemore in full, are all in favour of 'the elder and more terrible. ' ThatRegan did not commit adultery, did not murder her sister or plot tomurder her husband, did not join her name with Edmund's on the order forthe deaths of Cordelia and Lear, and in other respects failed to takequite so active a part as Goneril in atrocious wickedness, is quite truebut not in the least to her credit. It only means that she had much lessforce, courage and initiative than her sister, and for that reason isless formidable and more loathsome. Edmund judged right when, caring forneither sister but aiming at the crown, he preferred Goneril, for hecould trust her to remove the living impediments to her desires. Thescornful and fearless exclamation, 'An interlude! ' with which she greetsthe exposure of her design, was quite beyond Regan. Her unhesitatingsuicide was perhaps no less so. She would not have condescended to thelie which Regan so needlessly tells to Oswald:     It was great ignorance, Gloster's eyes being out,     To let him live: where he arrives he moves     All hearts against us: Edmund, I think, is gone,     _In pity of his misery_, to dispatch     His nighted life. Her father's curse is nothing to her. She scorns even to mention thegods. [169] Horrible as she is, she is almost awful. But, to set againstRegan's inferiority in power, there is nothing: she is superior only ina venomous meanness which is almost as hateful as her cruelty. She isthe most hideous human being (if she is one) that Shakespeare ever drew. I have already noticed the resemblance between Edmund and Iago in onepoint; and Edmund recalls his greater forerunner also in courage,strength of will, address, egoism, an abnormal want of feeling, and thepossession of a sense of humour. But here the likeness ends. Indeed adecided difference is observable even in the humour. Edmund isapparently a good deal younger than Iago. He has a lighter and moresuperficial nature, and there is a certain genuine gaiety in him whichmakes one smile not unsympathetically as one listens to his firstsoliloquy, with its cheery conclusion, so unlike Iago's references tothe powers of darkness,     Now, gods, stand up for bastards! Even after we have witnessed his dreadful deeds, a touch of thissympathy is felt again when we hear his nonchalant reflections beforethe battle:     To both these sisters have I sworn my love:     Each jealous of the other, as the stung     Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take?     Both? one? or neither? Besides, there is nothing in Edmund of Iago's motive-hunting, and verylittle of any of the secret forces which impelled Iago. He iscomparatively a straightforward character, as straightforward as theIago of some critics. He moves wonder and horror merely because the factthat a man so young can have a nature so bad is a dark mystery. Edmund is an adventurer pure and simple. He acts in pursuance of apurpose, and, if he has any affections or dislikes, ignores them. He isdetermined to make his way, first to his brother's lands, then--as theprospect widens--to the crown; and he regards men and women, with theirvirtues and vices, together with the bonds of kinship, friendship, orallegiance, merely as hindrances or helps to his end. They are for himdivested of all quality except their relation to this end; asindifferent as mathematical quantities or mere physical agents.     A credulous father and a brother noble,      . . . I see the business,he says, as if he were talking of _x_ and _y_.     This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me     That which my father loses; no less than all:     The younger rises when the old doth fall:he meditates, as if he were considering a problem in mechanics. Hepreserves this attitude with perfect consistency until the possibilityof attaining his end is snatched from him by death. Like the deformity of Richard, Edmund's illegitimacy furnishes, ofcourse, no excuse for his villainy, but it somewhat influences ourfeelings. It is no fault of his, and yet it separates him from othermen. He is the product of Nature--of a natural appetite asserting itselfagainst the social order; and he has no recognised place within thisorder. So he devotes himself to Nature, whose law is that of thestronger, and who does not recognise those moral obligations which existonly by convention,--by 'custom' or 'the curiosity of nations. '[170]Practically, his attitude is that of a professional criminal. 'You tellme I do not belong to you,' he seems to say to society: 'very well: Iwill make my way into your treasure-house if I can. And if I have totake life in doing so, that is your affair. ' How far he is serious inthis attitude, and really indignant at the brand of bastardy, how farhis indignation is a half-conscious self-excuse for his meditatedvillainy, it is hard to say; but the end shows that he is not entirelyin earnest. As he is an adventurer, with no more ill-will to anyone than good-will,it is natural that, when he has lost the game, he should accept hisfailure without showing personal animosity. But he does more. He admitsthe truth of Edgar's words about the justice of the gods, and appliesthem to his own case (though the fact that he himself refers tofortune's wheel rather than to the gods may be significant). He showstoo that he is not destitute of feeling; for he is touched by the storyof his father's death, and at last 'pants for life' in the effort to do'some good' by saving Lear and Cordelia. There is something pathetichere which tempts one to dream that, if Edmund had been whole brother toEdgar, and had been at home during those 'nine years' when he was 'out,'he might have been a very different man. But perhaps his words,                   Some good I mean to do,     _Despite of mine own nature_,suggest rather that Shakespeare is emphasising the mysterious fact,commented on by Kent in the case of the three daughters of Lear, of animmense original difference between children of one father. Strangerthan this emergence of better feelings, and curiously pathetic, is thepleasure of the dying man in the thought that he was loved by both thewomen whose corpses are almost the last sight he is to see. Perhaps, aswe conjectured, the cause of his delay in saving Lear and Cordelia evenafter he hears of the deaths of the sisters is that he is sunk in dreamyreflections on his past. When he murmurs, 'Yet Edmund was beloved,' oneis almost in danger of forgetting that he had done much more than rejectthe love of his father and half-brother. The passage is one of severalin Shakespeare's plays where it strikes us that he is recording somefact about human nature with which he had actually met, and which hadseemed to him peculiarly strange. What are we to say of the world which contains these five beings,Goneril, Regan, Edmund, Cornwall, Oswald? I have tried to answer thisquestion in our first lecture; for in its representation of evil _KingLear_ differs from the other tragedies only in degree and manner. It isthe tragedy in which evil is shown in the greatest abundance; and theevil characters are peculiarly repellent from their hard savagery, andbecause so little good is mingled with their evil. The effect istherefore more startling than elsewhere; it is even appalling. But insubstance it is the same as elsewhere; and accordingly, although it maybe useful to recall here our previous discussion, I will do so only bythe briefest statement. On the one hand we see a world which generates terrible evil inprofusion. Further, the beings in whom this evil appears at itsstrongest are able, to a certain extent, to thrive. They are notunhappy, and they have power to spread misery and destruction aroundthem. All this is undeniable fact. On the other hand this evil is _merely_ destructive: it founds nothing,and seems capable of existing only on foundations laid by its opposite. It is also self-destructive: it sets these beings at enmity; they canscarcely unite against a common and pressing danger; if it were avertedthey would be at each other's throats in a moment; the sisters do noteven wait till it is past. Finally, these beings, all five of them, aredead a few weeks after we see them first; three at least die young; theoutburst of their evil is fatal to them. These also are undeniablefacts; and, in face of them, it seems odd to describe _King Lear_ as 'aplay in which the wicked prosper' (Johnson). Thus the world in which evil appears seems to be at heart unfriendly toit. And this impression is confirmed by the fact that the convulsion ofthis world is due to evil, mainly in the worst forms here considered,partly in the milder forms which we call the errors or defects of thebetter characters. Good, in the widest sense, seems thus to be theprinciple of life and health in the world; evil, at least in these worstforms, to be a poison. The world reacts against it violently, and, inthe struggle to expel it, is driven to devastate itself. If we ask why the world should generate that which convulses and wastesit, the tragedy gives no answer, and we are trying to go beyond tragedyin seeking one. But the world, in this tragic picture, is convulsed byevil, and rejects it. 4And if here there is 'very Night herself,' she comes 'with stars in herraiment. ' Cordelia, Kent, Edgar, the Fool--these form a group not lessremarkable than that which we have just left. There is in the world of_King Lear_ the same abundance of extreme good as of extreme evil. Itgenerates in profusion self-less devotion and unconquerable love. Andthe strange thing is that neither Shakespeare nor we are surprised. Weapprove these characters, admire them, love them; but we feel nomystery. We do not ask in bewilderment, Is there any cause in naturethat makes these kind hearts? Such hardened optimists are we, andShakespeare,--and those who find the darkness of revelation in a tragedywhich reveals Cordelia. Yet surely, if we condemn the universe forCordelia's death, we ought also to remember that it gave her birth. Thefact that Socrates was executed does not remove the fact that he lived,and the inference thence to be drawn about the world that produced him. Of these four characters Edgar excites the least enthusiasm, but he isthe one whose development is the most marked. His behaviour in the earlypart of the play, granted that it is not too improbable, is so foolishas to provoke one. But he learns by experience, and becomes the mostcapable person in the story, without losing any of his purity andnobility of mind. There remain in him, however, touches which a littlechill one's feeling for him.     The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices     Make instruments to plague us:     The dark and vicious place where thee he got     Cost him his eyes:--one wishes he had not said to his dying brother those words abouttheir dead father. 'The gods are just' would have been enough. [171] Itmay be suggested that Shakespeare merely wished to introduce this moralsomehow, and did not mean the speech to be characteristic of thespeaker. But I doubt this: he might well have delivered it throughAlbany, if he was determined to deliver it. This trait in Edgar _is_characteristic. It seems to be connected with his pronounced andconscious religiousness. He interprets everything religiously, and isspeaking here from an intense conviction which overrides personalfeelings. With this religiousness, on the other side, is connected hischeerful and confident endurance, and his practical helpfulness andresource. He never thinks of despairing; in the worst circumstances heis sure there is something to be done to make things better. And he issure of this, not only from temperament, but from faith in 'the clearestgods. ' He is the man on whom we are to rely at the end for the recoveryand welfare of the state: and we do rely on him. I spoke of his temperament. There is in Edgar, with much else that isfine, something of that buoyancy of spirit which charms us in Imogen. Nothing can subdue in him the feeling that life is sweet and must becherished. At his worst, misconstrued, contemned, exiled, under sentenceof death, 'the lowest and most dejected thing of fortune,' he keeps hishead erect. The inextinguishable spirit of youth and delight is in him;he _embraces_ the unsubstantial air which has blown him to the worst;for him 'the worst returns to laughter. '[172] 'Bear free and patientthoughts,' he says to his father. His own thoughts are more thanpatient, they are 'free,' even joyous, in spite of the tender sympathieswhich strive in vain to overwhelm him. This ability to feel and offergreat sympathy with distress, without losing through the sympathy anyelasticity or strength, is a noble quality, sometimes found in soulslike Edgar's, naturally buoyant and also religious. It may even becharacteristic of him that, when Lear is sinking down in death, he triesto rouse him and bring him back to life. 'Look up, my lord! ' he cries. It is Kent who feels that                       he hates him,     That would upon the rack of this tough world     Stretch him out longer. Kent is one of the best-loved characters in Shakespeare. He is belovedfor his own sake, and also for the sake of Cordelia and of Lear. We aregrateful to him because he stands up for Cordelia, and because, when sheis out of sight, he constantly keeps her in our minds. And how wellthese two love each other we see when they meet. Yet it is not Cordeliawho is dearest to Kent. His love for Lear is the passion of his life: it_is_ his life. At the beginning he braves Lear's wrath even more forLear's sake than Cordelia's. [173] At the end he seems to realiseCordelia's death only as it is reflected in Lear's agony. Nor does hemerely love his master passionately, as Cordelia loves her father. Thatword 'master,' and Kent's appeal to the 'authority' he saw in the oldKing's face, are significant. He belongs to Lear, body and soul, as adog does to his master and god. The King is not to him old, wayward,unreasonable, piteous: he is still terrible, grand, the king of men. Through his eyes we see the Lear of Lear's prime, whom Cordelia neversaw. Kent never forgets this Lear. In the Storm-scenes, even after theKing becomes insane, Kent never addresses him without the old terms ofrespect, 'your grace,' 'my lord,' 'sir. ' How characteristic it is thatin the scene of Lear's recovery Kent speaks to him but once: it is whenthe King asks 'Am I in France? ' and he answers 'In your own kingdom,sir. 'In acting the part of a blunt and eccentric serving-man Kent retainsmuch of his natural character. The eccentricity seems to be put on, butthe plainness which gets him set in the stocks is but an exaggeration ofhis plainness in the opening scene, and Shakespeare certainly meant himfor one of those characters whom we love none the less for theirdefects. He is hot and rash; noble but far from skilful in hisresistance to the King; he might well have chosen wiser words to gainhis point. But, as he himself says, he has more man than wit about him. He shows this again when he rejoins Lear as a servant, for he at oncebrings the quarrel with Goneril to a head; and, later, by falling uponOswald, whom he so detests that he cannot keep his hands off him, heprovides Regan and Cornwall with a pretext for their inhospitality. Onehas not the heart to wish him different, but he illustrates the truththat to run one's head unselfishly against a wall is not the best way tohelp one's friends. One fact about Kent is often overlooked. He is an old man. He tells Learthat he is eight and forty, but it is clear that he is much older; notso old as his master, who was 'four-score and upward' and whom he 'lovedas his father,' but, one may suppose, three-score and upward. From thefirst scene we get this impression, and in the scene with Oswald it isrepeatedly confirmed. His beard is grey. 'Ancient ruffian,' 'oldfellow,' 'you stubborn ancient knave, you reverent braggart'--these aresome of the expressions applied to him. 'Sir,' he says to Cornwall, 'Iam too old to learn. ' If his age is not remembered, we fail to realisethe full beauty of his thoughtlessness of himself, his incessant care ofthe King, his light-hearted indifference to fortune or fate. [174] Welose also some of the naturalness and pathos of his feeling that histask is nearly done. Even at the end of the Fourth Act we find himsaying,     My point and period will be throughly wrought     Or well or ill, as this day's battle's fought. His heart is ready to break when he falls with his strong arms aboutEdgar's neck; bellows out as he'd burst heaven (how like him! );                     threw him on my father,     Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him     That ever ear received; which in recounting     His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life     Began to crack. Twice then the trumpet sounded,     And there I left him tranced;and a little after, when he enters, we hear the sound of death in hisvoice:                         I am come     To bid my king and master aye goodnight. This desire possesses him wholly. When the bodies of Goneril and Reganare brought in he asks merely, 'Alack, why thus? ' How can he care? He iswaiting for one thing alone. He cannot but yearn for recognition, cannotbut beg for it even when Lear is bending over the body of Cordelia; andeven in that scene of unmatched pathos we feel a sharp pang at hisfailure to receive it. It is of himself he is speaking, perhaps, when hemurmurs, as his master dies, 'Break, heart, I prithee, break! ' He putsaside Albany's invitation to take part in the government; his task isover:     I have a journey, sir, shortly to go:     My master calls me; I must not say no. Kent in his devotion, his self-effacement, his cheerful stoicism, hisdesire to follow his dead lord, has been well likened to Horatio. ButHoratio is not old; nor is he hot-headed; and though he is stoical he isalso religious. Kent, as compared with him and with Edgar, is not so. Hehas not Edgar's ever-present faith in the 'clearest gods. ' He refers tothem, in fact, less often than to fortune or the stars. He lives mainlyby the love in his own heart. [175]       *       *       *       *       *The theatrical fool or clown (we need not distinguish them here) was asore trial to the cultured poet and spectator in Shakespeare's day. Hecame down from the Morality plays, and was beloved of the groundlings. His antics, his songs, his dances, his jests, too often unclean,delighted them, and did something to make the drama, what the vulgar,poor or rich, like it to be, a variety entertainment. Even if heconfined himself to what was set down for him, he often disturbed thedramatic unity of the piece; and the temptation to 'gag' was too strongfor him to resist. Shakespeare makes Hamlet object to it in emphaticterms. The more learned critics and poets went further and would haveabolished the fool altogether. His part declines as the drama advances,diminishing markedly at the end of the sixteenth century. Jonson andMassinger exclude him. Shakespeare used him--we know to what effect--ashe used all the other popular elements of the drama; but he abstainedfrom introducing him into the Roman plays,[176] and there is no fool inthe last of the pure tragedies, _Macbeth_. But the Fool is one of Shakespeare's triumphs in _King Lear_. Imaginethe tragedy without him, and you hardly know it. To remove him wouldspoil its harmony, as the harmony of a picture would be spoiled if oneof the colours were extracted. One can almost imagine that Shakespeare,going home from an evening at the Mermaid, where he had listened toJonson fulminating against fools in general and perhaps criticising theClown in _Twelfth Night_ in particular, had said to himself: 'Come, myfriends, I will show you once for all that the mischief is in you, andnot in the fool or the audience. I will have a fool in the most tragicof my tragedies. He shall not play a little part. He shall keep fromfirst to last the company in which you most object to see him, thecompany of a king. Instead of amusing the king's idle hours, he shallstand by him in the very tempest and whirlwind of passion. Before I havedone you shall confess, between laughter and tears, that he is of thevery essence of life, that you have known him all your days though younever recognised him till now, and that you would as soon go withoutHamlet as miss him. 'The Fool in _King Lear_ has been so favourite a subject with goodcritics that I will confine myself to one or two points on which adifference of opinion is possible. To suppose that the Fool is, likemany a domestic fool at that time, a perfectly sane man pretending to behalf-witted, is surely a most prosaic blunder. There is no difficulty inimagining that, being slightly touched in the brain, and holding theoffice of fool, he performs the duties of his office intentionally aswell as involuntarily: it is evident that he does so. But unless wesuppose that he _is_ touched in the brain we lose half the effect ofhis appearance in the Storm-scenes. The effect of those scenes (to statethe matter as plainly as possible) depends largely on the presence ofthree characters, and on the affinities and contrasts between them; onour perception that the differences of station in King, Fool, andbeggar-noble, are levelled by one blast of calamity; but also on ourperception of the differences between these three in one respect,--viz. in regard to the peculiar affliction of insanity. The insanity of theKing differs widely in its nature from that of the Fool, and that of theFool from that of the beggar. But the insanity of the King differs fromthat of the beggar not only in its nature, but also in the fact that oneis real and the other simply a pretence. Are we to suppose then that theinsanity of the third character, the Fool, is, in this respect, a mererepetition of that of the second, the beggar,--that it too is _mere_pretence? To suppose this is not only to impoverish miserably theimpression made by the trio as a whole, it is also to diminish theheroic and pathetic effect of the character of the Fool. For his heroismconsists largely in this, that his efforts to outjest his master'sinjuries are the efforts of a being to whom a responsible and consistentcourse of action, nay even a responsible use of language, is at the bestof times difficult, and from whom it is never at the best of timesexpected. It is a heroism something like that of Lear himself in hisendeavour to learn patience at the age of eighty. But arguments againstthe idea that the Fool is wholly sane are either needless or futile; forin the end they are appeals to the perception that this idea almostdestroys the poetry of the character. This is not the case with another question, the question whether theFool is a man or a boy. Here the evidence and the grounds for discussionare more tangible. He is frequently addressed as 'boy. ' This is notdecisive; but Lear's first words to him, 'How now, my pretty knave, howdost thou? ' are difficult to reconcile with the idea of his being a man,and the use of this phrase on his first entrance may show Shakespeare'sdesire to prevent any mistake on the point. As a boy, too, he would bemore strongly contrasted in the Storm-scenes with Edgar as well as withLear; his faithfulness and courage would be even more heroic andtouching; his devotion to Cordelia, and the consequent bitterness ofsome of his speeches to Lear, would be even more natural. Nor does heseem to show a knowledge of the world impossible to a quick-wittedthough not whole-witted lad who had lived at Court. The only seriousobstacle to this view, I think, is the fact that he is not known to havebeen represented as a boy or youth till Macready produced _KingLear_. [177]But even if this obstacle were serious and the Fool were imagined as agrown man, we may still insist that he must also be imagined as a timid,delicate and frail being, who on that account and from the expression ofhis face has a boyish look. [178] He pines away when Cordelia goes toFrance. Though he takes great liberties with his master he is frightenedby Goneril, and becomes quite silent when the quarrel rises high. In theterrible scene between Lear and his two daughters and Cornwall(II. iv. 129-289), he says not a word; we have almost forgottenhis presence when, at the topmost pitch of passion, Lear suddenly turnsto him from the hateful faces that encompass him:                        You think I'll weep;     No, I'll not weep:     I have full cause of weeping; but this heart     Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws     Or ere I'll weep. O fool, I shall go mad. From the beginning of the Storm-scenes, though he thinks of his masteralone, we perceive from his words that the cold and rain are almost morethan he can bear. His childishness comes home to us when he runs out ofthe hovel, terrified by the madman and crying out to the King 'Help me,help me,' and the good Kent takes him by the hand and draws him to hisside. A little later he exclaims, 'This cold night will turn us all tofools and madmen'; and almost from that point he leaves the King toEdgar, speaking only once again in the remaining hundred lines of thescene. In the shelter of the 'farm-house' (III. vi. ) he revives, andresumes his office of love; but I think that critic is right whoconsiders his last words significant. 'We'll go to supper i' themorning,' says Lear; and the Fool answers 'And I'll go to bed at noon,'as though he felt he had taken his death. When, a little later, the Kingis being carried away on a litter, the Fool sits idle. He is so benumbedand worn out that he scarcely notices what is going on. Kent has torouse him with the words,              Come, help to bear thy master,     Thou must not stay behind. We know no more. For the famous exclamation 'And my poor fool is hanged'unquestionably refers to Cordelia; and even if it is intended to show aconfused association in Lear's mind between his child and the Fool whoso loved her (as a very old man may confuse two of his children), stillit tells us nothing of the Fool's fate. It seems strange indeed thatShakespeare should have left us thus in ignorance. But we have seen thatthere are many marks of haste and carelessness in _King Lear_; and itmay also be observed that, if the poet imagined the Fool dying on theway to Dover of the effects of that night upon the heath, he couldperhaps convey this idea to the audience by instructing the actor whotook the part to show, as he left the stage for the last time, therecognised tokens of approaching death. [179]Something has now been said of the four characters, Lear, Edgar, Kentand the Fool, who are together in the storm upon the heath. I have madeno attempt to analyse the whole effect of these scenes, but one remarkmay be added. These scenes, as we observed, suggest the idea of aconvulsion in which Nature herself joins with the forces of evil in manto overpower the weak; and they are thus one of the main sources of themore terrible impressions produced by _King Lear_. But they have at thesame time an effect of a totally different kind, because in them areexhibited also the strength and the beauty of Lear's nature, and, inKent and the Fool and Edgar, the ideal of faithful devoted love. Hencefrom the beginning to the end of these scenes we have, mingled with painand awe and a sense of man's infirmity, an equally strong feeling of hisgreatness; and this becomes at times even an exulting sense of thepowerlessness of outward calamity or the malice of others against hissoul. And this is one reason why imagination and emotion are never herepressed painfully inward, as in the scenes between Lear and hisdaughters, but are liberated and dilated. 5The character of Cordelia is not a masterpiece of invention or subtletylike that of Cleopatra; yet in its own way it is a creation aswonderful. Cordelia appears in only four of the twenty-six scenes of_King Lear_; she speaks--it is hard to believe it--scarcely more than ahundred lines; and yet no character in Shakespeare is more absolutelyindividual or more ineffaceably stamped on the memory of his readers. There is a harmony, strange but perhaps the result of intention, betweenthe character itself and this reserved or parsimonious method ofdepicting it. An expressiveness almost inexhaustible gained throughpaucity of expression; the suggestion of infinite wealth and beautyconveyed by the very refusal to reveal this beauty in expansivespeech--this is at once the nature of Cordelia herself and the chiefcharacteristic of Shakespeare's art in representing it. Perhaps it isnot fanciful to find a parallel in his drawing of a person verydifferent, Hamlet. It was natural to Hamlet to examine himself minutely,to discuss himself at large, and yet to remain a mystery to himself; andShakespeare's method of drawing the character answers to it; it isextremely detailed and searching, and yet its effect is to enhance thesense of mystery. The results in the two cases differ correspondingly. No one hesitates to enlarge upon Hamlet, who speaks of himself so much;but to use many words about Cordelia seems to be a kind of impiety. I am obliged to speak of her chiefly because the devotion she inspiresalmost inevitably obscures her part in the tragedy. This devotion iscomposed, so to speak, of two contrary elements, reverence and pity. Thefirst, because Cordelia's is a higher nature than that of most even ofShakespeare's heroines. With the tenderness of Viola or Desdemona sheunites something of the resolution, power, and dignity of Hermione, andreminds us sometimes of Helena, sometimes of Isabella, though she hasnone of the traits which prevent Isabella from winning our hearts. Herassertion of truth and right, her allegiance to them, even the touch ofseverity that accompanies it, instead of compelling mere respect oradmiration, become adorable in a nature so loving as Cordelia's. She isa thing enskyed and sainted, and yet we feel no incongruity in the loveof the King of France for her, as we do in the love of the Duke forIsabella. But with this reverence or worship is combined in the reader's mind apassion of championship, of pity, even of protecting pity. She is sodeeply wronged, and she appears, for all her strength, so defenceless. We think of her as unable to speak for herself. We think of her as quiteyoung, and as slight and small. [180] 'Her voice was ever soft, gentle,and low'; ever so, whether the tone was that of resolution, or rebuke,or love. [181] Of all Shakespeare's heroines she knew least of joy. Shegrew up with Goneril and Regan for sisters. Even her love for her fathermust have been mingled with pain and anxiety. She must early havelearned to school and repress emotion. She never knew the bliss of younglove: there is no trace of such love for the King of France. She hadknowingly to wound most deeply the being dearest to her. He cast heroff; and, after suffering an agony for him, and before she could see himsafe in death, she was brutally murdered. We have to thank the poet forpassing lightly over the circumstances of her death. We do not think ofthem. Her image comes before us calm and bright and still. The memory of Cordelia thus becomes detached in a manner from the actionof the drama. The reader refuses to admit into it any idea ofimperfection, and is outraged when any share in her father's sufferingsis attributed to the part she plays in the opening scene. Because shewas deeply wronged he is ready to insist that she was wholly right. Herefuses, that is, to take the tragic point of view, and, when it istaken, he imagines that Cordelia is being attacked, or is being declaredto have 'deserved' all that befell her. But Shakespeare's was the tragicpoint of view. He exhibits in the opening scene a situation tragic forCordelia as well as for Lear. At a moment where terrible issues join,Fate makes on her the one demand which she is unable to meet. As I havealready remarked in speaking of Desdemona, it was a demand which otherheroines of Shakespeare could have met. Without loss of self-respect,and refusing even to appear to compete for a reward, they could havemade the unreasonable old King feel that he was fondly loved. Cordeliacannot, because she is Cordelia. And so she is not merely rejected andbanished, but her father is left to the mercies of her sisters. And thecause of her failure--a failure a thousand-fold redeemed--is a compoundin which imperfection appears so intimately mingled with the noblestqualities that--if we are true to Shakespeare--we do not think either ofjustifying her or of blaming her: we feel simply the tragic emotions offear and pity. In this failure a large part is played by that obvious characteristic towhich I have already referred. Cordelia is not, indeed, alwaystongue-tied, as several passages in the drama, and even in this scene,clearly show. But tender emotion, and especially a tender love for theperson to whom she has to speak, makes her dumb. Her love, as she says,is more ponderous than her tongue:[182]                   Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave     My heart into my mouth. This expressive word 'heave' is repeated in the passage which describesher reception of Kent's letter:     Faith, once or twice she heaved the name of 'Father'     Pantingly forth, as if it press'd her heart:two or three broken ejaculations escape her lips, and she 'starts' away'to deal with grief alone. ' The same trait reappears with an ineffablebeauty in the stifled repetitions with which she attempts to answer herfather in the moment of his restoration:     _Lear. _                 Do not laugh at me;              For, as I am a man, I think this lady              To be my child Cordelia.     _Cor. _                             And so I am, I am.     _Lear. _  Be your tears wet? yes, faith. I pray, weep not;              If you have poison for me, I will drink it.              I know you do not love me; for your sisters              Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:              You have some cause, they have not.     _Cor. _                             No cause, no cause. We see this trait for the last time, marked by Shakespeare with adecision clearly intentional, in her inability to answer one syllable tothe last words we hear her father speak to her:     No, no, no, no! Come, let's away to prison:     We two alone will sing like birds i' the cage:     When thou dost ask me blessing, I'll kneel down,     And ask of thee forgiveness: so we'll live,     And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh     At gilded butterflies. . . . She stands and weeps, and goes out with him silent. And we see her aliveno more. But (I am forced to dwell on the point, because I am sure to slur itover is to be false to Shakespeare) this dumbness of love was not thesole source of misunderstanding. If this had been all, even Lear couldhave seen the love in Cordelia's eyes when, to his question 'What canyou say to draw a third more opulent than your sisters? ' she answered'Nothing. ' But it did not shine there. She is not merely silent, nordoes she merely answer 'Nothing. ' She tells him that she loves him'according to her bond, nor more nor less'; and his answer,     How now, Cordelia! mend your speech a little,     Lest it may mar your fortunes,so intensifies her horror at the hypocrisy of her sisters that shereplies,                             Good my Lord,     You have begot me, bred me, loved me: I     Return those duties back as are right fit,     Obey you, love you, and most honour you.     Why have my sisters husbands, if they say     They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,     That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry     Half my love with him, half my care and duty:     Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters,     To love my father all. What words for the ear of an old father, unreasonable, despotic, butfondly loving, indecent in his own expressions of preference, and blindto the indecency of his appeal for protestations of fondness! Blankastonishment, anger, wounded love, contend within him; but for themoment he restrains himself and asks,     But goes thy heart with this? Imagine Imogen's reply! But Cordelia answers,                       Ay, good my lord.     _Lear. _  So young, and so untender?     _Cor. _   So young, my lord, and true. Yes, 'heavenly true. ' But truth is not the only good in the world, noris the obligation to tell truth the only obligation. The matter here wasto keep it inviolate, but also to preserve a father. And even if truth_were_ the one and only obligation, to tell much less than truth is notto tell it. And Cordelia's speech not only tells much less than truthabout her love, it actually perverts the truth when it implies that togive love to a husband is to take it from a father. There surely neverwas a more unhappy speech. When Isabella goes to plead with Angelo for her brother's life, herhorror of her brother's sin is so intense, and her perception of thejustice of Angelo's reasons for refusing her is so clear and keen, thatshe is ready to abandon her appeal before it is well begun; she wouldactually do so but that the warm-hearted profligate Lucio reproaches herfor her coldness and urges her on. Cordelia's hatred of hypocrisy and ofthe faintest appearance of mercenary professions reminds us ofIsabella's hatred of impurity; but Cordelia's position is infinitelymore difficult, and on the other hand there is mingled with her hatred atouch of personal antagonism and of pride.

Lear's words,     Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her! [183]are monstrously unjust, but they contain one grain of truth; and indeedit was scarcely possible that a nature so strong as Cordelia's, and withso keen a sense of dignity, should feel here nothing whatever of prideand resentment. This side of her character is emphatically shown in herlanguage to her sisters in the first scene--language perfectly just, butlittle adapted to soften their hearts towards their father--and again inthe very last words we hear her speak. She and her father are broughtin, prisoners, to the enemy's camp; but she sees only Edmund, not those'greater' ones on whose pleasure hangs her father's fate and her own. For her own she is little concerned; she knows how to meet adversity:     For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;     Myself could else out-frown false fortune's frown. Yes, that is how she would meet fortune, frowning it down, even asGoneril would have met it; nor, if her father had been already dead,would there have been any great improbability in the false story thatwas to be told of her death, that, like Goneril, she 'fordid herself. 'Then, after those austere words about fortune, she suddenly asks,     Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters? Strange last words for us to hear from a being so worshipped andbeloved; but how characteristic! Their tone is unmistakable. I doubt ifshe could have brought herself to plead with her sisters for herfather's life; and if she had attempted the task, she would haveperformed it but ill. Nor is our feeling towards her altered one whit bythat. But what is true of Kent and the Fool[184] is, in its measure,true of her. Any one of them would gladly have died a hundred deaths tohelp King Lear; and they do help his soul; but they harm his cause. Theyare all involved in tragedy.       *       *       *       *       *Why does Cordelia die? I suppose no reader ever failed to ask thatquestion, and to ask it with something more than pain,--to ask it, ifonly for a moment, in bewilderment or dismay, and even perhaps in tonesof protest. These feelings are probably evoked more strongly here thanat the death of any other notable character in Shakespeare; and it maysound a wilful paradox to assert that the slightest element ofreconciliation is mingled with them or succeeds them. Yet it seems to meindubitable that such an element is present, though difficult to makeout with certainty what it is or whence it proceeds. And I will try tomake this out, and to state it methodically. (_a_) It is not due in any perceptible degree to the fact, which we havejust been examining, that Cordelia through her tragic imperfectioncontributes something to the conflict and catastrophe; and I drewattention to that imperfection without any view to our present problem. The critics who emphasise it at this point in the drama are surelyuntrue to Shakespeare's mind; and still more completely astray are thosewho lay stress on the idea that Cordelia, in bringing a foreign army tohelp her father, was guilty of treason to her country. When she dies weregard her, practically speaking, simply as we regard Ophelia orDesdemona, as an innocent victim swept away in the convulsion caused bythe error or guilt of others. (_b_) Now this destruction of the good through the evil of others is oneof the tragic facts of life, and no one can object to the use of it,within certain limits, in tragic art. And, further, those who because ofit declaim against the nature of things, declaim without thinking. It isobviously the other side of the fact that the effects of good spread farand wide beyond the doer of good; and we should ask ourselves whether wereally could wish (supposing it conceivable) to see this double-sidedfact abolished. Nevertheless the touch of reconciliation that we feel incontemplating the death of Cordelia is not due, or is due only in someslight degree, to a perception that the event is true to life,admissible in tragedy, and a case of a law which we cannot seriouslydesire to see abrogated. (_c_) What then is this feeling, and whence does it come? I believe weshall find that it is a feeling not confined to _King Lear_, but presentat the close of other tragedies; and that the reason why it has anexceptional tone or force at the close of _King Lear_, lies in that verypeculiarity of the close which also--at least for the moment--excitesbewilderment, dismay, or protest. The feeling I mean is the impressionthat the heroic being, though in one sense and outwardly he has failed,is yet in another sense superior to the world in which he appears; is,in some way which we do not seek to define, untouched by the doom thatovertakes him; and is rather set free from life than deprived of it. Some such feeling as this--some feeling which, from this description ofit, may be recognised as their own even by those who would dissent fromthe description--we surely have in various degrees at the deaths ofHamlet and Othello and Lear, and of Antony and Cleopatra andCoriolanus. [185] It accompanies the more prominent tragic impressions,and, regarded alone, could hardly be called tragic. For it seems toimply (though we are probably quite unconscious of the implication) anidea which, if developed, would transform the tragic view of things. Itimplies that the tragic world, if taken as it is presented, with all itserror, guilt, failure, woe and waste, is no final reality, but only apart of reality taken for the whole, and, when so taken, illusive; andthat if we could see the whole, and the tragic facts in their true placein it, we should find them, not abolished, of course, but so transmutedthat they had ceased to be strictly tragic,--find, perhaps, thesuffering and death counting for little or nothing, the greatness of thesoul for much or all, and the heroic spirit, in spite of failure, nearerto the heart of things than the smaller, more circumspect, and perhapseven 'better' beings who survived the catastrophe. The feeling which Ihave tried to describe, as accompanying the more obvious tragic emotionsat the deaths of heroes, corresponds with some such idea as this. [186]Now this feeling is evoked with a quite exceptional strength by thedeath of Cordelia. [187] It is not due to the perception that she, likeLear, has attained through suffering; we know that she had suffered andattained in his days of prosperity. It is simply the feeling that whathappens to such a being does not matter; all that matters is what sheis. How this can be when, for anything the tragedy tells us, she hasceased to exist, we do not ask; but the tragedy itself makes us feelthat somehow it is so. And the force with which this impression isconveyed depends largely on the very fact which excites our bewildermentand protest, that her death, following on the deaths of all the evilcharacters, and brought about by an unexplained delay in Edmund's effortto save her, comes on us, not as an inevitable conclusion to thesequence of events, but as the sudden stroke of mere fate or chance. Theforce of the impression, that is to say, depends on the very violence ofthe contrast between the outward and the inward, Cordelia's death andCordelia's soul. The more unmotived, unmerited, senseless, monstrous,her fate, the more do we feel that it does not concern her. Theextremity of the disproportion between prosperity and goodness firstshocks us, and then flashes on us the conviction that our whole attitudein asking or expecting that goodness should be prosperous is wrong;that, if only we could see things as they are, we should see that theoutward is nothing and the inward is all. And some such thought as this (which, to bring it clearly out, I havestated, and still state, in a form both exaggerated and much tooexplicit) is really present through the whole play. Whether Shakespeareknew it or not, it is present. I might almost say that the 'moral' of_King Lear_ is presented in the irony of this collocation:           _Albany. _ The gods defend her!     _Enter Lear with Cordelia dead in his arms. _The 'gods,' it seems, do _not_ show their approval by 'defending' theirown from adversity or death, or by giving them power and prosperity. These, on the contrary, are worthless, or worse; it is not on them, buton the renunciation of them, that the gods throw incense. They breedlust, pride, hardness of heart, the insolence of office, cruelty, scorn,hypocrisy, contention, war, murder, self-destruction. The whole storybeats this indictment of prosperity into the brain. Lear's greatspeeches in his madness proclaim it like the curses of Timon on life andman. But here, as in _Timon_, the poor and humble are, almost withoutexception, sound and sweet at heart, faithful and pitiful. [188] And hereadversity, to the blessed in spirit, is blessed. It wins fragrance fromthe crushed flower. It melts in aged hearts sympathies which prosperityhad frozen. It purges the soul's sight by blinding that of theeyes. [189] Throughout that stupendous Third Act the good are seengrowing better through suffering, and the bad worse through success. Thewarm castle is a room in hell, the storm-swept heath a sanctuary. Thejudgment of this world is a lie; its goods, which we covet, corrupt us;its ills, which break our bodies, set our souls free;     Our means secure us,[190] and our mere defects     Prove our commodities. Let us renounce the world, hate it, and lose it gladly. The only realthing in it is the soul, with its courage, patience, devotion. Andnothing outward can touch that. This, if we like to use the word, is Shakespeare's 'pessimism' in _KingLear_. As we have seen, it is not by any means the whole spirit of thetragedy, which presents the world as a place where heavenly good growsside by side with evil, where extreme evil cannot long endure, and whereall that survives the storm is good, if not great. But still this strainof thought, to which the world appears as the kingdom of evil andtherefore worthless, is in the tragedy, and may well be the record ofmany hours of exasperated feeling and troubled brooding. Pursued furtherand allowed to dominate, it would destroy the tragedy; for it isnecessary to tragedy that we should feel that suffering and death domatter greatly, and that happiness and life are not to be renounced asworthless. Pursued further, again, it leads to the idea that the world,in that obvious appearance of it which tragedy cannot dissolve withoutdissolving itself, is illusive. And its tendency towards this idea istraceable in _King Lear_, in the shape of the notion that this 'greatworld' is transitory, or 'will wear out to nought' like the little worldcalled 'man' (IV. vi. 137), or that humanity will destroy itself. [191]In later days, in the drama that was probably Shakespeare's lastcomplete work, the _Tempest_, this notion of the transitoriness ofthings appears, side by side with the simpler feeling that man's life isan illusion or dream, in some of the most famous lines he ever wrote:     Our revels now are ended. These our actors,     As I foretold you, were all spirits and     Are melted into air, into thin air:     And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,     The cloud-capp'd towers, the gorgeous palaces,     The solemn temples, the great globe itself,     Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve     And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,     Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff     As dreams are made on, and our little life     Is rounded with a sleep. These lines, detached from their context, are familiar to everyone; but,in the _Tempest_, they are dramatic as well as poetical. The suddenemergence of the thought expressed in them has a specific and mostsignificant cause; and as I have not seen it remarked I will point itout. Prospero, by means of his spirits, has been exhibiting to Ferdinand andMiranda a masque in which goddesses appear, and which is so majestic andharmonious that to the young man, standing beside such a father and sucha wife, the place seems Paradise,--as perhaps the world once seemed toShakespeare. Then, at the bidding of Iris, there begins a dance ofNymphs with Reapers, sunburnt, weary of their August labour, but now intheir holiday garb. But, as this is nearing its end, Prospero 'startssuddenly, and speaks'; and the visions vanish. And what he 'speaks' isshown in these lines, which introduce the famous passage just quoted:     _Pros. _ [_Aside_] I had forgot that foul conspiracy     Of the beast Caliban and his confederates     Against my life: the minute of their plot     Is almost come. [_To the Spirits. _] Well done! avoid; no more.     _Fer. _ This is strange; your father's in some passion     That works him strongly.     _Mir. _                    Never till this day     Saw I him touch'd with anger so distemper'd.     _Pros. _ You do look, my son, in a moved sort,     As if you were dismay'd: be cheerful, sir.     Our revels. . . . And then, after the famous lines, follow these:                                Sir, I am vex'd:     Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled;     Be not disturb'd with my infirmity;     If you be pleased, retire into my cell     And there repose: a turn or two I'll walk,     To still my beating mind. We seem to see here the whole mind of Shakespeare in his last years. That which provokes in Prospero first a 'passion' of anger, and, amoment later, that melancholy and mystical thought that the great worldmust perish utterly and that man is but a dream, is the suddenrecollection of gross and apparently incurable evil in the 'monster'whom he had tried in vain to raise and soften, and in the monster'shuman confederates. It is this, which is but the repetition of hisearlier experience of treachery and ingratitude, that troubles his oldbrain, makes his mind 'beat,'[192] and forces on him the sense ofunreality and evanescence in the world and the life that are haunted bysuch evil. Nor, though Prospero can spare and forgive, is there any signto the end that he believes the evil curable either in the monster, the'born devil,' or in the more monstrous villains, the 'worse thandevils,' whom he so sternly dismisses. But he has learned patience, hascome to regard his anger and loathing as a weakness or infirmity, andwould not have it disturb the young and innocent. And so, in the days of_King Lear_, it was chiefly the power of 'monstrous' and apparentlycureless evil in the 'great world' that filled Shakespeare's soul withhorror, and perhaps forced him sometimes to yield to the infirmity ofmisanthropy and despair, to cry 'No, no, no life,' and to take refuge inthe thought that this fitful fever is a dream that must soon fade into adreamless sleep; until, to free himself from the perilous stuff thatweighed upon his heart, he summoned to his aid his 'so potent art,' andwrought this stuff into the stormy music of his greatest poem, whichseems to cry,     You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need,and, like the _Tempest_, seems to preach to us from end to end, 'Thoumust be patient,' 'Bear free and patient thoughts. '[193]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 158: Of course I do not mean that he is beginning to beinsane, and still less that he _is_ insane (as some medical criticssuggest). ][Footnote 159: I must however point out that the modern stage-directionsare most unfortunate in concealing the fact that here Cordelia sees herfather again _for the first time_. See Note W. ][Footnote 160: What immediately follows is as striking an illustrationof quite another quality, and of the effects which make us think of Learas pursued by a relentless fate. If he could go in and sleep after hisprayer, as he intends, his mind, one feels, might be saved: so far therehas been only the menace of madness. But from within the hovelEdgar--the last man who would willingly have injured Lear--cries,'Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom! '; the Fool runs outterrified; Edgar, summoned by Kent, follows him; and, at sight of Edgar,in a moment something gives way in Lear's brain, and he exclaims:                          Hast thou given all     To thy two daughters? And art thou come to this? Henceforth he is mad. And they remain out in the storm. I have not seen it noticed that this stroke of fate is repeated--surelyintentionally--in the sixth scene. Gloster has succeeded in persuadingLear to come into the 'house'; he then leaves, and Kent after muchdifficulty induces Lear to lie down and rest upon the cushions. Sleepbegins to come to him again, and he murmurs,     'Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains; so, so, so.     We'll go to supper i' the morning. So, so, so. 'At that moment Gloster enters with the news that he has discovered aplot to kill the King; the rest that 'might yet have balm'd his brokensenses' is again interrupted; and he is hurried away on a litter towardsDover. (His recovery, it will be remembered, is due to a long sleepartificially induced. )][Footnote 161: III. iv. 49. This is printed as prose in the Globeedition, but is surely verse. Lear has not yet spoken prose in thisscene, and his next three speeches are in verse. The next is in prose,and, ending, in his tearing off his clothes, shows the advance ofinsanity. ][Footnote 162: [Lear's death is thus, I am reminded, like _père_Goriot's. ] This interpretation may be condemned as fantastic, but thetext, it appears to me, will bear no other. This is the whole speech (inthe Globe text):     And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life!     Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,     And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,     Never, never, never, never, never!     Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.     Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,     Look there, look there! The transition at 'Do you see this? ' from despair to something more thanhope is exactly the same as in the preceding passage at the word 'Ha! ':     A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!     I might have saved her; now she's gone for ever!     Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little.     Ha!     What is't thou say'st? Her voice was ever soft,     Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. As to my other remarks, I will ask the reader to notice that the passagefrom Lear's entrance with the body of Cordelia to the stage-direction_He dies_ (which probably comes a few lines too soon) is 54 lines inlength, and that 30 of them represent the interval during which he hasabsolutely forgotten Cordelia. (It begins when he looks up at theCaptain's words, line 275. ) To make Lear during this interval turncontinually in anguish to the corpse, is to act the passage in a mannerirreconcilable with the text, and insufferable in its effect. I speakfrom experience. I have seen the passage acted thus, and my sympathieswere so exhausted long before Lear's death that his last speech, themost pathetic speech ever written, left me disappointed and weary. ][Footnote 163: The Quartos give the 'Never' only thrice (surelywrongly), and all the actors I have heard have preferred this easiertask. I ought perhaps to add that the Quartos give the words 'Break,heart; I prithee, break! ' to Lear, not Kent. They and the Folio are atodds throughout the last sixty lines of King Lear, and all good moderntexts are eclectic. ][Footnote 164: The connection of these sufferings with the sin ofearlier days (not, it should be noticed, of youth) is almost thrust uponour notice by the levity of Gloster's own reference to the subject inthe first scene, and by Edgar's often quoted words 'The gods are just,'etc. The following collocation, also, may be intentional (III. iv. 116):     _Fool_. Now a little fire in a wild field were like an old     lecher's heart; a small spark, all the rest on's body cold.     Look, here comes a walking fire. [_Enter_ GLOSTER with a     torch. ]Pope destroyed the collocation by transferring the stage-direction to apoint some dozen lines later. ][Footnote 165: The passages are here printed together (III. iv. 28 ff. and IV. i. 67 ff. ):     _Lear. _ Poor naked wretches, wheresoe'er you are,     That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,     How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,     Your loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend you     From seasons such as these? O, I have ta'en     Too little care of this! Take physic, pomp;     Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,     That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,     And show the heavens just.     _Glo. _ Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens' plagues     Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched     Makes thee the happier: heavens, deal so still!     Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,     That slaves your ordinance, that will not see     Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly;     So distribution should undo excess,     And each man have enough. ][Footnote 166: Schmidt's idea--based partly on the omission from theFolios at I. ii. 103 (see Furness' Variorum) of the words 'To his fatherthat so tenderly and entirely loves him'--that Gloster loved neither ofhis sons, is surely an entire mistake. See, not to speak of generalimpressions, III. iv. 171 ff. ][Footnote 167: Imagination demands for Lear, even more than for Othello,majesty of stature and mien. Tourgénief felt this and made his 'Lear ofthe Steppes' a _gigantic_ peasant. If Shakespeare's texts give noexpress authority for ideas like these, the reason probably is that hewrote primarily for the theatre, where the principal actor might not bea large man. ][Footnote 168: He is not present, of course, till France and Burgundyenter; but while he is present he says not a word beyond 'Here's Franceand Burgundy, my noble lord. ' For some remarks on the possibility thatShakespeare imagined him as having encouraged Lear in his idea ofdividing the kingdom see Note T. It must be remembered that Cornwall wasGloster's 'arch and patron. '][Footnote 169: In this she stands alone among the more notablecharacters of the play. Doubtless Regan's exclamation 'O the blest gods'means nothing, but the fact that it is given to her means something. Forsome further remarks on Goneril see Note T. I may add that touches ofGoneril reappear in the heroine of the next tragedy, _Macbeth_; and thatwe are sometimes reminded of her again by the character of the Queen in_Cymbeline_, who bewitched the feeble King by her beauty, and marriedhim for greatness while she abhorred his person (_Cymbeline_, V. v. 62f. , 31 f. ); who tried to poison her step-daughter and intended to poisonher husband; who died despairing because she could not execute all theevil she purposed; and who inspirited her husband to defy the Romans bywords that still stir the blood (_Cymbeline_, III. i. 14 f. Cf. _KingLear_, IV. ii. 50 f. ). ][Footnote 170: I. ii. 1 f. Shakespeare seems to have in mind the ideaexpressed in the speech of Ulysses about the dependence of the world ondegree, order, system, custom, and about the chaos which would resultfrom the free action of appetite, the 'universal wolf' (_Troilus andCr. _ I. iii. 83 f. ). Cf. the contrast between 'particular will' and 'themoral laws of nature and of nations,' II. ii. 53, 185 ('nature' here ofcourse is the opposite of the 'nature' of Edmund's speech). ][Footnote 171: The line last quoted is continued by Edmund in the Foliosthus: 'Th' hast spoken right; 'tis true,' but in the Quartos thus: 'Thouhast spoken truth,' which leaves the line imperfect. This, and theimperfect line 'Make instruments to plague us,' suggest that Shakespearewrote at first simply,                  Make instruments to plague us.     _Edm. _                           Th' hast spoken truth. The Quartos show other variations which seem to point to the fact thatthe MS. was here difficult to make out. ][Footnote 172: IV. i. 1-9. I am indebted here to Koppel,_Verbesserungsvorschläge zu den Erläuterungen und der Textlesung desLear_ (1899). ][Footnote 173: See I. i. 142 ff. Kent speaks, not of the _injustice_ ofLear's action, but of its 'folly,' its 'hideous rashness. ' When the Kingexclaims 'Kent, on thy life, no more,' he answers:     My life I never held but as a pawn     To wage against thy enemies; nor fear to lose it,     _Thy safety being the motive_. (The first Folio omits 'a,' and in the next line reads 'nere' for 'nor. 'Perhaps the first line should read 'My life I ne'er held but as pawn towage. ')][Footnote 174: See II. ii. 162 to end. The light-heartedness disappears,of course, as Lear's misfortunes thicken. ][Footnote 175: This difference, however, must not be pressed too far;nor must we take Kent's retort,                Now by Apollo, king,     Thou swear'st thy gods in vain,for a sign of disbelief. He twice speaks of the gods in another manner(I. i. 185, III. vi. 5), and he was accustomed to think of Lear in his'prayers' (I. i. 144). ][Footnote 176: The 'clown' in _Antony and Cleopatra_ is merely an oldpeasant. There is a fool in _Timon of Athens_, however, and he appearsin a scene (II. ii. ) generally attributed to Shakespeare. His talksometimes reminds one of Lear's fool; and Kent's remark, 'This is notaltogether fool, my lord,' is repeated in _Timon_, II. ii. 122, 'Thouart not altogether a fool. '][Footnote 177: [This is no obstacle. There could hardly be a stagetradition hostile to his youth, since he does not appear in Tate'sversion, which alone was acted during the century and a half beforeMacready's production. I had forgotten this; and my memory must alsohave been at fault regarding an engraving to which I referred in thefirst edition. Both mistakes were pointed out by Mr. Archer. ]][Footnote 178: In parts of what follows I am indebted to remarks byCowden Clarke, quoted by Furness on I. iv. 91. ][Footnote 179: See also Note T. ][Footnote 180: 'Our last and least' (according to the Folio reading). Lear speaks again of 'this little seeming substance. ' He can carry herdead body in his arms. ][Footnote 181: Perhaps then the 'low sound' is not merely metaphoricalin Kent's speech in I. i. 153 f. :                        answer my life my judgment,     Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least;     Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound     Reverbs no hollowness. ][Footnote 182: I. i. 80. 'More ponderous' is the reading of the Folios,'more richer' that of the Quartos. The latter is usually preferred, andMr. Aldis Wright says 'more ponderous' has the appearance of being aplayer's correction to avoid a piece of imaginary bad grammar. Does itnot sound more like the author's improvement of a phrase that he thoughta little flat? And, apart from that, is it not significant that itexpresses the same idea of weight that appears in the phrase 'I cannotheave my heart into my mouth'? ][Footnote 183: Cf. Cornwall's satirical remarks on Kent's 'plainness' inII. ii. 101 ff. ,--a plainness which did no service to Kent's master. (Asa matter of fact, Cordelia had said nothing about 'plainness. ')][Footnote 184: Who, like Kent, hastens on the quarrel with Goneril. ][Footnote 185: I do not wish to complicate the discussion by examiningthe differences, in degree or otherwise, in the various cases, or byintroducing numerous qualifications; and therefore I do not add thenames of Macbeth and Lady Macbeth. ][Footnote 186: It follows from the above that, if this idea were madeexplicit and accompanied our reading of a tragedy throughout, it wouldconfuse or even destroy the tragic impression. So would the constantpresence of Christian beliefs. The reader most attached to these beliefsholds them in temporary suspension while he is immersed in aShakespearean tragedy. Such tragedy assumes that the world, as it ispresented, is the truth, though it also provokes feelings which implythat this world is not the whole truth, and therefore not the truth. ][Footnote 187: Though Cordelia, of course, does not occupy the positionof the hero. ][Footnote 188: _E. g. _ in _King Lear_ the servants, and the old man whosuccours Gloster and brings to the naked beggar 'the best 'parel that hehas, come on't what will,' _i. e. _ whatever vengeance Regan can inflict. Cf. the Steward and the Servants in _Timon_. Cf. there also (V. i. 23),'Promising is the very air o' the time . . . performance is ever theduller for his act; and, _but in the plainer and simpler kind ofpeople_, the deed of saying [performance of promises] is quite out ofuse. ' Shakespeare's feeling on this subject, though apparently speciallykeen at this time of his life, is much the same throughout (cf. Adam in_As You Like It_). He has no respect for the plainer and simpler kind ofpeople as politicians, but a great respect and regard for their hearts. ][Footnote 189: 'I stumbled when I saw,' says Gloster. ][Footnote 190: Our advantages give us a blind confidence in oursecurity. Cf. _Timon_, IV. iii. 76,     _Alc. _ I have heard in some sort of thy miseries.     _Tim. _ Thou saw'st them when I had prosperity. ][Footnote 191: Biblical ideas seem to have been floating inShakespeare's mind. Cf. the words of Kent, when Lear enters withCordelia's body, 'Is this the promised end? ' and Edgar's answer, 'Orimage of that horror? ' The 'promised end' is certainly the end of theworld (cf. with 'image' 'the great doom's image,' _Macbeth_, II. iii. 83); and the next words, Albany's 'Fall and cease,' _may_ be addressedto the heavens or stars, not to Lear. It seems probable that in writingGloster's speech about the predicted horrors to follow 'these lateeclipses' Shakespeare had a vague recollection of the passage in_Matthew_ xxiv. , or of that in _Mark_ xiii. , about the tribulationswhich were to be the sign of 'the end of the world. ' (I do not mean, ofcourse, that the 'prediction' of I. ii. 119 is the prediction to befound in one of these passages. )][Footnote 192: Cf. _Hamlet_, III. i. 181:     This something-settled matter in his heart,     Whereon his brains still beating puts him thus     From fashion of himself. ][Footnote 193: I believe the criticism of _King Lear_ which hasinfluenced me most is that in Prof. Dowden's _Shakspere, his Mind andArt_ (though, when I wrote my lectures, I had not read that criticismfor many years); and I am glad that this acknowledgment gives me theopportunity of repeating in print an opinion which I have oftenexpressed to students, that anyone entering on the study of Shakespeare,and unable or unwilling to read much criticism, would do best to takeProf. Dowden for his guide. ]LECTURE IXMACBETH_Macbeth_, it is probable, was the last-written of the four greattragedies, and immediately preceded _Antony and Cleopatra_. [194] In thatplay Shakespeare's final style appears for the first time completelyformed, and the transition to this style is much more decidedly visiblein _Macbeth_ than in _King Lear_. Yet in certain respects _Macbeth_recalls _Hamlet_ rather than _Othello_ or _King Lear_. In the heroes ofboth plays the passage from thought to a critical resolution and actionis difficult, and excites the keenest interest. In neither play, as in_Othello_ and _King Lear_, is painful pathos one of the main effects. Evil, again, though it shows in _Macbeth_ a prodigious energy, is notthe icy or stony inhumanity of Iago or Goneril; and, as in _Hamlet_, itis pursued by remorse. Finally, Shakespeare no longer restricts theaction to purely human agencies, as in the two preceding tragedies;portents once more fill the heavens, ghosts rise from their graves, anunearthly light flickers about the head of the doomed man. The specialpopularity of _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_ is due in part to some of thesecommon characteristics, notably to the fascination of the supernatural,the absence of the spectacle of extreme undeserved suffering, theabsence of characters which horrify and repel and yet are destitute ofgrandeur. The reader who looks unwillingly at Iago gazes at Lady Macbethin awe, because though she is dreadful she is also sublime. The wholetragedy is sublime. In this, however, and in other respects, _Macbeth_ makes an impressionquite different from that of _Hamlet_. The dimensions of the principalcharacters, the rate of movement in the action, the supernatural effect,the style, the versification, are all changed; and they are all changedin much the same manner. In many parts of _Macbeth_ there is in thelanguage a peculiar compression, pregnancy, energy, even violence; theharmonious grace and even flow, often conspicuous in _Hamlet_, havealmost disappeared. The cruel characters, built on a scale at least aslarge as that of _Othello_, seem to attain at times an almost superhumanstature. The diction has in places a huge and rugged grandeur, whichdegenerates here and there into tumidity. The solemn majesty of theroyal Ghost in _Hamlet_, appearing in armour and standing silent in themoonlight, is exchanged for shapes of horror, dimly seen in the murkyair or revealed by the glare of the caldron fire in a dark cavern, orfor the ghastly face of Banquo badged with blood and staring with blankeyes. The other three tragedies all open with conversations which leadinto the action: here the action bursts into wild life amidst the soundsof a thunder-storm and the echoes of a distant battle. It hurriesthrough seven very brief scenes of mounting suspense to a terriblecrisis, which is reached, in the murder of Duncan, at the beginning ofthe Second Act. Pausing a moment and changing its shape, it hastes againwith scarcely diminished speed to fresh horrors. And even when the speedof the outward action is slackened, the same effect is continued inanother form: we are shown a soul tortured by an agony which admits nota moment's repose, and rushing in frenzy towards its doom. _Macbeth_ isvery much shorter than the other three tragedies, but our experience intraversing it is so crowded and intense that it leaves an impression notof brevity but of speed. It is the most vehement, the most concentrated,perhaps we may say the most tremendous, of the tragedies. 1A Shakespearean tragedy, as a rule, has a special tone or atmosphere ofits own, quite perceptible, however difficult to describe. The effect ofthis atmosphere is marked with unusual strength in _Macbeth_. It is dueto a variety of influences which combine with those just noticed, sothat, acting and reacting, they form a whole; and the desolation of theblasted heath, the design of the Witches, the guilt in the hero's soul,the darkness of the night, seem to emanate from one and the same source. This effect is strengthened by a multitude of small touches, which atthe moment may be little noticed but still leave their mark on theimagination. We may approach the consideration of the characters and theaction by distinguishing some of the ingredients of this general effect. Darkness, we may even say blackness, broods over this tragedy. It isremarkable that almost all the scenes which at once recur to memory takeplace either at night or in some dark spot. The vision of the dagger,the murder of Duncan, the murder of Banquo, the sleep-walking of LadyMacbeth, all come in night-scenes. The Witches dance in the thick air ofa storm, or, 'black and midnight hags,' receive Macbeth in a cavern. Theblackness of night is to the hero a thing of fear, even of horror; andthat which he feels becomes the spirit of the play. The faintglimmerings of the western sky at twilight are here menacing: it is thehour when the traveller hastens to reach safety in his inn, and whenBanquo rides homeward to meet his assassins; the hour when 'lightthickens,' when 'night's black agents to their prey do rouse,' when thewolf begins to howl, and the owl to scream, and withered murder stealsforth to his work. Macbeth bids the stars hide their fires that his'black' desires may be concealed; Lady Macbeth calls on thick night tocome, palled in the dunnest smoke of hell. The moon is down and no starsshine when Banquo, dreading the dreams of the coming night, goesunwillingly to bed, and leaves Macbeth to wait for the summons of thelittle bell. When the next day should dawn, its light is 'strangled,'and 'darkness does the face of earth entomb. ' In the whole drama the sunseems to shine only twice: first, in the beautiful but ironical passagewhere Duncan sees the swallows flitting round the castle of death; and,afterwards, when at the close the avenging army gathers to rid the earthof its shame. Of the many slighter touches which deepen this effect Inotice only one. The failure of nature in Lady Macbeth is marked by herfear of darkness; 'she has light by her continually. ' And in the onephrase of fear that escapes her lips even in sleep, it is of thedarkness of the place of torment that she speaks. [195]The atmosphere of _Macbeth_, however, is not that of unrelievedblackness. On the contrary, as compared with _King Lear_ and its colddim gloom, _Macbeth_ leaves a decided impression of colour; it is reallythe impression of a black night broken by flashes of light and colour,sometimes vivid and even glaring. They are the lights and colours of thethunder-storm in the first scene; of the dagger hanging before Macbeth'seyes and glittering alone in the midnight air; of the torch borne by theservant when he and his lord come upon Banquo crossing the castle-courtto his room; of the torch, again, which Fleance carried to light hisfather to death, and which was dashed out by one of the murderers; ofthe torches that flared in the hall on the face of the Ghost and theblanched cheeks of Macbeth; of the flames beneath the boiling caldronfrom which the apparitions in the cavern rose; of the taper which showedto the Doctor and Gentlewoman the wasted face and blank eyes of LadyMacbeth. And, above all, the colour is the colour of blood. It cannot bean accident that the image of blood is forced upon us continually, notmerely by the events themselves, but by full descriptions, and even byreiteration of the word in unlikely parts of the dialogue. The Witches,after their first wild appearance, have hardly quitted the stage whenthere staggers onto it a 'bloody man,' gashed with wounds. His tale isof a hero whose 'brandished steel smoked with bloody execution,' 'carvedout a passage' to his enemy, and 'unseam'd him from the nave to thechaps. ' And then he tells of a second battle so bloody that thecombatants seemed as if they 'meant to bathe in reeking wounds. ' Whatmetaphors! What a dreadful image is that with which Lady Macbeth greetsus almost as she enters, when she prays the spirits of cruelty so tothicken her blood that pity cannot flow along her veins! What picturesare those of the murderer appearing at the door of the banquet-room withBanquo's 'blood upon his face'; of Banquo himself 'with twenty trenchedgashes on his head,' or 'blood-bolter'd' and smiling in derision at hismurderer; of Macbeth, gazing at his hand, and watching it dye the wholegreen ocean red; of Lady Macbeth, gazing at hers, and stretching it awayfrom her face to escape the smell of blood that all the perfumes ofArabia will not subdue! The most horrible lines in the whole tragedy arethose of her shuddering cry, 'Yet who would have thought the old man tohave had so much blood in him? ' And it is not only at such moments thatthese images occur. Even in the quiet conversation of Malcolm andMacduff, Macbeth is imagined as holding a bloody sceptre, and Scotlandas a country bleeding and receiving every day a new gash added to herwounds. It is as if the poet saw the whole story through an ensanguinedmist, and as if it stained the very blackness of the night. WhenMacbeth, before Banquo's murder, invokes night to scarf up the tendereye of pitiful day, and to tear in pieces the great bond that keeps himpale, even the invisible hand that is to tear the bond is imagined ascovered with blood. Let us observe another point. The vividness, magnitude, and violence ofthe imagery in some of these passages are characteristic of _Macbeth_almost throughout; and their influence contributes to form itsatmosphere. Images like those of the babe torn smiling from the breastand dashed to death; of pouring the sweet milk of concord into hell; ofthe earth shaking in fever; of the frame of things disjointed; ofsorrows striking heaven on the face, so that it resounds and yells outlike syllables of dolour; of the mind lying in restless ecstasy on arack; of the mind full of scorpions; of the tale told by an idiot, fullof sound and fury;--all keep the imagination moving on a 'wild andviolent sea,' while it is scarcely for a moment permitted to dwell onthoughts of peace and beauty. In its language, as in its action, thedrama is full of tumult and storm. Whenever the Witches are present wesee and hear a thunder-storm: when they are absent we hear ofship-wrecking storms and direful thunders; of tempests that blow downtrees and churches, castles, palaces and pyramids; of the frightfulhurricane of the night when Duncan was murdered; of the blast on whichpity rides like a new-born babe, or on which Heaven's cherubim arehorsed. There is thus something magnificently appropriate in the cry'Blow, wind! Come, wrack! ' with which Macbeth, turning from the sight ofthe moving wood of Birnam, bursts from his castle. He was borne to histhrone on a whirlwind, and the fate he goes to meet comes on the wingsof storm. Now all these agencies--darkness, the lights and colours that illuminateit, the storm that rushes through it, the violent and giganticimages--conspire with the appearances of the Witches and the Ghost toawaken horror, and in some degree also a supernatural dread. And to thiseffect other influences contribute. The pictures called up by the merewords of the Witches stir the same feelings,--those, for example, of thespell-bound sailor driven tempest-tost for nine times nine weary weeks,and never visited by sleep night or day; of the drop of poisonous foamthat forms on the moon, and, falling to earth, is collected forpernicious ends; of the sweltering venom of the toad, the finger of thebabe killed at its birth by its own mother, the tricklings from themurderer's gibbet. In Nature, again, something is felt to be at work,sympathetic with human guilt and supernatural malice. She labours withportents.     Lamentings heard in the air, strange screams of death,     And prophesying with accents terrible,burst from her. The owl clamours all through the night; Duncan's horsesdevour each other in frenzy; the dawn comes, but no light with it. Common sights and sounds, the crying of crickets, the croak of theraven, the light thickening after sunset, the home-coming of the rooks,are all ominous. Then, as if to deepen these impressions, Shakespearehas concentrated attention on the obscurer regions of man's being, onphenomena which make it seem that he is in the power of secret forceslurking below, and independent of his consciousness and will: such asthe relapse of Macbeth from conversation into a reverie, during which hegazes fascinated at the image of murder drawing closer and closer; thewriting on his face of strange things he never meant to show; thepressure of imagination heightening into illusion, like the vision of adagger in the air, at first bright, then suddenly splashed with blood,or the sound of a voice that cried 'Sleep no more' and would not besilenced. [196] To these are added other, and constant, allusions tosleep, man's strange half-conscious life; to the misery of itswithholding; to the terrible dreams of remorse; to the cursed thoughtsfrom which Banquo is free by day, but which tempt him in his sleep: andagain to abnormal disturbances of sleep; in the two men, of whom oneduring the murder of Duncan laughed in his sleep, and the other raised acry of murder; and in Lady Macbeth, who rises to re-enact insomnambulism those scenes the memory of which is pushing her on tomadness or suicide. All this has one effect, to excite supernaturalalarm and, even more, a dread of the presence of evil not only in itsrecognised seat but all through and around our mysterious nature. Perhaps there is no other work equal to _Macbeth_ in the production ofthis effect. [197]It is enhanced--to take a last point--by the use of a literaryexpedient. Not even in _Richard III. _, which in this, as in otherrespects, has resemblances to _Macbeth_, is there so much of Irony. I donot refer to irony in the ordinary sense; to speeches, for example,where the speaker is intentionally ironical, like that of Lennox in III. vi. I refer to irony on the part of the author himself, to ironicaljuxtapositions of persons and events, and especially to the 'Sophocleanirony' by which a speaker is made to use words bearing to the audience,in addition to his own meaning, a further and ominous sense, hidden fromhimself and, usually, from the other persons on the stage. The veryfirst words uttered by Macbeth,     So foul and fair a day I have not seen,are an example to which attention has often been drawn; for they startlethe reader by recalling the words of the Witches in the first scene,     Fair is foul, and foul is fair. When Macbeth, emerging from his murderous reverie, turns to the noblessaying, 'Let us toward the King,' his words are innocent, but to thereader have a double meaning. Duncan's comment on the treachery ofCawdor,                       There's no art     To find the mind's construction in the face:     He was a gentleman on whom I built     An absolute trust,is interrupted[198] by the entrance of the traitor Macbeth, who isgreeted with effusive gratitude and a like 'absolute trust. ' I havealready referred to the ironical effect of the beautiful lines in whichDuncan and Banquo describe the castle they are about to enter. To thereader Lady Macbeth's light words,     A little water clears us of this deed:     How easy is it then,summon up the picture of the sleep-walking scene. The idea of thePorter's speech, in which he imagines himself the keeper of hell-gate,shows the same irony. So does the contrast between the obvious and thehidden meanings of the apparitions of the armed head, the bloody child,and the child with the tree in his hand. It would be easy to add furtherexamples. Perhaps the most striking is the answer which Banquo, as herides away, never to return alive, gives to Macbeth's reminder, 'Failnot our feast. ' 'My lord, I will not,' he replies, and he keeps hispromise. It cannot be by accident that Shakespeare so frequently in thisplay uses a device which contributes to excite the vague fear of hiddenforces operating on minds unconscious of their influence. [199]2But of course he had for this purpose an agency more potent than any yetconsidered. It would be almost an impertinence to attempt to describeanew the influence of the Witch-scenes on the imagination of thereader. [200] Nor do I believe that among different readers thisinfluence differs greatly except in degree. But when critics begin toanalyse the imaginative effect, and still more when, going behind it,they try to determine the truth which lay for Shakespeare or lies for usin these creations, they too often offer us results which, eitherthrough perversion or through inadequacy, fail to correspond with thateffect. This happens in opposite ways. On the one hand the Witches,whose contribution to the 'atmosphere' of Macbeth can hardly beexaggerated, are credited with far too great an influence upon theaction; sometimes they are described as goddesses, or even as fates,whom Macbeth is powerless to resist. And this is perversion. On theother hand, we are told that, great as is their influence on the action,it is so because they are merely symbolic representations of theunconscious or half-conscious guilt in Macbeth himself. And this isinadequate. The few remarks I have to make may take the form of acriticism on these views. (1) As to the former, Shakespeare took, as material for his purposes,the ideas about witch-craft that he found existing in people around himand in books like Reginald Scot's _Discovery_ (1584). And he used theseideas without changing their substance at all. He selected and improved,avoiding the merely ridiculous, dismissing (unlike Middleton) thesexually loathsome or stimulating, rehandling and heightening whatevercould touch the imagination with fear, horror, and mysteriousattraction. The Witches, that is to say, are not goddesses, or fates,or, in any way whatever, supernatural beings. They are old women, poorand ragged, skinny and hideous, full of vulgar spite, occupied inkilling their neighbours' swine or revenging themselves on sailors'wives who have refused them chestnuts. If Banquo considers their beardsa proof that they are not women, that only shows his ignorance: Sir HughEvans would have known better. [201] There is not a syllable in _Macbeth_to imply that they are anything but women. But, again in accordance withthe popular ideas, they have received from evil spirits certainsupernatural powers. They can 'raise haile, tempests, and hurtfullweather; as lightening, thunder etc. ' They can 'passe from place toplace in the aire invisible. ' They can 'keepe divels and spirits in thelikenesse of todes and cats,' Paddock or Graymalkin. They can'transferre corne in the blade from one place to another. ' They can'manifest unto others things hidden and lost, and foreshew things tocome, and see them as though they were present. ' The reader will applythese phrases and sentences at once to passages in _Macbeth_. They areall taken from Scot's first chapter, where he is retailing the currentsuperstitions of his time; and, in regard to the Witches, Shakespearementions scarcely anything, if anything, that was not to be found, ofcourse in a more prosaic shape, either in Scot or in some other easilyaccessible authority. [202] He read, to be sure, in Holinshed, his mainsource for the story of Macbeth, that, according to the common opinion,the 'women' who met Macbeth 'were eyther the weird sisters, that is (asye would say) ye Goddesses of destinee, or els some Nimphes or Feiries. 'But what does that matter? What he read in his authority was absolutelynothing to his audience, and remains nothing to us, unless he _used_what he read. And he did not use this idea. He used nothing but thephrase 'weird sisters,'[203] which certainly no more suggested to aLondon audience the Parcae of one mythology or the Norns of another thanit does to-day. His Witches owe all their power to the spirits; they are'_instruments_ of darkness'; the spirits are their 'masters' (IV. i. 63). Fancy the fates having masters! Even if the passages where Hecateappears are Shakespeare's,[204] that will not help the Witches; for theyare subject to Hecate, who is herself a goddess or superior devil, not afate. [205]Next, while the influence of the Witches' prophecies on Macbeth is verygreat, it is quite clearly shown to be an influence and nothing more. There is no sign whatever in the play that Shakespeare meant the actionsof Macbeth to be forced on him by an external power, whether that of theWitches, or of their 'masters,' or of Hecate. It is needless thereforeto insist that such a conception would be in contradiction with hiswhole tragic practice. The prophecies of the Witches are presentedsimply as dangerous circumstances with which Macbeth has to deal: theyare dramatically on the same level as the story of the Ghost in_Hamlet_, or the falsehoods told by Iago to Othello. Macbeth is, in theordinary sense, perfectly free in regard to them: and if we speak ofdegrees of freedom, he is even more free than Hamlet, who was crippledby melancholy when the Ghost appeared to him. That the influence of thefirst prophecies upon him came as much from himself as from them, ismade abundantly clear by the obviously intentional contrast between himand Banquo. Banquo, ambitious but perfectly honest, is scarcely evenstartled by them, and he remains throughout the scene indifferent tothem. But when Macbeth heard them he was not an innocent man. Preciselyhow far his mind was guilty may be a question; but no innocent man wouldhave started, as he did, with a start of _fear_ at the mere prophecy ofa crown, or have conceived thereupon _immediately_ the thought ofmurder. Either this thought was not new to him,[206] or he had cherishedat least some vaguer dishonourable dream, the instantaneous recurrenceof which, at the moment of his hearing the prophecy, revealed to him aninward and terrifying guilt.

In either case not only was he free toaccept or resist the temptation, but the temptation was already withinhim. We are admitting too much, therefore, when we compare him withOthello, for Othello's mind was perfectly free from suspicion when histemptation came to him. And we are admitting, again, too much when weuse the word 'temptation' in reference to the first prophecies of theWitches. Speaking strictly we must affirm that he was tempted only byhimself. _He_ speaks indeed of their 'supernatural soliciting'; but infact they did not solicit. They merely announced events: they hailed himas Thane of Glamis, Thane of Cawdor, and King hereafter. No connectionof these announcements with any action of his was even hinted by them. For all that appears, the natural death of an old man might havefulfilled the prophecy any day. [207] In any case, the idea of fulfillingit by murder was entirely his own. [208]When Macbeth sees the Witches again, after the murders of Duncan andBanquo, we observe, however, a striking change. They no longer need togo and meet him; he seeks them out. He has committed himself to hiscourse of evil. Now accordingly they do 'solicit. ' They prophesy, butthey also give advice: they bid him be bloody, bold, and secure. We haveno hope that he will reject their advice; but so far are they fromhaving, even now, any power to compel him to accept it, that they makecareful preparations to deceive him into doing so. And, almost as thoughto intimate how entirely the responsibility for his deeds still lieswith Macbeth, Shakespeare makes his first act after this interview onefor which his tempters gave him not a hint--the slaughter of Macduff'swife and children. To all this we must add that Macbeth himself nowhere betrays a suspicionthat his action is, or has been, thrust on him by an external power. Hecurses the Witches for deceiving him, but he never attempts to shift tothem the burden of his guilt. Neither has Shakespeare placed in themouth of any other character in this play such fatalistic expressions asmay be found in _King Lear_ and occasionally elsewhere. He appearsactually to have taken pains to make the natural psychological genesisof Macbeth's crimes perfectly clear, and it was a most unfortunatenotion of Schlegel's that the Witches were required because naturalagencies would have seemed too weak to drive such a man as Macbeth tohis first murder. 'Still,' it may be said, 'the Witches did foreknow Macbeth's future; andwhat is foreknown is fixed; and how can a man be responsible when hisfuture is fixed? ' With this question, as a speculative one, we have noconcern here; but, in so far as it relates to the play, I answer, first,that not one of the things foreknown is an action. This is just as trueof the later prophecies as of the first. That Macbeth will be harmed bynone of woman born, and will never be vanquished till Birnam Wood shallcome against him, involves (so far as we are informed) no action of his. It may be doubted, indeed, whether Shakespeare would have introducedprophecies of Macbeth's deeds, even if it had been convenient to do so;he would probably have felt that to do so would interfere with theinterest of the inward struggle and suffering. And, in the second place,_Macbeth_ was not written for students of metaphysics or theology, butfor people at large; and, however it may be with prophecies of actions,prophecies of mere events do not suggest to people at large any sort ofdifficulty about responsibility. Many people, perhaps most, habituallythink of their 'future' as something fixed, and of themselves as 'free. 'The Witches nowadays take a room in Bond Street and charge a guinea; andwhen the victim enters they hail him the possessor of £1000 a year, orprophesy to him of journeys, wives, and children. But though he isstruck dumb by their prescience, it does not even cross his mind that heis going to lose his glorious 'freedom'--not though journeys andmarriages imply much more agency on his part than anything foretold toMacbeth. This whole difficulty is undramatic; and I may add thatShakespeare nowhere shows, like Chaucer, any interest in speculativeproblems concerning foreknowledge, predestination and freedom. (2) We may deal more briefly with the opposite interpretation. Accordingto it the Witches and their prophecies are to be taken merely assymbolical representations of thoughts and desires which have slumberedin Macbeth's breast and now rise into consciousness and confront him. With this idea, which springs from the wish to get rid of a mereexternal supernaturalism, and to find a psychological and spiritualmeaning in that which the groundlings probably received as hard facts,one may feel sympathy. But it is evident that it is rather a'philosophy' of the Witches than an immediate dramatic apprehension ofthem; and even so it will be found both incomplete and, in otherrespects, inadequate. It is incomplete because it cannot possibly be applied to all the facts. Let us grant that it will apply to the most important prophecy, that ofthe crown; and that the later warning which Macbeth receives, to bewareof Macduff, also answers to something in his own breast and 'harps hisfear aright' But there we have to stop. Macbeth had evidently nosuspicion of that treachery in Cawdor through which he himself becameThane; and who will suggest that he had any idea, however subconscious,about Birnam Wood or the man not born of woman? It may be held--andrightly, I think--that the prophecies which answer to nothing inward,the prophecies which are merely supernatural, produce, now at any rate,much less imaginative effect than the others,--even that they are in_Macbeth_ an element which was of an age and not for all time; but stillthey are there, and they are essential to the plot. [209] And as thetheory under consideration will not apply to them at all, it is notlikely that it gives an adequate account even of those prophecies towhich it can in some measure be applied. It is inadequate here chiefly because it is much too narrow. The Witchesand their prophecies, if they are to be rationalised or takensymbolically, must represent not only the evil slumbering in the hero'ssoul, but all those obscurer influences of the evil around him in theworld which aid his own ambition and the incitements of his wife. Suchinfluences, even if we put aside all belief in evil 'spirits,' are ascertain, momentous, and terrifying facts as the presence of inchoateevil in the soul itself; and if we exclude all reference to these factsfrom our idea of the Witches, it will be greatly impoverished and willcertainly fail to correspond with the imaginative effect. The union ofthe outward and inward here may be compared with something of the samekind in Greek poetry. [210] In the first Book of the _Iliad_ we are toldthat, when Agamemnon threatened to take Briseis from Achilles, 'griefcame upon Peleus' son, and his heart within his shaggy breast wasdivided in counsel, whether to draw his keen blade from his thigh andset the company aside and so slay Atreides, or to assuage his anger andcurb his soul. While yet he doubted thereof in heart and soul, and wasdrawing his great sword from his sheath, Athene came to him from heaven,sent forth of the white-armed goddess Hera, whose heart loved both alikeand had care for them. She stood behind Peleus' son and caught him byhis golden hair, to him only visible, and of the rest no man beheldher. ' And at her bidding he mastered his wrath, 'and stayed his heavyhand on the silver hilt, and thrust the great sword back into thesheath, and was not disobedient to the saying of Athene. '[211] Thesuccour of the goddess here only strengthens an inward movement in themind of Achilles, but we should lose something besides a poetic effectif for that reason we struck her out of the account. We should lose theidea that the inward powers of the soul answer in their essence tovaster powers without, which support them and assure the effect of theirexertion. So it is in _Macbeth_. [212] The words of the Witches are fatalto the hero only because there is in him something which leaps intolight at the sound of them; but they are at the same time the witness offorces which never cease to work in the world around him, and, on theinstant of his surrender to them, entangle him inextricably in the webof Fate. If the inward connection is once realised (and Shakespeare hasleft us no excuse for missing it), we need not fear, and indeed shallscarcely be able, to exaggerate the effect of the Witch-scenes inheightening and deepening the sense of fear, horror, and mystery whichpervades the atmosphere of the tragedy. 3From this murky background stand out the two great terrible figures, whodwarf all the remaining characters of the drama. Both are sublime, andboth inspire, far more than the other tragic heroes, the feeling of awe. They are never detached in imagination from the atmosphere whichsurrounds them and adds to their grandeur and terror. It is, as it were,continued into their souls. For within them is all that we feltwithout--the darkness of night, lit with the flame of tempest and thehues of blood, and haunted by wild and direful shapes, 'murderingministers,' spirits of remorse, and maddening visions of peace lost andjudgment to come. The way to be untrue to Shakespeare here, as always,is to relax the tension of imagination, to conventionalise, to conceiveMacbeth, for example, as a half-hearted cowardly criminal, and LadyMacbeth as a whole-hearted fiend. These two characters are fired by one and the same passion of ambition;and to a considerable extent they are alike. The disposition of each ishigh, proud, and commanding. They are born to rule, if not to reign. They are peremptory or contemptuous to their inferiors. They are notchildren of light, like Brutus and Hamlet; they are of the world. Weobserve in them no love of country, and no interest in the welfare ofanyone outside their family. Their habitual thoughts and aims are, and,we imagine, long have been, all of station and power. And though in boththere is something, and in one much, of what is higher--honour,conscience, humanity--they do not live consciously in the light of thesethings or speak their language. Not that they are egoists, like Iago;or, if they are egoists, theirs is an _egoïsme à deux_. They have noseparate ambitions. [213] They support and love one another. They suffertogether. And if, as time goes on, they drift a little apart, they arenot vulgar souls, to be alienated and recriminate when they experiencethe fruitlessness of their ambition. They remain to the end tragic, evengrand. So far there is much likeness between them. Otherwise they arecontrasted, and the action is built upon this contrast. Their attitudestowards the projected murder of Duncan are quite different; and itproduces in them equally different effects. In consequence, they appearin the earlier part of the play as of equal importance, if indeed LadyMacbeth does not overshadow her husband; but afterwards she retires moreand more into the background, and he becomes unmistakably the leadingfigure. His is indeed far the more complex character: and I will speakof it first. Macbeth, the cousin of a King mild, just, and beloved, but now too oldto lead his army, is introduced to us as a general of extraordinaryprowess, who has covered himself with glory in putting down a rebellionand repelling the invasion of a foreign army. In these conflicts heshowed great personal courage, a quality which he continues to displaythroughout the drama in regard to all plain dangers. It is difficult tobe sure of his customary demeanour, for in the play we see him either inwhat appears to be an exceptional relation to his wife, or else in thethroes of remorse and desperation; but from his behaviour during hisjourney home after the war, from his _later_ conversations with LadyMacbeth, and from his language to the murderers of Banquo and to others,we imagine him as a great warrior, somewhat masterful, rough, andabrupt, a man to inspire some fear and much admiration. He was thought'honest,' or honourable; he was trusted, apparently, by everyone;Macduff, a man of the highest integrity, 'loved him well. ' And therewas, in fact, much good in him. We have no warrant, I think, fordescribing him, with many writers, as of a 'noble' nature, like Hamletor Othello;[214] but he had a keen sense both of honour and of the worthof a good name. The phrase, again, 'too much of the milk of humankindness,' is applied to him in impatience by his wife, who did notfully understand him; but certainly he was far from devoid of humanityand pity. At the same time he was exceedingly ambitious. He must have been so bytemper. The tendency must have been greatly strengthened by hismarriage. When we see him, it has been further stimulated by hisremarkable success and by the consciousness of exceptional powers andmerit. It becomes a passion. The course of action suggested by it isextremely perilous: it sets his good name, his position, and even hislife on the hazard. It is also abhorrent to his better feelings. Theirdefeat in the struggle with ambition leaves him utterly wretched, andwould have kept him so, however complete had been his outward successand security. On the other hand, his passion for power and his instinctof self-assertion are so vehement that no inward misery could persuadehim to relinquish the fruits of crime, or to advance from remorse torepentance. In the character as so far sketched there is nothing very peculiar,though the strength of the forces contending in it is unusual. But thereis in Macbeth one marked peculiarity, the true apprehension of which isthe key to Shakespeare's conception. [215] This bold ambitious man ofaction has, within certain limits, the imagination of a poet,--animagination on the one hand extremely sensitive to impressions of acertain kind, and, on the other, productive of violent disturbance bothof mind and body. Through it he is kept in contact with supernaturalimpressions and is liable to supernatural fears. And through it,especially, come to him the intimations of conscience and honour. Macbeth's better nature--to put the matter for clearness' sake toobroadly--instead of speaking to him in the overt language of moralideas, commands, and prohibitions, incorporates itself in images whichalarm and horrify. His imagination is thus the best of him, somethingusually deeper and higher than his conscious thoughts; and if he hadobeyed it he would have been safe. But his wife quite misunderstands it,and he himself understands it only in part. The terrifying images whichdeter him from crime and follow its commission, and which are really theprotest of his deepest self, seem to his wife the creations of merenervous fear, and are sometimes referred by himself to the dread ofvengeance or the restlessness of insecurity. [216] His conscious orreflective mind, that is, moves chiefly among considerations of outwardsuccess and failure, while his inner being is convulsed by conscience. And his inability to understand himself is repeated and exaggerated inthe interpretations of actors and critics, who represent him as acoward, cold-blooded, calculating, and pitiless, who shrinks from crimesimply because it is dangerous, and suffers afterwards simply because heis not safe. In reality his courage is frightful. He strides from crimeto crime, though his soul never ceases to bar his advance with shapes ofterror, or to clamour in his ears that he is murdering his peace andcasting away his 'eternal jewel. 'It is of the first importance to realise the strength, and also (whathas not been so clearly recognised) the limits, of Macbeth'simagination. It is not the universal meditative imagination of Hamlet. He came to see in man, as Hamlet sometimes did, the 'quintessence ofdust'; but he must always have been incapable of Hamlet's reflections onman's noble reason and infinite faculty, or of seeing with Hamlet's eyes'this brave o'erhanging firmament, this majestical roof fretted withgolden fire. ' Nor could he feel, like Othello, the romance of war or theinfinity of love. He shows no sign of any unusual sensitiveness to theglory or beauty in the world or the soul; and it is partly for thisreason that we have no inclination to love him, and that we regard himwith more of awe than of pity. His imagination is excitable and intense,but narrow. That which stimulates it is, almost solely, that whichthrills with sudden, startling, and often supernatural fear. [217] Thereis a famous passage late in the play (V. v. 10) which is here verysignificant, because it refers to a time before his conscience wasburdened, and so shows his native disposition:     The time has been, my senses would have cool'd     To hear a night-shriek; and my fell of hair     Would at a dismal treatise rise and stir     As life were in't. This 'time' must have been in his youth, or at least before we see him. And, in the drama, everything which terrifies him is of this character,only it has now a deeper and a moral significance. Palpable dangersleave him unmoved or fill him with fire. He does himself mere justicewhen he asserts he 'dare do all that may become a man,' or when heexclaims to Banquo's ghost,                        What man dare, I dare:     Approach thou like the rugged Russian bear,     The arm'd rhinoceros, or the Hyrcan tiger;     Take any shape but that, and my firm nerves     Shall never tremble. What appals him is always the image of his own guilty heart or bloodydeed, or some image which derives from them its terror or gloom. These,when they arise, hold him spell-bound and possess him wholly, like ahypnotic trance which is at the same time the ecstasy of a poet. As thefirst 'horrid image' of Duncan's murder--of himself murderingDuncan--rises from unconsciousness and confronts him, his hair stands onend and the outward scene vanishes from his eyes. Why? For fear of'consequences'? The idea is ridiculous. Or because the deed is bloody? The man who with his 'smoking' steel 'carved out his passage' to therebel leader, and 'unseam'd him from the nave to the chaps,' wouldhardly be frightened by blood. How could fear of consequences make thedagger he is to use hang suddenly glittering before him in the air, andthen as suddenly dash it with gouts of blood? Even when he _talks_ ofconsequences, and declares that if he were safe against them he would'jump the life to come,' his imagination bears witness against him, andshows us that what really holds him back is the hideous vileness of thedeed:                            He's here in double trust;     First, as I am his kinsman and his subject,     Strong both against the deed; then, as his host,     Who should against his murderer shut the door,     Not bear the knife myself. Besides, this Duncan     Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been     So clear in his great office, that his virtues     Will plead like angels, trumpet-tongued, against     The deep damnation of his taking-off;     And pity, like a naked new-born babe,     Striding the blast, or heaven's cherubim, horsed     Upon the sightless couriers of the air,     Shall blow the horrid deed in every eye,     That tears shall drown the wind. It may be said that he is here thinking of the horror that others willfeel at the deed--thinking therefore of consequences. Yes, but could herealise thus how horrible the deed would look to others if it were notequally horrible to himself? It is the same when the murder is done. He is well-nigh mad with horror,but it is not the horror of detection. It is not he who thinks ofwashing his hands or getting his nightgown on. He has brought away thedaggers he should have left on the pillows of the grooms, but what doeshe care for that? What _he_ thinks of is that, when he heard one of themen awaked from sleep say 'God bless us,' he could not say 'Amen'; forhis imagination presents to him the parching of his throat as animmediate judgment from heaven. His wife heard the owl scream and thecrickets cry; but what _he_ heard was the voice that first cried'Macbeth doth murder sleep,' and then, a minute later, with a change oftense, denounced on him, as if his three names gave him threepersonalities to suffer in, the doom of sleeplessness:     Glamis hath murdered sleep, and therefore Cawdor     Shall sleep no more, Macbeth shall sleep no more. There comes a sound of knocking. It should be perfectly familiar to him;but he knows not whence, or from what world, it comes. He looks down athis hands, and starts violently: 'What hands are here? ' For they seemalive, they move, they mean to pluck out his eyes. He looks at one ofthem again; it does not move; but the blood upon it is enough to dye thewhole ocean red. What has all this to do with fear of 'consequences'? Itis his soul speaking in the only shape in which it can speak freely,that of imagination. So long as Macbeth's imagination is active, we watch him fascinated; wefeel suspense, horror, awe; in which are latent, also, admiration andsympathy. But so soon as it is quiescent these feelings vanish. He is nolonger 'infirm of purpose': he becomes domineering, even brutal, or hebecomes a cool pitiless hypocrite. He is generally said to be a very badactor, but this is not wholly true. Whenever his imagination stirs, heacts badly. It so possesses him, and is so much stronger than hisreason, that his face betrays him, and his voice utters the mostimprobable untruths[218] or the most artificial rhetoric[219] But whenit is asleep he is firm, self-controlled and practical, as in theconversation where he skilfully elicits from Banquo that informationabout his movements which is required for the successful arrangement ofhis murder. [220] Here he is hateful; and so he is in the conversationwith the murderers, who are not professional cut-throats but oldsoldiers, and whom, without a vestige of remorse, he beguiles withcalumnies against Banquo and with such appeals as his wife had used tohim. [221] On the other hand, we feel much pity as well as anxiety in thescene (I. vii. ) where she overcomes his opposition to the murder; and wefeel it (though his imagination is not specially active) because thisscene shows us how little he understands himself. This is his greatmisfortune here. Not that he fails to realise in reflection the basenessof the deed (the soliloquy with which the scene opens shows that he doesnot). But he has never, to put it pedantically, accepted as theprinciple of his conduct the morality which takes shape in hisimaginative fears. Had he done so, and said plainly to his wife, 'Thething is vile, and, however much I have sworn to do it, I will not,' shewould have been helpless; for all her arguments proceed on theassumption that there is for them no such point of view. Macbeth doesapproach this position once, when, resenting the accusation ofcowardice, he answers,     I dare do all that may become a man;     Who dares do more is none. She feels in an instant that everything is at stake, and, ignoring thepoint, overwhelms him with indignant and contemptuous personal reproach. But he yields to it because he is himself half-ashamed of that answer ofhis, and because, for want of habit, the simple idea which it expresseshas no hold on him comparable to the force it acquires when it becomesincarnate in visionary fears and warnings. Yet these were so insistent, and they offered to his ambition aresistance so strong, that it is impossible to regard him as fallingthrough the blindness or delusion of passion. On the contrary, hehimself feels with such intensity the enormity of his purpose that, itseems clear, neither his ambition nor yet the prophecy of the Witcheswould ever without the aid of Lady Macbeth have overcome this feeling. As it is, the deed is done in horror and without the faintest desire orsense of glory,--done, one may almost say, as if it were an appallingduty; and, the instant it is finished, its futility is revealed toMacbeth as clearly as its vileness had been revealed beforehand. As hestaggers from the scene he mutters in despair,     Wake Duncan with thy knocking! I would thou could'st. When, half an hour later, he returns with Lennox from the room of themurder, he breaks out:     Had I but died an hour before this chance,     I had lived a blessed time; for from this instant     There's nothing serious in mortality:     All is but toys: renown and grace is dead;     The wine of life is drawn, and the mere lees     Is left this vault to brag of. This is no mere acting. The language here has none of the falserhetoric of his merely hypocritical speeches. It is meant to deceive,but it utters at the same time his profoundest feeling. And this he canhenceforth never hide from himself for long. However he may try to drownit in further enormities, he hears it murmuring,                        Duncan is in his grave:     After life's fitful fever he sleeps well:or,     better be with the dead:or,     I have lived long enough:and it speaks its last words on the last day of his life:                     Out, out, brief candle!     Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player     That struts and frets his hour upon the stage     And then is heard no more: it is a tale     Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,     Signifying nothing. How strange that this judgment on life, the despair of a man who hadknowingly made mortal war on his own soul, should be frequently quotedas Shakespeare's own judgment, and should even be adduced, in seriouscriticism, as a proof of his pessimism! It remains to look a little more fully at the history of Macbeth afterthe murder of Duncan. Unlike his first struggle this history exciteslittle suspense or anxiety on his account: we have now no hope for him. But it is an engrossing spectacle, and psychologically it is perhaps themost remarkable exhibition of the _development_ of a character to befound in Shakespeare's tragedies. That heart-sickness which comes from Macbeth's perception of thefutility of his crime, and which never leaves him for long, is not,however, his habitual state. It could not be so, for two reasons. In thefirst place the consciousness of guilt is stronger in him than theconsciousness of failure; and it keeps him in a perpetual agony ofrestlessness, and forbids him simply to droop and pine. His mind is'full of scorpions. ' He cannot sleep. He 'keeps alone,' moody andsavage. 'All that is within him does condemn itself for being there. 'There is a fever in his blood which urges him to ceaseless action in thesearch for oblivion. And, in the second place, ambition, the love ofpower, the instinct of self-assertion, are much too potent in Macbeth topermit him to resign, even in spirit, the prize for which he has putrancours in the vessel of his peace. The 'will to live' is mighty inhim. The forces which impelled him to aim at the crown re-assertthemselves. He faces the world, and his own conscience, desperate, butnever dreaming of acknowledging defeat. He will see 'the frame of thingsdisjoint' first. He challenges fate into the lists. The result is frightful. He speaks no more, as before Duncan's murder,of honour or pity. That sleepless torture, he tells himself, is nothingbut the sense of insecurity and the fear of retaliation. If only he weresafe, it would vanish. And he looks about for the cause of his fear; andhis eye falls on Banquo. Banquo, who cannot fail to suspect him, has notfled or turned against him: Banquo has become his chief counsellor. Why? Because, he answers, the kingdom was promised to Banquo's children. Banquo, then, is waiting to attack him, to make a way for them. The'bloody instructions' he himself taught when he murdered Duncan, areabout to return, as he said they would, to plague the inventor. _This_then, he tells himself, is the fear that will not let him sleep; and itwill die with Banquo. There is no hesitation now, and no remorse: he hasnearly learned his lesson. He hastens feverishly, not to murder Banquo,but to procure his murder: some strange idea is in his mind that thethought of the dead man will not haunt him, like the memory of Duncan,if the deed is done by other hands. [222] The deed is done: but, insteadof peace descending on him, from the depths of his nature hishalf-murdered conscience rises; his deed confronts him in the apparitionof Banquo's Ghost, and the horror of the night of his first murderreturns. But, alas, _it_ has less power, and _he_ has more will. Agonised and trembling, he still faces this rebel image, and it yields:                       Why, so: being gone,     I am a man again. Yes, but his secret is in the hands of the assembled lords. And, worse,this deed is as futile as the first. For, though Banquo is dead and evenhis Ghost is conquered, that inner torture is unassuaged. But he willnot bear it. His guests have hardly left him when he turns roughly tohis wife:     How say'st thou, that Macduff denies his person     At our great bidding? Macduff it is that spoils his sleep. He shall perish,--he and aught elsethat bars the road to peace.                              For mine own good     All causes shall give way: I am in blood     Stepp'd in so far that, should I wade no more,     Returning were as tedious as go o'er:     Strange things I have in head that will to hand,     Which must be acted ere they may be scann'd. She answers, sick at heart,     You lack the season of all natures, sleep. No doubt: but he has found the way to it now:     Come, we'll to sleep. My strange and self abuse     Is the initiate fear that wants hard use;     We are yet but young in deed. What a change from the man who thought of Duncan's virtues, and of pitylike a naked new-born babe! What a frightful clearness ofself-consciousness in this descent to hell, and yet what a furious forcein the instinct of life and self-assertion that drives him on! He goes to seek the Witches. He will know, by the worst means, theworst. He has no longer any awe of them.     How now, you secret, black and midnight hags! --so he greets them, and at once he demands and threatens. They tell himhe is right to fear Macduff. They tell him to fear nothing, for none ofwoman born can harm him. He feels that the two statements are atvariance; infatuated, suspects no double meaning; but, that he may'sleep in spite of thunder,' determines not to spare Macduff. But hisheart throbs to know one thing, and he forces from the Witches thevision of Banquo's children crowned. The old intolerable thoughtreturns, 'for Banquo's issue have I filed my mind'; and with it, for allthe absolute security apparently promised him, there returns that inwardfever. Will nothing quiet it? Nothing but destruction. Macduff, onecomes to tell him, has escaped him; but that does not matter: he canstill destroy:[223]                                And even now,     To crown my thoughts with acts, be it thought and done:     The castle of Macduff I will surprise;     Seize upon Fife; give to the edge o' the sword     His wife, his babes, and all unfortunate souls     That trace him in's line. No boasting like a fool;     This deed I'll do before this purpose cool.     But no more sights! No, he need fear no more 'sights. ' The Witches have done their work,and after this purposeless butchery his own imagination will trouble himno more. [224] He has dealt his last blow at the conscience and pitywhich spoke through it. The whole flood of evil in his nature is now let loose. He becomes anopen tyrant, dreaded by everyone about him, and a terror to his country. She 'sinks beneath the yoke. '                             Each new morn     New widows howl, new orphans cry, new sorrows     Strike heaven on the face. She weeps, she bleeds, 'and each new day a gash is added to her wounds. 'She is not the mother of her children, but their grave;                               where nothing,     But who knows nothing, is once seen to smile:     Where sighs and groans and shrieks that rend the air     Are made, not mark'd. For this wild rage and furious cruelty we are prepared; but vices ofanother kind start up as he plunges on his downward way.                            I grant him bloody,     Luxurious, avaricious, false, deceitful,     Sudden, malicious,says Malcolm; and two of these epithets surprise us. Who would haveexpected avarice or lechery[225] in Macbeth? His ruin seems complete. Yet it is never complete. To the end he never totally loses oursympathy; we never feel towards him as we do to those who appear theborn children of darkness. There remains something sublime in thedefiance with which, even when cheated of his last hope, he faces earthand hell and heaven. Nor would any soul to whom evil was congenial becapable of that heart-sickness which overcomes him when he thinks of the'honour, love, obedience, troops of friends' which 'he must not look tohave' (and which Iago would never have cared to have), and contrastswith them     Curses, not loud but deep, mouth-honour, breath,     Which the poor heart would fain deny, and dare not,(and which Iago would have accepted with indifference). Neither can Iagree with those who find in his reception of the news of his wife'sdeath proof of alienation or utter carelessness. There is no proof ofthese in the words,                     She should have died hereafter;     There would have been a time for such a word,spoken as they are by a man already in some measure prepared for suchnews, and now transported by the frenzy of his last fight for life. Hehas no time now to feel. [226] Only, as he thinks of the morrow when timeto feel will come--if anything comes, the vanity of all hopes andforward-lookings sinks deep into his soul with an infinite weariness,and he murmurs,     To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,     Creeps in this petty pace from day to day     To the last syllable of recorded time,     And all our yesterdays have lighted fools     The way to dusty death. In the very depths a gleam of his native love of goodness, and with it atouch of tragic grandeur, rests upon him. The evil he has desperatelyembraced continues to madden or to wither his inmost heart. Noexperience in the world could bring him to glory in it or make his peacewith it, or to forget what he once was and Iago and Goneril never were. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 194: See note BB. ][Footnote 195: 'Hell is murky' (V. i. 35). This, surely, is not meantfor a scornful repetition of something said long ago by Macbeth. Hewould hardly in those days have used an argument or expressed a fearthat could provoke nothing but contempt. ][Footnote 196: Whether Banquo's ghost is a mere illusion, like thedagger, is discussed in Note FF. ][Footnote 197: In parts of this paragraph I am indebted to Hunter's_Illustrations of Shakespeare_. ][Footnote 198: The line is a foot short. ][Footnote 199: It should be observed that in some cases the irony wouldescape an audience ignorant of the story and watching the play for thefirst time,--another indication that Shakespeare did not write solelyfor immediate stage purposes. ][Footnote 200: Their influence on spectators is, I believe, veryinferior. These scenes, like the Storm-scenes in _King Lear_, belongproperly to the world of imagination. ][Footnote 201: 'By yea and no, I think the 'oman is a witch indeed: Ilike not when a 'oman has a great peard' (_Merry Wives_, IV. ii. 202). ][Footnote 202: Even the metaphor in the lines (II. iii. 127),     What should be spoken here, where our fate,     Hid in an auger-hole, may rush and seize us? was probably suggested by the words in Scot's first chapter, 'They cango in and out at awger-holes. '][Footnote 203: Once, 'weird women. ' Whether Shakespeare knew that'weird' signified 'fate' we cannot tell, but it is probable that he did. The word occurs six times in _Macbeth_ (it does not occur elsewhere inShakespeare). The first three times it is spelt in the Folio _weyward_,the last three _weyard_. This may suggest a miswriting or misprinting of_wayward_; but, as that word is always spelt in the Folio either rightlyor _waiward_, it is more likely that the _weyward_ and _weyard_ of_Macbeth_ are the copyist's or printer's misreading of Shakespeare's_weird_ or _weyrd_. ][Footnote 204: The doubt as to these passages (see Note Z) does notarise from the mere appearance of this figure. The idea of Hecate'sconnection with witches appears also at II. i. 52, and she is mentionedagain at III. ii. 41 (cf. _Mid. Night's Dream_, V. i. 391, for herconnection with fairies). It is part of the common traditional notion ofthe heathen gods being now devils. Scot refers to it several times. Seethe notes in the Clarendon Press edition on III. v. 1, or those inFurness's Variorum. Of course in the popular notion the witch's spirits are devils orservants of Satan. If Shakespeare openly introduces this idea only insuch phrases as 'the instruments of darkness' and 'what! can the devilspeak true? ' the reason is probably his unwillingness to give too muchprominence to distinctively religious ideas. ][Footnote 205: If this paragraph is true, some of the statements even ofLamb and of Coleridge about the Witches are, taken literally, incorrect. What these critics, and notably the former, describe so well is thepoetic aspect abstracted from the remainder; and in describing this theyattribute to the Witches themselves what belongs really to the complexof Witches, Spirits, and Hecate. For the purposes of imagination, nodoubt, this inaccuracy is of small consequence; and it is these purposesthat matter. [I have not attempted to fulfil them. ]][Footnote 206: See Note CC. ][Footnote 207: The proclamation of Malcolm as Duncan's successor (I. iv. ) changes the position, but the design of murder is prior to this. ][Footnote 208: Schlegel's assertion that the first thought of the murdercomes from the Witches is thus in flat contradiction with the text. (Thesentence in which he asserts this is, I may observe, badly mistranslatedin the English version, which, wherever I have consulted the original,shows itself untrustworthy. It ought to be revised, for Schlegel is wellworth reading. )][Footnote 209: It is noticeable that Dr. Forman, who saw the play in1610 and wrote a sketch of it in his journal, says nothing about thelater prophecies. Perhaps he despised them as mere stuff for thegroundlings. The reader will find, I think, that the great poetic effectof Act IV. Sc. i. depends much more on the 'charm' which precedesMacbeth's entrance, and on Macbeth himself, than on the predictions. ][Footnote 210: This comparison was suggested by a passage in Hegel's_Aesthetik_, i. 291 ff. ][Footnote 211: _Il. _ i. 188 ff. (Leaf's translation). ][Footnote 212: The supernaturalism of the modern poet, indeed, is more'external' than that of the ancient. We have already had evidence ofthis, and shall find more when we come to the character of Banquo. ][Footnote 213: The assertion that Lady Macbeth sought a crown forherself, or sought anything for herself, apart from her husband, isabsolutely unjustified by anything in the play. It is based on asentence of Holinshed's which Shakespeare did _not_ use. ][Footnote 214: The word is used of him (I. ii. 67), but not in a waythat decides this question or even bears on it. ][Footnote 215: This view, thus generally stated, is not original, but Icannot say who first stated it. ][Footnote 216: The latter, and more important, point was put quiteclearly by Coleridge. ][Footnote 217: It is the consequent insistence on the idea of fear, andthe frequent repetition of the word, that have principally led tomisinterpretation. ][Footnote 218: _E. g. _ I. iii. 149, where he excuses his abstraction bysaying that his 'dull brain was wrought with things forgotten,' whennothing could be more natural than that he should be thinking of his newhonour. ][Footnote 219: _E. g. _ in I. iv. This is so also in II. iii. 114 ff. ,though here there is some real imaginative excitement mingled with therhetorical antitheses and balanced clauses and forced bombast. ][Footnote 220: III. i. Lady Macbeth herself could not more naturallyhave introduced at intervals the questions 'Ride you this afternoon? '(l. 19), 'Is't far you ride? ' (l. 24), 'Goes Fleance with you? ' (l. 36). ][Footnote 221: We feel here, however, an underlying subdued frenzy whichawakes some sympathy. There is an almost unendurable impatienceexpressed even in the rhythm of many of the lines; _e. g. _:                                        Well then, now     Have you consider'd of my speeches? Know     That it was he in the times past which held you     So under fortune, which you thought had been     Our innocent self: this I made good to you     In our last conference, pass'd in probation with you,     How you were borne in hand, how cross'd, the instruments,     Who wrought with them, and all things else that might     To half a soul and to a notion crazed     Say, 'Thus did Banquo. 'This effect is heard to the end of the play in Macbeth's less poeticspeeches, and leaves the same impression of burning energy, though notof imaginative exaltation, as his great speeches. In these we findeither violent, huge, sublime imagery, or a torrent of figurativeexpressions (as in the famous lines about 'the innocent sleep'). Ourimpressions as to the diction of the play are largely derived from thesespeeches of the hero, but not wholly so. The writing almost throughoutleaves an impression of intense, almost feverish, activity. ][Footnote 222: See his first words to the Ghost: 'Thou canst not say Idid it. '][Footnote 223:     For only in destroying I find ease     To my relentless thoughts. --_Paradise Lost_, ix. 129. Milton's portrait of Satan's misery here, and at the beginning of BookIV. , might well have been suggested by _Macbeth_. Coleridge, afterquoting Duncan's speech, I. iv. 35 ff. , says: 'It is a fancy; but I cannever read this, and the following speeches of Macbeth, withoutinvoluntarily thinking of the Miltonic Messiah and Satan. ' I doubt if itwas a mere fancy. (It will be remembered that Milton thought at one timeof writing a tragedy on Macbeth. )][Footnote 224: The immediate reference in 'But no more sights' isdoubtless to the visions called up by the Witches; but one of these, the'blood-bolter'd Banquo,' recalls to him the vision of the precedingnight, of which he had said,                        You make me strange     Even to the disposition that I owe,     When now I think you can behold such _sights_,     And keep the natural ruby of your cheeks,     When mine is blanch'd with fear. ][Footnote 225: 'Luxurious' and 'luxury' are used by Shakespeare only inthis older sense. It must be remembered that these lines are spoken byMalcolm, but it seems likely that they are meant to be taken as truethroughout. ][Footnote 226: I do not at all suggest that his love for his wiferemains what it was when he greeted her with the words 'My dearest love,Duncan comes here to-night. ' He has greatly changed; she has ceased tohelp him, sunk in her own despair; and there is no intensity of anxietyin the questions he puts to the doctor about her. But his love for herwas probably never unselfish, never the love of Brutus, who, in somewhatsimilar circumstances, uses, on the death of Cassius, words which remindus of Macbeth's:     I shall find time, Cassius, I shall find time. For the opposite strain of feeling cf. Sonnet 90:     Then hate me if thou wilt; if ever, now,     Now while the world is bent my deeds to cross. ]LECTURE XMACBETH1To regard _Macbeth_ as a play, like the love-tragedies _Romeo andJuliet_ and _Antony and Cleopatra_, in which there are two centralcharacters of equal importance, is certainly a mistake. But Shakespearehimself is in a measure responsible for it, because the first half of_Macbeth_ is greater than the second, and in the first half Lady Macbethnot only appears more than in the second but exerts the ultimatedeciding influence on the action. And, in the opening Act at least, LadyMacbeth is the most commanding and perhaps the most awe-inspiring figurethat Shakespeare drew. Sharing, as we have seen, certain traits with herhusband, she is at once clearly distinguished from him by aninflexibility of will, which appears to hold imagination, feeling, andconscience completely in check. To her the prophecy of things that willbe becomes instantaneously the determination that they shall be:     Glamis thou art, and Cawdor, and shalt be     That thou art promised. She knows her husband's weakness, how he scruples 'to catch the nearestway' to the object he desires; and she sets herself without a trace ofdoubt or conflict to counteract this weakness. To her there is noseparation between will and deed; and, as the deed falls in part to her,she is sure it will be done:                   The raven himself is hoarse     That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan     Under my battlements. On the moment of Macbeth's rejoining her, after braving infinite dangersand winning infinite praise, without a syllable on these subjects or aword of affection, she goes straight to her purpose and permits him tospeak of nothing else. She takes the superior position and assumes thedirection of affairs,--appears to assume it even more than she reallycan, that she may spur him on. She animates him by picturing the deed asheroic, 'this night's _great_ business,' or 'our _great_ quell,' whileshe ignores its cruelty and faithlessness. She bears down his faintresistance by presenting him with a prepared scheme which may removefrom him the terror and danger of deliberation. She rouses him with ataunt no man can bear, and least of all a soldier,--the word 'coward. 'She appeals even to his love for her:                 from this time     Such I account thy love;--such, that is, as the protestations of a drunkard. Her reasonings aremere sophisms; they could persuade no man. It is not by them, it is bypersonal appeals, through the admiration she extorts from him, andthrough sheer force of will, that she impels him to the deed. Her eyesare fixed upon the crown and the means to it; she does not attend to theconsequences. Her plan of laying the guilt upon the chamberlains isinvented on the spur of the moment, and simply to satisfy her husband. Her true mind is heard in the ringing cry with which she answers hisquestion, 'Will it not be received . . . that they have done it? '     Who _dares_ receive it other? And this is repeated in the sleep-walking scene: 'What need we fear whoknows it, when none can call our power to account? ' Her passionatecourage sweeps him off his feet. His decision is taken in a moment ofenthusiasm:               Bring forth men-children only;     For thy undaunted mettle should compose     Nothing but males. And even when passion has quite died away her will remains supreme. Inpresence of overwhelming horror and danger, in the murder scene and thebanquet scene, her self-control is perfect. When the truth of what shehas done dawns on her, no word of complaint, scarcely a word of her ownsuffering, not a single word of her own as apart from his, escapes herwhen others are by. She helps him, but never asks his help. She leans onnothing but herself. And from the beginning to the end--though she makesonce or twice a slip in acting her part--her will never fails her. Itsgrasp upon her nature may destroy her, but it is never relaxed. We aresure that she never betrayed her husband or herself by a word or even alook, save in sleep. However appalling she may be, she is sublime. In the earlier scenes of the play this aspect of Lady Macbeth'scharacter is far the most prominent. And if she seems invincible sheseems also inhuman. We find no trace of pity for the kind old king; noconsciousness of the treachery and baseness of the murder; no sense ofthe value of the lives of the wretched men on whom the guilt is to belaid; no shrinking even from the condemnation or hatred of the world. Yet if the Lady Macbeth of these scenes were really utterly inhuman, ora 'fiend-like queen,' as Malcolm calls her, the Lady Macbeth of thesleep-walking scene would be an impossibility. The one woman could neverbecome the other. And in fact, if we look below the surface, there isevidence enough in the earlier scenes of preparation for the later. I donot mean that Lady Macbeth was naturally humane. There is nothing in theplay to show this, and several passages subsequent to the murder-scenesupply proof to the contrary. One is that where she exclaims, on beinginformed of Duncan's murder,                  Woe, alas!     What, in our house? This mistake in acting shows that she does not even know what thenatural feeling in such circumstances would be; and Banquo's curtanswer, 'Too cruel anywhere,' is almost a reproof of her insensibility. But, admitting this, we have in the first place to remember, inimagining the opening scenes, that she is deliberately bent oncounteracting the 'human kindness' of her husband, and also that she isevidently not merely inflexibly determined but in a condition ofabnormal excitability. That exaltation in the project which is soentirely lacking in Macbeth is strongly marked in her. When she tries tohelp him by representing their enterprise as heroic, she is deceivingherself as much as him. Their attainment of the crown presents itself toher, perhaps has long presented itself, as something so glorious, andshe has fixed her will upon it so completely, that for the time she seesthe enterprise in no other light than that of its greatness. When shesoliloquises,                               Yet do I fear thy nature:     It is too full o' the milk of human kindness     To catch the nearest way: thou wouldst be great;     Art not without ambition, but without     The illness should attend it; what thou wouldst highly,     That wouldst thou holily,one sees that 'ambition' and 'great' and 'highly' and even 'illness' areto her simply terms of praise, and 'holily' and 'human kindness' simplyterms of blame. Moral distinctions do not in this exaltation exist forher; or rather they are inverted: 'good' means to her the crown andwhatever is required to obtain it, 'evil' whatever stands in the way ofits attainment. This attitude of mind is evident even when she is alone,though it becomes still more pronounced when she has to work upon herhusband. And it persists until her end is attained. But, without beingexactly forced, it betrays a strain which could not long endure. Besides this, in these earlier scenes the traces of feminine weaknessand human feeling, which account for her later failure, are not absent. Her will, it is clear, was exerted to overpower not only her husband'sresistance but some resistance in herself. Imagine Goneril uttering thefamous words,                 Had he not resembled     My father as he slept, I had done 't. They are spoken, I think, without any sentiment--impatiently, as thoughshe regretted her weakness: but it was there. And in reality, quiteapart from this recollection of her father, she could never have donethe murder if her husband had failed. She had to nerve herself with wineto give her 'boldness' enough to go through her minor part. Thatappalling invocation to the spirits of evil, to unsex her and fill herfrom the crown to the toe topfull of direst cruelty, tells the same taleof determination to crush the inward protest. Goneril had no need ofsuch a prayer. In the utterance of the frightful lines,                I have given suck, and know     How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:     I would, while it was smiling in my face,     Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,     And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you     Have done to this,her voice should doubtless rise until it reaches, in 'dash'd the brainsout,' an almost hysterical scream. [227] These lines show unmistakablythat strained exaltation which, as soon as the end is reached, vanishes,never to return. The greatness of Lady Macbeth lies almost wholly in courage and force ofwill. It is an error to regard her as remarkable on the intellectualside. In acting a part she shows immense self-control, but not muchskill. Whatever may be thought of the plan of attributing the murder ofDuncan to the chamberlains, to lay their bloody daggers on theirpillows, as if they were determined to advertise their guilt, was amistake which can be accounted for only by the excitement of the moment. But the limitations of her mind appear most in the point where she ismost strongly contrasted with Macbeth,--in her comparative dulness ofimagination. I say 'comparative,' for she sometimes uses highly poeticlanguage, as indeed does everyone in Shakespeare who has any greatnessof soul. Nor is she perhaps less imaginative than the majority of hisheroines. But as compared with her husband she has little imagination. It is not _simply_ that she suppresses what she has. To her, thingsremain at the most terrible moment precisely what they were at thecalmest, plain facts which stand in a given relation to a certain deed,not visions which tremble and flicker in the light of other worlds. Theprobability that the old king will sleep soundly after his long journeyto Inverness is to her simply a fortunate circumstance; but one canfancy the shoot of horror across Macbeth's face as she mentions it. Sheuses familiar and prosaic illustrations, like     Letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,'     Like the poor cat i' the adage,(the cat who wanted fish but did not like to wet her feet); or,                                      We fail?     But screw your courage to the sticking-place,     And we'll not fail;[228]or,                           Was the hope drunk     Wherein you dress'd yourself? hath it slept since?     And wakes it now, to look so green and pale     At what it did so freely? The Witches are practically nothing to her. She feels no sympathy inNature with her guilty purpose, and would never bid the earth not hearher steps, which way they walk.

The noises before the murder, and duringit, are heard by her as simple facts, and are referred to their truesources. The knocking has no mystery for her: it comes from 'the southentry. ' She calculates on the drunkenness of the grooms, compares thedifferent effects of wine on herself and on them, and listens to theirsnoring. To her the blood upon her husband's hands suggests only thetaunt,     My hands are of your colour, but I shame     To wear a heart so white;and the blood to her is merely 'this filthy witness,'--words impossibleto her husband, to whom it suggested something quite other than sensuousdisgust or practical danger. The literalism of her mind appears fully intwo contemptuous speeches where she dismisses his imaginings; in themurder scene:                           Infirm of purpose!     Give me the daggers! The sleeping and the dead     Are but as pictures: 'tis the eye of childhood     That fears a painted devil;and in the banquet scene:                         O these flaws and starts,     Impostors to true fear, would well become     A woman's story at a winter's fire,     Authorised by her grandam. Shame itself!     Why do you make such faces? When all's done,     You look but on a stool. Even in the awful scene where her imagination breaks loose in sleep sheuses no such images as Macbeth's. It is the direct appeal of the factsto sense that has fastened on her memory. The ghastly realism of 'Yetwho would have thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? ' or'Here's the smell of the blood still,' is wholly unlike him. Her mostpoetical words, 'All the perfumes of Arabia will not sweeten this littlehand,' are equally unlike his words about great Neptune's ocean. Hers,like some of her other speeches, are the more moving, from their greatersimplicity and because they seem to tell of that self-restraint insuffering which is so totally lacking in him; but there is in themcomparatively little of imagination. If we consider most of the passagesto which I have referred, we shall find that the quality which moves ouradmiration is courage or force of will. This want of imagination, though it helps to make Lady Macbeth strongfor immediate action, is fatal to her. If she does not feel beforehandthe cruelty of Duncan's murder, this is mainly because she hardlyimagines the act, or at most imagines its outward show, 'the motion of amuscle this way or that. ' Nor does she in the least foresee those inwardconsequences which reveal themselves immediately in her husband, andless quickly in herself. It is often said that she understands him well. Had she done so, she never would have urged him on. She knows that he isgiven to strange fancies; but, not realising what they spring from, shehas no idea either that they may gain such power as to ruin the scheme,or that, while they mean present weakness, they mean also perception ofthe future. At one point in the murder scene the force of hisimagination impresses her, and for a moment she is startled; a lightthreatens to break on her:                  These deeds must not be thought     After these ways: so, it will make us mad,she says, with a sudden and great seriousness. And when he goes pantingon, 'Methought I heard a voice cry, "Sleep no more,"' . . . she breaks in,'What do you mean? ' half-doubting whether this was not a real voice thathe heard. Then, almost directly, she recovers herself, convinced of thevanity of his fancy. Nor does she understand herself any better thanhim. She never suspects that these deeds _must_ be thought after theseways; that her facile realism,     A little water clears us of this deed,will one day be answered by herself, 'Will these hands ne'er be clean? 'or that the fatal commonplace, 'What's done is done,' will make way forher last despairing sentence, 'What's done cannot be undone. 'Hence the development of her character--perhaps it would be morestrictly accurate to say, the change in her state of mind--is bothinevitable, and the opposite of the development we traced in Macbeth. When the murder has been done, the discovery of its hideousness, firstreflected in the faces of her guests, comes to Lady Macbeth with theshock of a sudden disclosure, and at once her nature begins to sink. Thefirst intimation of the change is given when, in the scene of thediscovery, she faints. [229] When next we see her, Queen of Scotland, theglory of her dream has faded. She enters, disillusioned, and weary withwant of sleep: she has thrown away everything and gained nothing:               Nought's had, all's spent,     Where our desire is got without content:     'Tis safer to be that which we destroy     Than by destruction dwell in doubtful joy. Henceforth she has no initiative: the stem of her being seems to be cutthrough. Her husband, physically the stronger, maddened by pangs he hadforeseen, but still flaming with life, comes into the foreground, andshe retires. Her will remains, and she does her best to help him; but herarely needs her help. Her chief anxiety appears to be that he shouldnot betray his misery. He plans the murder of Banquo without herknowledge (not in order to spare her, I think, for he never shows loveof this quality, but merely because he does not need her now); and evenwhen she is told vaguely of his intention she appears but littleinterested. In the sudden emergency of the banquet scene she makes aprodigious and magnificent effort; her strength, and with it herascendancy, returns, and she saves her husband at least from an opendisclosure. But after this she takes no part whatever in the action. Weonly know from her shuddering words in the sleep-walking scene, 'TheThane of Fife had a wife: where is she now? ' that she has even learnedof her husband's worst crime; and in all the horrors of his tyranny overScotland she has, so far as we hear, no part. Disillusionment anddespair prey upon her more and more. That she should seek any relief inspeech, or should ask for sympathy, would seem to her mere weakness, andwould be to Macbeth's defiant fury an irritation. Thinking of the changein him, we imagine the bond between them slackened, and Lady Macbethleft much alone. She sinks slowly downward. She cannot bear darkness,and has light by her continually: 'tis her command. At last her nature,not her will, gives way. The secrets of the past find vent in a disorderof sleep, the beginning perhaps of madness. What the doctor fears isclear. He reports to her husband no great physical mischief, but bidsher attendant to remove from her all means by which she could harmherself, and to keep eyes on her constantly. It is in vain. Her death isannounced by a cry from her women so sudden and direful that it wouldthrill her husband with horror if he were any longer capable of fear. Inthe last words of the play Malcolm tells us it is believed in thehostile army that she died by her own hand. And (not to speak of theindications just referred to) it is in accordance with her characterthat even in her weakest hour she should cut short by one determinedstroke the agony of her life. The sinking of Lady Macbeth's nature, and the marked change in herdemeanour to her husband, are most strikingly shown in the conclusion ofthe banquet scene; and from this point pathos is mingled with awe. Theguests are gone. She is completely exhausted, and answers Macbeth inlistless, submissive words which seem to come with difficulty. Howstrange sounds the reply 'Did you send to him, sir? ' to his imperiousquestion about Macduff! And when he goes on, 'waxing desperate inimagination,' to speak of new deeds of blood, she seems to sicken at thethought, and there is a deep pathos in that answer which tells at onceof her care for him and of the misery she herself has silently endured,     You lack the season of all natures, sleep. We begin to think of her now less as the awful instigator of murder thanas a woman with much that is grand in her, and much that is piteous. Strange and almost ludicrous as the statement may sound,[230] she is, upto her light, a perfect wife. She gives her husband the best she has;and the fact that she never uses to him the terms of affection which, upto this point in the play, he employs to her, is certainly no indicationof want of love. She urges, appeals, reproaches, for a practical end,but she never recriminates. The harshness of her taunts is free frommere personal feeling, and also from any deep or more than momentarycontempt. She despises what she thinks the weakness which stands in theway of her husband's ambition; but she does not despise _him_. Sheevidently admires him and thinks him a great man, for whom the throne isthe proper place. Her commanding attitude in the moments of hishesitation or fear is probably confined to them. If we consider thepeculiar circumstances of the earlier scenes and the banquet scene, andif we examine the language of the wife and husband at other times, weshall come, I think, to the conclusion that their habitual relations arebetter represented by the later scenes than by the earlier, thoughnaturally they are not truly represented by either. Her ambition for herhusband and herself (there was no distinction to her mind) proved fatalto him, far more so than the prophecies of the Witches; but even whenshe pushed him into murder she believed she was helping him to do whathe merely lacked the nerve to attempt; and her part in the crime was somuch less open-eyed than his, that, if the impossible and undramatictask of estimating degrees of culpability were forced on us, we shouldsurely have to assign the larger share to Macbeth. 'Lady Macbeth,' says Dr. Johnson, 'is merely detested'; and for a longtime critics generally spoke of her as though she were Malcolm's'fiend-like queen. ' In natural reaction we tend to insist, as I havebeen doing, on the other and less obvious side; and in the criticism ofthe last century there is even a tendency to sentimentalise thecharacter. But it can hardly be doubted that Shakespeare meant thepredominant impression to be one of awe, grandeur, and horror, and thathe never meant this impression to be lost, however it might be modified,as Lady Macbeth's activity diminishes and her misery increases. I cannotbelieve that, when she said of Banquo and Fleance,     But in them nature's copy's not eterne,she meant only that they would some day die; or that she felt anysurprise when Macbeth replied,     There's comfort yet: they are assailable;though I am sure no light came into her eyes when he added thosedreadful words, 'Then be thou jocund. ' She was listless. She herselfwould not have moved a finger against Banquo. But she thought his death,and his son's death, might ease her husband's mind, and she suggestedthe murders indifferently and without remorse. The sleep-walking scene,again, inspires pity, but its main effect is one of awe. There is greathorror in the references to blood, but it cannot be said that there ismore than horror; and Campbell was surely right when, in alluding toMrs. Jameson's analysis, he insisted that in Lady Macbeth's misery thereis no trace of contrition. [231] Doubtless she would have given the worldto undo what she had done; and the thought of it killed her; but,regarding her from the tragic point of view, we may truly say she wastoo great to repent. [232]2The main interest of the character of Banquo arises from the changesthat take place in him, and from the influence of the Witches upon him. And it is curious that Shakespeare's intention here is so frequentlymissed. Banquo being at first strongly contrasted with Macbeth, as aninnocent man with a guilty, it seems to be supposed that this contrastmust be continued to his death; while, in reality, though it is neverremoved, it is gradually diminished. Banquo in fact may be describedmuch more truly than Macbeth as the victim of the Witches. If we followhis story this will be evident. He bore a part only less distinguished than Macbeth's in the battlesagainst Sweno and Macdonwald. He and Macbeth are called 'our captains,'and when they meet the Witches they are traversing the 'blastedheath'[233] alone together. Banquo accosts the strange shapes withoutthe slightest fear. They lay their fingers on their lips, as if tosignify that they will not, or must not, speak to _him_. To Macbeth'sbrief appeal, 'Speak, if you can: what are you? ' they at once reply, notby saying what they are, but by hailing him Thane of Glamis, Thane ofCawdor, and King hereafter. Banquo is greatly surprised that his partnershould start as if in fear, and observes that he is at once 'rapt'; andhe bids the Witches, if they know the future, to prophesy to _him_, whoneither begs their favour nor fears their hate. Macbeth, looking back ata later time, remembers Banquo's daring, and how                       he chid the sisters,     When first they put the name of king upon me,     And bade them speak to him. 'Chid' is an exaggeration; but Banquo is evidently a bold man, probablyan ambitious one, and certainly has no lurking guilt in his ambition. Onhearing the predictions concerning himself and his descendants he makesno answer, and when the Witches are about to vanish he shows none ofMacbeth's feverish anxiety to know more. On their vanishing he is simplyamazed, wonders if they were anything but hallucinations, makes noreference to the predictions till Macbeth mentions them, and thenanswers lightly. When Ross and Angus, entering, announce to Macbeth that he has been madeThane of Cawdor, Banquo exclaims, aside, to himself or Macbeth, 'What! can the devil speak true? ' He now believes that the Witches were realbeings and the 'instruments of darkness. ' When Macbeth, turning to him,whispers,     Do you not hope your children shall be kings,     When those that gave the Thane of Cawdor to me     Promised no less to them? he draws with the boldness of innocence the inference which is reallyoccupying Macbeth, and answers,                             That, trusted home,     Might yet enkindle you unto the crown     Besides the thane of Cawdor. Here he still speaks, I think, in a free, off-hand, even jesting,[234]manner ('enkindle' meaning merely 'excite you to _hope_ for'). But then,possibly from noticing something in Macbeth's face, he becomes graver,and goes on, with a significant 'but,'                          But 'tis strange:     And oftentimes, to win us to our harm,     The instruments of darkness tell us truths,     Win us with honest trifles, to betray's     In deepest consequence. He afterwards observes for the second time that his partner is 'rapt';but he explains his abstraction naturally and sincerely by referring tothe surprise of his new honours; and at the close of the scene, whenMacbeth proposes that they shall discuss the predictions together atsome later time, he answers in the cheerful, rather bluff manner, whichhe has used almost throughout, 'Very gladly. ' Nor was there any reasonwhy Macbeth's rejoinder, 'Till then, enough,' should excite misgivingsin him, though it implied a request for silence, and though the wholebehaviour of his partner during the scene must have looked verysuspicious to him when the prediction of the crown was made good throughthe murder of Duncan. In the next scene Macbeth and Banquo join the King, who welcomes themboth with the kindest expressions of gratitude and with promises offavours to come. Macbeth has indeed already received a noble reward. Banquo, who is said by the King to have 'no less deserved,' receives asyet mere thanks. His brief and frank acknowledgment is contrasted withMacbeth's laboured rhetoric; and, as Macbeth goes out, Banquo turns withhearty praises of him to the King. And when next we see him, approaching Macbeth's castle in company withDuncan, there is still no sign of change. Indeed he gains on us. It ishe who speaks the beautiful lines,                        This guest of summer,     The temple-haunting martlet, does approve,     By his loved mansionry, that the heaven's breath     Smells wooingly here: no jutty, frieze,     Buttress, nor coign of vantage, but this bird     Hath made his pendent bed and procreant cradle:     Where they most breed and haunt, I have observed,     The air is delicate;--lines which tell of that freedom of heart, and that sympathetic senseof peace and beauty, which the Macbeth of the tragedy could never feel. But now Banquo's sky begins to darken. At the opening of the Second Actwe see him with Fleance crossing the court of the castle on his way tobed. The blackness of the moonless, starless night seems to oppress him. And he is oppressed by something else.     A heavy summons lies like lead upon me,     And yet I would not sleep: merciful powers,     Restrain in me the cursed thoughts that nature     Gives way to in repose! On Macbeth's entrance we know what Banquo means: he says toMacbeth--and it is the first time he refers to the subject unprovoked,     I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters. His will is still untouched: he would repel the 'cursed thoughts'; andthey are mere thoughts, not intentions. But still they are 'thoughts,'something more, probably, than mere recollections; and they bring withthem an undefined sense of guilt. The poison has begun to work. The passage that follows Banquo's words to Macbeth is difficult tointerpret:     I dreamt last night of the three weird sisters:     To you they have show'd some truth.     _Macb. _                          I think not of them:     Yet, when we can entreat an hour to serve,     We would spend it in some words upon that business,     If you would grant the time.     _Ban. _                       At your kind'st leisure.     _Macb. _ If you shall cleave to my consent, when 'tis,     It shall make honour for you.     _Ban. _                         So I lose none     In seeking to augment it, but still keep     My bosom franchised and allegiance clear,     I shall be counsell'd.     _Macb. _                Good repose the while!     _Ban. _ Thanks, sir: the like to you! Macbeth's first idea is, apparently, simply to free himself from anysuspicion which the discovery of the murder might suggest, by showinghimself, just before it, quite indifferent to the predictions, andmerely looking forward to a conversation about them at some future time. But why does he go on, 'If you shall cleave,' etc. ? Perhaps he foreseesthat, on the discovery, Banquo cannot fail to suspect him, and thinks itsafest to prepare the way at once for an understanding with him (in theoriginal story he makes Banquo his accomplice _before_ the murder). Banquo's answer shows three things,--that he fears a treasonableproposal, that he has no idea of accepting it, and that he has no fearof Macbeth to restrain him from showing what is in his mind. Duncan is murdered. In the scene of discovery Banquo of course appears,and his behaviour is significant. When he enters, and Macduff cries outto him,                O Banquo, Banquo,     Our royal master's murdered,and Lady Macbeth, who has entered a moment before, exclaims,                  Woe, alas!     What, in our house? his answer,     Too cruel anywhere,shows, as I have pointed out, repulsion, and we may be pretty sure thathe suspects the truth at once. After a few words to Macduff he remainsabsolutely silent while the scene is continued for nearly forty lines. He is watching Macbeth and listening as he tells how he put thechamberlains to death in a frenzy of loyal rage. At last Banquo appearsto have made up his mind. On Lady Macbeth's fainting he proposes thatthey shall all retire, and that they shall afterwards meet,     And question this most bloody piece of work     To know it further. Fears and scruples[235] shake us:     In the great hand of God I stand, and thence     Against the undivulged pretence[236] I fight     Of treasonous malice. His solemn language here reminds us of his grave words about 'theinstruments of darkness,' and of his later prayer to the 'mercifulpowers. ' He is profoundly shocked, full of indignation, and determinedto play the part of a brave and honest man. But he plays no such part. When next we see him, on the last day of hislife, we find that he has yielded to evil. The Witches and his ownambition have conquered him. He alone of the lords knew of theprophecies, but he has said nothing of them. He has acquiesced inMacbeth's accession, and in the official theory that Duncan's sons hadsuborned the chamberlains to murder him. Doubtless, unlike Macduff, hewas present at Scone to see the new king invested. He has, not formallybut in effect, 'cloven to' Macbeth's 'consent'; he is knit to him by 'amost indissoluble tie'; his advice in council has been 'most grave andprosperous'; he is to be the 'chief guest' at that night's supper. Andhis soliloquy tells us why:     Thou hast it now: king, Cawdor, Glamis, all,     As the weird women promised, and, I fear,     Thou play'dst most foully for't: yet it was said     It should not stand in thy posterity,     But that myself should be the root and father     Of many kings. If there come truth from them--     As upon thee, Macbeth, their speeches shine--     Why, by the verities on thee made good,     May they not be my oracles as well,     And set me up in hope? But hush! no more. This 'hush! no more' is not the dismissal of 'cursed thoughts': it onlymeans that he hears the trumpets announcing the entrance of the King andQueen. His punishment comes swiftly, much more swiftly than Macbeth's, andsaves him from any further fall. He is a very fearless man, and still sofar honourable that he has no thought of acting to bring about thefulfilment of the prophecy which has beguiled him. And therefore he hasno fear of Macbeth. But he little understands him. To Macbeth'stormented mind Banquo's conduct appears highly suspicious. _Why_ hasthis bold and circumspect[237] man kept his secret and become his chiefadviser? In order to make good _his_ part of the predictions afterMacbeth's own precedent. Banquo, he is sure, will suddenly and secretlyattack him. It is not the far-off accession of Banquo's descendants thathe fears; it is (so he tells himself) swift murder; not that the 'barrensceptre' will some day droop from his dying hand, but that it will be'wrenched' away now (III. i. 62). [238] So he kills Banquo. But theBanquo he kills is not the innocent soldier who met the Witches anddaffed their prophecies aside, nor the man who prayed to be deliveredfrom the temptation of his dreams. _Macbeth_ leaves on most readers a profound impression of the misery ofa guilty conscience and the retribution of crime. And the strength ofthis impression is one of the reasons why the tragedy is admired byreaders who shrink from _Othello_ and are made unhappy by _Lear_. Butwhat Shakespeare perhaps felt even more deeply, when he wrote this play,was the _incalculability_ of evil,--that in meddling with it humanbeings do they know not what. The soul, he seems to feel, is a thing ofsuch inconceivable depth, complexity, and delicacy, that when youintroduce into it, or suffer to develop in it, any change, andparticularly the change called evil, you can form only the vaguest ideaof the reaction you will provoke. All you can be sure of is that it willnot be what you expected, and that you cannot possibly escape it. Banquo's story, if truly apprehended, produces this impression quite asstrongly as the more terrific stories of the chief characters, andperhaps even more clearly, inasmuch as he is nearer to average humannature, has obviously at first a quiet conscience, and uses with evidentsincerity the language of religion. 3Apart from his story Banquo's character is not very interesting, nor isit, I think, perfectly individual. And this holds good of the rest ofthe minor characters. They are sketched lightly, and are seldomdeveloped further than the strict purposes of the action required. Fromthis point of view they are inferior to several of the less importantfigures in each of the other three tragedies. The scene in which LadyMacduff and her child appear, and the passage where their slaughter isreported to Macduff, have much dramatic value, but in neither case isthe effect due to any great extent to the special characters of thepersons concerned. Neither they, nor Duncan, nor Malcolm, nor evenBanquo himself, have been imagined intensely, and therefore they do notproduce that sense of unique personality which Shakespeare could conveyin a much smaller number of lines than he gives to most of them. [239]And this is of course even more the case with persons like Ross, Angus,and Lennox, though each of these has distinguishable features. I doubtif any other great play of Shakespeare's contains so many speeches whicha student of the play, if they were quoted to him, would be puzzled toassign to the speakers. Let the reader turn, for instance, to the secondscene of the Fifth Act, and ask himself why the names of the personsshould not be interchanged in all the ways mathematically possible. Canhe find, again, any signs of character by which to distinguish thespeeches of Ross and Angus in Act I. scenes ii. and iii. , or todetermine that Malcolm must have spoken I. iv. 2-11? Most of thiswriting, we may almost say, is simply Shakespeare's writing, not that ofShakespeare become another person. And can anything like the sameproportion of such writing be found in _Hamlet_, _Othello_, or _KingLear_? Is it possible to guess the reason of this characteristic of _Macbeth_? I cannot believe it is due to the presence of a second hand. Thewriting, mangled by the printer and perhaps by 'the players,' seems tobe sometimes obviously Shakespeare's, sometimes sufficientlyShakespearean to repel any attack not based on external evidence. It maybe, as the shortness of the play has suggested to some, that Shakespearewas hurried, and, throwing all his weight on the principal characters,did not exert himself in dealing with the rest. But there is anotherpossibility which may be worth considering. _Macbeth_ is distinguishedby its simplicity,--by grandeur in simplicity, no doubt, but still bysimplicity. The two great figures indeed can hardly be called simple,except in comparison with such characters as Hamlet and Iago; but inalmost every other respect the tragedy has this quality. Its plot isquite plain. It has very little intermixture of humour. It has littlepathos except of the sternest kind. The style, for Shakespeare, has notmuch variety, being generally kept at a higher pitch than in the otherthree tragedies; and there is much less than usual of the interchange ofverse and prose. [240] All this makes for simplicity of effect. And, thisbeing so, is it not possible that Shakespeare instinctively felt, orconsciously feared, that to give much individuality or attraction to thesubordinate figures would diminish this effect, and so, like a goodartist, sacrificed a part to the whole? And was he wrong? He hascertainly avoided the overloading which distresses us in _King Lear_,and has produced a tragedy utterly unlike it, not much less great as adramatic poem, and as a drama superior. I would add, though without much confidence, another suggestion. Thesimplicity of _Macbeth_ is one of the reasons why many readers feelthat, in spite of its being intensely 'romantic,' it is less unlike aclassical tragedy than _Hamlet_ or _Othello_ or _King Lear_. And it ispossible that this effect is, in a sense, the result of design. I do notmean that Shakespeare intended to imitate a classical tragedy; I meanonly that he may have seen in the bloody story of Macbeth a subjectsuitable for treatment in a manner somewhat nearer to that of Seneca, orof the English Senecan plays familiar to him in his youth, than was themanner of his own mature tragedies. The Witches doubtless are'romantic,' but so is the witch-craft in Seneca's _Medea_ and _HerculesOetaeus_; indeed it is difficult to read the account of Medea'spreparations (670-739) without being reminded of the incantations in_Macbeth_. Banquo's Ghost again is 'romantic,' but so are Seneca'sghosts. For the swelling of the style in some of the greatpassages--however immeasurably superior these may be to anything inSeneca--and certainly for the turgid bombast which occasionally appearsin _Macbeth_, and which seems to have horrified Jonson, Shakespearemight easily have found a model in Seneca. Did he not think that thiswas the high Roman manner? Does not the Sergeant's speech, as Coleridgeobserved, recall the style of the 'passionate speech' of the Player in_Hamlet_,--a speech, be it observed, on a Roman subject? [241] And is itentirely an accident that parallels between Seneca and Shakespeare seemto be more frequent in _Macbeth_ than in any other of his undoubtedlygenuine works except perhaps _Richard III. _, a tragedy unquestionablyinfluenced either by Seneca or by English Senecan plays? [242] If thereis anything in these suggestions, and if we suppose that Shakespearemeant to give to his play a certain classical tinge, he might naturallycarry out this idea in respect to the characters, as well as in otherrespects, by concentrating almost the whole interest on the importantfigures and leaving the others comparatively shadowy. 4_Macbeth_ being more simple than the other tragedies, and broader andmore massive in effect, three passages in it are of great importance assecuring variety in tone, and also as affording relief from the feelingsexcited by the Witch-scenes and the principal characters. They are thepassage where the Porter appears, the conversation between Lady Macduffand her little boy, and the passage where Macduff receives the news ofthe slaughter of his wife and babes. Yet the first of these, we are toldeven by Coleridge, is unworthy of Shakespeare and is not his; and thesecond, with the rest of the scene which contains it, appears to beusually omitted in stage representations of _Macbeth_. I question if either this scene or the exhibition of Macduff's grief isrequired to heighten our abhorrence of Macbeth's cruelty. They have atechnical value in helping to give the last stage of the action the formof a conflict between Macbeth and Macduff. But their chief function isof another kind. It is to touch the heart with a sense of beauty andpathos, to open the springs of love and of tears. Shakespeare is lovedfor the sweetness of his humanity, and because he makes this kind ofappeal with such irresistible persuasion; and the reason why _Macbeth_,though admired as much as any work of his, is scarcely loved, is thatthe characters who predominate cannot make this kind of appeal, and atno point are able to inspire unmingled sympathy. The two passages inquestion supply this want in such measure as Shakespeare thoughtadvisable in _Macbeth_, and the play would suffer greatly from theirexcision. The second, on the stage, is extremely moving, and Macbeth'sreception of the news of his wife's death may be intended to recall itby way of contrast. The first brings a relief even greater, because herethe element of beauty is more marked, and because humour is mingled withpathos. In both we escape from the oppression of huge sins andsufferings into the presence of the wholesome affections of unambitioushearts; and, though both scenes are painful and one dreadful, oursympathies can flow unchecked. [243]Lady Macduff is a simple wife and mother, who has no thought foranything beyond her home. Her love for her children shows her at oncethat her husband's flight exposes them to terrible danger. She is in anagony of fear for them, and full of indignation against him. It does noteven occur to her that he has acted from public spirit, or that there issuch a thing.     What had he done to make him fly the land? He must have been mad to do it. He fled for fear. He does not love hiswife and children. He is a traitor. The poor soul is almost besideherself--and with too good reason. But when the murderer bursts in withthe question 'Where is your husband? ' she becomes in a moment the wife,and the great noble's wife:     I hope, in no place so unsanctified     Where such as thou may'st find him. What did Shakespeare mean us to think of Macduff's flight, for whichMacduff has been much blamed by others beside his wife? Certainly notthat fear for himself, or want of love for his family, had anything todo with it. His love for his country, so strongly marked in the scenewith Malcolm, is evidently his one motive.     He is noble, wise, judicious, and best knows     The fits o' the season,says Ross. That his flight was 'noble' is beyond doubt. That it was notwise or judicious in the interest of his family is no less clear. Butthat does not show that it was wrong; and, even if it were, to representits consequences as a judgment on him for his want of due considerationis equally monstrous and ludicrous. [244] The further question whether hedid fail in due consideration, or whether for his country's sake hedeliberately risked a danger which he fully realised, would inShakespeare's theatre have been answered at once by Macduff's expressionand demeanour on hearing Malcolm's words,     Why in that rawness left you wife and child,     Those precious motives, those strong knots of love,     Without leave-taking? It cannot be decided with certainty from the mere text; but, withoutgoing into the considerations on each side, I may express the opinionthat Macduff knew well what he was doing, and that he fled withoutleave-taking for fear his purpose should give way. Perhaps he said tohimself, with Coriolanus,     Not of a woman's tenderness to be,     Requires nor child nor woman's face to see. Little Macduff suggests a few words on Shakespeare's boys (there arescarcely any little girls). It is somewhat curious that nearly all ofthem appear in tragic or semi-tragic dramas. I remember but twoexceptions: little William Page, who said his _Hic, haec, hoc_ to SirHugh Evans; and the page before whom Falstaff walked like a sow thathath overwhelmed all her litter but one; and it is to be feared thateven this page, if he is the Boy of _Henry V. _, came to an ill end,being killed with the luggage.     So wise so young, they say, do ne'er live long,as Richard observed of the little Prince of Wales. Of too many of thesechildren (some of the 'boys,' _e. g. _ those in _Cymbeline_, are lads, notchildren) the saying comes true. They are pathetic figures, the more sobecause they so often appear in company with their unhappy mothers, andcan never be thought of apart from them. Perhaps Arthur is even thefirst creation in which Shakespeare's power of pathos showed itselfmature;[245] and the last of his children, Mamillius, assuredly provesthat it never decayed. They are almost all of them noble figures,too,--affectionate, frank, brave, high-spirited, 'of an open and freenature' like Shakespeare's best men. And almost all of them, again, areamusing and charming as well as pathetic; comical in their mingledacuteness and _naïveté_, charming in their confidence in themselves andthe world, and in the seriousness with which they receive the jocosityof their elders, who commonly address them as strong men, greatwarriors, or profound politicians. Little Macduff exemplifies most of these remarks. There is nothing inthe scene of a transcendent kind, like the passage about Mamillius'never-finished 'Winter's Tale' of the man who dwelt by a churchyard, orthe passage about his death, or that about little Marcius and thebutterfly, or the audacity which introduces him, at the supreme momentof the tragedy, outdoing the appeals of Volumnia and Virgilia by thestatement,                           'A shall not tread on me:     I'll run away till I'm bigger, but then I'll fight. Still one does not easily forget little Macduff's delightful andwell-justified confidence in his ability to defeat his mother inargument; or the deep impression she made on him when she spoke of hisfather as a 'traitor'; or his immediate response when he heard themurderer call his father by the same name,--     Thou liest, thou shag-haired villain. Nor am I sure that, if the son of Coriolanus had been murdered, his lastwords to his mother would have been, 'Run away, I pray you. 'I may add two remarks. The presence of this child is one of the thingsin which _Macbeth_ reminds us of _Richard III. _ And he is perhaps theonly person in the tragedy who provokes a smile. I say 'perhaps,' forthough the anxiety of the Doctor to escape from the company of hispatient's husband makes one smile, I am not sure that it was meant to. 5The Porter does not make me smile: the moment is too terrific. He isgrotesque; no doubt the contrast he affords is humorous as well asghastly; I dare say the groundlings roared with laughter at his coarsestremarks. But they are not comic enough to allow one to forget for amoment what has preceded and what must follow. And I am far fromcomplaining of this. I believe that it is what Shakespeare intended, andthat he despised the groundlings if they laughed. Of course he couldhave written without the least difficulty speeches five times ashumorous; but he knew better. The Grave-diggers make us laugh: the oldCountryman who brings the asps to Cleopatra makes us smile at least. Butthe Grave-digger scene does not come at a moment of extreme tension; andit is long. Our distress for Ophelia is not so absorbing that we refuseto be interested in the man who digs her grave, or even continuethroughout the long conversation to remember always with pain that thegrave is hers. It is fitting, therefore, that he should be madedecidedly humorous. The passage in _Antony and Cleopatra_ is much nearerto the passage in _Macbeth_, and seems to have been forgotten by thosewho say that there is nothing in Shakespeare resembling thatpassage. [246] The old Countryman comes at a moment of tragic exaltation,and the dialogue is appropriately brief. But the moment, though tragic,is emphatically one of exaltation. We have not been feeling horror, norare we feeling a dreadful suspense. We are going to see Cleopatra die,but she is to die gloriously and to triumph over Octavius. And thereforeour amusement at the old Countryman and the contrast he affords to thesehigh passions, is untroubled, and it was right to make him really comic. But the Porter's case is quite different. We cannot forget how theknocking that makes him grumble sounded to Macbeth, or that within a fewminutes of his opening the gate Duncan will be discovered in his blood;nor can we help feeling that in pretending to be porter of hell-gate heis terribly near the truth. To give him language so humorous that itwould ask us almost to lose the sense of these things would have been afatal mistake,--the kind of mistake that means want of dramaticimagination. And that was not the sort of error into which Shakespearefell. To doubt the genuineness of the passage, then, on the ground that it isnot humorous enough for Shakespeare, seems to me to show this want. Itis to judge the passage as though it were a separate composition,instead of conceiving it in the fulness of its relations to itssurroundings in a stage-play. Taken by itself, I admit, it would bear noindubitable mark of Shakespeare's authorship, not even in the phrase'the primrose way to the everlasting bonfire,' which Coleridge thoughtShakespeare might have added to an interpolation of 'the players. ' Andif there were reason (as in my judgment there is not) to suppose thatShakespeare thus permitted an interpolation, or that he collaboratedwith another author, I could believe that he left 'the players' or hiscollaborator to write the words of the passage. But that anyone exceptthe author of the scene of Duncan's murder _conceived_ the passage, isincredible. [247]       *       *       *       *       *The speeches of the Porter, a low comic character, are in prose. So isthe letter of Macbeth to his wife. In both these cases Shakespearefollows his general rule or custom. The only other prose-speeches occurin the sleep-walking scene, and here the use of prose may seem strange. For in great tragic scenes we expect the more poetic medium ofexpression, and this is one of the most famous of such scenes. Besides,unless I mistake, Lady Macbeth is the only one of Shakespeare's greattragic characters who on a last appearance is denied the dignity ofverse. Yet in this scene also he adheres to his custom. Somnambulism is anabnormal condition, and it is his general rule to assign prose topersons whose state of mind is abnormal. Thus, to illustrate from thesefour plays, Hamlet when playing the madman speaks prose, but insoliloquy, in talking with Horatio, and in pleading with his mother, hespeaks verse. [248] Ophelia in her madness either sings snatches of songsor speaks prose. Almost all Lear's speeches, after he has becomedefinitely insane, are in prose: where he wakes from sleep recovered,the verse returns. The prose enters with that speech which closes withhis trying to tear off his clothes; but he speaks in verse--some of itvery irregular--in the Timon-like speeches where his intellect suddenlyin his madness seems to regain the force of his best days (IV. vi. ). Othello, in IV. i. , speaks in verse till the moment when Iago tells himthat Cassio has confessed. There follow ten lines of prose--exclamationsand mutterings of bewildered horror--and he falls to the groundunconscious. The idea underlying this custom of Shakespeare's evidently is that theregular rhythm of verse would be inappropriate where the mind issupposed to have lost its balance and to be at the mercy of chanceimpressions coming from without (as sometimes with Lear), or of ideasemerging from its unconscious depths and pursuing one another across itspassive surface. The somnambulism of Lady Macbeth is such a condition. There is no rational connection in the sequence of images and ideas. Thesight of blood on her hand, the sound of the clock striking the hour forDuncan's murder, the hesitation of her husband before that hour came,the vision of the old man in his blood, the idea of the murdered wife ofMacduff, the sight of the hand again, Macbeth's 'flaws and starts' atthe sight of Banquo's ghost, the smell on her hand, the washing of handsafter Duncan's murder again, her husband's fear of the buried Banquo,the sound of the knocking at the gate--these possess her, one afteranother, in this chance order. It is not much less accidental than theorder of Ophelia's ideas; the great difference is that with Opheliatotal insanity has effaced or greatly weakened the emotional force ofthe ideas, whereas to Lady Macbeth each new image or perception comesladen with anguish. There is, again, scarcely a sign of the exaltationof disordered imagination; we are conscious rather of an intensesuffering which forces its way into light against resistance, and speaksa language for the most part strikingly bare in its diction and simplein its construction. This language stands in strong contrast with thatof Macbeth in the surrounding scenes, full of a feverish and almostfurious excitement, and seems to express a far more desolating misery. The effect is extraordinarily impressive. The soaring pride and power ofLady Macbeth's first speeches return on our memory, and the change isfelt with a breathless awe. Any attempt, even by Shakespeare, to drawout the moral enfolded in this awe, would but weaken it. For the moment,too, all the language of poetry--even of Macbeth's poetry--seems to betouched with unreality, and these brief toneless sentences seem the onlyvoice of truth. [249]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 227: So Mrs. Siddons is said to have given the passage. ][Footnote 228: Surely the usual interpretation of 'We fail? ' as aquestion of contemptuous astonishment, is right. 'We fail! ' givespractically the same sense, but alters the punctuation of the first twoFolios. In either case, 'But,' I think, means 'Only. ' On the other handthe proposal to read 'We fail. ' with a full stop, as expressive ofsublime acceptance of the possibility, seems to me, however attractiveat first sight, quite out of harmony with Lady Macbeth's mood throughoutthese scenes. ][Footnote 229: See Note DD. ][Footnote 230: It is not new. ][Footnote 231: The words about Lady Macduff are of course significant ofnatural human feeling, and may have been introduced expressly to markit, but they do not, I think, show any fundamental change in LadyMacbeth, for at no time would she have suggested or approved a_purposeless_ atrocity. It is perhaps characteristic that this humanfeeling should show itself most clearly in reference to an act for whichshe was not directly responsible, and in regard to which therefore shedoes not feel the instinct of self-assertion. ][Footnote 232: The tendency to sentimentalise Lady Macbeth is partly dueto Mrs. Siddons's fancy that she was a small, fair, blue-eyed woman,'perhaps even fragile. ' Dr. Bucknill, who was unaquainted with thisfancy, independently determined that she was 'beautiful and delicate,''unoppressed by weight of flesh,' 'probably small,' but 'a tawny orbrown blonde,' with grey eyes: and Brandes affirms that she was lean,slight, and hard. They know much more than Shakespeare, who tells usabsolutely nothing on these subjects. That Lady Macbeth, after takingpart in a murder, was so exhausted as to faint, will hardly demonstrateher fragility. That she must have been blue-eyed, fair, or red-haired,because she was a Celt, is a bold inference, and it is an idle dreamthat Shakespeare had any idea of making her or her husbandcharacteristically Celtic. The only evidence ever offered to prove thatshe was small is the sentence, 'All the perfumes of Arabia will notsweeten this little hand'; and Goliath might have called his hand'little' in contrast with all the perfumes of Arabia. One might as wellpropose to prove that Othello was a small man by quoting,                            I have seen the day,     That, with this little arm and this good sword,     I have made my way through more impediments     Than twenty times your stop. The reader is at liberty to imagine Lady Macbeth's person in the waythat pleases him best, or to leave it, as Shakespeare very likely did,unimagined. Perhaps it may be well to add that there is not the faintest trace inthe play of the idea occasionally met with, and to some extent embodiedin Madame Bernhardt's impersonation of Lady Macbeth, that her hold uponher husband lay in seductive attractions deliberately exercised. Shakespeare was not unskilled or squeamish in indicating such ideas. ][Footnote 233: That it is Macbeth who feels the harmony between thedesolation of the heath and the figures who appear on it is acharacteristic touch. ][Footnote 234: So, in Holinshed, 'Banquho jested with him and sayde, nowMakbeth thou haste obtayned those things which the twoo former sistersprophesied, there remayneth onely for thee to purchase that which thethird sayd should come to passe. '][Footnote 235: =doubts. ][Footnote 236: =design. ][Footnote 237:                           'tis much he dares,     And, to that dauntless temper of his mind,     He hath a wisdom that doth guide his valour     To act in safety. ][Footnote 238: So when he hears that Fleance has escaped he is not muchtroubled (III. iv. 29):                         the worm that's fled     Hath nature that in time will venom breed,     No teeth for the present. I have repeated above what I have said before, because the meaning ofMacbeth's soliloquy is frequently misconceived. ][Footnote 239: Virgilia in _Coriolanus_ is a famous example. She speaksabout thirty-five lines. ][Footnote 240: The percentage of prose is, roughly, in _Hamlet_ 30-2/3,in _Othello_ 16-1/3, in _King Lear_ 27-1/2, in _Macbeth_ 8-1/2. ][Footnote 241: Cf. Note F. There are also in _Macbeth_ several shorterpassages which recall the Player's speech. Cf. 'Fortune . . . showed likea rebel's whore' (I. ii. 14) with 'Out! out! thou strumpet Fortune! ' Theform 'eterne' occurs in Shakespeare only in _Macbeth_, III. ii. 38, andin the 'proof eterne' of the Player's speech. Cf. 'So, as a paintedtyrant, Pyrrhus stood,' with _Macbeth_, V. viii. 26; 'the ruggedPyrrhus, like the Hyrcanian beast,' with 'the rugged Russian bear . . . orthe Hyrcan tiger' (_Macbeth_, III. iv. 100); 'like a neutral to his willand matter' with _Macbeth_, I. v. 47. The words 'Till he unseam'd himfrom the nave to the chaps,' in the Serjeant's speech, recall the words'Then from the navel to the throat at once He ript old Priam,' in _DidoQueen of Carthage_, where these words follow those others, about Priamfalling with the mere wind of Pyrrhus' sword, which seem to havesuggested 'the whiff and wind of his fell sword' in the Player'sspeech. ][Footnote 242: See Cunliffe, _The Influence of Seneca on ElizabethanTragedy_. The most famous of these parallels is that between 'Will allgreat Neptune's Ocean,' etc. , and the following passages:     Quis eluet me Tanais? aut quae barbaris     Maeotis undis Pontico incumbens mari?     Non ipse toto magnus Oceano pater     Tantum expiarit sceleris. (_Hipp. _ 715. )     Quis Tanais, aut quis Nilus, aut quis Persica     Violentus unda Tigris, aut Rhenus ferox,     Tagusve Ibera turbidus gaza fluens,     Abluere dextram poterit? Arctoum licet     Maeotis in me gelida transfundat mare,     Et tota Tethys per meas currat manus,     Haerebit altum facinus. (_Herc. Furens_, 1323. )(The reader will remember Othello's 'Pontic sea' with its 'violentpace. ') Medea's incantation in Ovid's _Metamorphoses_, vii. 197 ff. ,which certainly suggested Prospero's speech, _Tempest_, V. i. 33 ff. ,should be compared with Seneca, _Herc. Oet. _, 452 ff. , 'Artibusmagicis,' etc. It is of course highly probable that Shakespeare readsome Seneca at school. I may add that in the _Hippolytus_, beside thepassage quoted above, there are others which might have furnished himwith suggestions. Cf. for instance _Hipp. _, 30 ff. , with the lines aboutthe Spartan hounds in _Mids. Night's Dream_, IV. i. 117 ff. , andHippolytus' speech, beginning 483, with the Duke's speech in _As YouLike It_, II. i. ][Footnote 243: Cf. Coleridge's note on the Lady Macduff scene. ][Footnote 244: It is nothing to the purpose that Macduff himself says,                                  Sinful Macduff,     They were all struck for thee! naught that I am,     Not for their own demerits, but for mine,     Fell slaughter on their souls. There is no reason to suppose that the sin and demerit he speaks of isthat of leaving his home. And even if it were, it is Macduff thatspeaks, not Shakespeare, any more than Shakespeare speaks in thepreceding sentence,                                 Did heaven look on,     And would not take their part? And yet Brandes (ii. 104) hears in these words 'the voice of revolt . . . that sounds later through the despairing philosophy of _King Lear_. ' Itsounds a good deal earlier too; _e. g. _ in _Tit. And. _, IV. i. 81, and _2Henry VI. _, II. i. 154. The idea is a commonplace of Elizabethantragedy. ][Footnote 245: And the idea that it was the death of his son Hamnet,aged eleven, that brought this power to maturity is one of the moreplausible attempts to find in his dramas a reflection of his privatehistory. It implies however as late a date as 1596 for _King John_. ][Footnote 246: Even if this were true, the retort is obvious thatneither is there anything resembling the murder-scene in _Macbeth_. ][Footnote 247: I have confined myself to the single aspect of thisquestion on which I had what seemed something new to say. ProfessorHales's defence of the passage on fuller grounds, in the admirable paperreprinted in his _Notes and Essays on Shakespeare_, seems to me quiteconclusive. I may add two notes. (1) The references in the Porter'sspeeches to 'equivocation,' which have naturally, and probably rightly,been taken as allusions to the Jesuit Garnet's appeal to the doctrine ofequivocation in defence of his perjury when, on trial for participationin the Gunpowder Plot, do not stand alone in _Macbeth_. The laterprophecies of the Witches Macbeth calls 'the equivocation of the fiendThat lies like truth' (V. v.

43); and the Porter's remarks about theequivocator who 'could swear in both the scales against either scale,who committed treason enough for God's sake, yet could not equivocate toheaven,' may be compared with the following dialogue (IV. ii. 45):     _Son. _           What is a traitor?     _Lady Macduff. _  Why, one that swears and lies.     _Son. _           And be all traitors that do so?     _Lady Macduff. _  Everyone that does so is a traitor, and must                        be hanged. Garnet, as a matter of fact, _was_ hanged in May, 1606; and it is to befeared that the audience applauded this passage. (2) The Porter's soliloquy on the different applicants for admittancehas, in idea and manner, a marked resemblance to Pompey's soliloquy onthe inhabitants of the prison, in _Measure for Measure_, IV. iii. 1 ff. ;and the dialogue between him and Abhorson on the 'mystery' of hanging(IV. ii. 22 ff. ) is of just the same kind as the Porter's dialogue withMacduff about drink. ][Footnote 248: In the last Act, however, he speaks in verse even in thequarrel with Laertes at Ophelia's grave. It would be plausible toexplain this either from his imitating what he thinks the rant ofLaertes, or by supposing that his 'towering passion' made him forget toact the madman. But in the final scene also he speaks in verse in thepresence of all. This again might be accounted for by saying that he issupposed to be in a lucid interval, as indeed his own language at 239ff. implies. But the probability is that Shakespeare's real reason forbreaking his rule here was simply that he did not choose to depriveHamlet of verse on his last appearance. I wonder the disuse of prose inthese two scenes has not been observed, and used as an argument, bythose who think that Hamlet, with the commission in his pocket, is nowresolute. ][Footnote 249: The verse-speech of the Doctor, which closes this scene,lowers the tension towards that of the next scene. His introductoryconversation with the Gentlewoman is written in prose (sometimes verynear verse), partly, perhaps, from its familiar character, but chieflybecause Lady Macbeth is to speak in prose. ]NOTE A. EVENTS BEFORE THE OPENING OF THE ACTION IN _HAMLET_. In Hamlet's first soliloquy he speaks of his father as being 'but twomonths dead,--nay, not so much, not two. ' He goes on to refer to thelove between his father and mother, and then says (I. ii. 145):                          and yet, within a month--     Let me not think on't--Frailty, thy name is woman! --     A little month, or ere those shoes were old     With which she follow'd my poor father's body,     Like Niobe, all tears, why she, even she--     O God! a beast, that wants discourse of reason,     Would have mourn'd longer--married with my uncle. It seems hence to be usually assumed that at this time--the time whenthe action begins--Hamlet's mother has been married a little less than amonth. On this assumption difficulties, however, arise, though I have not foundthem referred to. Why has the Ghost waited nearly a month since themarriage before showing itself? Why has the King waited nearly a monthbefore appearing in public for the first time, as he evidently does inthis scene? And why has Laertes waited nearly a month since thecoronation before asking leave to return to France (I. ii. 53)? To this it might be replied that the marriage and the coronation wereseparated by some weeks; that, while the former occurred nearly a monthbefore the time of this scene, the latter has only just taken place; andthat what the Ghost cannot bear is, not the mere marriage, but theaccession of an incestuous murderer to the throne. But anyone who willread the King's speech at the opening of the scene will certainlyconclude that the marriage has only just been celebrated, and also thatit is conceived as involving the accession of Claudius to the throne. Gertrude is described as the 'imperial jointress' of the State, and theKing says that the lords consented to the marriage, but makes noseparate mention of his election. The solution of the difficulty is to be found in the lines quoted above. The marriage followed, within a month, not the _death_ of Hamlet'sfather, but the _funeral_. And this makes all clear. The death happenednearly two months ago. The funeral did not succeed it immediately, but(say) in a fortnight or three weeks. And the marriage and coronation,coming rather less than a month after the funeral, have just takenplace. So that the Ghost has not waited at all; nor has the King, norLaertes. On this hypothesis it follows that Hamlet's agonised soliloquy is notuttered nearly a month after the marriage which has so horrified him,but quite soon after it (though presumably he would know rather earlierwhat was coming). And from this hypothesis we get also a partialexplanation of two other difficulties, (_a_) When Horatio, at the end ofthe soliloquy, enters and greets Hamlet, it is evident that he andHamlet have not recently met at Elsinore. Yet Horatio came to Elsinorefor the funeral (I. ii. 176). Now even if the funeral took place somethree weeks ago, it seems rather strange that Hamlet, however absorbedin grief and however withdrawn from the Court, has not met Horatio; butif the funeral took place some seven weeks ago, the difficulty isconsiderably greater. (_b_) We are twice told that Hamlet has '_oflate_' been seeking the society of Ophelia and protesting his love forher (I. iii. 91, 99). It always seemed to me, on the usual view of thechronology, rather difficult (though not, of course, impossible) tounderstand this, considering the state of feeling produced in him by hismother's marriage, and in particular the shock it appears to have givento his faith in woman. But if the marriage has only just been celebratedthe words 'of late' would naturally refer to a time before it. This timepresumably would be subsequent to the death of Hamlet's father, but itis not so hard to fancy that Hamlet may have sought relief from mere_grief_ in his love for Ophelia. But here another question arises; May not the words 'of late' include,or even wholly refer to,[250] a time prior to the death of Hamlet'sfather? And this question would be answered universally, I suppose, inthe negative, on the ground that Hamlet was not at Court but atWittenberg when his father died. I will deal with this idea in aseparate note, and will only add here that, though it is quite possiblethat Shakespeare never imagined any of these matters clearly, and soproduced these unimportant difficulties, we ought not to assume thiswithout examination. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 250: This is intrinsically not probable, and is the moreimprobable because in Q1 Hamlet's letter to Ophelia (which must havebeen written before the action of the play begins) is signed 'Thine everthe most unhappy Prince _Hamlet_. ' 'Unhappy' _might_ be meant todescribe an unsuccessful lover, but it probably shows that the letterwas written after his father's death. ]NOTE B. WHERE WAS HAMLET AT THE TIME OF HIS FATHER'S DEATH? The answer will at once be given: 'At the University of Wittenberg. Forthe king says to him (I. ii. 112):                         For your intent     In going back to school in Wittenberg,     It is most retrograde to our desire. The Queen also prays him not to go to Wittenberg: and he consents toremain. 'Now I quite agree that the obvious interpretation of this passage isthat universally accepted, that Hamlet, like Horatio, was at Wittenbergwhen his father died; and I do not say that it is wrong. But it involvesdifficulties, and ought not to be regarded as certain. (1) One of these difficulties has long been recognised. Hamlet,according to the evidence of Act V. , Scene i. , is thirty years of age;and that is a very late age for a university student. One solution isfound (by those who admit that Hamlet _was_ thirty) in a passage inNash's _Pierce Penniless_: 'For fashion sake some [Danes] will put theirchildren to schoole, but they set them not to it till they are fourteeneyears old, so that you shall see a great boy with a beard learne hisA. B. C. and sit weeping under the rod when he is thirty years old. 'Another solution, as we saw (p. 105), is found in Hamlet's character. Heis a philosopher who lingers on at the University from love of hisstudies there. (2) But there is a more formidable difficulty, which seems to haveescaped notice. Horatio certainly came from Wittenberg to the funeral. And observe how he and Hamlet meet (I. ii. 160).     _Hor. _  Hail to your lordship!     _Ham. _                    I am glad to see you well:             Horatio,--or I do forget myself.     _Hor. _  The same, my lord, and your poor servant ever.     _Ham. _  Sir, my good friend; I'll change that name with you:             And what make you from Wittenberg, Horatio?             Marcellus?     _Mar. _             My good lord--     _Ham. _  I am very glad to see you. Good even, sir. [251]             But what, in faith, make you from Wittenberg?     _Hor. _  A truant disposition, good my lord.     _Ham. _  I would not hear your enemy say so,             Nor shall you do my ear that violence,             To make it truster of your own report             Against yourself: I know you are no truant.             But what is your affair in Elsinore?             We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart.     _Hor. _  My lord, I came to see your father's funeral.     _Ham. _  I pray thee, do not mock me, fellow-student;             I think it was to see my mother's wedding. Is not this passing strange? Hamlet and Horatio are supposed to befellow-students at Wittenberg, and to have left it for Elsinore lessthan two months ago. Yet Hamlet hardly recognises Horatio at first, andspeaks as if he himself lived at Elsinore (I refer to his bitter jest,'We'll teach you to drink deep ere you depart'). Who would dream thatHamlet had himself just come from Wittenberg, if it were not for theprevious words about his going back there? How can this be explained on the usual view? Only, I presume, bysupposing that Hamlet is so sunk in melancholy that he really doesalmost 'forget himself'[252] and forget everything else, so that heactually is in doubt who Horatio is. And this, though not impossible, ishard to believe. 'Oh no,' it may be answered, 'for he is doubtful about Marcellus too;and yet, if he were living at Elsinore, he must have seen Marcellusoften. ' But he is _not_ doubtful about Marcellus. That note ofinterrogation after 'Marcellus' is Capell's conjecture: it is not in anyQuarto or any Folio. The fact is that he knows perfectly well the manwho lives at Elsinore, but is confused by the appearance of the friendwho comes from Wittenberg. (3) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern are sent for, to wean Hamlet from hismelancholy and to worm his secret out of him, because he has known themfrom his youth and is fond of them (II. ii. 1 ff. ). They come _to_Denmark (II. ii. 247 f. ): they come therefore _from_ some other country. Where do they come from? They are, we hear, Hamlet's 'school-fellows'(III. iv. 202). And in the first Quarto we are directly told that theywere with him at Wittenberg:     _Ham. _  What, Gilderstone, and Rossencraft,             Welcome, kind school-fellows, to Elsanore.     _Gil. _  We thank your grace, and would be very glad             You were as when we were at Wittenberg. Now let the reader look at Hamlet's first greeting of them in thereceived text, and let him ask himself whether it is the greeting of aman to fellow-students whom he left two months ago: whether it is notrather, like his greeting of Horatio, the welcome of an oldfellow-student who has not seen his visitors for a considerable time(II. ii. 226 f. ). (4) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern tell Hamlet of the players who arecoming. He asks what players they are, and is told, 'Even those you werewont to take such delight in, the tragedians of the city. ' He asks, 'Dothey hold the same estimation they did when I was in the city? 'Evidently he has not been in the city for some time. And this is stillmore evident when the players come in, and he talks of one having growna beard, and another having perhaps cracked his voice, since they lastmet. What then is this city, where he has not been for some time, butwhere (it would appear) Rosencrantz and Guildenstern live? It is not inDenmark ('Comest thou to beard me in Denmark? '). It would seem to beWittenberg. [253]All these passages, it should be observed, are consistent with oneanother. And the conclusion they point to is that Hamlet has left theUniversity for some years and has been living at Court. This again isconsistent with his being thirty years of age, and with his beingmentioned as a soldier and a courtier as well as a scholar (III. i. 159). And it is inconsistent, I believe, with nothing in the play,unless with the mention of his 'going back to school in Wittenberg. ' Butit is not really inconsistent with that. The idea may quite well be thatHamlet, feeling it impossible to continue at Court after his mother'smarriage and Claudius' accession, thinks of the University where, yearsago, he was so happy, and contemplates a return to it. If this wereShakespeare's meaning he might easily fail to notice that the expression'going back to school in Wittenberg' would naturally suggest that Hamlethad only just left 'school. 'I do not see how to account for these passages except on thishypothesis. But it in its turn involves a certain difficulty. Horatio,Rosencrantz and Guildenstern seem to be of about the same age as Hamlet. How then do _they_ come to be at Wittenberg? I had thought that thisquestion might be answered in the following way. If 'the city' isWittenberg, Shakespeare would regard it as a place like London, and wemight suppose that Horatio, Rosencrantz and Guildenstern were livingthere, though they had ceased to be students. But this can hardly betrue of Horatio, who, when he (to spare Hamlet's feelings) talks ofbeing 'a truant,' must mean a truant from his University. The onlysolution I can suggest is that, in the story or play which Shakespeareused, Hamlet and the others were all at the time of the murder youngstudents at Wittenberg, and that when he determined to make them oldermen (or to make Hamlet, at any rate, older), he did not take troubleenough to carry this idea through all the necessary detail, and so leftsome inconsistencies. But in any case the difficulty in the view which Isuggest seems to me not nearly so great as those which the usual viewhas to meet. [254]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 251: These three words are evidently addressed to Bernardo. ][Footnote 252: Cf. Antonio in his melancholy (_Merchant of Venice_, I. i. 6),     And such a want-wit sadness makes of me     That I have much ado to know myself. ][Footnote 253: In _Der Bestrafte Brudermord_ it _is_ Wittenberg. Hamletsays to the actors: 'Were you not, a few years ago, at the University ofWittenberg? I think I saw you act there': Furness's _Variorum_, ii. 129. But it is very doubtful whether this play is anything but an adaptationand enlargement of _Hamlet_ as it existed in the stage represented byQ1. ][Footnote 254: It is perhaps worth while to note that in _Der BestrafteBrudermord_ Hamlet is said to have been 'in Germany' at the time of hisfather's murder. ]NOTE C. HAMLET'S AGE. The chief arguments on this question may be found in Furness's _VariorumHamlet_, vol. i. , pp. 391 ff. I will merely explain my position briefly. Even if the general impression I received from the play were that Hamletwas a youth of eighteen or twenty, I should feel quite unable to set itagainst the evidence of the statements in V. i. which show him to beexactly thirty, unless these statements seemed to be casual. But theyhave to my mind, on the contrary, the appearance of being expresslyinserted in order to fix Hamlet's age; and the fact that they differdecidedly from the statements in Q1 confirms that idea. So does the factthat the Player King speaks of having been married thirty years (III. ii. 165), where again the number differs from that in Q1. If V. i. did not contain those decisive statements, I believe myimpression as to Hamlet's age would be uncertain. His being severaltimes called 'young' would not influence me much (nor at all when he iscalled 'young' simply to distinguish him from his father, _as he is inthe very passage which shows him to be thirty_). But I think wenaturally take him to be about as old as Laertes, Rosencrantz andGuildenstern, and take them to be less than thirty. Further, thelanguage used by Laertes and Polonius to Ophelia in I. iii. wouldcertainly, by itself, lead one to imagine Hamlet as a good deal lessthan thirty; and the impression it makes is not, to me, altogethereffaced by the fact that Henry V. at his accession is said to be in 'thevery May-morn of his youth,'--an expression which corresponds closelywith those used by Laertes to Ophelia. In some passages, again, there isan air of boyish petulance. On the other side, however, we should haveto set (1) the maturity of Hamlet's thought; (2) his manner, on thewhole, to other men and to his mother, which, I think, is far fromsuggesting the idea of a mere youth; (3) such a passage as his words toHoratio at III. ii. 59 ff. , which imply that both he and Horatio haveseen a good deal of life (this passage has in Q1 nothing correspondingto the most significant lines). I have shown in Note B that it is veryunsafe to argue to Hamlet's youth from the words about his going back toWittenberg. On the whole I agree with Prof. Dowden that, apart from the statementsin V. i. , one would naturally take Hamlet to be a man of about five andtwenty. It has been suggested that in the old play Hamlet was a mere lad; thatShakespeare, when he began to work on it,[255] had not determined tomake Hamlet older; that, as he went on, he did so determine; and thatthis is the reason why the earlier part of the play makes (if it doesso) a different impression from the later. I see nothing very improbablein this idea, but I must point out that it is a mistake to appeal insupport of it to the passage in V. i. as found in Q1; for that passagedoes not in the least show that the author (if correctly reported)imagined Hamlet as a lad. I set out the statements in Q2 and Q1. Q2 says:     (1) The grave-digger came to his business on the day when old     Hamlet defeated Fortinbras:     (2) On that day young Hamlet was born:     (3) The grave-digger has, at the time of speaking, been sexton     for thirty years:     (4) Yorick's skull has been in the earth twenty-three years:     (5) Yorick used to carry young Hamlet on his back. This is all explicit and connected, and yields the result that Hamlet isnow thirty. Q1 says:     (1) Yorick's skull has been in the ground a dozen years:     (2) It has been in the ground ever since old Hamlet overcame     Fortinbras:     (3) Yorick used to carry young Hamlet on his back. From this nothing whatever follows as to Hamlet's age, except that he ismore than twelve! [256] Evidently the writer (if correctly reported) hasno intention of telling us how old Hamlet is. That he did not imaginehim as very young appears from his making him say that he has noted'this seven year' (in Q2 'three years') that the toe of the peasantcomes near the heel of the courtier. The fact that the Player-King in Q1speaks of having been married forty years shows that here too the writerhas not any reference to Hamlet's age in his mind. [257]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 255: Of course we do not know that he did work on it. ][Footnote 256: I find that I have been anticipated in this remark by H. Türck (_Jahrbuch_ for 1900, p. 267 ff. )][Footnote 257: I do not know if it has been observed that in the openingof the Player-King's speech, as given in Q2 and the Folio (it is quitedifferent in Q1), there seems to be a reminiscence of Greene's_Alphonsus King of Arragon_, Act IV. , lines 33 ff. (Dyce's _Greene andPeele_, p. 239):     Thrice ten times Phoebus with his golden beams     Hath compassed the circle of the sky,     Thrice ten times Ceres hath her workmen hir'd,     And fill'd her barns with fruitful crops of corn,     Since first in priesthood I did lead my life. ]NOTE D. 'MY TABLES--MEET IT IS I SET IT DOWN. 'This passage has occasioned much difficulty, and to many readers seemseven absurd. And it has been suggested that it, with much thatimmediately follows it, was adopted by Shakespeare, with very littlechange, from the old play. It is surely in the highest degree improbable that, at such a criticalpoint, when he had to show the first effect on Hamlet of the disclosuresmade by the Ghost, Shakespeare would write slackly or be content withanything that did not satisfy his own imagination. But it is notsurprising that we should find some difficulty in following hisimagination at such a point. Let us look at the whole speech. The Ghost leaves Hamlet with the words,'Adieu, adieu! Hamlet, remember me'; and he breaks out:     O all you host of heaven! O earth! what else?     And shall I couple hell? O, fie! Hold, hold, my heart;     And you, my sinews, grow not instant old,     But bear me stiffly up. Remember thee!     Ay, thou poor ghost, while memory holds a seat     In this distracted globe. Remember thee!     Yea, from the table of my memory     I'll wipe away all trivial fond records,     All saws of books, all forms, all pressures past,     That youth and observation copied there;     And thy commandment all alone shall live     Within the book and volume of my brain,     Unmix'd with baser matter: yes, by heaven!     O most pernicious woman!     O villain, villain, smiling, damned villain!     My tables--meet it is I set it down,     That one may smile, and smile, and be a villain;     At least I'm sure it may be so in Denmark:      [_Writing_     So, uncle, there you are. Now to my word;     It is 'Adieu, adieu! remember me. '     I have sworn 't. The man who speaks thus was, we must remember, already well-nighoverwhelmed with sorrow and disgust when the Ghost appeared to him. Hehas now suffered a tremendous shock. He has learned that his mother wasnot merely what he supposed but an adulteress, and that his father wasmurdered by her paramour. This knowledge too has come to him in such away as, quite apart from the _matter_ of the communication, might makeany human reason totter. And, finally, a terrible charge has been laidupon him. Is it strange, then, that he should say what is strange? Why,there would be nothing to wonder at if his mind collapsed on the spot. Now it is just this that he himself fears. In the midst of the firsttremendous outburst, he checks himself suddenly with the exclamation 'O,fie! ' (cf. the precisely similar use of this interjection, II. ii. 617). He must not let himself feel: he has to live. He must not let his heartbreak in pieces ('hold' means 'hold together'), his muscles turn intothose of a trembling old man, his brain dissolve--as they threaten in aninstant to do. For, if they do, how can he--_remember_? He goes onreiterating this 'remember' (the 'word' of the Ghost). He is, literally,afraid that he will _forget_--that his mind will lose the messageentrusted to it. Instinctively, then, he feels that, if he _is_ toremember, he must wipe from his memory everything it already contains;and the image of his past life rises before him, of all his joy inthought and observation and the stores they have accumulated in hismemory. All that is done with for ever: nothing is to remain for him onthe 'table' but the command, 'remember me. ' He swears it; 'yes, byheaven! ' That done, suddenly the repressed passion breaks out, and, mostcharacteristically, he thinks _first_ of his mother; then of his uncle,the smooth-spoken scoundrel who has just been smiling on him and callinghim 'son. ' And in bitter desperate irony he snatches his tables from hisbreast (they are suggested to him by the phrases he has just used,'table of my memory,' 'book and volume'). After all, he _will_ use themonce again; and, perhaps with a wild laugh, he writes with tremblingfingers his last observation: 'One may smile, and smile, and be avillain. 'But that, I believe, is not merely a desperate jest. It springs fromthat _fear of forgetting_. A time will come, he feels, when all thisappalling experience of the last half-hour will be incredible to him,will seem a mere nightmare, will even, conceivably, quite vanish fromhis mind. Let him have something in black and white that will bring itback and _force_ him to remember and believe. What is there so unnaturalin this, if you substitute a note-book or diary for the 'tables'? [258]But why should he write that particular note, and not rather his 'word,''Adieu, adieu! remember me'? I should answer, first, that a grotesquejest at such a moment is thoroughly characteristic of Hamlet (see p. 151), and that the jocose 'So, uncle, there you are! ' shows his state ofmind; and, secondly, that loathing of his uncle is vehement in histhought at this moment. Possibly, too, he might remember that 'tables'are stealable, and that if the appearance of the Ghost should bereported, a mere observation on the smiling of villains could not betrayanything of his communication with the Ghost. What follows shows thatthe instinct of secrecy is strong in him. It seems likely, I may add, that Shakespeare here was influenced,consciously or unconsciously, by recollection of a place in _TitusAndronicus_ (IV. i. ). In that horrible play Chiron and Demetrius, afteroutraging Lavinia, cut out her tongue and cut off her hands, in orderthat she may be unable to reveal the outrage. She reveals it, however,by taking a staff in her mouth, guiding it with her arms, and writing inthe sand, 'Stuprum. Chiron. Demetrius. ' Titus soon afterwards says:                    I will go get a leaf of brass,     And with a gad of steel will write these words,     And lay it by. The angry northern wind     Will blow these sands, like Sibyl's leaves, abroad,     And where's your lesson then? Perhaps in the old _Hamlet_, which may have been a play something like_Titus Andronicus_, Hamlet at this point did write something of theGhost's message in his tables. In any case Shakespeare, whether he wrote_Titus Andronicus_ or only revised an older play on the subject, mightwell recall this incident, as he frequently reproduces other things inthat drama. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 258: The reader will observe that this suggestion of a_further_ reason for his making the note may be rejected without therest of the interpretation being affected. ]NOTE E. THE GHOST IN THE CELLARAGE.     It has been thought that the whole of the last part of I. v. ,     from the entrance of Horatio and Marcellus, follows the old     play closely, and that Shakespeare is condescending to the     groundlings.     Here again, whether or no he took a suggestion from the old     play, I see no reason to think that he wrote down to his     public. So far as Hamlet's state of mind is concerned, there     is not a trace of this. Anyone who has a difficulty in     understanding it should read Coleridge's note. What appears     grotesque is the part taken by the Ghost, and Hamlet's     consequent removal from one part of the stage to another. But,     as to the former, should we feel anything grotesque in the     four injunctions 'Swear! ' if it were not that they come from     under the stage--a fact which to an Elizabethan audience,     perfectly indifferent to what is absurdly called stage     illusion, was probably not in the least grotesque? And as to     the latter, if we knew the Ghost-lore of the time better than     we do, perhaps we should see nothing odd in Hamlet's insisting     on moving away and proposing the oath afresh when the Ghost     intervenes.     But, further, it is to be observed that he does not merely     propose the oath afresh. He first makes Horatio and Marcellus     swear never to make known what they have _seen_. Then, on     shifting his ground, he makes them swear never to speak of     what they have _heard_. Then, moving again, he makes them     swear that, if he should think fit to play the antic, they     will give no sign of knowing aught of him. The oath is now     complete; and, when the Ghost commands them to swear the last     time, Hamlet suddenly becomes perfectly serious and bids it     rest. [In Fletcher's _Woman's Prize_, V. iii. , a passage     pointed out to me by Mr. C. J. Wilkinson, a man taking an oath     shifts his ground. ]     NOTE F.     THE PLAYER'S SPEECH IN _HAMLET_.     There are two extreme views about this speech. According to     one, Shakespeare quoted it from some play, or composed it for     the occasion, simply and solely in order to ridicule, through     it, the bombastic style of dramatists contemporary with     himself or slightly older; just as he ridicules in _2 Henry     IV. _ Tamburlaine's rant about the kings who draw his chariot,     or puts fragments of similar bombast into the mouth of Pistol.     According to Coleridge, on the other hand, this idea is 'below     criticism. ' No sort of ridicule was intended. 'The lines, as     epic narrative, are superb. ' It is true that the language is     'too poetical--the language of lyric vehemence and epic pomp,     and not of the drama'; but this is due to the fact that     Shakespeare had to distinguish the style of the speech from     that of his own dramatic dialogue.     In essentials I think that what Coleridge says[259] is true.     He goes too far, it seems to me, when he describes the     language of the speech as merely 'too poetical'; for with much     that is fine there is intermingled a good deal that, in epic     as in drama, must be called bombast. But I do not believe     Shakespeare meant it for bombast.     I will briefly put the arguments which point to this     conclusion. Warburton long ago stated some of them fully and     cogently, but he misinterpreted here and there, and some     arguments have to be added to his.     1. If the speech was meant to be ridiculous, it follows either     that Hamlet in praising it spoke ironically, or that     Shakespeare, in making Hamlet praise it sincerely, himself     wrote ironically. And both these consequences are almost     incredible.     Let us see what Hamlet says. He asks the player to recite 'a     passionate speech'; and, being requested to choose one, he     refers to a speech he once heard the player declaim. This     speech, he says, was never 'acted' or was acted only once; for     the play pleased not the million. But he, and others whose     opinion was of more importance than his, thought it an     excellent play, well constructed, and composed with equal     skill and temperance. One of these other judges commended it     because it contained neither piquant indecencies nor     affectations of phrase, but showed 'an honest method, as     wholesome as sweet, and by very much more handsome than     fine. '[260] In this play Hamlet 'chiefly loved' one speech;     and he asks for a part of it.     Let the reader now refer to the passage I have just     summarised; let him consider its tone and manner; and let him     ask himself if Hamlet can possibly be speaking ironically. I     am sure he will answer No. And then let him observe what     follows. The speech is declaimed. Polonius interrupting it     with an objection to its length, Hamlet snubs him, bids the     player proceed, and adds, 'He's for a jig or a tale of bawdry:     or he sleeps. ' 'He,' that is, 'shares the taste of the million     for sallets in the lines to make the matter savoury, and is     wearied by an honest method. '[261] Polonius later interrupts     again, for he thinks the emotion of the player too absurd; but     Hamlet respects it; and afterwards, when he is alone (and     therefore can hardly be ironical), in contrasting this emotion     with his own insensibility, he betrays no consciousness that     there was anything unfitting in the speech that caused it.     So far I have chiefly followed Warburton, but there is an     important point which seems not to have been observed. All     Hamlet's praise of the speech is in the closest agreement with     his conduct and words elsewhere. His later advice to the     player (III. ii. ) is on precisely the same lines. He is to     play to the judicious, not to the crowd, whose opinion is     worthless. He is to observe, like the author of Aeneas'     speech, the 'modesty' of nature. He must not tear a 'passion'     to tatters, to split the ears of the incompetent, but in the     very tempest of passion is to keep a temperance and     smoothness. The million, we gather from the first passage,     cares nothing for construction; and so, we learn in the second     passage, the barren spectators want to laugh at the clown     instead of attending to some necessary question of the play.     Hamlet's hatred of exaggeration is marked in both passages.     And so (as already pointed out, p. 133) in the play-scene,     when his own lines are going to be delivered, he impatiently     calls out to the actor to leave his damnable faces and begin;     and at the grave of Ophelia he is furious with what he thinks     the exaggeration of Laertes, burlesques his language, and     breaks off with the words,                  Nay, an thou'lt mouth,     I'll rant as well as thou. Now if Hamlet's praise of the Aeneas and Dido play and speech isironical, his later advice to the player must surely be ironical too:and who will maintain that? And if in the one passage Hamlet is seriousbut Shakespeare ironical, then in the other passage all those famousremarks about drama and acting, which have been cherished asShakespeare's by all the world, express the opposite of Shakespeare'sopinion: and who will maintain that? And if Hamlet and Shakespeare areboth serious--and nothing else is credible--then, to Hamlet andShakespeare, the speeches of Laertes and Hamlet at Ophelia's grave arerant, but the speech of Aeneas to Dido is not rant. Is it not evidentthat he meant it for an exalted narrative speech of 'passion,' in astyle which, though he may not have adopted it, he still approved anddespised the million for not approving,--a speech to be delivered withtemperance or modesty, but not too tamely neither? Is he not aiming hereto do precisely what Marlowe aimed to do when he proposed to lead theaudience     From jigging veins of rhyming mother-wits,     And such conceits as clownage keeps in pay,to 'stately' themes which beget 'high astounding terms'? And is itstrange that, like Marlowe in _Tamburlaine_, he adopted a style marredin places by that which _we_ think bombast, but which the author meantto be more 'handsome than fine'? 2. If this is so, we can easily understand how it comes about that thespeech of Aeneas contains lines which are unquestionably grand and freefrom any suspicion of bombast, and others which, though not free fromthat suspicion, are nevertheless highly poetic. To the first classcertainly belongs the passage beginning, 'But as we often see. ' To thesecond belongs the description of Pyrrhus, covered with blood that was     Baked and impasted with the parching streets,     That lend a tyrannous and damned light     To their lord's murder;and again the picture of Pyrrhus standing like a tyrant in a picture,with his uplifted arm arrested in act to strike by the crash of thefalling towers of Ilium. It is surely impossible to say that these linesare _merely_ absurd and not in the least grand; and with them I shouldjoin the passage about Fortune's wheel, and the concluding lines. But how can the insertion of these passages possibly be explained on thehypothesis that Shakespeare meant the speech to be ridiculous? 3. 'Still,' it may be answered, 'Shakespeare _must_ have been consciousof the bombast in some of these passages. How could he help seeing it? And, if he saw it, he cannot have meant seriously to praise the speech. 'But why must he have seen it? Did Marlowe know when he wrotebombastically? Or Marston? Or Heywood? Does not Shakespeare elsewherewrite bombast? The truth is that the two defects of style in the speechare the very defects we do find in his writings. When he wished to makehis style exceptionally high and passionate he always ran some risk ofbombast. And he was even more prone to the fault which in this speechseems to me the more marked, a use of metaphors which sound to our ears'conceited' or grotesque. To me at any rate the metaphors in 'now is hetotal gules' and 'mincing with his sword her husband's limbs' are moredisturbing than any of the bombast. But, as regards this second defect,there are many places in Shakespeare worse than the speech of Aeneas;and, as regards the first, though in his undoubtedly genuine works thereis no passage so faulty, there is also no passage of quite the samespecies (for his narrative poems do not aim at epic grandeur), and thereare many passages where bombast of the same kind, though not of the samedegree, occurs. Let the reader ask himself, for instance, how the following lines wouldstrike him if he came on them for the first time out of their context:                     Whip me, ye devils,     From the possession of this heavenly sight!     Blow me about in winds! Roast me in sulphur!     Wash me in steep-down gulfs of liquid fire! Are Pyrrhus's 'total gules' any worse than Duncan's 'silver skin lacedwith his golden blood,' or so bad as the chamberlains' daggers'unmannerly breech'd with gore'? [262] If 'to bathe in reeking wounds,'and 'spongy officers,' and even 'alarum'd by his sentinel the wolf,Whose howl's his watch,' and other such phrases in _Macbeth_, hadoccurred in the speech of Aeneas, we should certainly have been toldthat they were meant for burlesque. I open _Troilus and Cressida_(because, like the speech of Aeneas, it has to do with the story ofTroy), and I read, in a perfectly serious context (IV. v. 6 f. ):                Thou, trumpet, there's thy purse.     Now crack thy lungs, and split thy brazen pipe:     Blow, villain, till thy sphered bias cheek     Outswell the colic of puff'd Aquilon:     Come, stretch thy chest, and let thy eyes spout blood;     Thou blow'st for Hector. 'Splendid! ' one cries. Yes, but if you are told it is also bombastic,can you deny it? I read again (V. v. 7):                    bastard Margarelon     Hath Doreus prisoner,     And stands colossus-wise, waving his beam,     Upon the pashed corses of the kings. Or, to turn to earlier but still undoubted works, Shakespeare wrote in_Romeo and Juliet_,                  here will I remain     With worms that are thy chamber-maids;and in _King John_,     And pick strong matter of revolt and wrath     Out of the bloody finger-ends of John;and in _Lucrece_,     And, bubbling from her breast, it doth divide     In two slow rivers, that the crimson blood     Circles her body in on every side,     Who, like a late-sack'd island, vastly stood     Bare and unpeopled in this fearful flood.       Some of her blood still pure and red remain'd,       And some look'd black, and that false Tarquin stain'd. Is it so very unlikely that the poet who wrote thus might, aiming at apeculiarly heightened and passionate style, write the speech of Aeneas? 4. But, pursuing this line of argument, we must go further. There isreally scarcely one idea, and there is but little phraseology, in thespeech that cannot be paralleled from Shakespeare's own works. He merelyexaggerates a little here what he has done elsewhere. I will concludethis Note by showing that this is so as regards almost all the passagesmost objected to, as well as some others. (1) 'The Hyrcanian beast' isMacbeth's 'Hyrcan tiger' (III. iv. 101), who also occurs in _3 Hen. VI. _I. iv. 155. (2) With 'total gules' Steevens compared _Timon_ IV. iii. 59(an undoubtedly Shakespearean passage),     With man's blood paint the ground, gules, gules. (3) With 'baked and impasted' cf. _John_ III. iii. 42, 'If that surlyspirit melancholy Had baked thy blood. ' In the questionable _Tit. And. _V. ii. 201 we have, 'in that paste let their vile heads be baked' (apaste made of blood and bones, _ib. _ 188), and in the undoubted _RichardII. _ III. ii. 154 (quoted by Caldecott) Richard refers to the ground     Which serves as paste and cover to our bones. (4) 'O'er-sized with coagulate gore' finds an exact parallel in the'blood-siz'd field' of the _Two Noble Kinsmen_, I. i. 99, a scene which,whether written by Shakespeare (as I fully believe) or by another poet,was certainly written in all seriousness. (5) 'With eyes likecarbuncles' has been much ridiculed, but Milton (_P. L. _ ix. 500) gives'carbuncle eyes' to Satan turned into a serpent (Steevens), and why arethey more outrageous than ruby lips and cheeks (_J. C. _ III. i. 260,_Macb. _ III. iv. 115, _Cym. _ II. ii. 17)? (6) Priam falling with themere wind of Pyrrhus's sword is paralleled, not only in _Dido Queen ofCarthage_, but in _Tr. and Cr.

_ V. iii. 40 (Warburton). (7) With Pyrrhusstanding like a painted tyrant cf. _Macb. _ V. viii. 25 (Delius). (8) Theforging of Mars's armour occurs again in _Tr. and Cr. _ IV. v. 255, whereHector swears by the forge that stithied Mars his helm, just as Hamlethimself alludes to Vulcan's stithy (III. ii. 89). (9) The idea of'strumpet Fortune' is common: _e. g. _ _Macb. _ I. ii. 15, 'Fortune . . . show'd like a rebel's whore. ' (10) With the 'rant' about her wheelWarburton compares _Ant. and Cl. _ IV. xv. 43, where Cleopatra would                                  rail so high     That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel. (11. ) Pyrrhus minces with his sword Priam's limbs, and Timon (IV. iii. 122) bids Alcibiades 'mince' the babe without remorse. '[263]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 259: It is impossible to tell whether Coleridge formed hisview independently, or adopted it from Schlegel. For there is no recordof his having expressed his opinion prior to the time of his readingSchlegel's _Lectures_; and, whatever he said to the contrary, hisborrowings from Schlegel are demonstrable. ][Footnote 260: Clark and Wright well compare Polonius' antithesis of'rich, not gaudy': though I doubt if 'handsome' implies richness. ][Footnote 261: Is it not possible that 'mobled queen,' to which Hamletseems to object, and which Polonius praises, is meant for an example ofthe second fault of affected phraseology, from which the play was saidto be free, and an instance of which therefore surprises Hamlet? ][Footnote 262: The extravagance of these phrases is doubtlessintentional (for Macbeth in using them is trying to act a part), but the_absurdity_ of the second can hardly be so. ][Footnote 263: Steevens observes that Heywood uses the phrase 'guledwith slaughter,' and I find in his _Iron Age_ various passagesindicating that he knew the speech of Aeneas (cf. p. 140 for anothersign that he knew _Hamlet_). The two parts of the _Iron Age_ werepublished in 1632, but are said, in the preface to the Second, to have'been long since writ. ' I refer to the pages of vol. 3 of Pearson's_Heywood_ (1874). (1) p. 329, Troilus 'lyeth imbak'd In his cold blood. '(2) p. 341, of Achilles' armour:     _Vulcan_ that wrought it out of gadds of Steele     With his _Ciclopian_ hammers, never made     Such noise upon his Anvile forging it,     Than these my arm'd fists in _Ulisses_ wracke. (3) p. 357, 'till _Hecub's_ reverent lockes Be gul'd in slaughter. ' (4)p. 357, '_Scamander_ plaines Ore-spread with intrailes bak'd in bloodand dust. ' (5) p. 378, 'We'll rost them at the scorching flames of_Troy_. ' (6) p. 379, 'tragicke slaughter, clad in gules and sables'(cf. 'sable arms' in the speech in _Hamlet_). (7) p. 384, 'these lockes,now knotted all, As bak't in blood. ' Of these, all but (1) and (2) arein Part II. Part I. has many passages which recall _Troilus andCressida_. Mr. Fleay's speculation as to its date will be found in his_Chronicle History of the English Drama_, i. p. 285. For the same writer's ingenious theory (which is of course incapable ofproof) regarding the relation of the player's speech in _Hamlet_ toMarlowe and Nash's _Dido_, see Furness's Variorum _Hamlet_. ]NOTE G. HAMLET'S APOLOGY TO LAERTES. Johnson, in commenting on the passage (V. ii. 237-255), says: 'I wishHamlet had made some other defence; it is unsuitable to the character ofa good or a brave man to shelter himself in falsehood. ' And Seymour(according to Furness) thought the falsehood so ignoble that he rejectedlines 239-250 as an interpolation! I wish first to remark that we are mistaken when we suppose that Hamletis here apologising specially for his behaviour to Laertes at Ophelia'sgrave. We naturally suppose this because he has told Horatio that he issorry he 'forgot himself' on that occasion, and that he will courtLaertes' favours (V. ii. 75 ff. ). But what he says in that very passageshows that he is thinking chiefly of the greater wrong he has doneLaertes by depriving him of his father:     For, by the image of my cause, I see     The portraiture of his. And it is also evident in the last words of the apology itself that heis referring in it to the deaths of Polonius and Ophelia:     Sir, in this audience,     Let my disclaiming from a purposed evil     Free me so far in your most generous thoughts,     _That I have shot mine arrow o'er the house,     And hurt my brother. _But now, as to the falsehood. The charge is not to be set aside lightly;and, for my part, I confess that, while rejecting of course Johnson'snotion that Shakespeare wanted to paint 'a good man,' I have momentarilyshared Johnson's wish that Hamlet had made 'some other defence' thanthat of madness. But I think the wish proceeds from failure to imaginethe situation. In the first place, _what_ other defence can we wish Hamlet to havemade? I can think of none. He cannot tell the truth. He cannot say toLaertes, 'I meant to stab the King, not your father. ' He cannot explainwhy he was unkind to Ophelia. Even on the false supposition that he isreferring simply to his behaviour at the grave, he can hardly say, Isuppose, 'You ranted so abominably that you put me into a toweringpassion. ' _Whatever_ he said, it would have to be more or less untrue. Next, what moral difference is there between feigning insanity andasserting it? If we are to blame Hamlet for the second, why not equallyfor the first? And, finally, even if he were referring simply to his behaviour at thegrave, his excuse, besides falling in with his whole plan of feigninginsanity, would be as near the truth as any he could devise. For we arenot to take the account he gives to Horatio, that he was put in apassion by the bravery of Laertes' grief, as the whole truth. His ravingover the grave is not _mere_ acting. On the contrary, that passage isthe best card that the believers in Hamlet's madness have to play. He isreally almost beside himself with grief as well as anger, half-maddenedby the impossibility of explaining to Laertes how he has come to do whathe has done, full of wild rage and then of sick despair at this wretchedworld which drives him to such deeds and such misery. It is the samerage and despair that mingle with other feelings in his outbreak toOphelia in the Nunnery-scene. But of all this, even if he were clearlyconscious of it, he cannot speak to Horatio; for his love to Ophelia isa subject on which he has never opened his lips to his friend. If we realise the situation, then, we shall, I think, repress the wishthat Hamlet had 'made some other defence' than that of madness. We shallfeel only tragic sympathy.       *       *       *       *       *As I have referred to Hamlet's apology, I will add a remark on it from adifferent point of view. It forms another refutation of the theory thatHamlet has delayed his vengeance till he could publicly convict theKing, and that he has come back to Denmark because now, with theevidence of the commission in his pocket, he can safely accuse him. Ifthat were so, what better opportunity could he possibly find than thisoccasion, where he has to express his sorrow to Laertes for the grievouswrongs which he has unintentionally inflicted on him? NOTE H. THE EXCHANGE OF RAPIERS. I am not going to discuss the question how this exchange ought to bemanaged. I wish merely to point out that the stage-direction fails toshow the sequence of speeches and events. The passage is as follows(Globe text):     _Ham. _  Come, for the third, Laertes: you but dally;             I pray you, pass with your best violence;             I am afeard you make a wanton of me.     _Laer. _ Say you so? come on.                 [_They play. _     _Osr. _  Nothing, neither way.     _Laer. _ Have at you now!                [_Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling, they                   change rapiers, and Hamlet wounds Laertes. _[264]     _King. _  Part them; they are incensed.     _Ham. _   Nay, come, again.             _The Queen falls. _[265]     _Osr. _                    Look to the Queen there, ho!     _Hor. _   They bleed on both sides. How is it, my lord?     _Osr. _   How is't, Laertes? The words 'and Hamlet wounds Laertes' in Rowe's stage-direction destroythe point of the words given to the King in the text. If Laertes isalready wounded, why should the King care whether the fencers are partedor not? What makes him cry out is that, while he sees his purposeeffected as regards Hamlet, he also sees Laertes in danger through theexchange of foils in the scuffle. Now it is not to be supposed thatLaertes is particularly dear to him; but he sees instantaneously that,if Laertes escapes the poisoned foil, he will certainly hold his tongueabout the plot against Hamlet, while, if he is wounded, he may confessthe truth; for it is no doubt quite evident to the King that Laertes hasfenced tamely because his conscience is greatly troubled by thetreachery he is about to practise. The King therefore, as soon as hesees the exchange of foils, cries out, 'Part them; they are incensed. 'But Hamlet's blood is up. 'Nay, come, again,' he calls to Laertes, whocannot refuse to play, and _now_ is wounded by Hamlet. At the very samemoment the Queen falls to the ground; and ruin rushes on the King fromthe right hand and the left. The passage, therefore, should be printed thus:     _Laer. _ Have at you now!                     [_Laertes wounds Hamlet; then, in scuffling,                                            they change rapiers. _     _King. _ Part them; they are incensed.     _Ham. _  Nay, come, again.       [_They play, and Hamlet wounds Laertes. The Queen falls. _FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 264: So Rowe. The direction in Q1 is negligible, the textbeing different. Q2 etc. have nothing, Ff. simply 'In scuffling theychange rapiers. '][Footnote 265: Capell. The Quartos and Folios have no directions. ]NOTE I. THE DURATION OF THE ACTION IN _OTHELLO_. The quite unusual difficulties regarding this subject have led to muchdiscussion, a synopsis of which may be found in Furness's Variorumedition, pp. 358-72. Without detailing the facts I will briefly set outthe main difficulty, which is that, according to one set of indications(which I will call A), Desdemona was murdered within a day or two of herarrival in Cyprus, while, according to another set (which I will callB), some time elapsed between her arrival and the catastrophe. Let ustake A first, and run through the play. (A) Act I. opens on the night of Othello's marriage. On that night he isdespatched to Cyprus, leaving Desdemona to follow him. In Act II. Sc. i. , there arrive at Cyprus, first, in one ship, Cassio;then, in another, Desdemona, Iago, and Emilia; then, in another, Othello(Othello, Cassio, and Desdemona being in three different ships, it doesnot matter, for our purpose, how long the voyage lasted). On the nightfollowing these arrivals in Cyprus the marriage is consummated (II. iii. 9), Cassio is cashiered, and, on Iago's advice, he resolves to askDesdemona's intercession 'betimes in the morning' (II. iii. 335). In Act III. Sc. iii. (the Temptation scene), he does so: Desdemona doesintercede: Iago begins to poison Othello's mind: the handkerchief islost, found by Emilia, and given to Iago: he determines to leave it inCassio's room, and, renewing his attack on Othello, asserts that he hasseen the handkerchief in Cassio's hand: Othello bids him kill Cassiowithin three days, and resolves to kill Desdemona himself. All thisoccurs in one unbroken scene, and evidently on the day after the arrivalin Cyprus (see III. i. 33). In the scene (iv. ) following the Temptation scene Desdemona sends to bidCassio come, as she has interceded for him: Othello enters, tests herabout the handkerchief, and departs in anger: Cassio, arriving, is toldof the change in Othello, and, being left _solus_, is accosted byBianca, whom he requests to copy the work on the handkerchief which hehas just found in his room (ll. 188 f. ). All this is naturally taken tohappen in the later part of the day on which the events of III. i. -iii. took place, _i. e. _ the day after the arrival in Cyprus: but I shallreturn to this point. In IV. i. Iago tells Othello that Cassio has confessed, and, placingOthello where he can watch, he proceeds on Cassio's entrance to rallyhim about Bianca; and Othello, not being near enough to hear what issaid, believes that Cassio is laughing at his conquest of Desdemona. Cassio here says that Bianca haunts him and 'was here _even now_'; andBianca herself, coming in, reproaches him about the handkerchief 'yougave me _even now_. ' There is therefore no appreciable time between III. iv. and IV. i. In this same scene Bianca bids Cassio come to supper_to-night_; and Lodovico, arriving, is asked to sup with Othello_to-night_. In IV. ii. Iago persuades Roderigo to kill Cassio _thatnight_ as he comes from Bianca's. In IV. iii. Lodovico, after supper,takes his leave, and Othello bids Desdemona go to bed on the instant anddismiss her attendant. In Act V. , _that night_, the attempted assassination of Cassio, and themurder of Desdemona, take place. From all this, then, it seems clear that the time between the arrival inCyprus and the catastrophe is certainly not more than a few days, andmost probably only about a day and a half: or, to put it otherwise, thatmost probably Othello kills his wife about twenty-four hours after theconsummation of their marriage! The only _possible_ place, it will be seen, where time can elapse isbetween III. iii. and III. iv. And here Mr. Fleay would imagine a gap ofat least a week. The reader will find that this supposition involves thefollowing results, (_a_) Desdemona has allowed at least a week to elapsewithout telling Cassio that she has interceded for him. (_b_) Othello,after being convinced of her guilt, after resolving to kill her, andafter ordering Iago to kill Cassio within three days, has allowed atleast a week to elapse without even questioning her about thehandkerchief, and has so behaved during all this time that she istotally unconscious of any change in his feelings. (_c_) Desdemona, whoreserves the handkerchief evermore about her to kiss and talk to (III. iii. 295), has lost it for at least a week before she is conscious ofthe loss. (_d_) Iago has waited at least a week to leave thehandkerchief in Cassio's chamber; for Cassio has evidently only justfound it, and wants the work on it copied before the owner makesinquiries for it. These are all gross absurdities. It is certain thatonly a short time, most probable that not even a night, elapses betweenIII. iii. and III. iv. (B) Now this idea that Othello killed his wife, probably withintwenty-four hours, certainly within a few days, of the consummation ofhis marriage, contradicts the impression produced by the play on alluncritical readers and spectators. It is also in flat contradiction witha large number of time-indications in the play itself. It is needless tomention more than a few. (_a_) Bianca complains that Cassio has keptaway from her for a week (III. iv. 173). Cassio and the rest havetherefore been more than a week in Cyprus, and, we should naturallyinfer, considerably more. (_b_) The ground on which Iago buildsthroughout is the probability of Desdemona's having got tired of theMoor; she is accused of having repeatedly committed adultery with Cassio(_e. g. _ V. ii. 210); these facts and a great many others, such asOthello's language in III. iii. 338 ff. , are utterly absurd on thesupposition that he murders his wife within a day or two of the nightwhen he consummated his marriage. (_c_) Iago's account of Cassio's dreamimplies (and indeed states) that he had been sleeping with Cassio'lately,' _i. e. _ after arriving at Cyprus: yet, according to A, he hadonly spent one night in Cyprus, and we are expressly told that Cassionever went to bed on that night. Iago doubtless was a liar, but Othellowas not an absolute idiot.       *       *       *       *       *Thus (1) one set of time-indications clearly shows that Othello murderedhis wife within a few days, probably a day and a half, of his arrival inCyprus and the consummation of his marriage; (2) another set oftime-indications implies quite as clearly that some little time musthave elapsed, probably a few weeks; and this last is certainly theimpression of a reader who has not closely examined the play. It is impossible to escape this result. The suggestion that the imputedintrigue of Cassio and Desdemona took place at Venice before themarriage, not at Cyprus after it, is quite futile. There is no positiveevidence whatever for it; if the reader will merely refer to thedifficulties mentioned under B above, he will see that it leaves almostall of them absolutely untouched; and Iago's accusation is uniformly oneof adultery. How then is this extraordinary contradiction to be explained? It canhardly be one of the casual inconsistencies, due to forgetfulness, whichare found in Shakespeare's other tragedies; for the scheme of timeindicated under A seems deliberate and self-consistent, and the schemeindicated under B seems, if less deliberate, equally self-consistent. This does not look as if a single scheme had been so vaguely imaginedthat inconsistencies arose in working it out; it points to some othersource of contradiction. 'Christopher North,' who dealt very fully with the question, elaborateda doctrine of Double Time, Short and Long. To do justice to this theoryin a few words is impossible, but its essence is the notion thatShakespeare, consciously or unconsciously, wanted to produce on thespectator (for he did not aim at readers) two impressions. He wanted thespectator to feel a passionate and vehement haste in the action; but healso wanted him to feel that the action was fairly probable. Consciouslyor unconsciously he used Short Time (the scheme of A) for the firstpurpose, and Long Time (the scheme of B) for the second. The spectatoris affected in the required manner by both, though without distinctlynoticing the indications of the two schemes. The notion underlying this theory is probably true, but the theoryitself can hardly stand. Passing minor matters by, I would ask thereader to consider the following remarks. (_a_) If, as seems to bemaintained, the spectator does not notice the indications of 'ShortTime' at all, how can they possibly affect him? The passion, vehemenceand haste of Othello affect him, because he perceives them; but if hedoes not perceive the hints which show the duration of the action fromthe arrival in Cyprus to the murder, these hints have simply noexistence for him and are perfectly useless. The theory, therefore, doesnot explain the existence of 'Short Time. ' (_b_) It is not the case that'Short Time' is wanted only to produce an impression of vehemence andhaste, and 'Long Time' for probability. The 'Short Time' is equallywanted for probability: for it is grossly improbable that Iago'sintrigue should not break down if Othello spends a week or weeks betweenthe successful temptation and his execution of justice. (_c_) And thisbrings me to the most important point, which appears to have escapednotice. The place where 'Long Time' is wanted is not _within_ Iago'sintrigue. 'Long Time' is required simply and solely because the intrigueand its circumstances presuppose a marriage consummated, and an adulterypossible, for (let us say) some weeks. But, granted that lapse betweenthe marriage and the temptation, there is no reason whatever why morethan a few days or even one day should elapse between this temptationand the murder. The whole trouble arises because the temptation beginson the morning after the consummated marriage. Let some three weekselapse between the first night at Cyprus and the temptation; let thebrawl which ends in the disgrace of Cassio occur not on that night butthree weeks later; or again let it occur that night, but let three weekselapse before the intercession of Desdemona and the temptation of Iagobegin. All will then be clear. Cassio has time to make acquaintance withBianca, and to neglect her: the Senate has time to hear of the perditionof the Turkish fleet and to recall Othello: the accusations of Iagocease to be ridiculous; and the headlong speed of the action after thetemptation has begun is quite in place. Now, too, there is no reason whywe should not be affected by the hints of time ('to-day,' 'to-night,''even now'), which we _do_ perceive (though we do not calculate themout). And, lastly, this supposition corresponds with our naturalimpression, which is that the temptation and what follows it take placesome little while after the marriage, but occupy, themselves, a veryshort time. Now, of course, the supposition just described is no fact. As the playstands, it is quite certain that there is no space of three weeks, oranything like it, either between the arrival in Cyprus and the brawl, orbetween the brawl and the temptation. And I draw attention to thesupposition chiefly to show that quite a small change would remove thedifficulties, and to insist that there is nothing wrong at all in regardto the time from the temptation onward. How to account for the existingcontradictions I do not at all profess to know, and I will merelymention two possibilities. Possibly, as Mr. Daniel observes, the play has been tampered with. Wehave no text earlier than 1622, six years after Shakespeare's death. Itmay be suggested, then, that in the play, as Shakespeare wrote it, therewas a gap of some weeks between the arrival in Cyprus and Cassio'sbrawl, or (less probably) between the brawl and the temptation. Perhapsthere was a scene indicating the lapse of time. Perhaps it was dull, orthe play was a little too long, or devotees of the unity of time madesport of a second breach of that unity coming just after the breachcaused by the voyage. Perhaps accordingly the owners of the playaltered, or hired a dramatist to alter, the arrangement at this point,and this was unwittingly done in such a way as to produce thecontradictions we are engaged on. There is nothing intrinsicallyunlikely in this idea; and certainly, I think, the amount of suchcorruption of Shakespeare's texts by the players is usually ratherunderrated than otherwise. But I cannot say I see any signs of foreignalteration in the text, though it is somewhat odd that Roderigo, whomakes no complaint on the day of the arrival in Cyprus when he is beingpersuaded to draw Cassio into a quarrel that night, should, directlyafter the quarrel (II. iii. 370), complain that he is making no advancein his pursuit of Desdemona, and should speak as though he had been inCyprus long enough to have spent nearly all the money he brought fromVenice. Or, possibly, Shakespeare's original plan was to allow some time toelapse after the arrival at Cyprus, but when he reached the point hefound it troublesome to indicate this lapse in an interesting way, andconvenient to produce Cassio's fall by means of the rejoicings on thenight of the arrival, and then almost necessary to let the request forintercession, and the temptation, follow on the next day. And perhaps hesaid to himself, No one in the theatre will notice that all this makesan impossible position: and I can make all safe by using language thatimplies that Othello has after all been married for some time. If so,probably he was right. I do not think anyone does notice theimpossibilities either in the theatre or in a casual reading of theplay. Either of these suppositions is possible: neither is, to me, probable. The first seems the less unlikely. If the second is true, Shakespearedid in _Othello_ what he seems to do in no other play. I can believethat he may have done so; but I find it very hard to believe that heproduced this impossible situation without knowing it. It is one thingto read a drama or see it, quite another to construct and compose it,and he appears to have imagined the action in _Othello_ with even morethan his usual intensity. NOTE J. THE 'ADDITIONS' TO _OTHELLO_ IN THE FIRST FOLIO. THE PONTIC SEA. The first printed _Othello_ is the first Quarto (Q1), 1622; the secondis the first Folio (F1), 1623. These two texts are two distinct versionsof the play. Q1 contains many oaths and expletives where less'objectionable' expressions occur in F1. Partly for this reason it isbelieved to represent the _earlier_ text, perhaps the text as it stoodbefore the Act of 1605 against profanity on the stage. Its readings arefrequently superior to those of F1, but it wants many lines that appearin F1, which probably represents the acting version in 1623. I give alist of the longer passages absent from Q1:     (_a_) I. i. 122-138. 'If't' . . . 'yourself:'     (_b_) I. ii 72-77. 'Judge' . . . 'thee'     (_c_) I. iii. 24-30. 'For' . . . 'profitless. '     (_d_) III. iii. 383-390. '_Oth. _ By' . . . 'satisfied! _Iago. _'     (_e_) III. iii. 453-460. 'Iago. ' . . . 'heaven,'     (_f_) IV. i. 38-44. 'To confess' . . . 'devil! '     (_g_) IV. ii. 73-76, 'Committed! ' . . . 'committed! '     (_h_) IV. ii. 151-164. 'Here' . . . 'make me. '     (_i_) IV. iii. 31-53. 'I have' . . . 'not next'                and 55-57. '_Des. _ [_Singing_]' . . . 'men. '     (_j_) IV. iii. 60-63. 'I have' . . . 'question. '     (_k_) IV. iii. 87-104. 'But I' . . . 'us so. '     (_l_) V. ii. 151-154. 'O mistress' . . . 'Iago. '     (_m_) V. ii. 185-193. 'My mistress' . . . 'villany! '     (_n_) V. ii. 266-272. 'Be not' . . . 'wench! 'Were these passages after-thoughts, composed after the versionrepresented by Q1 was written? Or were they in the version representedby Q1, and only omitted in printing, whether accidentally or becausethey were also omitted in the theatre? Or were some of themafter-thoughts, and others in the original version? I will take them in order. (_a_) can hardly be an after-thought. Up tothat point Roderigo had hardly said anything, for Iago had alwaysinterposed; and it is very unlikely that Roderigo would now deliver butfour lines, and speak at once of 'she' instead of 'your daughter. 'Probably this 'omission' represents a 'cut' in stage performance. (_b_)This may also be the case here. In our texts the omission of the passagewould make nonsense, but in Q1 the 'cut' (if a cut) has been mended,awkwardly enough, by the substitution of 'Such' for 'For' in line 78. Inany case, the lines cannot be an addition. (_c_) cannot be anafter-thought, for the sentence is unfinished without it; and that itwas not meant to be interrupted is clear, because in Q1 line 31 begins'And,' not 'Nay'; the Duke might say 'Nay' if he were cutting theprevious speaker short, but not 'And. ' (_d_) is surely no addition. Ifthe lines are cut out, not only is the metre spoilt, but the obviousreason for Iago's words, 'I see, Sir, you are eaten up with passion,'disappears, and so does the reference of his word 'satisfied' in 393 toOthello's 'satisfied' in 390. (_e_) is the famous passage about thePontic Sea, and I reserve it for the present. (_f_) As Pope observes,'no hint of this trash in the first edition,' the 'trash' including thewords 'Nature would not invest herself in such shadowing passion withoutsome instruction. It is not words that shake me thus'! There is nothingto prove these lines to be original or an after-thought. The omission of(_g_) is clearly a printer's error, due to the fact that lines 72 and 76both end with the word 'committed. ' No conclusion can be formed as to(_h_), nor perhaps (_i_), which includes the whole of Desdemona's song;but if (_j_) is removed the reference in 'such a deed' in 64 isdestroyed. (_k_) is Emilia's long speech about husbands. It cannot wellbe an after-thought, for 105-6 evidently refer to 103-4 (even the word'uses' in 105 refers to 'use' in 103). (_l_) is no after-thought, for'if he says so' in 155 must point back to 'my husband say that she wasfalse! ' in 152. (_m_) might be an after-thought, but, if so, in thefirst version the ending 'to speak' occurred twice within three lines,and the reason for Iago's sudden alarm in 193 is much less obvious. If(_n_) is an addition the original collocation was:                          but O vain boast!     Who can control his fate? 'Tis not so now.     Pale as thy smock! which does not sound probable. Thus, as it seems to me, in the great majority of cases there is more orless reason to think that the passages wanting in Q1 were neverthelessparts of the original play, and I cannot in any one case see anypositive ground for supposing a subsequent addition. I think that mostof the gaps in Q1 were accidents of printing (like many other smallergaps in Q1), but that probably one or two were 'cuts'--_e. g. _ Emilia'slong speech (_k_). The omission of (_i_) might be due to the state ofthe MS. : the words of the song may have been left out of the dialogue,as appearing on a separate page with the musical notes, or may have beeninserted in such an illegible way as to baffle the printer. I come now to (_e_), the famous passage about the Pontic Sea. Popesupposed that it formed part of the original version, but approved ofits omission, as he considered it 'an unnatural excursion in thisplace. ' Mr. Swinburne thinks it an after-thought, but defends it. 'Inother lips indeed than Othello's, at the crowning minute of culminantagony, the rush of imaginative reminiscence which brings back upon hiseyes and ears the lightning foam and tideless thunder of the Pontic Seamight seem a thing less natural than sublime. But Othello has thepassion of a poet closed in as it were and shut up behind the passion ofa hero' (_Study of Shakespeare_, p. 184). I quote these words all themore gladly because they will remind the reader of my lectures of mydebt to Mr. Swinburne here; and I will only add that the reminiscencehere is of _precisely the same character_ as the reminiscences of theArabian trees and the base Indian in Othello's final speech. But I findit almost impossible to believe that Shakespeare _ever_ wrote thepassage without the words about the Pontic Sea. It seems to me almost animperative demand of imagination that Iago's set speech, if I may usethe phrase, should be preceded by a speech of somewhat the samedimensions, the contrast of which should heighten the horror of itshypocrisy; it seems to me that Shakespeare must have felt this; and itis difficult to me to think that he ever made the lines,     In the due reverence of a sacred vow     I here engage my words,follow directly on the one word 'Never' (however impressive that word inits isolation might be). And as I can find no _other_ 'omission' in Q1which appears to point to a subsequent addition, I conclude that this'omission' _was_ an omission, probably accidental, conceivably due to astupid 'cut. ' Indeed it is nothing but Mr. Swinburne's opinion thatprevents my feeling certainty on the point. Finally, I may draw attention to certain facts which may be mereaccidents, but may possibly be significant. Passages (_b_) and (_c_)consist respectively of six and seven lines; that is, they are almost ofthe same length, and in a MS. might well fill exactly the same amount ofspace. Passage (_d_) is eight lines long; so is passage (_e_). Now,taking at random two editions of Shakespeare, the Globe and that ofDelius, I find that (_b_) and (_c_) are 6-1/4 inches apart in the Globe,8 in Delius; and that (_d_) and (_e_) are separated by 7-3/8 inches inthe Globe, by 8-3/4 in Delius. In other words, there is about the samedistance in each case between two passages of about equal dimensions. The idea suggested by these facts is that the MS. from which Q1 wasprinted was mutilated in various places; that (_b_) and (_c_) occupiedthe bottom inches of two successive pages, and that these inches weretorn away; and that this was also the case with (_d_) and (_e_). This speculation has amused me and may amuse some reader. I do not knowenough of Elizabethan manuscripts to judge of its plausibility. NOTE K. OTHELLO'S COURTSHIP. It is curious that in the First Act two impressions are produced whichhave afterwards to be corrected. 1.

We must not suppose that Othello's account of his courtship in hisfamous speech before the Senate is intended to be exhaustive. He isaccused of having used drugs or charms in order to win Desdemona; andtherefore his purpose in his defence is merely to show that hiswitchcraft was the story of his life. It is no part of his business totrouble the Senators with the details of his courtship, and he socondenses his narrative of it that it almost appears as though there wasno courtship at all, and as though Desdemona never imagined that he wasin love with her until she had practically confessed her love for him. Hence she has been praised by some for her courage, and blamed by othersfor her forwardness. But at III. iii. 70 f. matters are presented in quite a new light. Therewe find the following words of hers:                             What! Michael Cassio,     That came a-wooing with you, and so many a time,     When I have spoke of you dispraisingly,     Hath ta'en your part. It seems, then, she understood why Othello came so often to her father'shouse, and was perfectly secure of his love before she gave him thatvery broad 'hint to speak. ' I may add that those who find fault with herforget that it was necessary for her to take the first open step. Shewas the daughter of a Venetian grandee, and Othello was a black soldierof fortune. 2. We learn from the lines just quoted that Cassio used to accompanyOthello in his visits to the house; and from III. iii. 93 f. we learnthat he knew of Othello's love from first to last and 'went between' thelovers 'very oft. ' Yet in Act I. it appears that, while Iago on thenight of the marriage knows about it and knows where to find Othello (I. i. 158 f. ), Cassio, even if he knows where to find Othello (which isdoubtful: see I. ii. 44), seems to know nothing about the marriage. SeeI. ii. 49:     _Cas. _   Ancient, what makes he here?     _Iago. _  'Faith, he to-night hath boarded a land carack:              If it prove lawful prize, he's made for ever.     _Cas. _   I do not understand.     _Iago. _                   He's married.     _Cas. _                               To who? It is possible that Cassio does know, and only pretends ignorancebecause he has not been informed by Othello that Iago also knows. Andthis idea is consistent with Iago's apparent ignorance of Cassio's partin the courtship (III. iii. 93). And of course, if this were so, a wordfrom Shakespeare to the actor who played Cassio would enable him to makeall clear to the audience. The alternative, and perhaps more probable,explanation would be that, in writing Act I. , Shakespeare had not yetthought of making Cassio Othello's confidant, and that, after writingAct III. , he neglected to alter the passage in Act I. In that case thefurther information which Act III. gives regarding Othello's courtshipwould probably also be an after-thought. NOTE L. OTHELLO IN THE TEMPTATION SCENE. One reason why some readers think Othello 'easily jealous' is that theycompletely misinterpret him in the early part of this scene. They fancythat he is alarmed and suspicious the moment he hears Iago mutter 'Ha! Ilike not that,' as he sees Cassio leaving Desdemona (III. iii. 35). But,in fact, it takes a long time for Iago to excite surprise, curiosity,and then grave concern--by no means yet jealousy--even about Cassio; andit is still longer before Othello understands that Iago is suggestingdoubts about Desdemona too. ('Wronged' in 143 certainly does not referto her, as 154 and 162 show. ) Nor, even at 171, is the exclamation 'Omisery' meant for an expression of Othello's own present feelings; ashis next speech clearly shows, it expresses an _imagined_ feeling, asalso the speech which elicits it professes to do (for Iago would nothave dared here to apply the term 'cuckold' to Othello). In fact it isnot until Iago hints that Othello, as a foreigner, might easily bedeceived, that he is seriously disturbed about Desdemona. Salvini played this passage, as might be expected, with entireunderstanding. Nor have I ever seen it seriously misinterpreted on thestage. I gather from the Furness Variorum that Fechter and Edwin Boothtook the same view as Salvini. Actors have to ask themselves what wasthe precise state of mind expressed by the words they have to repeat. But many readers never think of asking such a question. The lines which probably do most to lead hasty or unimaginative readersastray are those at 90, where, on Desdemona's departure, Othelloexclaims to himself:     Excellent wretch! Perdition catch my soul     But I do love thee! and when I love thee not,     Chaos is come again. He is supposed to mean by the last words that his love is _now_suspended by suspicion, whereas in fact, in his bliss, he has so totallyforgotten Iago's 'Ha! I like not that,' that the tempter has to beginall over again. The meaning is, 'If ever I love thee not, Chaos willhave come again. ' The feeling of insecurity is due to the excess of_joy_, as in the wonderful words after he rejoins Desdemona at Cyprus(II. i. 191):                     If it were now to die,     'Twere now to be most happy: for, I fear     My soul hath her content so absolute     That not another comfort like to this     Succeeds in unknown fate. If any reader boggles at the use of the present in 'Chaos _is_ comeagain,' let him observe 'succeeds' in the lines just quoted, or let himlook at the parallel passage in _Venus and Adonis_, 1019:     For, he being dead, with him is beauty slain;     And, beauty dead, black Chaos comes again. Venus does not know that Adonis is dead when she speaks thus. NOTE M. QUESTIONS AS TO _OTHELLO_, ACT IV. SCENE I. (1) The first part of the scene is hard to understand, and thecommentators give little help. I take the idea to be as follows. Iagosees that he must renew his attack on Othello; for, on the one hand,Othello, in spite of the resolution he had arrived at to put Desdemonato death, has taken the step, without consulting Iago, of testing her inthe matter of Iago's report about the handkerchief; and, on the otherhand, he now seems to have fallen into a dazed lethargic state, and mustbe stimulated to action. Iago's plan seems to be to remind Othello ofeverything that would madden him again, but to do so by professing tomake light of the whole affair, and by urging Othello to put the bestconstruction on the facts, or at any rate to acquiesce. So he says, ineffect: 'After all, if she did kiss Cassio, that might mean little. Nay,she might even go much further without meaning any harm. [266] Of coursethere is the handkerchief (10); but then why should she _not_ give itaway? ' Then, affecting to renounce this hopeless attempt to disguise histrue opinion, he goes on: 'However, _I_ cannot, as your friend, pretendthat I really regard her as innocent: the fact is, Cassio boasted to mein so many words of his conquest. [Here he is interrupted by Othello'sswoon. ] But, after all, why make such a fuss? You share the fate of mostmarried men, and you have the advantage of not being deceived in thematter. ' It must have been a great pleasure to Iago to express his realcynicism thus, with the certainty that he would not be taken seriouslyand would advance his plot by it. At 208-210 he recurs to the same planof maddening Othello by suggesting that, if he is so fond of Desdemona,he had better let the matter be, for it concerns no one but him. Thisspeech follows Othello's exclamation 'O Iago, the pity of it,' and thisis perhaps the moment when we most of all long to destroy Iago. (2) At 216 Othello tells Iago to get him some poison, that he may killDesdemona that night. Iago objects: 'Do it not with poison: strangle herin her bed, even the bed she hath contaminated? ' Why does he object topoison? Because through the sale of the poison he himself would beinvolved? Possibly. Perhaps his idea was that, Desdemona being killed byOthello, and Cassio killed by Roderigo, he would then admit that he hadinformed Othello of the adultery, and perhaps even that he hadundertaken Cassio's death; but he would declare that he never meant tofulfil his promise as to Cassio, and that he had nothing to do withDesdemona's death (he seems to be preparing for this at 285). His buyingpoison might wreck this plan. But it may be that his objection to poisonsprings merely from contempt for Othello's intellect. He can trust himto use violence, but thinks he may bungle anything that requiresadroitness. (3) When the conversation breaks off here (225) Iago has brought Othelloback to the position reached at the end of the Temptation scene (III. iii. ). Cassio and Desdemona are to be killed; and, in addition, the timeis hastened; it is to be 'to-night,' not 'within three days. 'The constructional idea clearly is that, after the Temptation scene,Othello tends to relapse and wait, which is terribly dangerous to Iago,who therefore in this scene quickens his purpose. Yet Othello relapsesagain. He has declared that he will not expostulate with her (IV. i. 217). But he cannot keep his word, and there follows the scene ofaccusation. Its _dramatic_ purposes are obvious, but Othello seems tohave no purpose in it. He asks no questions, or, rather, none that showsthe least glimpse of doubt or hope. He is merely torturing himself. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 266: The reader who is puzzled by this passage should refer tothe conversation at the end of the thirtieth tale in the _Heptameron_. ]NOTE N. TWO PASSAGES IN THE LAST SCENE OF _OTHELLO_. (1) V. ii. 71 f. Desdemona demands that Cassio be sent for to 'confess'the truth that she never gave him the handkerchief. Othello answers thatCassio _has_ confessed the truth--has confessed the adultery. Thedialogue goes on:     _Des. _  He will not say so.     _Oth. _                    No, his mouth is stopp'd:             Honest Iago hath ta'en order for 't.     _Des. _  O! my fear interprets: what, is he dead?     _Oth. _  Had all his hairs been lives, my great revenge             Had stomach for them all.     _Des. _  Alas! he is _betray'd_ and _I_ undone. It is a ghastly idea, but I believe Shakespeare means that, at themention of Iago's name, Desdemona suddenly sees that _he_ is the villainwhose existence he had declared to be impossible when, an hour before,Emilia had suggested that someone had poisoned Othello's mind. But herwords rouse Othello to such furious indignation ('Out, strumpet! Weep'stthou for him to my face? ') that 'it is too late. '(2) V. ii. 286 f.     _Oth. _  I look down towards his feet; but that's a fable.             If that thou be'st a devil, I cannot kill thee.                                           [_Wounds Iago. _     _Lod. _  Wrench his sword from him.     _Iago. _                      I bleed, sir, but not killed. Are Iago's strange words meant to show his absorption of interest inhimself amidst so much anguish? I think rather he is meant to bealluding to Othello's words, and saying, with a cold contemptuous smile,'You see he is right; I _am_ a devil. 'NOTE O. OTHELLO ON DESDEMONA'S LAST WORDS. I have said that the last scene of _Othello_, though terribly painful,contains almost nothing to diminish the admiration and love whichheighten our pity for the hero (p. 198). I said 'almost' in view of thefollowing passage (V. ii. 123 ff. ):     _Emil. _ O, who hath done this deed?     _Des. _  Nobody; I myself. Farewell:             Commend  me to my kind lord: O, farewell!    [_Dies. _     _Oth. _  Why, how should she be murdered? [267]     _Emil. _                                Alas, who knows?     _Oth. _  You heard her say herself, it was not I.     _Emil. _ She said so: I must needs report the truth.     _Oth. _  She's, like a liar, gone to burning hell:             'Twas I that kill'd her.     _Emil. _                         O, the more angel she,             And you the blacker devil!     _Oth. _  She turn'd to folly, and she was a whore. This is a strange passage. What did Shakespeare mean us to feel? One isastonished that Othello should not be startled, nay thunder-struck, whenhe hears such dying words coming from the lips of an obdurateadulteress. One is shocked by the moral blindness or obliquity whichtakes them only as a further sign of her worthlessness. Here alone, Ithink, in the scene sympathy with Othello quite disappears. DidShakespeare mean us to feel thus, and to realise how completely confusedand perverted Othello's mind has become? I suppose so: and yet Othello'swords continue to strike me as very strange, and also as not _like_Othello,--especially as at this point he was not in anger, much lessenraged. It has sometimes occurred to me that there is a touch ofpersonal animus in the passage. One remembers the place in _Hamlet_(written but a little while before) where Hamlet thinks he is unwillingto kill the King at his prayers, for fear they may take him to heaven;and one remembers Shakespeare's irony, how he shows that those prayersdo _not_ go to heaven, and that the soul of this praying murderer is atthat moment as murderous as ever (see p. 171), just as here the soul ofthe lying Desdemona is angelic _in_ its lie. Is it conceivable that inboth passages he was intentionally striking at conventional 'religious'ideas; and, in particular, that the belief that a man's everlasting fateis decided by the occupation of his last moment excited in himindignation as well as contempt? I admit that this fancy seemsun-Shakespearean, and yet it comes back on me whenever I read thispassage. [The words 'I suppose so' (l. 3 above) gave my conclusion; butI wish to withdraw the whole Note]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 267: He alludes to her cry, 'O falsely, falsely murder'd! ']NOTE P. DID EMILIA SUSPECT IAGO? I have answered No (p. 216), and have no doubt about the matter; but atone time I was puzzled, as perhaps others have been, by a single phraseof Emilia's. It occurs in the conversation between her and Iago andDesdemona (IV. ii. 130 f. ):     I will be hang'd if some eternal villain,     Some busy and insinuating rogue,     Some cogging, cozening slave, _to get some office_,     Have not devised this slander; I'll be hang'd else. Emilia, it may be said, knew that Cassio was the suspected man, so thatshe must be thinking of _his_ office, and must mean that Iago haspoisoned Othello's mind in order to prevent his reinstatement and to getthe lieutenancy for himself. And, it may be said, she speaksindefinitely so that Iago alone may understand her (for Desdemona doesnot know that Cassio is the suspected man). Hence too, it may be said,when, at V. ii. 190, she exclaims,                  Villany, villany, villany!     I think upon't, I think: I smell't: O villany!     _I thought so then:_--I'll kill myself for grief;she refers in the words italicised to the occasion of the passage in IV. ii. , and is reproaching herself for not having taken steps on hersuspicion of Iago. I have explained in the text why I think it impossible to suppose thatEmilia suspected her husband; and I do not think anyone who follows herspeeches in V. ii. , and who realises that, if she did suspect him, shemust have been simply _pretending_ surprise when Othello told her thatIago was his informant, will feel any doubt. Her idea in the lines atIV. ii. 130 is, I believe, merely that someone is trying to establish aground for asking a favour from Othello in return for information whichnearly concerns him. It does not follow that, because she knew Cassiowas suspected, she must have been referring to Cassio's office. She wasa stupid woman, and, even if she had not been, she would not put two andtwo together so easily as the reader of the play. In the line,     I thought so then: I'll kill myself for grief,I think she certainly refers to IV. ii. 130 f. and also IV. ii. 15(Steevens's idea that she is thinking of the time when she let Iago takethe handkerchief is absurd). If 'I'll kill myself for grief' is to betaken in close connection with the preceding words (which is notcertain), she may mean that she reproaches herself for not having actedon her general suspicion, or (less probably) that she reproaches herselffor not having suspected that Iago was the rogue. With regard to my view that she failed to think of the handkerchief whenshe saw how angry Othello was, those who believe that she did think ofit will of course also believe that she suspected Iago. But in additionto other difficulties, they will have to suppose that her astonishment,when Othello at last mentioned the handkerchief, was mere acting. Andanyone who can believe this seems to me beyond argument. [I regret thatI cannot now discuss some suggestions made to me in regard to thesubjects of Notes O and P. ]NOTE Q. IAGO'S SUSPICION REGARDING CASSIO AND EMILIA. The one expression of this suspicion appears in a very curious manner. Iago, soliloquising, says (II. i. 311):                          Which thing to do,     If this poor trash of Venice, whom I trash     For his quick hunting, stand the putting on,     I'll have our Michael Cassio on the hip,     Abuse him to the Moor in the rank [F. right] garb--     For I fear Cassio with my night-cap too--     Make the Moor thank me, etc. Why '_For_ I fear Cassio,' etc. ? He can hardly be giving himself anadditional reason for involving Cassio; the parenthesis must beexplanatory of the preceding line or some part of it. I think itexplains 'rank garb' or 'right garb,' and the meaning is, 'For Cassio_is_ what I shall accuse him of being, a seducer of wives. ' He isreturning to the thought with which the soliloquy begins, 'That Cassioloves her, I do well believe it. ' In saying this he is unconsciouslytrying to believe that Cassio would at any rate _like_ to be anadulterer, so that it is not so very abominable to say that he _is_ one. And the idea 'I suspect him with Emilia' is a second and strongerattempt of the same kind. The idea probably was born and died in onemoment. It is a curious example of Iago's secret subjection to morality. NOTE R. REMINISCENCES OF _OTHELLO_ IN _KING LEAR_. The following is a list, made without any special search, and doubtlessincomplete, of words and phrases in _King Lear_ which recall words andphrases in _Othello_, and many of which occur only in these two plays:     'waterish,' I. i. 261, appears only here and in _O. _     III. iii. 15.     'fortune's alms,' I. i. 281, appears only here and in     _O. _ III. iv. 122.     'decline' seems to be used of the advance of age only in     I. ii. 78 and _O. _ III. iii. 265.     'slack' in 'if when they chanced to slack you,' II.     iv. 248, has no exact parallel in Shakespeare, but recalls     'they slack their duties,' _O. _ IV. iii. 88.     'allowance' (=authorisation), I. iv. 228, is used     thus only in _K. L. _, _O. _ I. i. 128, and two places     in _Hamlet_ and _Hen. VIII. _     'besort,' vb. , I. iv. 272, does not occur elsewhere,     but 'besort,' sb. , occurs in _O. _ I. iii. 239 and     nowhere else.     Edmund's 'Look, sir, I bleed,' II. i. 43, sounds like     an echo of Iago's 'I bleed, sir, but not killed,' _O. _     V. ii. 288.     'potential,' II. i. 78, appears only here, in _O. _     I. ii. 13, and in the _Lover's Complaint_ (which, I     think, is certainly not an early poem).     'poise' in 'occasions of some poise,' II. i. 122, is     exactly like 'poise' in 'full of poise and difficult weight,'     _O. _ III. iii. 82, and not exactly like 'poise' in     the three other places where it occurs.     'conjunct,' used only in II. ii. 125 (Q), V.     i. 12, recalls 'conjunctive,' used only in _H_. IV.     vii. 14, _O. _ I. iii. 374 (F).     'grime,' vb. , used only in II. iii. 9, recalls     'begrime,' used only in _O. _ III. iii. 387 and     _Lucrece_.     'unbonneted,' III. i. 14, appears only here and in     _O. _ I. ii. 23.     'delicate,' III. iv. 12, IV. iii. 15,     IV. vi. 188, is not a rare word with Shakespeare; he     uses it about thirty times in his plays. But it is worth     notice that it occurs six times in _O. _     'commit,' used intr. for 'commit adultery,' appears only in     III. iv. 83, but cf. the famous iteration in _O. _     IV. ii. 72 f.     'stand in hard cure,' III. vi. 107, seems to have no     parallel except _O. _ II. i. 51, 'stand in bold cure. '     'secure'=make careless, IV. i. 22, appears only here     and in _O. _ I. iii. 10 and (not quite the same sense)     _Tim. _ II. ii. 185.     Albany's 'perforce must wither,' IV. ii. 35, recalls     Othello's 'It must needs wither,' V. ii. 15.     'deficient,' IV. vi. 23, occurs only here and in _O. _     I. iii. 63.     'the safer sense,' IV. vi. 81, recalls 'my blood     begins my safer guides to rules,' _O. _ II. iii. 205.     'fitchew,' IV. vi. 124, is used only here, in _O. _     IV. i. 150, and in _T. C. _ V. i. 67 (where it     has not the same significance).     Lear's 'I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion I     would have made them skip,' V. iii. 276, recalls     Othello's 'I have seen the day, That with this little arm and     this good sword,' etc. , V. ii. 261. The fact that more than half of the above occur in the first two Acts of_King Lear_ may possibly be significant: for the farther removedShakespeare was from the time of the composition of _Othello_, the lesslikely would be the recurrence of ideas or words used in that play. NOTE S. _KING LEAR_ AND _TIMON OF ATHENS_. That these two plays are near akin in character, and probably in date,is recognised by many critics now; and I will merely add here a fewreferences to the points of resemblance mentioned in the text (p. 246),and a few notes on other points. (1) The likeness between Timon's curses and some of the speeches of Learin his madness is, in one respect, curious. It is natural that Timon,speaking to Alcibiades and two courtezans, should inveigh in particularagainst sexual vices and corruption, as he does in the terrific passageIV. iii. 82-166; but why should Lear refer at length, and with the sameloathing, to this particular subject (IV. vi. 112-132)? It almost looksas if Shakespeare were expressing feelings which oppressed him at thisperiod of his life. The idea may be a mere fancy, but it has seemed to me that thispre-occupation, and sometimes this oppression, are traceable in otherplays of the period from about 1602 to 1605 (_Hamlet_, _Measure forMeasure_, _Troilus and Cressida_, _All's Well_, _Othello_); while inearlier plays the subject is handled less, and without disgust, and inlater plays (e. g. _Antony and Cleopatra_, _The Winter's Tale_,_Cymbeline_) it is also handled, however freely, without this air ofrepulsion (I omit _Pericles_ because the authorship of thebrothel-scenes is doubtful). (2) For references to the lower animals, similar to those in _KingLear_, see especially _Timon_, I. i. 259; II. ii. 180; III. vi. 103 f. ;IV. i. 2, 36; IV. iii. 49 f. , 177 ff. , 325 ff. (surely a passage writtenor, at the least, rewritten by Shakespeare), 392, 426 f. I ignore theconstant abuse of the dog in the conversations where Apemantus appears. (3) Further points of resemblance are noted in the text at pp. 246, 247,310, 326, 327, and many likenesses in word, phrase and idea might beadded, of the type of the parallel 'Thine Do comfort and not burn,'_Lear_, II. iv. 176, and 'Thou sun, that comfort'st, burn! ' _Timon_, V. i. 134. (4) The likeness in style and versification (so far as the purelyShakespearean parts of _Timon_ are concerned) is surely unmistakable,but some readers may like to see an example. Lear speaks here (IV. vi. 164 ff. ):     Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!     Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;     Thou hotly lust'st to use her in that kind     For which thou whipp'st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.     Through tatter'd clothes small vices do appear;     Robes and furr'd gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,     And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks;     Arm it in rags, a pigmy's straw does pierce it.     None does offend, none, I say, none; I'll able 'em:     Take that of me, my friend, who have the power     To seal the accuser's lips. Get thee glass eyes;     And, like a scurvy politician, seem     To see the things thou dost not. And Timon speaks here (IV. iii. 1 ff. ):     O blessed breeding sun, draw from the earth     Rotten humidity; below thy sister's orb     Infect the air! Twinn'd brothers of one womb,     Whose procreation, residence, and birth,     Scarce is dividant, touch them with several fortunes,     The greater scorns the lesser: not nature,     To whom all sores lay siege, can bear great fortune,     But by contempt of nature.     Raise me this beggar, and deny't that lord:     The senator shall bear contempt hereditary,     The beggar native honour.     It is the pasture lards the rother's sides,     The want that makes him lean. Who dares, who dares.     In purity of manhood stand upright     And say 'This man's a flatterer'? if one be,     So are they all: for every grise of fortune     Is smooth'd by that below: the learned pate     Ducks to the golden fool: all is oblique;     There's nothing level in our cursed natures,     But direct villany. The reader may wish to know whether metrical tests throw any light onthe chronological position of _Timon_; and he will find such informationas I can give in Note BB. But he will bear in mind that results arrivedat by applying these tests to the whole play can have little value,since it is practically certain that Shakespeare did not write the wholeplay. It seems to consist (1) of parts that are purely Shakespearean(the text, however, being here, as elsewhere, very corrupt); (2) ofparts untouched or very slightly touched by him; (3) of parts where agood deal is Shakespeare's but not all (_e. g. _, in my opinion, III. v. ,which I cannot believe, with Mr. Fleay, to be wholly, or almost wholly,by another writer). The tests ought to be applied not only to the wholeplay but separately to (1), about which there is little difference ofopinion. This has not been done: but Dr. Ingram has applied one test,and I have applied another, to the parts assigned by Mr. Fleay toShakespeare (see Note BB. ). [268] The result is to place _Timon_ between_King Lear_ and _Macbeth_ (a result which happens to coincide with thatof the application of the main tests to the whole play): and this resultcorresponds, I believe, with the general impression which we derive fromthe three dramas in regard to versification. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 268: These are I. i. ; II. i.

; II. ii. , except 194-204; in III. vi. Timon's verse speech; IV. i. ; IV. ii. 1-28; IV. iii. , except292-362, 399-413, 454-543; V. i. , except 1-50; V. ii. ; V. iv. I am notto be taken as accepting this division throughout. ]NOTE T. DID SHAKESPEARE SHORTEN _KING LEAR_? I have remarked in the text (pp. 256 ff. ) on the unusual number ofimprobabilities, inconsistencies, etc. , in _King Lear_. The list ofexamples given might easily be lengthened. Thus (_a_) in IV. iii. Kentrefers to a letter which he confided to the Gentleman for Cordelia; butin III. i. he had given to the Gentleman not a letter but a message. (_b_) In III. i. again he says Cordelia will inform the Gentleman whothe sender of the message was; but from IV. iii. it is evident that shehas done no such thing, nor does the Gentleman show any curiosity on thesubject. (_c_) In the same scene (III. i. ) Kent and the Gentlemanarrange that whichever finds the King first shall halloo to the other;but when Kent finds the King he does not halloo. These are all examplesof mere carelessness as to matters which would escape attention in thetheatre,--matters introduced not because they are essential to the plot,but in order to give an air of verisimilitude to the conversation. Andhere is perhaps another instance. When Lear determines to leave Goneriland go to Regan he says, 'call my train together' (I. iv. 275). When hearrives at Gloster's house Kent asks why he comes with so small a train,and the Fool gives a reply which intimates that the rest have desertedhim (II. iv. 63 ff. ). He and his daughters, however, seem unaware of anydiminution; and, when Lear 'calls to horse' and leaves Gloster's house,the doors are shut against him partly on the excuse that he is 'attendedwith a desperate train' (308). Nevertheless in the storm he has noknights with him, and in III. vii. 15 ff. we hear that 'some five or sixand thirty of his knights'[269] are 'hot questrists after him,' asthough the real reason of his leaving Goneril with so small a train wasthat he had hurried away so quickly that many of his knights wereunaware of his departure. This prevalence of vagueness or inconsistency is probably due tocarelessness; but it may possibly be due to another cause. There are, ithas sometimes struck me, slight indications that the details of the plotwere originally more full and more clearly imagined than one wouldsuppose from the play as we have it; and some of the defects to which Ihave drawn attention might have arisen if Shakespeare, finding hismatter too bulky, had (_a_) omitted to write some things originallyintended, and (_b_), after finishing his play, had reduced it byexcision, and had not, in these omissions and excisions, takensufficient pains to remove the obscurities and inconsistenciesoccasioned by them. Thus, to take examples of (_b_), Lear's 'What, fifty of my followers ata clap! ' (I. iv. 315) is very easily explained if we suppose that in thepreceding conversation, as originally written, Goneril had mentioned thenumber. Again the curious absence of any indication why Burgundy shouldhave the first choice of Cordelia's hand might easily be due to the samecause. So might the ignorance in which we are left as to the fate of theFool, and several more of the defects noticed in the text. To illustrate the other point (_a_), that Shakespeare may have omittedto write some things which he had originally intended, the play wouldobviously gain something if it appeared that, at a time shortly beforethat of the action, Gloster had encouraged the King in his idea ofdividing the kingdom, while Kent had tried to dissuade him. And thereare one or two passages which suggest that this is what Shakespeareimagined. If it were so, there would be additional point in the Fool'sreference to the lord who counselled Lear to give away his land (I. iv. 154), and in Gloster's reflection (III. iv. 168),     His daughters seek his death: ah, that good Kent!     He said it would be thus:('said,' of course, not to the King but to Gloster and perhaps others ofthe council). Thus too the plots would be still more closely joined. Then also we should at once understand the opening of the play. ToKent's words, 'I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albanythan Cornwall,' Gloster answers, 'It did always seem so to us. ' Who arethe 'us' from whom Kent is excluded? I do not know, for there is no signthat Kent has been absent. But if Kent, in consequence of hisopposition, had fallen out of favour and absented himself from thecouncil, it would be clear. So, besides, would be the strange suddennesswith which, after Gloster's answer, Kent changes the subject; he wouldbe avoiding, in presence of Gloster's son, any further reference to asubject on which he and Gloster had differed. That Kent, I may add, hadalready the strongest opinion about Goneril and Regan is clear from hisextremely bold words (I. i. 165),     Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow     Upon thy foul disease. Did Lear remember this phrase when he called Goneril 'a disease that'sin my flesh' (II. iv. 225)? Again, the observant reader may have noticed that Goneril is not onlyrepresented as the fiercer and more determined of the two sisters butalso strikes one as the more sensual. And with this may be connected oneor two somewhat curious points: Kent's comparison of Goneril to thefigure of Vanity in the Morality plays (II. ii. 38); the Fool'sapparently quite irrelevant remark (though his remarks are scarcely everso), 'For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass'(III. ii. 35); Kent's reference to Oswald (long before there is any signof Goneril's intrigue with Edmund) as 'one that would be a bawd in wayof good service' (II. ii. 20); and Edgar's words to the corpse of Oswald(IV. vi. 257), also spoken before he knew anything of the intrigue withEdmund,     I know thee well: a serviceable villain;     As duteous to the vices of thy mistress     As badness would desire. Perhaps Shakespeare had conceived Goneril as a woman who before hermarriage had shown signs of sensual vice; but the distinct indicationsof this idea were crowded out of his exposition when he came to writeit, or, being inserted, were afterwards excised. I will not go on tohint that Edgar had Oswald in his mind when (III. iv. 87) he describedthe serving-man who 'served the lust of his mistress' heart, and did theact of darkness with her'; and still less that Lear can have had Gonerilin his mind in the declamation against lechery referred to in Note S. I do not mean to imply, by writing this note, that I believe in thehypotheses suggested in it. On the contrary I think it more probablethat the defects referred to arose from carelessness and other causes. But this is not, to me, certain; and the reader who rejects thehypotheses may be glad to have his attention called to the points whichsuggested them. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 269: It has been suggested that 'his' means 'Gloster's'; but'him' all through the speech evidently means Lear. ]NOTE U. MOVEMENTS OF THE DRAMATIS PERSONÆ IN ACT II. OF _KING LEAR_. I have referred in the text to the obscurity of the play on thissubject, and I will set out the movements here. When Lear is ill-treated by Goneril his first thought is to seek refugewith Regan (I. iv. 274 f. , 327 f. ). Goneril, accordingly, who hadforeseen this, and, even before the quarrel, had determined to write toRegan (I. iii. 25), now sends Oswald off to her, telling her not toreceive Lear and his hundred knights (I. iv. 354 f. ). In consequence ofthis letter Regan and Cornwall immediately leave their home and ride bynight to Gloster's house, sending word on that they are coming (II. i. 1ff. , 81, 120 ff. ). Lear, on his part, just before leaving Goneril'shouse, sends Kent with a letter to Regan, and tells him to be quick, orLear will be there before him. And we find that Kent reaches Regan anddelivers his letter before Oswald, Goneril's messenger. Both themessengers are taken on by Cornwall and Regan to Gloster's house. In II. iv. Lear arrives at Gloster's house, having, it would seem,failed to find Regan at her own home. And, later, Goneril arrives atGloster's house, in accordance with an intimation which she had sent inher letter to Regan (II. iv. 186 f. ). Thus all the principal persons except Cordelia and Albany are broughttogether; and the crises of the double action--the expulsion of Lear andthe blinding and expulsion of Gloster--are reached in Act III. And thisis what was required. But it needs the closest attention to follow these movements. And, apartfrom this, difficulties remain. 1. Goneril, in despatching Oswald with the letter to Regan, tells him tohasten his return (I. iv. 363). Lear again is surprised to find that_his_ messenger has not been sent back (II. iv. 1 f. , 36 f. ). Yetapparently both Goneril and Lear themselves start at once, so that theirmessengers _could_ not return in time. It may be said that they expectedto meet them coming back, but there is no indication of this in thetext. 2. Lear, in despatching Kent, says (I. v. 1):     Go you before to Gloster with these letters. Acquaint my     daughter no further with anything you know than comes from her     demand out of the letter. This would seem to imply that Lear knew that Regan and Cornwall were atGloster's house, and meant either to go there (so Koppel) or to summonher back to her own home to receive him. Yet this is clearly not so, forKent goes straight to Regan's house (II. i. 124, II. iv. 1, 27 ff. , 114ff. ). Hence it is generally supposed that by 'Gloster,' in the passage justquoted, Lear means not the Earl but the _place_; that Regan's home wasthere; and that Gloster's castle was somewhere not very far off. This isto some extent confirmed by the fact that Cornwall is the 'arch' orpatron of Gloster (II. i. 60 f. , 112 ff. ). But Gloster's home or housemust not be imagined quite close to Cornwall's, for it takes a night toride from the one to the other, and Gloster's house is in the middle ofa solitary heath with scarce a bush for many miles about (II. iv. 304). The plural 'these letters' in the passage quoted need give no trouble,for the plural is often used by Shakespeare for a single letter; and thenatural conjecture that Lear sent one letter to Regan and another toGloster is not confirmed by anything in the text. The only difficulty is that, as Koppel points out, 'Gloster' is nowhereelse used in the play for the place (except in the phrase 'Earl ofGloster' or 'my lord of Gloster'); and--what is more important--that itwould unquestionably be taken by the audience to stand in this passagefor the Earl, especially as there has been no previous indication thatCornwall lived at Gloster. One can only suppose that Shakespeare forgotthat he had given no such indication, and so wrote what was sure to bemisunderstood,--unless we suppose that 'Gloster' is a mere slip of thepen, or even a misprint, for 'Regan. ' But, apart from otherconsiderations, Lear would hardly have spoken to a servant of 'Regan,'and, if he had, the next words would have run 'Acquaint her,' not'Acquaint my daughter. 'NOTE V. SUSPECTED INTERPOLATIONS IN _KING LEAR_. There are three passages in _King Lear_ which have been held to beadditions made by 'the players. 'The first consists of the two lines of indecent doggerel spoken by theFool at the end of Act I. ; the second, of the Fool's prophecy in rhymeat the end of III. ii. ; the third, of Edgar's soliloquy at the end ofIII. vi. It is suspicious (1) that all three passages occur at the ends ofscenes, the place where an addition is most easily made; and (2) that ineach case the speaker remains behind alone to utter the words after theother persons have gone off. I postpone discussion of the several passages until I have calledattention to the fact that, if these passages are genuine, the number ofscenes which end with a soliloquy is larger in _King Lear_ than in anyother undoubted tragedy. Thus, taking the tragedies in their probablechronological order (and ignoring the very short scenes into which abattle is sometimes divided),[270] I find that there are in _Romeo andJuliet_ four such scenes, in _Julius Cæsar_ two, in _Hamlet_ six, in_Othello_ four,[271] in _King Lear_ seven,[272] in _Macbeth_ two,[273]in _Antony and Cleopatra_ three, in _Coriolanus_ one. The differencebetween _King Lear_ and the plays that come nearest to it is really muchgreater than it appears from this list, for in _Hamlet_ four of the sixsoliloquies, and in _Othello_ three of the four, are long speeches,while most of those in _King Lear_ are quite short. Of course I do not attach any great importance to the fact just noticed,but it should not be left entirely out of account in forming an opinionas to the genuineness of the three doubted passages. (_a_) The first of these, I. v. 54-5, I decidedly believe to bespurious. (1) The scene ends quite in Shakespeare's manner without it. (2) It does not seem likely that at the _end_ of the scene Shakespearewould have introduced anything _violently_ incongruous with theimmediately preceding words,     Oh let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!     Keep me in temper: I would not be mad! (3) Even if he had done so, it is very unlikely that the incongruouswords would have been grossly indecent. (4) Even if they had been,surely they would not have been _irrelevantly_ indecent and evidentlyaddressed to the audience, two faults which are not in Shakespeare'sway. (5) The lines are doggerel. Doggerel is not uncommon in theearliest plays; there are a few lines even in the _Merchant of Venice_,a line and a half, perhaps, in _As You Like It_; but I do not think itoccurs later, not even where, in an early play, it would certainly havebeen found, _e. g. _ in the mouth of the Clown in _All's Well_. The bestthat can be said for these lines is that they appear in the Quartos,_i. e. _ in reports, however vile, of the play as performed within two orthree years of its composition. (_b_) I believe, almost as decidedly, that the second passage, III. ii. 79 ff. , is spurious. (1) The scene ends characteristically without thelines. (2) They are addressed directly to the audience. (3) They destroythe pathetic and beautiful effect of the immediately preceding words ofthe Fool, and also of Lear's solicitude for him. (4) They involve theabsurdity that the shivering timid Fool would allow his master andprotector, Lear and Kent, to go away into the storm and darkness,leaving him alone. (5) It is also somewhat against them that they do notappear in the Quartos. At the same time I do not think one wouldhesitate to accept them if they occurred at any natural place _within_the dialogue. (_c_) On the other hand I see no sufficient reason for doubting thegenuineness of Edgar's soliloquy at the end of III. vi. (1) Those whodoubt it appear not to perceive that _some_ words of soliloquy arewanted; for it is evidently intended that, when Kent and Gloster bearthe King away, they should leave the Bedlam behind. Naturally they doso. He is only accidentally connected with the King; he was taken toshelter with him merely to gratify his whim, and as the King is nowasleep there is no occasion to retain the Bedlam; Kent, we know, shrankfrom him, 'shunn'd [his] abhorr'd society' (V. iii. 210). So he is leftto return to the hovel where he was first found. When the others depart,then, he must be left behind, and surely would not go off without aword. (2) If his speech is spurious, therefore, it has been substitutedfor some genuine speech; and surely that is a supposition not to beentertained except under compulsion. (3) There is no such compulsion inthe speech. It is not very good, no doubt; but the use of rhymed andsomewhat antithetic lines in a gnomic passage is quite in Shakespeare'smanner, _more_ in his manner than, for example, the rhymed passages inI. i. 183-190, 257-269, 281-4, which nobody doubts; quite like manyplaces in _All's Well_, or the concluding lines of _King Lear_ itself. (4) The lines are in spirit of one kind with Edgar's fine lines at thebeginning of Act IV. (5) Some of them, as Delius observes, emphasize theparallelism between the stories of Lear and Gloster. (6) The fact thatthe Folio omits the lines is, of course, nothing against them. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 270: I ignore them partly because they are not significant forthe present purpose, but mainly because it is impossible to accept thedivision of battle-scenes in our modern texts, while to depart from itis to introduce intolerable inconvenience in reference. The only properplan in Elizabethan drama is to consider a scene ended as soon as noperson is left on the stage, and to pay no regard to the question oflocality,--a question theatrically insignificant and undetermined inmost scenes of an Elizabethan play, in consequence of the absence ofmovable scenery. In dealing with battles the modern editors seem to havegone on the principle (which they could not possibly apply generally)that, so long as the place is not changed, you have only one scene. Hence in _Macbeth_, Act V. , they have included in their Scene vii. threedistinct scenes; yet in _Antony and Cleopatra_, Act III. , following theright division for a wrong reason, they have two scenes (viii. and ix. ),each less than four lines long. ][Footnote 271: One of these (V. i. ) is not marked as such, but it isevident that the last line and a half form a soliloquy of one remainingcharacter, just as much as some of the soliloquies marked as such inother plays. ][Footnote 272: According to modern editions, eight, Act II. , scene ii. ,being an instance. But it is quite ridiculous to reckon as three sceneswhat are marked as scenes ii. , iii. , iv. Kent is on the lower stage thewhole time, Edgar in the so-called scene iii. being on the upper stageor balcony. The editors were misled by their ignorance of the stagearrangements. ][Footnote 273: Perhaps three, for V. iii. is perhaps an instance, thoughnot so marked. ]NOTE W. THE STAGING OF THE SCENE OF LEAR'S REUNION WITH CORDELIA. As Koppel has shown, the usual modern stage-directions[274] for thisscene (IV. vii. ) are utterly wrong and do what they can to defeat thepoet's purpose. It is evident from the text that the scene shows the _first_ meeting ofCordelia and Kent, and _first_ meeting of Cordelia and Lear, since theyparted in I. i. Kent and Cordelia indeed are doubtless supposed to haveexchanged a few words before they come on the stage; but Cordelia hasnot seen her father at all until the moment before she begins (line 26),'O my dear father! ' Hence the tone of the first part of the scene, thatbetween Cordelia and Kent, is kept low, in order that the latter part,between Cordelia and Lear, may have its full effect. The modern stage-direction at the beginning of the scene, as found, forexample, in the Cambridge and Globe editions, is as follows:     'SCENE vii. --A tent in the French camp. LEAR     on a bed asleep, soft music playing; _Gentleman_, and others     attending.     Enter CORDELIA, KENT, and _Doctor_. 'At line 25, where the Doctor says 'Please you, draw near,' Cordelia issupposed to approach the bed, which is imagined by some editors visiblethroughout at the back of the stage, by others as behind a curtain atthe back, this curtain being drawn open at line 25. Now, to pass by the fact that these arrangements are in flatcontradiction with the stage-directions of the Quartos and the Folio,consider their effect upon the scene. In the first place, the reader atonce assumes that Cordelia has already seen her father; for otherwise itis inconceivable that she would quietly talk with Kent while he waswithin a few yards of her. The edge of the later passage where sheaddresses him is therefore blunted. In the second place, through Lear'spresence the reader's interest in Lear and his meeting with Cordelia isat once excited so strongly that he hardly attends at all to theconversation of Cordelia and Kent; and so this effect is blunted too. Thirdly, at line 57, where Cordelia says,                      O, look upon me, sir,     And hold your hands in benediction o'er me!     No, sir, you must not kneel,the poor old King must be supposed either to try to get out of bed, oractually to do so, or to kneel, or to try to kneel, on the bed. Fourthly, consider what happens at line 81.     _Doctor. _ Desire him to _go in_; trouble him no more               Till further settling.     _Cor. _                  Will't please your highness _walk? _     _Lear. _   You must bear with me;               Pray you now, forget and forgive; I am old and                 foolish.    [_Exeunt all but Kent and Gentleman_. If Lear is in a tent containing his bed, why in the world, when thedoctor thinks he can bear no more emotion, is he made to walk out of thetent? A pretty doctor! But turn now to the original texts. Of course they say nothing about theplace. The stage-direction at the beginning runs, in the Quartos, 'EnterCordelia, Kent, and Doctor;' in the Folio, 'Enter Cordelia, Kent, andGentleman. ' They differ about the Gentleman and the Doctor, and theFolio later wrongly gives to the Gentleman the Doctor's speeches as wellas his own. This is a minor matter. But they agree in _making no mentionof Lear_. He is not on the stage at all. Thus Cordelia, and the reader,can give their whole attention to Kent. Her conversation with Kent finished, she turns (line 12) to the Doctorand asks 'How does the King? '[275] The Doctor tells her that Lear isstill asleep, and asks leave to wake him. Cordelia assents and asks ifhe is 'arrayed,' which does not mean whether he has a night-gown on, butwhether they have taken away his crown of furrow-weeds, and tended himduly after his mad wanderings in the fields. The Gentleman says that inhis sleep 'fresh garments' (not a night-gown) have been put on him. TheDoctor then asks Cordelia to be present when her father is waked. Sheassents, and the Doctor says, 'Please you, draw near. Louder the musicthere. ' The next words are Cordelia's, 'O my dear father! 'What has happened? At the words 'is he arrayed? ' according to the Folio,'_Enter Lear in a chair carried by Servants. _' The moment of thisentrance, as so often in the original editions, is doubtless too soon. It should probably come at the words 'Please you, draw near,' which_may_, as Koppel suggests, be addressed to the bearers. But that thestage-direction is otherwise right there cannot be a doubt (and that theQuartos omit it is no argument against it, seeing that, according totheir directions, Lear never enters at all). This arrangement (1) allows Kent his proper place in the scene, (2)makes it clear that Cordelia has not seen her father before, (3) makesher first sight of him a theatrical crisis in the best sense, (4) makesit quite natural that he should kneel, (5) makes it obvious why heshould leave the stage again when he shows signs of exhaustion, and (6)is the only arrangement which has the slightest authority, for 'Lear ona bed asleep' was never heard of till Capell proposed it. The ruinouschange of the staging was probably suggested by the version of thatunhappy Tate. Of course the chair arrangement is primitive, but the Elizabethans didnot care about such things. What they cared for was dramatic effect. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 274: There are exceptions: _e. g. _, in the editions of Deliusand Mr. W. J. Craig. ][Footnote 275: And it is possible that, as Koppel suggests, the Doctorshould properly enter at this point; for if Kent, as he says, wishes toremain unknown, it seems strange that he and Cordelia should talk asthey do before a third person. This change however is not necessary, forthe Doctor might naturally stand out of hearing till he was addressed;and it is better not to go against the stage-direction withoutnecessity. ]NOTE X. THE BATTLE IN _KING LEAR_. I found my impression of the extraordinary ineffectiveness of thisbattle (p. 255) confirmed by a paper of James Spedding (_New ShakspereSociety Transactions_, 1877, or Furness's _King Lear_, p. 312 f. ); buthis opinion that this is the one technical defect in _King Lear_ seemscertainly incorrect, and his view that this defect is not due toShakespeare himself will not, I think, bear scrutiny. To make Spedding's view quite clear I may remind the reader that in thepreceding scene the two British armies, that of Edmund and Regan, andthat of Albany and Goneril, have entered with drum and colours, and havedeparted. Scene ii. is as follows (Globe):     SCENE II. --_A field between the two camps.     Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours_, LEAR, CORDELIA,     _and_ Soldiers, _over the stage; and exeunt. _ _Enter_ EDGAR     _and_ GLOSTER.     _Edg. _  Here, father, take the shadow of this tree             For your good host; pray that the right may thrive:             If ever I return to you again,             I'll bring you comfort.     _Glo. _                        Grace go with you, sir!                                                    [_Exit_ Edgar     _Alarum and retreat within. _ _Re-enter_ EDGAR.     _Edg. _  Away, old man; give me thy hand; away!             King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta'en:             Give me thy hand; come on.     _Glo. _  No farther, sir; a man may rot even here.     _Edg. _  What, in ill thoughts again? Men must endure             Their going hence, even as their coming hither:             Ripeness is all: come on.     _Glo. _                        And that's true too. [_Exeunt_. The battle, it will be seen, is represented only by military musicwithin the tiring-house, which formed the back of the stage. 'Thescene,' says Spedding, 'does not change; but 'alarums' are heard, andafterwards a 'retreat,' and on the same field over which that great armyhas this moment passed, fresh and full of hope, re-appears, with tidingsthat all is lost, the same man who last left the stage to follow andfight in it. [276] That Shakespeare meant the scene to stand thus, no onewho has the true faith will believe. 'Spedding's suggestion is that things are here run together whichShakespeare meant to keep apart. Shakespeare, he thinks, continued ActIV. to the '_exit_ Edgar' after l. 4 of the above passage. Thus, justbefore the close of the Act, the two British armies and the French armyhad passed across the stage, and the interest of the audience in thebattle about to be fought was raised to a high pitch. Then, after ashort interval, Act V. opened with the noise of battle in the distance,followed by the entrance of Edgar to announce the defeat of Cordelia'sarmy. The battle, thus, though not fought on the stage, was shown andfelt to be an event of the greatest importance. Apart from the main objection of the entire want of evidence of so greata change having been made, there are other objections to this idea andto the reasoning on which it is based. (1) The pause at the end of thepresent Fourth Act is far from 'faulty,' as Spedding alleges it to be;that Act ends with the most melting scene Shakespeare ever wrote; and apause after it, and before the business of the battle, was perfectlyright. (2) The Fourth Act is already much longer than the Fifth (aboutfourteen columns of the Globe edition against about eight and a half),and Spedding's change would give the Fourth nearly sixteen columns, andthe Fifth less than seven. (3) Spedding's proposal requires a muchgreater alteration in the existing text than he supposed. It does notsimply shift the division of the two Acts, it requires the disappearanceand re-entrance of the blind Gloster. Gloster, as the text stands, isalone on the stage while the battle is being fought at a distance, andthe reference to the tree shows that he was on the main or lower stage. The main stage had no front curtain; and therefore, if Act IV. is to endwhere Spedding wished it to end, Gloster must go off unaided at itsclose, and come on again unaided for Act V. And this means that the_whole_ arrangement of the present Act V. Sc. ii. must be changed. IfSpedding had been aware of this it is not likely that he would havebroached his theory. [277]It is curious that he does not allude to the one circumstance whichthrows some little suspicion on the existing text. I mean thecontradiction between Edgar's statement that, if ever he returns to hisfather again, he will bring him comfort, and the fact that immediatelyafterwards he returns to bring him discomfort. It is possible to explainthis psychologically, of course, but the passage is not one in which weshould expect psychological subtlety. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 276: Where did Spedding find this? I find no trace of it, andsurely Edgar would not have risked his life in the battle, when he had,in case of defeat, to appear and fight Edmund. He does not appear'armed,' according to the Folio, till V. iii. 117. ][Footnote 277: Spedding supposed that there was a front curtain, andthis idea, coming down from Malone and Collier, is still found inEnglish works of authority. But it may be stated without hesitation thatthere is no positive evidence at all for the existence of such acurtain, and abundant evidence against it. ]NOTE Y. SOME DIFFICULT PASSAGES IN _KING LEAR_. The following are notes on some passages where I have not been able toaccept any of the current interpretations, or on which I wish to expressan opinion or represent a little-known view. 1. _Kent's soliloquy at the end of_ II. ii. (_a_) In this speech the application of the words 'Nothing, almost seesmiracles but misery' seems not to have been understood. The 'misery' issurely not that of Kent but that of Lear, who has come 'out of heaven'sbenediction to the warm sun,' _i. e. _ to misery. This, says Kent, is justthe situation where something like miraculous help may be looked for;and he finds the sign of it in the fact that a letter from Cordelia hasjust reached him; for his course since his banishment has been soobscured that it is only by the rarest good fortune (something like amiracle) that Cordelia has got intelligence of it. We may suppose thatthis intelligence came from one of Albany's or Cornwall's servants, someof whom are, he says (III. i. 23),             to France the spies and speculations     Intelligent of our state. (_b_) The words 'and shall find time,' etc. , have been much discussed. Some have thought that they are detached phrases from the letter whichKent is reading: but Kent has just implied by his address to the sunthat he has no light to read the letter by. [278] It has also beensuggested that the anacoluthon is meant to represent Kent's sleepiness,which prevents him from finishing the sentence, and induces him todismiss his thoughts and yield to his drowsiness. But I remember nothinglike this elsewhere in Shakespeare, and it seems much more probable thatthe passage is corrupt, perhaps from the loss of a line containing wordslike 'to rescue us' before 'From this enormous state' (with 'state' cf. 'our state' in the lines quoted above). When we reach III. i. we find that Kent has now read the letter; heknows that a force is coming from France and indeed has already 'secretfeet' in some of the harbours. So he sends the Gentleman to Dover. 2. _The Fool's Song in_ II. iv. At II. iv. 62 Kent asks why the King comes with so small a train. TheFool answers, in effect, that most of his followers have deserted himbecause they see that his fortunes are sinking. He proceeds to adviseKent ironically to follow their example, though he confesses he does notintend to follow it himself. 'Let go thy hold when a great wheel runsdown a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it: but the great onethat goes up the hill, let him draw thee after. When a wise man givesthee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knavesfollow it, since a fool gives it.     That sir which serves and seeks for gain,       And follows but for form,     Will pack when it begins to rain,       And leave thee in the storm.     But I will tarry; the fool will stay,       And let the wise man fly:     The knave turns fool that runs away;       The fool no knave, perdy. The last two lines have caused difficulty. Johnson wanted to read,     The fool turns knave that runs away,       The knave no fool, perdy;_i. e. _ if I ran away, I should prove myself to be a knave and a wiseman, but, being a fool, I stay, as no knave or wise man would. Those whorightly defend the existing reading misunderstand it, I think. Shakespeare is not pointing out, in 'The knave turns fool that runsaway,' that the wise knave who runs away is really a 'fool with acircumbendibus,' 'moral miscalculator as well as moral coward. ' The Foolis referring to his own words, 'I would have none but knaves follow [myadvice to desert the King], since a fool gives it'; and the last twolines of his song mean, 'The knave who runs away follows the advicegiven by a fool; but I, the fool, shall not follow my own advice byturning knave. 'For the ideas compare the striking passage in _Timon_, I. i. 64 ff. 3. '_Decline your head. _'At IV. ii. 18 Goneril, dismissing Edmund in the presence of Oswald,says:                                  This trusty servant     Shall pass between us: ere long you are like to hear,     If you dare venture in your own behalf,     A mistress's command. Wear this; spare speech;     Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst speak,     Would stretch thy spirits up into the air. I copy Furness's note on 'Decline': 'STEEVENS thinks that Goneril bidsEdmund decline his head that she might, while giving him a kiss, appearto Oswald merely to be whispering to him. But this, WRIGHT says, isgiving Goneril credit for too much delicacy, and Oswald was a"serviceable villain. " DELIUS suggests that perhaps she wishes to put achain around his neck. 'Surely 'Decline your head' is connected, not with 'Wear this' (whatever'this' may be), but with 'this kiss,' etc. Edmund is a good deal tallerthan Goneril, and must stoop to be kissed. 4. _Self-cover'd_. At IV. ii. 59 Albany, horrified at the passions of anger, hate, andcontempt expressed in his wife's face, breaks out:                               See thyself, devil!             Proper deformity seems not in the fiend             So horrid as in woman.     _Gon. _                          O vain fool!     _Alb. _  Thou changed and self-cover'd thing, for shame,             Be-monster not thy feature. Were't my fitness             To let these hands obey my blood,             They are apt enough to dislocate and tear             Thy flesh and bones: howe'er thou art a fiend,             A woman's shape doth shield thee. The passage has been much discussed, mainly because of the strangeexpression 'self-cover'd,' for which of course emendations have beenproposed. The general meaning is clear. Albany tells his wife that sheis a devil in a woman's shape, and warns her not to cast off that shapeby be-monstering her feature (appearance), since it is this shape alonethat protects her from his wrath. Almost all commentators go astraybecause they imagine that, in the words 'thou changed and self-cover'dthing,' Albany is speaking to Goneril as a _woman_ who has been changedinto a fiend. Really he is addressing her as a fiend which has changedits own shape and assumed that of a woman; and I suggest that'self-cover'd' means either 'which hast covered or concealed thyself,'or 'whose self is covered' [so Craig in Arden edition], not (what ofcourse it ought to mean) 'which hast been covered _by_ thyself. 'Possibly the last lines of this passage (which does not appear in theFolios) should be arranged thus:             To let these hands obey my blood, they're apt enough             To dislocate and tear thy flesh and bones:             Howe'er thou art a fiend, a woman's shape             Doth shield thee.     _Gon. _                 Marry, your manhood now--     _Alb. _                                          What news? 5. _The stage-directions at_ V. i. 37, 39. In V. i. there first enter Edmund, Regan, and their army or soldiers:then, at line 18, Albany, Goneril, and their army or soldiers. Edmundand Albany speak very stiffly to one another, and Goneril bids themdefer their private quarrels and attend to business. Then follows thispassage (according to the modern texts):     _Alb. _                    Let's then determine             With the ancient of war on our proceedings.     _Edm. _  I shall attend you presently at your tent.     _Reg. _  Sister, you'll go with us?     _Gon. _  No.     _Reg.

_  'Tis most convenient: pray you, go with us.     _Gon. _  [_Aside_] O, ho, I know the riddle. --I will go.               _As they are going out, enter_ EDGAR _disguised. _     _Edg. _  If e'er your grace had speech with man so poor,             Hear me one word.     _Alb. _                   I'll overtake you. Speak.                              [_Exeunt all but_ ALBANY _and_ EDGAR. It would appear from this that all the leading persons are to go to aCouncil of War with the ancient (plural) in Albany's tent; and they aregoing out, followed by their armies, when Edgar comes in. Why in theworld, then, should Goneril propose (as she apparently does) to absentherself from the Council; and why, still more, should Regan object toher doing so? This is a question which always perplexed me, and I couldnot believe in the only answers I ever found suggested, viz. , that Reganwanted to keep Edmund and Goneril together in order that she mightobserve them (Moberly, quoted in Furness), or that she could not bear tolose sight of Goneril, for fear Goneril should effect a meeting withEdmund after the Council (Delius, if I understand him). But I find in Koppel what seems to be the solution(Verbesserungsvorschläge, p. 127 f. ). He points out that the modernstage-directions are wrong. For the modern direction 'As they are goingout, enter Edgar disguised,' the Ff. read, 'Exeunt both the armies. Enter Edgar. ' For 'Exeunt all but Albany and Edgar' the Ff. havenothing, but Q1 has 'exeunt' after 'word. ' For the first directionKoppel would read, 'Exeunt Regan, Goneril, Gentlemen, and Soldiers': forthe second he would read, after 'overtake you,' 'Exit Edmund. 'This makes all clear. Albany proposes a Council of War. Edmund assents,and says he will come at once to Albany's tent for that purpose. TheCouncil will consist of Albany, Edmund, and the ancient of war. Regan,accordingly, is going away with her soldiers; but she observes thatGoneril shows no sign of moving with _her_ soldiers; and she at oncesuspects that Goneril means to attend the Council in order to be withEdmund. Full of jealousy, she invites Goneril to go with _her_. Gonerilrefuses, but then, seeing Regan's motive, contemptuously and ironicallyconsents (I doubt if 'O ho, I know the riddle' should be 'aside,' as inmodern editions, following Capell). Accordingly the two sisters go out,followed by their soldiers; and Edmund and Albany are just going out, ina different direction, to Albany's tent when Edgar enters. His wordscause Albany to stay; Albany says to Edmund, as Edmund leaves, 'I'llovertake you'; and then, turning to Edgar, bids him 'speak. '6. V. iii. 151 ff. When Edmund falls in combat with the disguised Edgar, Albany producesthe letter from Goneril to Edmund, which Edgar had found in Oswald'spocket and had handed over to Albany. This letter suggested to Edmundthe murder of Albany. The passage in the Globe edition is as follows:     _Gon. _                  This is practice, Gloucester:             By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer             An unknown opposite: thou art not vanquish'd,             But cozen'd and beguiled.     _Alb. _                           Shut your mouth, dame,             Or with this paper shall I stop it: Hold, sir;             Thou worse than any name, read thy own evil:             No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it.                                   [_Gives the letter to Edmund. _     _Gon. _  Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine:             Who can arraign me for't?     _Alb. _                            Most monstrous! oh!             Know'st thou this paper?     _Gon. _                       Ask me not what I know. [_Exit. _     _Alb. _  Go after her: she's desperate: govern her.     _Edm. _  What you have charged me with, that have I done;             And more, much more; the time will bring it out.             'Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou             That hast this fortune on me? The first of the stage-directions is not in the Qq. or Ff. : it wasinserted by Johnson. The second ('Exit') is both in the Qq. and in theFf. , but the latter place it after the words 'arraign me for't. ' Andthey give the words 'Ask me not what I know' to Edmund, not to Goneril,as in the Qq. (followed by the Globe). I will not go into the various views of these lines, but will simply saywhat seems to me most probable. It does not matter much where preciselyGoneril's 'exit' comes; but I believe the Folios are right in giving thewords 'Ask me not what I know' to Edmund. It has been pointed out byKnight that the question 'Know'st thou this paper? ' cannot very well beaddressed to Goneril, for Albany has already said to her, 'I perceiveyou know it. ' It is possible to get over this difficulty by saying thatAlbany wants her confession: but there is another fact which seems tohave passed unnoticed. When Albany is undoubtedly speaking to his wife,he uses the plural pronoun, 'Shut _your_ mouth, dame,' 'No tearing,lady; I perceive _you_ know it. ' When then he asks 'Know'st _thou_ thispaper? ' he is probably _not_ speaking to her. I should take the passage thus. At 'Hold, sir,' [omitted in Qq. ] Albanyholds the letter out towards Edmund for him to see, or possibly gives itto him. [279] The next line, with its 'thou,' is addressed to Edmund,whose 'reciprocal vows' are mentioned in the letter. Goneril snatches atit to tear it up: and Albany, who does not know whether Edmund ever sawthe letter or not, says to her 'I perceive _you_ know it,' the 'you'being emphatic (her very wish to tear it showed she knew what was init). She practically admits her knowledge, defies him, and goes out tokill herself. He exclaims in horror at her, and, turning again toEdmund, asks if _he_ knows it. Edmund, who of course does not know it,refuses to answer (like Iago), not (like Iago) out of defiance, but fromchivalry towards Goneril; and, having refused to answer _this_ charge,he goes on to admit the charges brought against himself previously byAlbany (82 f. ) and Edgar (130 f. ). I should explain the change from'you' to 'thou' in his speech by supposing that at first he is speakingto Albany and Edgar together. 7. V. iii. 278. Lear, looking at Kent, asks,                                        Who are you?             Mine eyes are not o' the best: I'll tell you straight.     _Kent. _ If fortune brag of two she loved _and_ hated (Qq. _or_),             One of them we behold. Kent is not answering Lear, nor is he speaking of himself. He isspeaking of Lear. The best interpretation is probably that of Malone,according to which Kent means, 'We see the man most hated by Fortune,whoever may be the man she has loved best'; and perhaps it is supportedby the variation of the text in the Qq. , though their texts are so badin this scene that their support is worth little. But it occurs to me aspossible that the meaning is rather: 'Did Fortune ever show the extremes_both_ of her love _and_ of her hatred to any other man as she has shownthem to this man? '8. _The last lines. _     _Alb. _  Bear them from hence. Our present business             Is general woe. [_To Kent and Edgar_] Friends of my               soul, you twain             Rule in this realm, and the gored state sustain.     _Kent. _ I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;             My master calls me, I must not say no.     _Alb. _  The weight of this sad time we must obey;             Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.             The oldest hath borne most: we that are young             Shall never see so much, nor live so long. So the Globe. The stage-direction (right, of course) is Johnson's. Thelast four lines are given by the Ff. to Edgar, by the Qq. to Albany. TheQq. read '_have_ borne most. 'To whom ought the last four lines to be given, and what do they mean? Itis proper that the principal person should speak last, and this is infavour of Albany. But in this scene at any rate the Ff. , which give thespeech to Edgar, have the better text (though Ff. 2, 3, 4, make Kent dieafter his two lines! ); Kent has answered Albany, but Edgar has not; andthe lines seem to be rather more appropriate to Edgar. For the 'gentlereproof' of Kent's despondency (if this phrase of Halliwell's is right)is like Edgar; and, although we have no reason to suppose that Albanywas not young, there is nothing to prove his youth. As to the meaning of the last two lines (a poor conclusion to such aplay) I should suppose that 'the oldest' is not Lear, but 'the oldest ofus,' viz. , Kent, the one survivor of the old generation: and this is themore probable if there _is_ a reference to him in the preceding lines. The last words seem to mean, 'We that are young shall never see so much_and yet_ live so long'; _i. e. _ if we suffer so much, we shall not bearit as he has. If the Qq. 'have' is right, the reference is to Lear,Gloster and Kent. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 278: The 'beacon' which he bids approach is not the moon, asPope supposed. The moon was up and shining some time ago (II. ii. 35),and lines 1 and 141-2 imply that not much of the night is left. ][Footnote 279: 'Hold' can mean 'take'; but the word 'this' in line 160('Know'st thou this paper? ') favours the idea that the paper is still inAlbany's hand. ]NOTE Z. SUSPECTED INTERPOLATIONS IN _MACBETH_. I have assumed in the text that almost the whole of _Macbeth_ isgenuine; and, to avoid the repetition of arguments to be found in otherbooks,[280] I shall leave this opinion unsupported. But among thepassages that have been questioned or rejected there are two which seemto me open to serious doubt. They are those in which Hecate appears:viz. the whole of III. v. ; and IV. i. 39-43. These passages have been suspected (1) because they containstage-directions for two songs which have been found in Middleton's_Witch_; (2) because they can be excised without leaving the least traceof their excision; and (3) because they contain lines incongruous withthe spirit and atmosphere of the rest of the Witch-scenes: _e. g. _ III. v. 10 f. :                     all you have done     Hath been but for a wayward son,     Spiteful and wrathful, who, as others do,     Loves for his own ends, not for you;and IV. i. 41, 2:     And now about the cauldron sing,     Like elves and fairies in a ring. The idea of sexual relation in the first passage, and the trivialdaintiness of the second (with which cf. III. v. 34,     Hark! I am call'd; my little spirit, see,     Sits in a foggy cloud, and stays for me)suit Middleton's Witches quite well, but Shakespeare's not at all; andit is difficult to believe that, if Shakespeare had meant to introduce apersonage supreme over the Witches, he would have made her sounimpressive as this Hecate. (It may be added that the originalstage-direction at IV. i. 39, 'Enter Hecat and the other three Witches,'is suspicious. )I doubt if the second and third of these arguments, taken alone, wouldjustify a very serious suspicion of interpolation; but the fact,mentioned under (1), that the play has here been meddled with, treblestheir weight. And it gives some weight to the further fact that thesepassages resemble one another, and differ from the bulk of the otherWitch passages, in being iambic in rhythm. (It must, however, beremembered that, supposing Shakespeare _did_ mean to introduce Hecate,he might naturally use a special rhythm for the parts where sheappeared. )The same rhythm appears in a third passage which has been doubted: IV. i. 125-132. But this is not _quite_ on a level with the other two; for(1), though it is possible to suppose the Witches, as well as theApparitions, to vanish at 124, and Macbeth's speech to run straight onto 133, the cut is not so clean as in the other cases; (2) it is not atall clear that Hecate (the most suspicious element) is supposed to bepresent. The original stage-direction at 133 is merely 'The WitchesDance, and vanish'; and even if Hecate had been present before, shemight have vanished at 43, as Dyce makes her do. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 280: _E. g. _ Mr. Chambers's excellent little edition in theWarwick series. ]NOTE AA. HAS _MACBETH_ BEEN ABRIDGED? _Macbeth_ is a very short play, the shortest of all Shakespeare's exceptthe _Comedy of Errors_. It contains only 1993 lines, while _King Lear_contains 3298, _Othello_ 3324, and _Hamlet_ 3924. The next shortest ofthe tragedies is _Julius Caesar_, which has 2440 lines. (The figures areMr. Fleay's. I may remark that for our present purpose we want thenumber of the lines in the first Folio, not those in modern compositetexts. )Is there any reason to think that the play has been shortened? I willbriefly consider this question, so far as it can be considered apartfrom the wider one whether Shakespeare's play was re-handled byMiddleton or some one else. That the play, as we have it, is _slightly_ shorter than the playShakespeare wrote seems not improbable. (1) We have no Quarto of_Macbeth_; and generally, where we have a Quarto or Quartos of a play,we find them longer than the Folio text. (2) There are perhaps a fewsigns of omission in our text (over and above the plentiful signs ofcorruption). I will give one example (I. iv. 33-43). Macbeth and Banquo,returning from their victories, enter the presence of Duncan (14), whoreceives them with compliments and thanks, which they acknowledge. Hethen speaks as follows:                        My plenteous joys,     Wanton in fulness, seek to hide themselves     In drops of sorrow. Sons, kinsmen, thanes,     And you whose places are the nearest, know,     We will establish our estate upon     Our eldest, Malcolm, whom we name hereafter     The Prince of Cumberland; which honour must     Not unaccompanied invest him only,     But signs of nobleness, like stars, shall shine     On all deservers. From hence to Inverness,     And bind us further to you. Here the transition to the naming of Malcolm, for which there has beenno preparation, is extremely sudden; and the matter, considering itsimportance, is disposed of very briefly. But the abruptness and brevityof the sentence in which Duncan invites himself to Macbeth's castle arestill more striking. For not a word has yet been said on the subject;nor is it possible to suppose that Duncan had conveyed his intention bymessage, for in that case Macbeth would of course have informed his wifeof it in his letter (written in the interval between scenes iii. andiv. ). It is difficult not to suspect some omission or curtailment here. On the other hand Shakespeare may have determined to sacrificeeverything possible to the effect of rapidity in the First Act; and hemay also have wished, by the suddenness and brevity of Duncan'sself-invitation, to startle both Macbeth and the audience, and to makethe latter feel that Fate is hurrying the King and the murderer to theirdoom. And that any _extensive_ omissions have been made seems not likely. (1)There is no internal evidence of the omission of anything essential tothe plot. (2) Forman, who saw the play in 1610, mentions nothing whichwe do not find in our play; for his statement that Macbeth was made Dukeof Northumberland is obviously due to a confused recollection ofMalcolm's being made Duke of Cumberland. (3) Whereabouts could suchomissions occur? Only in the first part, for the rest is full enough. And surely anyone who wanted to cut the play down would have operated,say, on Macbeth's talk with Banquo's murderers, or on III. vi. , or onthe very long dialogue of Malcolm and Macduff, instead of reducing themost exciting part of the drama. We might indeed suppose thatShakespeare himself originally wrote the first part more at length, andmade the murder of Duncan come in the Third Act, and then _himself_reduced his matter so as to bring the murder back to its present place,perceiving in a flash of genius the extraordinary effect that might thusbe produced. But, even if this idea suited those who believe in arehandling of the play, what probability is there in it? Thus it seems most likely that the play always was an extremely shortone. Can we, then, at all account for its shortness? It is possible, inthe first place, that it was not composed originally for the publicstage, but for some private, perhaps royal, occasion, when time waslimited. And the presence of the passage about touching for the evil(IV. iii. 140 ff. ) supports this idea. We must remember, secondly, thatsome of the scenes would take longer to perform than ordinary scenes ofmere dialogue and action; _e. g. _ the Witch-scenes, and the Battle-scenesin the last Act, for a broad-sword combat was an occasion for anexhibition of skill. [281] And, lastly, Shakespeare may well have feltthat a play constructed and written like _Macbeth_, a play in which akind of fever-heat is felt almost from beginning to end, and whichoffers very little relief by means of humorous or pathetic scenes, oughtto be short, and would be unbearable if it lasted so long as _Hamlet_ oreven _King Lear_. And in fact I do not think that, in reading, we _feelMacbeth_ to be short: certainly we are astonished when we hear that itis about half as long as _Hamlet_. Perhaps in the Shakespearean theatretoo it appeared to occupy a longer time than the clock recorded. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 281: These two considerations should also be borne in mind inregard to the exceptional shortness of the _Midsummer Night's Dream_ andthe _Tempest_. Both contain scenes which, even on the Elizabethan stage,would take an unusual time to perform. And it has been supposed of eachthat it was composed to grace some wedding. ]NOTE BB. THE DATE OF _MACBETH_. METRICAL TESTS. Dr. Forman saw _Macbeth_ performed at the Globe in 1610. The question ishow much earlier its composition or first appearance is to be put. It is agreed that the date is not earlier than that of the accession ofJames I. in 1603. The style and versification would make an earlier datealmost impossible. And we have the allusions to 'two-fold balls andtreble sceptres' and to the descent of Scottish kings from Banquo; theundramatic description of touching for the King's Evil (James performedthis ceremony); and the dramatic use of witchcraft, a matter on whichJames considered himself an authority. Some of these references would have their fullest effect early inJames's reign. And on this ground, and on account both of resemblancesin the characters of Hamlet and Macbeth, and of the use of thesupernatural in the two plays, it has been held that _Macbeth_ was thetragedy that came next after _Hamlet_, or, at any rate, next after_Othello_. These arguments seem to me to have no force when set against those thatpoint to a later date (about 1606) and place _Macbeth_ after _KingLear_. [282] And, as I have already observed, the probability is that italso comes after Shakespeare's part of _Timon_, and immediately before_Antony and Cleopatra_ and _Coriolanus_. I will first refer briefly to some of the older arguments in favour ofthis later date, and then more at length to those based onversification. (1) In II. iii. 4-5, 'Here's a farmer that hang'd himself on theexpectation of plenty,' Malone found a reference to the exceptionallylow price of wheat in 1606. (2) In the reference in the same speech to the equivocator who couldswear in both scales and committed treason enough for God's sake, hefound an allusion to the trial of the Jesuit Garnet, in the spring of1606, for complicity in the Gunpowder Treason and Plot. Garnet protestedon his soul and salvation that he had not held a certain conversation,then was obliged to confess that he had, and thereupon 'fell into alarge discourse defending equivocation. ' This argument, which I havebarely sketched, seems to me much weightier than the first; and itsweight is increased by the further references to perjury and treasonpointed out on p. 397. (3) Halliwell observed what appears to be an allusion to _Macbeth_ inthe comedy of the _Puritan_, 4to, 1607: 'we'll ha' the ghost i' th'white sheet sit at upper end o' th' table'; and Malone had referred to aless striking parallel in _Caesar and Pompey_, also pub. 1607:     Why, think you, lords, that 'tis _ambition's spur_     That _pricketh_ Caesar to these high attempts? He also found a significance in the references in _Macbeth_ to thegenius of Mark Antony being rebuked by Caesar, and to the insane rootthat takes the reason prisoner, as showing that Shakespeare, whilewriting _Macbeth_, was reading Plutarch's _Lives_, with a view to hisnext play _Antony and Cleopatra_ (S. R. 1608). (4) To these last arguments, which by themselves would be of littleweight, I may add another, of which the same may be said. Marston'sreminiscences of Shakespeare are only too obvious. In his _DutchCourtezan_, 1605, I have noticed passages which recall _Othello_ and_King Lear_, but nothing that even faintly recalls _Macbeth_. But inreading _Sophonisba_, 1606, I was several times reminded of _Macbeth_(as well as, more decidedly, of _Othello_). I note the parallels forwhat they are worth. With _Sophonisba_, Act I. Sc. ii. :     Upon whose tops the Roman eagles stretch'd     Their large spread wings, which fann'd the evening aire     To us cold breath,cf. _Macbeth_ I. ii. 49:     Where the Norweyan banners flout the sky     And fan our people cold. Cf. _Sophonisba_, a page later: 'yet doubtful stood the fight,' with_Macbeth_, I. ii. 7, 'Doubtful it stood' ['Doubtful long it stood'? ] Inthe same scene of _Macbeth_ the hero in fight is compared to an eagle,and his foes to sparrows; and in _Soph. _ III. ii. Massinissa in fight iscompared to a falcon, and his foes to fowls and lesser birds. I shouldnot note this were it not that all these reminiscences (if they aresuch) recall one and the same scene. In _Sophonisba_ also there is atremendous description of the witch Erictho (IV. i. ), who says to theperson consulting her, 'I know thy thoughts,' as the Witch says toMacbeth, of the Armed Head, 'He knows thy thought. '(5) The resemblances between _Othello_ and _King Lear_ pointed out onpp. 244-5 and in Note R. form, when taken in conjunction with otherindications, an argument of some strength in favour of the idea that_King Lear_ followed directly on _Othello_. (6) There remains the evidence of style and especially of metre. I willnot add to what has been said in the text concerning the former; but Iwish to refer more fully to the latter, in so far as it can berepresented by the application of metrical tests. It is impossible toargue here the whole question of these tests. I will only say that,while I am aware, and quite admit the force, of what can be said againstthe independent, rash, or incompetent use of them, I am fully convincedof their value when they are properly used. Of these tests, that of rhyme and that of feminine endings, discreetlyemployed, are of use in broadly distinguishing Shakespeare's plays intotwo groups, earlier and later, and also in marking out the very latestdramas; and the feminine-ending test is of service in distinguishingShakespeare's part in _Henry VIII. _ and the _Two Noble Kinsmen_. Butneither of these tests has any power to separate plays composed within afew years of one another. There is significance in the fact that the_Winter's Tale_, the _Tempest_, _Henry VIII. _, contain hardly any rhymedfive-foot lines; but none, probably, in the fact that _Macbeth_ shows ahigher percentage of such lines than _King Lear_, _Othello_, or_Hamlet_. The percentages of feminine endings, again, in the fourtragedies, are almost conclusive against their being early plays, andwould tend to show that they were not among the latest; but thedifferences in their respective percentages, which would place them inthe chronological order _Hamlet_, _Macbeth_, _Othello_, _King Lear_(König), or _Macbeth_, _Hamlet_, _Othello_, _King Lear_ (Hertzberg), areof scarcely any account. [283] Nearly all scholars, I think, would acceptthese statements. The really useful tests, in regard to plays which admittedly are notwidely separated, are three which concern the endings of speeches andlines. It is practically certain that Shakespeare made his verseprogressively less formal, by making the speeches end more and moreoften within a line and not at the close of it; by making the senseoverflow more and more often from one line into another; and, at last,by sometimes placing at the end of a line a word on which scarcely anystress can be laid. The corresponding tests may be called theSpeech-ending test, the Overflow test, and the Light and Weak Endingtest. I. The Speech-ending test has been used by König,[284] and I will firstgive some of his results. But I regret to say that I am unable todiscover certainly the rule he has gone by. He omits speeches which arerhymed throughout, or which end with a rhymed couplet. And he countsonly speeches which are 'mehrzeilig. ' I suppose this means that hecounts any speech consisting of two lines or more, but omits not onlyone-line speeches, but speeches containing more than one line but lessthan two; but I am not sure. In the plays admitted by everyone to be early the percentage of speechesending with an incomplete line is quite small. In the _Comedy ofErrors_, for example, it is only 0. 6. It advances to 12. 1 in _KingJohn_, 18. 3 in _Henry V. _, and 21. 6 in _As You Like It_. It risesquickly soon after, and in no play written (according to general belief)after about 1600 or 1601 is it less than 30. In the admittedly latestplays it rises much higher, the figures being as follows:--_Antony_77. 5, _Cor. _ 79, _Temp. _ 84. 5, _Cym. _ 85, _Win. Tale_ 87. 6, _HenryVIII. _ (parts assigned to Shakespeare by Spedding) 89. Going back, now,to the four tragedies, we find the following figures: _Othello_ 41. 4,_Hamlet_ 51. 6, _Lear_ 60. 9, _Macbeth_ 77. 2. These figures place_Macbeth_ decidedly last, with a percentage practically equal to that of_Antony_, the first of the final group. I will now give my own figures for these tragedies, as they differsomewhat from König's, probably because my method differs. (1) I haveincluded speeches rhymed or ending with rhymes, mainly because I findthat Shakespeare will sometimes (in later plays) end a speech which ispartly rhymed with an incomplete line (_e. g. Ham. _ III. ii. 187, and thelast words of the play: or _Macb. _ V. i. 87, V. ii. 31). And if suchspeeches are reckoned, as they surely must be (for they may be, and are,highly significant), those speeches which end with complete rhymed linesmust also be reckoned. (2) I have counted any speech exceeding a line inlength, however little the excess may be; _e. g. _     I'll fight till from my bones my flesh be hacked.     Give me my armour:considering that the incomplete line here may be just as significant asan incomplete line ending a longer speech. If a speech begins within aline and ends brokenly, of course I have not counted it when it isequivalent to a five-foot line; _e. g. _                       Wife, children, servants, all     That could be found:but I do count such a speech (they are very rare) as                        My lord, I do not know:     But truly I do fear it:for the same reason that I count                       You know not     Whether it was his wisdom or his fear. Of the speeches thus counted, those which end somewhere within the lineI find to be in _Othello_ about 54 per cent. ; in _Hamlet_ about 57; in_King Lear_ about 69; in _Macbeth_ about 75. [285] The order is the sameas König's, but the figures differ a good deal. I presume in the lastthree cases this comes from the difference in method; but I thinkKönig's figures for _Othello_ cannot be right, for I have tried severalmethods and find that the result is in no case far from the result of myown, and I am almost inclined to conjecture that König's 41. 4 is reallythe percentage of speeches ending with the close of a line, which wouldgive 58. 6 for the percentage of the broken-ended speeches. [286]We shall find that other tests also would put _Othello_ before _Hamlet_,though close to it. This may be due to 'accident'--_i. e. _ a cause orcauses unknown to us; but I have sometimes wondered whether the lastrevision of _Hamlet_ may not have succeeded the composition of_Othello_. In this connection the following fact may be worth notice. Itis well known that the differences of the Second Quarto of _Hamlet_ fromthe First are much greater in the last three Acts than in the firsttwo--so much so that the editors of the Cambridge Shakespeare suggestedthat Q1 represents an old play, of which Shakespeare's rehandling hadnot then proceeded much beyond the Second Act, while Q2 represents hislater completed rehandling. If that were so, the composition of the lastthree Acts would be a good deal later than that of the first two (thoughof course the first two would be revised at the time of the compositionof the last three). Now I find that the percentage of speeches endingwith a broken line is about 50 for the first two Acts, but about 62 forthe last three. It is lowest in the first Act, and in the first twoscenes of it is less than 32. The percentage for the last two Acts isabout 65. II. The Enjambement or Overflow test is also known as the End-stoppedand Run-on line test. A line may be called 'end-stopped' when the sense,as well as the metre, would naturally make one pause at its close;'run-on' when the mere sense would lead one to pass to the next linewithout any pause. [287] This distinction is in a great majority of casesquite easy to draw: in others it is difficult. The reader cannot judgeby rules of grammar, or by marks of punctuation (for there is a distinctpause at the end of many a line where most editors print no stop): hemust trust his ear. And readers will differ, one making a distinct pausewhere another does not. This, however, does not matter greatly, so longas the reader is consistent; for the important point is not the precisenumber of run-on lines in a play, but the difference in this matterbetween one play and another. Thus one may disagree with König in hisestimate of many instances, but one can see that he is consistent. In Shakespeare's early plays, 'overflows' are rare. In the _Comedy ofErrors_, for example, their percentage is 12. 9 according to König[288](who excludes rhymed lines and some others). In the generally admittedlast plays they are comparatively frequent. Thus, according to König,the percentage in the _Winter's Tale_ is 37. 5, in the _Tempest_ 41. 5, in_Antony_ 43. 3, in _Coriolanus_ 45. 9, in _Cymbeline_ 46, in the parts of_Henry VIII. _ assigned by Spedding to Shakespeare 53. 18. König's resultsfor the four tragedies are as follows: _Othello_, 19. 5; _Hamlet_, 23. 1;_King Lear_, 29. 3; _Macbeth_, 36. 6; (_Timon_, the whole play, 32. 5). _Macbeth_ here again, therefore, stands decidedly last: indeed it standsnear the first of the latest plays. And no one who has ever attended to the versification of _Macbeth_ willbe surprised at these figures. It is almost obvious, I should say, thatShakespeare is passing from one system to another. Some passages showlittle change, but in others the change is almost complete. If thereader will compare two somewhat similar soliloquies, 'To be or not tobe' and 'If it were done when 'tis done,' he will recognise this atonce. Or let him search the previous plays, even _King Lear_, for twelveconsecutive lines like these:     If it were done when 'tis done, then 'twere well     It were done quickly: if the assassination     Could trammel up the consequence, and catch     With his surcease success; that but this blow     Might be the be-all and the end-all here,     But here, upon this bank and shoal of time,     We 'ld jump the life to come. But in these cases     We still have judgement here; that we but teach     Bloody instructions, which, being taught, return     To plague the inventor: this even-handed justice     Commends the ingredients of our poison'd chalice     To our own lips. Or let him try to parallel the following (III. vi. 37 f. ):                                     and this report             Hath so exasperate the king that he             Prepares for some attempt of war.     _Len. _                      Sent he to Macduff?     _Lord. _ He did: and with an absolute 'Sir, not I,'             The cloudy messenger turns me his back             And hums, as who should say 'You'll rue the time             That clogs me with this answer. '     _Len. _                     And that well might             Advise him to a caution, to hold what distance             His wisdom can provide. Some holy angel             Fly to the court of England, and unfold             His message ere he come, that a swift blessing             May soon return to this our suffering country             Under a hand accurs'd! or this (IV. iii. 118 f. ):                        Macduff, this noble passion,     Child of integrity, hath from my soul     Wiped the black scruples, reconciled my thoughts     To thy good truth and honour. Devilish Macbeth     By many of these trains hath sought to win me     Into his power, and modest wisdom plucks me     From over-credulous haste: but God above     Deal between thee and me! for even now     I put myself to thy direction, and     Unspeak mine own detraction, here abjure     The taints and blames I laid upon myself,     For strangers to my nature. I pass to another point. In the last illustration the reader willobserve not only that 'overflows' abound, but that they follow oneanother in an unbroken series of nine lines. So long a series could not,probably, be found outside _Macbeth_ and the last plays. A series of twoor three is not uncommon; but a series of more than three is rare in theearly plays, and far from common in the plays of the second period(König). I thought it might be useful for our present purpose, to count theseries of four and upwards in the four tragedies, in the parts of_Timon_ attributed by Mr. Fleay to Shakespeare, and in _Coriolanus_, aplay of the last period. I have not excluded rhymed lines in the twoplaces where they occur, and perhaps I may say that my idea of an'overflow' is more exacting than König's. The reader will understand thefollowing table at once if I say that, according to it, _Othello_contains three passages where a series of four successive overflowinglines occurs, and two passages where a series of five such lines occurs:-----------------------------------------------------------------                 4    5    6    7    8    9   10   No. of Lines                                                    (Fleay). -----------------------------------------------------------------Othello,         3    2   --   --   --   --   --     2,758Hamlet,          7   --   --   --   --   --   --     2,571Lear,            6    2   --   --   --   --   --     2,312Timon,           7    2    1    1   --   --   --     1,031 (? )Macbeth,         7    5    1    1   --    1   --     1,706Coriolanus,     16   14    7    1    2   --    1     2,563-----------------------------------------------------------------(The figures for _Macbeth_ and _Timon_ in the last column must be bornein mind. I observed nothing in the non-Shakespeare part of _Timon_ thatwould come into the table, but I did not make a careful search. I feltsome doubt as to two of the four series in _Othello_ and again in_Hamlet_, and also whether the ten-series in _Coriolanus_ should not beput in column 7). III. _The light and weak ending test. _We have just seen that in some cases a doubt is felt whether there is an'overflow' or not. The fact is that the 'overflow' has many degrees ofintensity. If we take, for example, the passage last quoted, and if withKönig we consider the line     The taints and blames I laid upon myselfto be run-on (as I do not), we shall at least consider the overflow tobe much less distinct than those in the lines                               but God above     Deal between thee and me! for even now     I put myself to thy direction, and     Unspeak my own detraction, here abjureAnd of these four lines the third runs on into its successor at much thegreatest speed. 'Above,' 'now,' 'abjure,' are not light or weak endings: 'and' is a weakending. Prof. Ingram gave the name weak ending to certain words on whichit is scarcely possible to dwell at all, and which, therefore,precipitate the line which they close into the following. Light endingsare certain words which have the same effect in a slighter degree. Forexample, _and_, _from_, _in_, _of_, are weak endings; _am_, _are_, _I_,_he_, are light endings. The test founded on this distinction is, within its limits, the mostsatisfactory of all, partly because the work of its author can beabsolutely trusted. The result of its application is briefly as follows. Until quite a late date light and weak endings occur in Shakespeare'sworks in such small numbers as hardly to be worth consideration. [289]But in the well-defined group of last plays the numbers both of lightand of weak endings increase greatly, and, on the whole, the increaseapparently is progressive (I say apparently, because the order in whichthe last plays are generally placed depends to some extent on the testitself). I give Prof. Ingram's table of these plays, premising that in_Pericles_, _Two Noble Kinsmen_, and _Henry VIII. _ he uses only thoseparts of the plays which are attributed by certain authorities toShakespeare (_New Shakspere Soc. Trans. _, 1874). ------------------------------------------------------------------------               | Light  |      | Percentage  | Percentage  | Percentage               |endings. | Weak. | of light in | of weak in  |     of               |        |      | verse lines. | verse lines. |    both. ------------------------------------------------------------------------Antony &       |        |      |             |             |  Cleopatra,   |   71   |  28  |   2. 53      |   1.        |    3. 53Coriolanus,    |   60   |  44  |   2. 34      |   1. 71      |    4. 05Pericles,      |   20   |  10  |   2. 78      |   1. 39      |    4. 17Tempest,       |   42   |  25  |   2. 88      |   1. 71      |    4. 59Cymbeline,     |   78   |  52  |   2. 90      |   1. 93      |    4. 83Winter's Tale, |   57   |  43  |   3. 12      |   2. 36      |    5. 48Two Noble      |        |      |             |             |  Kinsmen,     |   50   |  34  |   3.

63      |   2. 47      |    6. 10Henry VIII. ,   |   45   |  37  |   3. 93      |   3. 23      |    7. 16------------------------------------------------------------------------Now, let us turn to our four tragedies (with _Timon_). Here again wehave one doubtful play, and I give the figures for the whole of _Timon_,and again for the parts of _Timon_ assigned to Shakespeare by Mr. Fleay,both as they appear in his amended text and as they appear in the Globe(perhaps the better text). -----------------------------------------                      |  Light. |  Weak. -----------------------------------------Hamlet,               |    8    |    0Othello,              |    2    |    0Lear,                 |    5    |    1Timon (whole),        |   16    |    5      (Sh. in Fleay), |   14    |    7      (Sh. in Globe), |   13    |    2Macbeth,              |   21    |    2-----------------------------------------Now here the figures for the first three plays tell us practicallynothing. The tendency to a freer use of these endings is not visible. Asto _Timon_, the number of weak endings, I think, tells us little, forprobably only two or three are Shakespeare's; but the rise in the numberof light endings is so marked as to be significant. And most significantis this rise in the case of _Macbeth_, which, like Shakespeare's part of_Timon_, is much shorter than the preceding plays. It strongly confirmsthe impression that in _Macbeth_ we have the transition to Shakespeare'slast style, and that the play is the latest of the five tragedies. [290]FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 282: The fact that _King Lear_ was performed at Court onDecember 26, 1606, is of course very far from showing that it had neverbeen performed before. ][Footnote 283: I have not tried to discover the source of the differencebetween these two reckonings. ][Footnote 284: _Der Vers in Shakspere's Dramen_, 1888. ][Footnote 285: In the parts of _Timon_ (Globe text) assigned by Mr. Fleay to Shakespeare, I find the percentage to be about 74. 5. Königgives 62. 8 as the percentage in the whole of the play. ][Footnote 286: I have noted also what must be a mistake in the case ofPericles. König gives 17. 1 as the percentage of the speeches with brokenends. I was astounded to see the figure, considering the style in theundoubtedly Shakespearean parts; and I find that, on my method, in ActsIII. , IV. , V. the percentage is about 71, in the first two Acts (whichshow very slight, if any, traces of Shakespeare's hand) about 19. Icannot imagine the origin of the mistake here. ][Footnote 287: I put the matter thus, instead of saying that, with arun-on line, one does pass to the next line without any pause, because,in common with many others, I should not in any case whatever _wholly_ignore the fact that one line ends and another begins. ][Footnote 288: These overflows are what König calls 'schroffeEnjambements,' which he considers to correspond with Furnivall's 'run-onlines. '][Footnote 289: The number of light endings, however, in _Julius Caesar_(10) and _All's Well_ (12) is worth notice. ][Footnote 290: The Editors of the Cambridge Shakespeare might appeal insupport of their view, that parts of Act V. are not Shakespeare's, tothe fact that the last of the light endings occurs at IV. iii. 165. ]NOTE CC. WHEN WAS THE MURDER OF DUNCAN FIRST PLOTTED? A good many readers probably think that, when Macbeth first met theWitches, he was perfectly innocent; but a much larger number would saythat he had already harboured a vaguely guilty ambition, though he hadnot faced the idea of murder. And I think there can be no doubt thatthis is the obvious and natural interpretation of the scene. Only it isalmost necessary to go rather further, and to suppose that his guiltyambition, whatever its precise form, was known to his wife and shared byher. Otherwise, surely, she would not, on reading his letter, soinstantaneously assume that the King must be murdered in their castle;nor would Macbeth, as soon as he meets her, be aware (as he evidentlyis) that this thought is in her mind. But there is a famous passage in _Macbeth_ which, closely considered,seems to require us to go further still, and to suppose that, at sometime before the action of the play begins, the husband and wife hadexplicitly discussed the idea of murdering Duncan at some favourableopportunity, and had agreed to execute this idea. Attention seems tohave been first drawn to this passage by Koester in vol. I. of the_Jahrbücher d. deutschen Shakespeare-gesellschaft_, and on it is basedthe interpretation of the play in Werder's very able _Vorlesungen überMacbeth_. The passage occurs in I. vii. , where Lady Macbeth is urging her husbandto the deed:     _Macb. _                                  Prithee, peace:               I dare do all that may become a man;               Who dares do more is none.     _Lady M. _                         What beast was't, then,               That made you break this enterprise to me?               When you durst do it, then you were a man;               And, to be more than what you were, you would               Be so much more the man. Nor time nor place               Did then adhere, and yet you would make both:               They have made themselves, and that their fitness now               Does unmake you. I have given suck, and know               How tender 'tis to love the babe that milks me:               I would, while it was smiling in my face,               Have pluck'd my nipple from his boneless gums,               And dash'd the brains out, had I so sworn as you               Have done to this. Here Lady Macbeth asserts (1) that Macbeth proposed the murder to her:(2) that he did so at a time when there was no opportunity to attackDuncan, no 'adherence' of 'time' and 'place': (3) that he declared hewou'd _make_ an opportunity, and swore to carry out the murder. Now it is possible that Macbeth's 'swearing' might have occurred in aninterview off the stage between scenes v. and vi. , or scenes vi. andvii. ; and, if in that interview Lady Macbeth had with difficulty workedher husband up to a resolution, her irritation at his relapse, in sc. vii. , would be very natural. But, as for Macbeth's first proposal ofmurder, it certainly does not occur in our play, nor could it possiblyoccur in any interview off the stage; for when Macbeth and his wifefirst meet, 'time' and 'place' _do_ adhere; 'they have made themselves. 'The conclusion would seem to be, either that the proposal of the murder,and probably the oath, occurred in a scene at the very beginning of theplay, which scene has been lost or cut out; or else that Macbethproposed, and swore to execute, the murder at some time prior to theaction of the play. [291] The first of these hypotheses is mostimprobable, and we seem driven to adopt the second, unless we consent toburden Shakespeare with a careless mistake in a very critical passage. And, apart from unwillingness to do this, we can find a good deal to sayin favour of the idea of a plan formed at a past time. It would explainMacbeth's start of fear at the prophecy of the kingdom. It would explainwhy Lady Macbeth, on receiving his letter, immediately resolves onaction; and why, on their meeting, each knows that murder is in the mindof the other. And it is in harmony with her remarks on his probableshrinking from the act, to which, _ex hypothesi_, she had alreadythought it necessary to make him pledge himself by an oath. Yet I find it very difficult to believe in this interpretation. It isnot merely that the interest of Macbeth's struggle with himself and withhis wife would be seriously diminished if we felt he had been throughall this before. I think this would be so; but there are two moreimportant objections. In the first place the violent agitation describedin the words,     If good, why do I yield to that suggestion     Whose horrid image doth unfix my hair     And make my seated heart knock at my ribs,would surely not be natural, even in Macbeth, if the idea of murder werealready quite familiar to him through conversation with his wife, and ifhe had already done more than 'yield' to it. It is not as if the Witcheshad told him that Duncan was coming to his house. In that case theperception that the moment had come to execute a merely general designmight well appal him. But all that he hears is that he will one day beKing--a statement which, supposing this general design, would not pointto any immediate action. [292] And, in the second place, it is hard tobelieve that, if Shakespeare really had imagined the murder planned andsworn to before the action of the play, he would have written the firstsix scenes in such a manner that practically all readers imagine quiteanother state of affairs, and _continue to imagine it_ even after theyhave read in scene vii. the passage which is troubling us. Is it likely,to put it otherwise, that his idea was one which nobody seems to havedivined till late in the nineteenth century? And for what possiblereason could he refrain from making this idea clear to his audience, ashe might so easily have done in the third scene? [293] It seems very muchmore likely that he himself imagined the matter as nearly all hisreaders do. But, in that case, what are we to say of this passage? I will answerfirst by explaining the way in which I understood it before I was awarethat it had caused so much difficulty. I supposed that an interview hadtaken place after scene v. , a scene which shows Macbeth shrinking, andin which his last words were 'we will speak further. ' In this interview,I supposed, his wife had so wrought upon him that he had at last yieldedand pledged himself by oath to do the murder. As for her statement thathe had 'broken the enterprise' to her, I took it to refer to his letterto her,--a letter written when time and place did not adhere, for he didnot yet know that Duncan was coming to visit him. In the letter he doesnot, of course, openly 'break the enterprise' to her, and it is notlikely that he would do such a thing in a letter; but if they had hadambitious conversations, in which each felt that some half-formed guiltyidea was floating in the mind of the other, she might naturally take thewords of the letter as indicating much more than they said; and then inher passionate contempt at his hesitation, and her passionate eagernessto overcome it, she might easily accuse him, doubtless withexaggeration, and probably with conscious exaggeration, of havingactually proposed the murder. And Macbeth, knowing that when he wrotethe letter he really had been thinking of murder, and indifferent toanything except the question whether murder should be done, would easilylet her statement pass unchallenged. This interpretation still seems to me not unnatural. The alternative(unless we adopt the idea of an agreement prior to the action of theplay) is to suppose that Lady Macbeth refers throughout the passage tosome interview subsequent to her husband's return, and that, in makingher do so, Shakespeare simply forgot her speeches on welcoming Macbethhome, and also forgot that at any such interview 'time' and 'place' did'adhere. ' It is easy to understand such forgetfulness in a spectator andeven in a reader; but it is less easy to imagine it in a poet whoseconception of the two characters throughout these scenes was evidentlyso burningly vivid. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 291: The 'swearing' _might_ of course, on this view, occur offthe stage within the play; but there is no occasion to suppose this ifwe are obliged to put the proposal outside the play. ][Footnote 292: To this it might be answered that the effect of theprediction was to make him feel, 'Then I shall succeed if I carry outthe plan of murder,' and so make him yield to the idea over again. Towhich I can only reply, anticipating the next argument, 'How is it thatShakespeare wrote the speech in such a way that practically everybodysupposes the idea of murder to be occurring to Macbeth for the firsttime? '][Footnote 293: It might be answered here again that the actor,instructed by Shakespeare, could act the start of fear so as to conveyquite clearly the idea of definite guilt. And this is true; but we oughtto do our best to interpret the text before we have recourse to thiskind of suggestion. ]NOTE DD. DID LADY MACBETH REALLY FAINT? In the scene of confusion where the murder of Duncan is discovered,Macbeth and Lennox return from the royal chamber; Lennox describes thegrooms who, as it seemed, had done the deed:             Their hands and faces were all badged with blood;             So were their daggers, which unwiped we found             Upon their pillows:             They stared, and were distracted; no man's life             Was to be trusted with them.     _Macb. _ O, yet I do repent me of my fury             That I did kill them.     _Macd. _                       Wherefore did you so?     _Macb. _ Who can be wise, amazed, temperate and furious,             Loyal and neutral, in a moment? No man:             The expedition of my violent love             Outrun the pauser, reason. Here lay Duncan,             His silver skin laced with his golden blood;             And his gash'd stabs look'd like a breach in nature             For ruin's wasteful entrance: there, the murderers,             Steep'd in the colours of their trade, their daggers             Unmannerly breech'd with gore: who could refrain,             That had a heart to love, and in that heart             Courage to make's love known? At this point Lady Macbeth exclaims, 'Help me hence, ho! ' Her husbandtakes no notice, but Macduff calls out 'Look to the lady. ' This, after afew words 'aside' between Malcolm and Donalbain, is repeated by Banquo,and, very shortly after, all except Duncan's sons _exeunt_. (Thestage-direction 'Lady Macbeth is carried out,' after Banquo'sexclamation 'Look to the lady,' is not in the Ff. and was introduced byRowe. If the Ff. are right, she can hardly have fainted _away_. But thepoint has no importance here. )Does Lady Macbeth really turn faint, or does she pretend? The latterseems to have been the general view, and Whately pointed out thatMacbeth's indifference betrays his consciousness that the faint was notreal. But to this it may be answered that, if he believed it to be real,he would equally show indifference, in order to display his horror atthe murder. And Miss Helen Faucit and others have held that there was nopretence. In favour of the pretence it may be said (1) that Lady Macbeth, whoherself took back the daggers, saw the old King in his blood, andsmeared the grooms, was not the woman to faint at a mere description;(2) that she saw her husband over-acting his part, and saw the faces ofthe lords, and wished to end the scene,--which she succeeded in doing. But to the last argument it may be replied that she would not willinglyhave run the risk of leaving her husband to act his part alone. And forother reasons (indicated above, p. 373 f. ) I decidedly believe that sheis meant really to faint. She was no Goneril. She knew that she couldnot kill the King herself; and she never expected to have to carry backthe daggers, see the bloody corpse, and smear the faces and hands of thegrooms. But Macbeth's agony greatly alarmed her, and she was driven tothe scene of horror to complete his task; and what an impression it madeon her we know from that sentence uttered in her sleep, 'Yet who wouldhave thought the old man to have had so much blood in him? ' She had now,further, gone through the ordeal of the discovery. Is it not quitenatural that the reaction should come, and that it should come just whenMacbeth's description recalls the scene which had cost her the greatesteffort? Is it not likely, besides, that the expression on the faces ofthe lords would force her to realise, what before the murder she hadrefused to consider, the horror and the suspicion it must excite? It isnoticeable, also, that she is far from carrying out her intention ofbearing a part in making their 'griefs and clamours roar upon his death'(I. vii. 78). She has left it all to her husband, and, after utteringbut two sentences, the second of which is answered very curtly byBanquo, for some time (an interval of 33 lines) she has said nothing. Ibelieve Shakespeare means this interval to be occupied in desperateefforts on her part to prevent herself from giving way, as she sees forthe first time something of the truth to which she was formerly soblind, and which will destroy her in the end. It should be observed that at the close of the Banquet scene, where shehas gone through much less, she is evidently exhausted. Shakespeare, of course, knew whether he meant the faint to be real: butI am not aware if an actor of the part could show the audience whetherit was real or pretended. If he could, he would doubtless receiveinstructions from the author. NOTE EE. DURATION OF THE ACTION IN _MACBETH_. MACBETH'S AGE. 'HE HAS NOCHILDREN. '1. The duration of the action cannot well be more than a few months. Onthe day following the murder of Duncan his sons fly and Macbeth goes toScone to be invested (II. iv. ). Between this scene and Act III. aninterval must be supposed, sufficient for news to arrive of Malcolmbeing in England and Donalbain in Ireland, and for Banquo to have shownhimself a good counsellor. But the interval is evidently not long:_e. g. _ Banquo's first words are 'Thou hast it now' (III. i. 1). Banquois murdered on the day when he speaks these words. Macbeth's visit tothe Witches takes place the next day (III. iv. 132). At the end of thisvisit (IV. i. ) he hears of Macduff's flight to England, and determinesto have Macduff's wife and children slaughtered without delay; and thisis the subject of the next scene (IV. ii. ). No great interval, then, canbe supposed between this scene and the next, where Macduff, arrived atthe English court, hears what has happened at his castle. At the end ofthat scene (IV. iii. 237) Malcolm says that 'Macbeth is ripe forshaking, and the powers above put on their instruments': and the eventsof Act V. evidently follow with little delay, and occupy but a shorttime. Holinshed's Macbeth appears to have reigned seventeen years:Shakespeare's may perhaps be allowed as many weeks. But, naturally, Shakespeare creates some difficulties through wishing toproduce different impressions in different parts of the play. The maineffect is that of fiery speed, and it would be impossible to imagine thetorment of Macbeth's mind lasting through a number of years, even ifShakespeare had been willing to allow him years of outward success. Hence the brevity of the action. On the other hand time is wanted forthe degeneration of his character hinted at in IV. iii. 57 f. , for thedevelopment of his tyranny, for his attempts to entrap Malcolm (_ib. _117 f. ), and perhaps for the deepening of his feeling that his life hadpassed into the sere and yellow leaf. Shakespeare, as we have seen,scarcely provides time for all this, but at certain points he producesan impression that a longer time has elapsed than he has provided for,and he puts most of the indications of this longer time into a scene(IV. iii. ) which by its quietness contrasts strongly with almost all therest of the play. 2. There is no unmistakable indication of the ages of the two principalcharacters; but the question, though of no great importance, has aninterest. I believe most readers imagine Macbeth as a man between fortyand fifty, and his wife as younger but not young. In many cases thisimpression is doubtless due to the custom of the theatre (which, if itcan be shown to go back far, should have much weight), but it is sharedby readers who have never seen the play performed, and is thenpresumably due to a number of slight influences probably incapable ofcomplete analysis. Such readers would say, 'The hero and heroine do notspeak like young people, nor like old ones'; but, though I think this isso, it can hardly be demonstrated. Perhaps however the following smallindications, mostly of a different kind, tend to the same result. (1) There is no positive sign of youth. (2) A young man would not belikely to lead the army. (3) Macbeth is 'cousin' to an old man. [294] (4)Macbeth calls Malcolm 'young,' and speaks of him scornfully as 'the boyMalcolm. ' He is probably therefore considerably his senior. But Malcolmis evidently not really a boy (see I. ii. 3 f. as well as the laterActs). (5) One gets the impression (possibly without reason) thatMacbeth and Banquo are of about the same age; and Banquo's son, the boyFleance, is evidently not a mere child. (On the other hand the childrenof Macduff, who is clearly a good deal older than Malcolm, are allyoung; and I do not think there is any sign that Macbeth is older thanMacduff. ) (6) When Lady Macbeth, in the banquet scene, says,     Sit, worthy friends: my lord is often thus,     And hath been from his youth,we naturally imagine him some way removed from his youth. (7) LadyMacbeth saw a resemblance to her father in the aged king. (8) Macbethsays,     I have lived long enough: my way[295] of life     Is fall'n into the sere, the yellow leaf:     And that which should accompany old age,     As honour, love, obedience, troops of friends,     I may not look to have. It is, surely, of the old age of the soul that he speaks in the secondline, but still the lines would hardly be spoken under any circumstancesby a man less than middle-aged. On the other hand I suppose no one ever imagined Macbeth, or onconsideration could imagine him, as _more_ than middle-aged when theaction begins. And in addition the reader may observe, if he finds itnecessary, that Macbeth looks forward to having children (I. vii. 72),and that his terms of endearment ('dearest love,' 'dearest chuck') andhis language in public ('sweet remembrancer') do not suggest that hiswife and he are old; they even suggest that she at least is scarcelymiddle-aged. But this discussion tends to grow ludicrous. For Shakespeare's audience these mysteries were revealed by a glance atthe actors, like the fact that Duncan was an old man, which the text, Ithink, does not disclose till V. i. 44. 3. Whether Macbeth had children or (as seems usually to be supposed) hadnone, is quite immaterial. But it is material that, if he had none, helooked forward to having one; for otherwise there would be no point inthe following words in his soliloquy about Banquo (III. i. 58 f. ):                        Then prophet-like     They hail'd him father to a line of kings:     Upon my head they placed a fruitless crown,     And put a barren sceptre in my gripe,     Thence to be wrench'd with an unlineal hand,     No son of mine succeeding. If't be so,     For Banquo's issue have I filed my mind. And he is determined that it shall not 'be so':     Rather than so, come, fate, into the list     And champion me to the utterance! Obviously he contemplates a son of his succeeding, if only he can getrid of Banquo and Fleance. What he fears is that Banquo will kill him;in which case, supposing he has a son, that son will not be allowed tosucceed him, and, supposing he has none, he will be unable to beget one. I hope this is clear; and nothing else matters. Lady Macbeth's child (I. vii. 54) may be alive or may be dead. It may even be, or have been, herchild by a former husband; though, if Shakespeare had followed historyin making Macbeth marry a widow (as some writers gravely assume) hewould probably have told us so. It may be that Macbeth had many childrenor that he had none. We cannot say, and it does not concern the play. But the interpretation of a statement on which some critics build, 'Hehas no children,' has an interest of another kind, and I proceed toconsider it. These words occur at IV. iii. 216. Malcolm and Macduff are talking atthe English Court, and Ross, arriving from Scotland, brings news toMacduff of Macbeth's revenge on him. It is necessary to quote a goodmany lines:     _Ross. _ Your castle is surprised; your wife and babes             Savagely slaughter'd: to relate the manner,             Were, on the quarry of these murder'd deer,             To add the death of you.     _Mal. _                            Merciful heaven!             What, man! ne'er pull your hat upon your brows;             Give sorrow words: the grief that does not speak             Whispers the o'er-fraught heart and bids it break.     _Macd. _ My children too?     _Ross. _                   Wife, children, servants, all             That could be found.     _Macd. _                       And I must be from thence!             My wife kill'd too?     _Ross. _                     I have said.     _Mal. _                                   Be comforted:             Let's makes us medicines of our great revenge,             To cure this deadly grief.     _Macd. _ He has no children. All my pretty ones?             Did you say all? O hell-kite! All?             What, all my pretty chickens and their dam             At one fell swoop?     _Mal_.  Dispute it like a man.     _Macd. _                         I shall do so;             But I must also feel it as a man:             I cannot but remember such things were,             That were most precious to me. --Three interpretations have been offered of the words 'He has nochildren. '(_a_) They refer to Malcolm, who, if he had children of his own, wouldnot at such a moment suggest revenge, or talk of curing such a grief. Cf. _King John_, III. iv. 91, where Pandulph says to Constance,     You hold too heinous a respect of grief,and Constance answers,     He talks to me that never had a son. (_b_) They refer to Macbeth, who has no children, and on whom thereforeMacduff cannot take an adequate revenge. (_c_) They refer to Macbeth, who, if he himself had children, couldnever have ordered the slaughter of children. Cf. _3 Henry VI. _ V. v. 63, where Margaret says to the murderers of Prince Edward,     You have no children, butchers! if you had,     The thought of them would have stirred up remorse. I cannot think interpretation (_b_) the most natural. The whole idea ofthe passage is that Macduff must feel _grief_ first and before he canfeel anything else, _e. g. _ the desire for vengeance. As he says directlyafter, he cannot at once 'dispute' it like a man, but must 'feel' it asa man; and it is not till ten lines later that he is able to pass to thethought of revenge. Macduff is not the man to conceive at any time theidea of killing children in retaliation; and that he contemplates it_here_, even as a suggestion, I find it hard to believe. For the same main reason interpretation (_a_) seems to me far moreprobable than (_c_). What could be more consonant with the naturalcourse of the thought, as developed in the lines which follow, than thatMacduff, being told to think of revenge, not grief, should answer, 'Noone who was himself a father would ask that of me in the very firstmoment of loss'? But the thought supposed by interpretation (_c_) hasnot this natural connection. It has been objected to interpretation (_a_) that, according to it,Macduff would naturally say 'You have no children,' not 'He has nochildren. ' But what Macduff does is precisely what Constance does in theline quoted from _King John_. And it should be noted that, all throughthe passage down to this point, and indeed in the fifteen lines whichprecede our quotation, Macduff listens only to Ross. His questions 'Mychildren too? ' 'My wife killed too? ' show that he cannot fully realisewhat he is told. When Malcolm interrupts, therefore, he puts aside hissuggestion with four words spoken to himself, or (less probably) to Ross(his relative, who knew his wife and children), and continues hisagonised questions and exclamations. Surely it is not likely that atthat moment the idea of (_c_), an idea which there is nothing tosuggest, would occur to him. In favour of (_c_) as against (_a_) I see no argument except that thewords of Macduff almost repeat those of Margaret; and this fact does notseem to me to have much weight. It shows only that Shakespeare mighteasily use the words in the sense of (_c_) if that sense were suitableto the occasion. It is not unlikely, again, I think, that the words cameto him here because he had used them many years before;[296] but it doesnot follow that he knew he was repeating them; or that, if he did, heremembered the sense they had previously borne; or that, if he didremember it, he might not use them now in another sense. FOOTNOTES:[Footnote 294: So in Holinshed, as well as in the play, where however'cousin' need not have its specific meaning. ][Footnote 295: 'May,' Johnson conjectured, without necessity. ][Footnote 296: As this point occurs here, I may observe thatShakespeare's later tragedies contain many such reminiscences of thetragic plays of his young days. For instance, cf. _Titus Andronicus_, I. i. 150 f. :     In peace and honour rest you here, my sons,            *       *       *       *       *     Secure from worldly chances and mishaps!     Here lurks no treason, here no envy swells,     Here grow no damned drugs: here are no storms,     No noise, but silence and eternal sleep,with _Macbeth_, III. ii. 22 f. :                                Duncan is in his grave;     After life's fitful fever he sleeps well;     Treason has done his worst: nor steel, nor poison,     Malice domestic, foreign levy, nothing,     Can touch him further. In writing IV. i. Shakespeare can hardly have failed to remember theconjuring of the Spirit, and the ambiguous oracles, in _2 Henry VI. _ I. iv. The 'Hyrcan tiger' of _Macbeth_ III. iv. 101, which is also alludedto in _Hamlet_, appears first in _3 Henry VI. _ I. iv. 155. Cf. _RichardIII. _ II. i. 92, 'Nearer in bloody thoughts, but not in blood,' with_Macbeth_ II. iii. 146, 'the near in blood, the nearer bloody'; _RichardIII. _ IV. ii. 64, 'But I am in So far in blood that sin will pluck onsin,' with _Macbeth_ III. iv. 136, 'I am in blood stepp'd in so far,'etc. These are but a few instances. (It makes no difference whetherShakespeare was author or reviser of _Titus_ and _Henry VI. _). ]NOTE FF. THE GHOST OF BANQUO. I do not think the suggestions that the Ghost on its first appearance isBanquo's, and on its second Duncan's, or _vice versâ_, are worthdiscussion. But the question whether Shakespeare meant the Ghost to bereal or a mere hallucination, has some interest, and I have not seen itfully examined. The following reasons may be given for the hallucination view:(1) We remember that Macbeth has already seen one hallucination, that ofthe dagger; and if we failed to remember it Lady Macbeth would remind usof it here:     This is the very painting of your fear;     This is the air-drawn dagger which, you said,     Led you to Duncan. (2) The Ghost seems to be created by Macbeth's imagination; for hiswords,                     now they rise again     With twenty mortal murders on their crowns,describe it, and they echo what the murderer had said to him a littlebefore,                   Safe in a ditch he bides     With twenty trenched gashes on his head. (3) It vanishes the second time on his making a violent effort andasserting its unreality:                     Hence, horrible shadow!     Unreal mockery, hence! This is not quite so the first time, but then too its disappearancefollows on his defying it:     Why what care I? If thou canst nod, speak too. So, apparently, the dagger vanishes when he exclaims, 'There's no suchthing! '(4) At the end of the scene Macbeth himself seems to regard it as anillusion:                        My strange and self-abuse     Is the initiate fear that wants hard use. (5) It does not speak, like the Ghost in _Hamlet_ even on its lastappearance, and like the Ghost in _Julius Caesar_. (6) It is visible only to Macbeth. I should attach no weight to (6) taken alone (see p. 140). Of (3) it maybe remarked that Brutus himself seems to attribute the vanishing ofCaesar's Ghost to his taking courage: 'now I have taken heart thouvanishest:' yet he certainly holds it to be real. It may also beremarked on (5) that Caesar's Ghost says nothing that Brutus' ownforebodings might not have conjured up. And further it may be asked why,if the Ghost of Banquo was meant for an illusion, it was represented onthe stage, as the stage-directions and Forman's account show it to havebeen. On the whole, and with some doubt, I think that Shakespeare (1) meantthe judicious to take the Ghost for an hallucination, but (2) knew thatthe bulk of the audience would take it for a reality. And I am more sureof (2) than of (1). INDEXThe titles of plays are in italics. So are the numbers of the pagescontaining the main discussion of a character. The titles of the Notesare not repeated in the Index. Aaron, 200, 211. Abnormal mental conditions, 13, 398. Accident, in tragedy, 7, 14-16, 26, 28;  in _Hamlet_, 143, 173;  in _Othello_, 181-2;  in _King Lear_, 253, 325. Act, difficulty in Fourth, 57-8;  the five Acts, 49. Action, tragic, 11, 12, 31;  and character, 12, 19;  a conflict, 16-19. Adversity and prosperity in _King Lear_, 326-7. Albany, _297-8_. Antonio, 110, 404. _Antony and Cleopatra_, 3, 7, 45, 80;  conflict, 17-8;  crisis, 53, 55, 66;  humour in catastrophe, 62, 395-6;  battle-scenes, 62-3;  extended catastrophe, 64;  faulty construction, 71, 260;  passion in, 82;  evil in, 83-4;  versification, 87, Note BB. Antony, 22, 29, 63, 83-4. _Arden of Feversham_, 9. Ariel, 264. Aristotle, 16, 22. Art, Shakespeare's, conscious, 68-9;  defects in, 71-78. Arthur, 294. _As You Like It_, 71, 267, 390. Atmosphere in tragedy, 333. Banquo, 343, _379-86_. Barbara, the maid, 175. Battle-scene, 62, 451, 469;  in _King Lear_, 255, Note X. Beast and man, in _King Lear_, 266-8;  in _Timon_, 453. Bernhardt, Mme. , 379. Biblical ideas, in _King Lear_, 328. Bombast, 73, 75-6, 389, Note F. Brandes, G. , 379, 393. Brutus, 7, 14, 22, 27, 32, 81-2, 101, 364. Caliban, 264. Cassio, 211-3, _238-9_, 433-4. Catastrophe, humour before, 61-2;  battle-scenes in, 62;  false hope before, 63;  extended, 62;  in _Antony_ and _Coriolanus_, 83-4.  See _Hamlet_, etc. Character, and plot, 12;  is destiny, 13;  tragic, 19-23. Chaucer, 8, 346. Children, in the plays, 293-5. Cleopatra, 7, 20, 84, 178, 208. Coleridge, 104-5, 107, 109, 127, 165, 200, 201, 209, 223, 226, 228, 249,  343, 353, 362, 389, 391, 392, 397, 412, 413. Comedy, 15, 41. Conflict, tragic, 16-9;  originates in evil, 34;  oscillating movement in, 50;  crisis in, 51-5;  descending movement of, 55-62. Conscience. See Hamlet. Cordelia, 29, 32, 203-6, 250, 290, 314, _315-26_, Note W. _Coriolanus_, 3, 9, 43, 394-5;  crisis, 53;  hero off stage, 57;  counter-stroke, 58;  humour, 61;  passion, 82;  catastrophe, 83-4;  versification, Note BB. Coriolanus, 20, 29, 83-4, 196. Cornwall, 298-9. Crisis. See Conflict. Curtain, no front, in Shakespeare's theatre, 185, 458. _Cymbeline_, 7, 21, 72, 80, Note BB;  Queen in, 300. Desdemona, 32, 165, 179, 193, 197, _201-6_, 323, 433, 437-9. Disillusionment, in tragedies, 175. Dog, the, Shakespeare and, 268. Don John, 110, 210. Double action in _King Lear_, 255-6, 262. Dowden, E. , 82, 105, 330, 408. Dragging, 57-8, 64. Drunkenness, invective against, 238. Edgar, _305-7_, 453, 465. Edmund, 210, 245, 253, _300-3_, Notes P, Q.  See Iago. Emilia, 214-6, 237, _239-42_, Note P. Emotional tension, variations of, 48-9. Evil, origin of conflict, 34;  negative, 35;  in earlier and later tragedies, 82-3;  poetic portrayal of, 207-8;  aspects of, specially impressive to Shakespeare, 232-3;  in _King Lear_, 298, 303-4, 327;  in _Tempest_, 328-30;  in _Macbeth_, 331, 386. Exposition, 41-7. Fate, Fatality, 10, 26-30, 45, 59, 177, 181, 287, 340-6. Fleay, F. G. , 419, 424, 445, 467, 479. Fool in _King Lear_, the, 258, _311-5_, 322, 447, Note V. Fools, Shakespeare's, 310. Forman, Dr. , 468, 493. Fortinbras, 90. Fortune, 9, 10. Freytag, G. , 40, 63. Furness, H. H. , 199, 200. Garnet and equivocation, 397, 470-1. Ghost, Banquo's, 332, 335, 338, 361, Note FF. Ghost, Caesar's, Note FF. Ghost in _Hamlet_, 97, 100, 118, 120, 125, 126, 134, 136, 138-40,  _173-4_. Ghosts, not hallucinations because appearing only to one in a company,  140. Gloster, 272, _293-6_, 447. Gnomic speeches, 74, 453. Goethe, 101, 127, 165, 208. Goneril, 245, _299-300_, 331, 370, 447-8. Greek tragedy, 7, 16, 30, 33, 182, 276-9, 282. Greene, 409. Hales, J. W. , 397. _Hamlet_, exposition, 43-7;  conflict, 17, 47, 50-1;  crisis and counter-stroke, 52, 58-60, 136-7;  dragging, 57;  humour, and false hope, before catastrophe, 61, 63;  obscurities, 73;  undramatic passages, 72, 74;  place among tragedies, 80-8;  position of hero, 89-92;  not simply tragedy of thought, 82, 113, 127;  in the Romantic Revival, 92, 127-8;  lapse of time in, 129, 141;  accident, 15, 143, 173;  religious ideas, 144-5, 147-8, 172-4;  player's speech, 389-90, Note F;  grave-digger, 395-6;  last scene, 256.  See Notes A to H, and BB. Hamlet, only tragic character in play, 90;  contrasted with Laertes and Fortinbras, 90, 106;  failure of early criticism of, 91;  supposed unintelligible, 93-4;  external view, 94-7;  'conscience' view, 97-101;  sentimental view, 101-4;  Schlegel-Coleridge view, 104-8, 116, 123, 126-7;  temperament, 109-10;  moral idealism, 110-3;  reflective genius, 113-5;    connection of this with inaction, 115-7;  origin of melancholy, 117-20;    its nature and effects, 120-7, 103, 158;    its diminution, 143-4;  his 'insanity,' 121-2, 421;  in Act II. 129-31, 155-6;  in III. i. 131-3, 157, 421;  in play-scene, 133-4;  spares King, 134-6, 100, 439;  with Queen, 136-8;  kills Polonius, 136-7, 104;  with Ghost, 138-40;  leaving Denmark, 140-1;  state after return, 143-5, 421;  in grave-yard, 145-6, 153, 158, 421-2;  in catastrophe, 102, 146-8, 151, 420-1;  and Ophelia, 103, 112, 119, 145-6, 152-9, 402, 420-1;  letter to Ophelia, 150, 403;  trick of repetition, 148-9;  word-play and humour, 149-52, 411;  aesthetic feeling, 133, 415;  and Iago, 208, 217, 222, 226;  other references, 9, 14, 20, 22, 28, 316, 353, Notes A to H. Hanmer, 91. Hazlitt, 209, 223, 228, 231, 243, 248. Hecate, 342, Note Z. Hegel, 16, 348. _2 Henry VI. _, 492.

_3 Henry VI. _, 222, 418, 490, 492. _Henry VIII. _, 80, 472, 479. Heredity, 30, 266, 303. Hero, tragic, 7;  of 'high degree,' 9-11;  contributes to catastrophe, 12;  nature of, 19-23, 37;  error of, 21, 34;  unlucky, 28;  place of, in construction, 53-55;  absence of, from stage, 57;  in earlier and later plays, 81-2, 176;  in _King Lear_, 280;  feeling at death of, 147-8, 174, 198, 324. Heywood, 140, 419. Historical tragedies, 3, 53, 71. Homer, 348. Horatio, 99, 112, 310, Notes A, B, C. Humour, constructional use of, 61;  Hamlet's, 149-52;  in _Othello_, 177;  in _Macbeth_, 395. Hunter, J. , 199, 338. Iachimo, 21, 210. Iago, and evil, 207, 232-3;  false views of, 208-11, 223-7;  danger of accepting his own evidence, 211-2, 222-5;  how he appeared to others, 213-5;    and to Emilia, 215-6, 439-40;  inferences hence, 217-8;  further analysis, 218-22;  source of his action, 222-31;  his tragedy, 218, 222, 232;  not merely evil, 233-5;  nor of supreme intellect, 236;  cause of failure, 236-7;  and Edmund, 245, 300-1, 464;  and Hamlet, 208, 217, 222, 226;  other references, 21, 28, 32, 192, 193, 196, 364, Notes L, M, P, Q. Improbability, not always a defect, 69;  in _King Lear_, 249, 256-7. Inconsistencies, 73;  real or supposed, in _Hamlet_, 408;  in _Othello_, Note I;  in _King Lear_, 256, Note T;  in _Macbeth_, Notes CC, EE. Ingram, Prof. , 478. Insanity in tragedy, 13;  Ophelia's, 164-5, 399;  Lear's, 288-90. Intrigue in tragedy, 12, 67, 179. Irony, 182, 338. Isabella, 316, 317, 321. Jameson, Mrs. , 165, 204, 379. Jealousy in Othello, 178, 194, Note L. Job, 11. Johnson, 31, 91, 294, 298, 304, 377, 420. Jonson, 69, 282, 389. Juliet, 7, 204, 210. _Julius Caesar_, 3, 7, 9, 33, 34, 479;  conflict, 17-8;  exposition, 43-5;  crisis, 52;  dragging, 57;  counter-stroke, 58;  quarrel-scene, 60-1;  battle-scenes, 62;  and _Hamlet_, 80-2;  style, 85-6. Justice in tragedy, idea of, 31-33, 279, 318. Kean, 99, 243-4. Kent, _307-10_, 314, 321, 447, Note W. King Claudius, 28, 102, 133, 137, 142, _168-72_, 402, 422. _King John_, 394, 490-1. _King Lear_, exposition, 44, 46-7;  conflict, 17, 53-4;  scenes of high and low tension, 49;  dragging, 57;  false hope before catastrophe, 63;  battle-scene, 62, 456-8;  soliloquy in, 72, 222;  place among tragedies, 82, 88, see Tate;  Tate's, 243-4;  two-fold character, 244-6;  not wholly dramatic, 247;  opening scene, 71, 249-51, 258, 319-21, 447;  blinding of Gloster, 185, 251;  catastrophe, 250-4, 271, 290-3, 309, 322-6;  structural defects, 254-6;  improbabilities, etc. , 256-8;  vagueness of locality, 259-60;  poetic value of defects, 261;  double action, 262;  characterisation, 263;  tendency to symbolism, 264-5;  idea of monstrosity, 265-6;  beast and man, 266-8;  storm-scenes, 269-70, 286-7, 315;  question of government of world, in, 271-3;  supposed pessimism, 273-9, 284-5, 303-4, 322-30;  accident and fatality, 15, 250-4, 287-8;  intrigue in, 179;  evil in, 298, 303-4;  preaching patience, 330;  and _Othello_, 176-7, 179, 181, 244-5, 441-3;  and _Timon_, 245-7, 310, 326-7, 443-5;  other references, 8, 10, 61, 181, Notes R to Y, and BB. König, G. , Note BB. Koppel, R. , 306, 450, 453, 462. Laertes, 90, 111, 142, 422. Lamb, 202, 243, 248, 253, 255, 269, 343. Language, Shakespeare's, defects of, 73, 75, 416. Lear, 13, 14, 20, 28, 29, 32, 249-51, _280-93_, 293-5, Note W. Leontes, 21, 194. _Macbeth_, exposition, 43, 45-6;  conflict, 17-9, 48, 52;  crisis, 59, 60;  pathos and humour, 61, 391, 395-7;  battle-scenes, 62;  extended catastrophe, 64;  defects in construction, 57, 71;  place among tragedies, 82, 87-8, Note BB;  religious ideas, 172-4;  atmosphere of, 333;  effects of darkness, 333-4,  colour, 334-6,  storm, 336-7,  supernatural, etc. , 337-8,  irony, 338-40;  Witches, 340-9, 362, 379-86;  imagery, 336, 357;  minor characters, 387;  simplicity, 388;  Senecan effect, 389-90;  bombast, 389, 417;  prose, 388, 397-400;  relief-scenes, 391;  sleep-walking scene, 378, 398, 400;  references to Gunpowder Plot, 397, 470-1;  all genuine? 388, 391, 395-7, Note Z;  and _Hamlet_, 331-2;  and _Richard III. _, 338, 390, 395, 492;  other references, 7, 8, 386, and Notes Z to FF. Macbeth, 13, 14, 20, 22, 28, 32, 63, 172, 343-5, _349-65_, 380, 383,  386, Notes CC, EE. Macbeth, Lady, 13, 28, 32, 349-50, 358, 364, _366-79_, 398-400, Notes  CC, DD. Macduff, 387, 391-2, 490-1. Macduff, Lady, 61, 387, 391-2. Macduff, little, 393-5. Mackenzie, 91. Marlowe, 211, 415-6. Marston's possible reminiscences of Shakespeare's plays, 471-2. _Measure for Measure_, 76, 78, 275, 397. Mediaeval idea of tragedy, 8, 9. Melancholy, Shakespeare's representations of, 110, 121.  See Hamlet. Mephistopheles, 208. _Merchant of Venice_, 21, 200. Metrical tests, Notes S, BB. Middleton, 466. _Midsummer Night's Dream_, 390, 469. Milton, 207, 362, 418. Monstrosity, idea of, in _King Lear_, 265-6. Moral order in tragedy, idea of, 26, 31-9. Moulton, R. G. , 40. Negro? Othello a, 198-202. Opening scene in tragedy, 43-4. Ophelia, 14, 61, 112, _160-5_, 204, 399.  See Hamlet. Oswald, 298, 448. _Othello_, exposition, 44-5;  conflict, 17, 18, 48;  peculiar construction, 54-5, 64-7, 177;  inconsistencies, 73;  place among tragedies, 82, 83, 88;  and _Hamlet_, 175-6;  and _King Lear_, 176-7, 179, 181, 244-5, 441-3;  distinctive effect, and its causes, 176-80;  accident in, 15, 181-2;  objections to, considered, 183-5;  point of inferiority to other three tragedies, 185-6;  elements of reconciliation in catastrophe, 198, 242;  other references, 9, 61, Notes I to R, and BB. Othello, 9, 20, 21, 22, 28, 29, 32, 176, 178, 179, _186-98_, 198-202,  211, 212, Notes K to O. Pathos, and tragedy, 14, 103, 160, 203, 281-2;  constructional use of, 60-1. Peele, 200. _Pericles_, 474. Period, Shakespeare's tragic, 79-89, 275-6. Pessimism, supposed, in _King Lear_, 275-9, 327;  in _Macbeth_, 359, 393. Plays, Shakespeare's, list of, in periods, 79. Plot, 12.  See Action, Intrigue. 'Poetic justice,' 31-2. Poor, goodness of the, in _King Lear_ and _Timon_, 326. Posthumus, 21. Problems, probably non-existent for original audience, 73, 157, 159,  315, 393, 483, 486, 488. Prose, in the tragedies, 388, 397-400. Queen Gertrude, 104, 118, 134, 136-8, 161, 164, _166-8_. Reconciliation, feeling of, in tragedy, 31, 36, 84, 147-8, 174, 198,  242, 322-6. Regan, _299-300_. Religion, in Edgar, 306,  Horatio, 310,  Banquo, 387. _Richard II. _, 3, 10, 17, 18, 42. Richard II. , 20, 22, 150, 152. _Richard III. _, 3, 18, 42, 62, 82;  and _Macbeth_, 338, 390, 395, 492. Richard III. , 14, 20, 22, 32, 63, 152, 207, 210, 217, 218, 233, 301. _Romeo and Juliet_, 3, 7, 9, 15;  conflict, 17, 18, 34;  exposition, 41-5;  crisis, 52;  counter-stroke, 58. Romeo, 22, 29, 150, 210. Rosencrantz and Guildenstern, 137, 405-6. Rules of drama, Shakespeare's supposed ignorance of, 69. Salvini, 434. Satan, Milton's, 207, 362. Scenery, no, in Shakespeare's theatre, 49, 71, 451. Scenes, their number, length, tone, 49;  wrong divisions of, 451. Schlegel, 82, 104, 105, 116, 123, 127, 254, 262, 344, 345, 413. Scot on Witch-craft, 341. Seneca, 389-90. Shakespeare the man, 6, 81, 83, 185-6, 246, 275-6, 282, 285, 327-30,  359, 393, 414-5. Shylock, 21. Siddons, Mrs. , 371, 379. Soliloquy, 72;  of villains, 222;  scenes ending with, 451. Sonnets, Shakespeare's, 264, 364. Spedding, J. , 255, 476, Note X. Stage-directions, wrong modern, 260, 285, 422, 453-6, 462. Style in the tragedies, 85-9, 332, 336, 357. Suffering, tragic, 7, 8, 11. Supernatural, the, in tragedy, 14, 181, 295-6, 331-2.  See Ghost, Witch. Swinburne, A. C. , 80, 179, 191, 209, 218, 223, 228, 231, 276-8, 431. Symonds, J. A. , 10. Tate's version of _King Lear_, 243, 251-3, 313. Temperament, 110, 282, 306. _Tempest_, 42, 80, 185, 264, 328-30, 469; Note BB. Theological ideas in tragedy, 25, 144, 147, 279;  in _Hamlet_ and _Macbeth_, 171-4, 439;  not in _Othello_, 181, 439;  in _King Lear_, 271-3, 296. Time, short and long, theory of, 426-7. _Timon of Athens_, 4, 9, 81-3, 88, 245-7, 266, 270, 275, 310, 326-7,  443-5, 460; Note BB. Timon, 9, 82, 112. _Titus Andronicus_, 4, 200, 211, 411, 491. Tourgénief, 11, 295. Toussaint, 198. Tragedy, Shakespearean; parts, 41, 51;  earlier and later, 18, 176;  pure and historical, 3, 71.  See Accident, Action, Hero, Period, Reconciliation, etc. Transmigration of souls, 267. _Troilus and Cressida_, 7, 185-6, 268, 275-6, 302, 417, 419. _Twelfth Night_, 70, 267. _Two Noble Kinsmen_, 418, 472, 479. Ultimate power in tragedy, 24-39, 171-4, 271-9.  See Fate, Moral Order, Reconciliation, Theological. Undramatic speeches, 74, 106. Versification. See Style and Metrical tests. Virgilia, 387. Waste, tragic, 23, 37. Werder, K. , 94, 172, 480. _Winter's Tale_, 21, Note BB. Witches, the, and Macbeth, _340-9_, 362;  and Banquo, 379-87. Wittenberg, Hamlet at, 403-6. Wordsworth, 30, 198. _Yorkshire Tragedy_, 10. GLASGOW: PRINTED AT THE UNIVERSITY PRESS BY ROBERT MACLEHOSE AND CO. LTD. _8vo. 12s. 6d. net. _Oxford Lectures on PoetryBYA. C. BRADLEY, LL. D. , Litt. D. _ATHENÆUM. _--"A remarkable achievement. . . . It is probable that thisvolume will attain a permanence for which critical literature generallycannot hope. Very many of the things that are said here are finallysaid; they exhaust their subject. Of one thing we are certain--thatthere is no work in English devoted to the interpretation of poeticexperience which can claim the delicacy and sureness of Mr. Bradley's. "_SPECTATOR. _--"In reviewing Professor Bradley's previous book on_Shakespearean Tragedy_ we declared our opinion that it was probably thebest Shakespearean criticism since Coleridge. The new volume shows thesame complete sanity of judgment, the same subtlety, the same persuasiveand eloquent exposition. "_TIMES. _--"Nothing higher need be said of the present volume than it isnot unworthy to be the sequel to _Shakespearean Tragedy_. "_DAILY TELEGRAPH. _--"This is not a book to be written about in a hastyreview of a thousand words. It is one to be perused and appreciated atleisure--to be returned to again and again, partly because of itssupreme interest, partly because it provokes, as all good books shoulddo, a certain antagonism, partly because it is itself the product of acareful, scholarly mind, basing conclusions on a scrupulous perusal ofdocuments and authorities. . . . The whole book is so full of good thingsthat it is impossible to make any adequate selection. In an age which isnot supposed to be very much interested in literary criticism, a booklike Mr. Bradley's is of no little significance and importance. "_SATURDAY REVIEW. _--"The writer of these admirable lectures may claimwhat is rare even in this age of criticism--a note of his own. In typehe belongs to those critics of the best order, whose view of literatureis part and parcel of their view of life. His lectures on poetry aretherefore what they profess to be: not scraps of textual comment, norstudies in the craft of verse-making, but broad considerations of poetryas a mode of spiritual revelation. An accomplished style and signs ofcareful reading we may justly demand from any professor who sets out tolecture in literature. Mr. Bradley has them in full measure. But he hasalso not a little of that priceless quality so seldom found in theprofessional or professorial critic--the capacity of naïve vision andadmiration. Here he is in a line with the really stimulating essayists,the artists in criticism. "MACMILLAN AND CO. LTD. , LONDON. _Second Edition. Crown 8vo. 5s. 6d. net. _A Commentary on Tennyson's 'In Memoriam'BYA. C. BRADLEY, LL. D. , Litt. D. _THE SATURDAY REVIEW. _--"Here we find a model of what a commentary on agreat work should be, every page instinct with thoughtfulness; completesympathy and appreciation; the most reverent care shown in the attemptedinterpretation of passages whose meaning to a large degree evades, andwill always evade, readers of 'In Memoriam. ' It is clear to us that Mr. Bradley has devoted long time and thought to his work, and that he haspublished the result of his labours simply to help those who, likehimself, have been and are in difficulties as to the drift of variouspassages. He is not of course the first who has addressed himself to theinterpretation of 'In Memoriam'--in this spirit . . . but Mr. Bradley'scommentary is sure to take rank as the most searching and scholarly ofany. "_THE PILOT. _--"In re-studying 'In Memoriam' with Dr. Bradley's aid, wehave found his interpretation helpful in numerous passages. The notesare prefaced by a long introduction dealing with the origin,composition, and structure of the poem, the ideas used in it, the metreand the debt to other poems. All of these are good, but more interestingthan any of them is a section entitled, 'The Way of the Soul,' reviewingthe spiritual experience which 'In Memoriam' records. This is quiteadmirable throughout, and proves conclusively that Dr. Bradley's keendesire to fathom the exact meaning of every phrase has only quickenedhis appreciation of the poem as a whole. "MACMILLAN AND CO. LTD. , LONDON. End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Shakespearean Tragedy, by A. C. 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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Sonnets, by William ShakespeareThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States andmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww. gutenberg. org. If you are not located in the United States, youwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located beforeusing this eBook. Title: The SonnetsAuthor: William ShakespeareRelease Date: September, 1997 [eBook #1041][Most recently updated: December 3, 2022]Language: EnglishProduced by:  the Project Gutenberg Shakespeare Team*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SONNETS ***THE SONNETSby William ShakespeareIFrom fairest creatures we desire increase,That thereby beauty’s rose might never die,But as the riper should by time decease,His tender heir might bear his memory:But thou, contracted to thine own bright eyes,Feed’st thy light’s flame with self-substantial fuel,Making a famine where abundance lies,Thyself thy foe, to thy sweet self too cruel:Thou that art now the world’s fresh ornament,And only herald to the gaudy spring,Within thine own bud buriest thy content,And tender churl mak’st waste in niggarding:    Pity the world, or else this glutton be,    To eat the world’s due, by the grave and thee. IIWhen forty winters shall besiege thy brow,And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field,Thy youth’s proud livery so gazed on now,Will be a tatter’d weed of small worth held:Then being asked, where all thy beauty lies,Where all the treasure of thy lusty days;To say, within thine own deep sunken eyes,Were an all-eating shame, and thriftless praise. How much more praise deserv’d thy beauty’s use,If thou couldst answer ‘This fair child of mineShall sum my count, and make my old excuse,’Proving his beauty by succession thine!    This were to be new made when thou art old,    And see thy blood warm when thou feel’st it cold. IIILook in thy glass and tell the face thou viewestNow is the time that face should form another;Whose fresh repair if now thou not renewest,Thou dost beguile the world, unbless some mother. For where is she so fair whose unear’d wombDisdains the tillage of thy husbandry? Or who is he so fond will be the tomb,Of his self-love to stop posterity? Thou art thy mother’s glass and she in theeCalls back the lovely April of her prime;So thou through windows of thine age shalt see,Despite of wrinkles this thy golden time.    But if thou live, remember’d not to be,    Die single and thine image dies with thee. IVUnthrifty loveliness, why dost thou spendUpon thyself thy beauty’s legacy? Nature’s bequest gives nothing, but doth lend,And being frank she lends to those are free:Then, beauteous niggard, why dost thou abuseThe bounteous largess given thee to give? Profitless usurer, why dost thou useSo great a sum of sums, yet canst not live? For having traffic with thyself alone,Thou of thyself thy sweet self dost deceive:Then how when nature calls thee to be gone,What acceptable audit canst thou leave?    Thy unused beauty must be tombed with thee,    Which, used, lives th’ executor to be. VThose hours, that with gentle work did frameThe lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,Will play the tyrants to the very sameAnd that unfair which fairly doth excel;For never-resting time leads summer onTo hideous winter, and confounds him there;Sap checked with frost, and lusty leaves quite gone,Beauty o’er-snowed and bareness every where:Then were not summer’s distillation left,A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,Beauty’s effect with beauty were bereft,Nor it, nor no remembrance what it was:    But flowers distill’d, though they with winter meet,    Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet. VIThen let not winter’s ragged hand deface,In thee thy summer, ere thou be distill’d:Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some placeWith beauty’s treasure ere it be self-kill’d. That use is not forbidden usury,Which happies those that pay the willing loan;That’s for thyself to breed another thee,Or ten times happier, be it ten for one;Ten times thyself were happier than thou art,If ten of thine ten times refigur’d thee:Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,Leaving thee living in posterity?    Be not self-will’d, for thou art much too fair    To be death’s conquest and make worms thine heir. VIILo! in the orient when the gracious lightLifts up his burning head, each under eyeDoth homage to his new-appearing sight,Serving with looks his sacred majesty;And having climb’d the steep-up heavenly hill,Resembling strong youth in his middle age,Yet mortal looks adore his beauty still,Attending on his golden pilgrimage:But when from highmost pitch, with weary car,Like feeble age, he reeleth from the day,The eyes, ’fore duteous, now converted areFrom his low tract, and look another way:    So thou, thyself outgoing in thy noon:    Unlook’d, on diest unless thou get a son. VIIIMusic to hear, why hear’st thou music sadly? Sweets with sweets war not, joy delights in joy:Why lov’st thou that which thou receiv’st not gladly,Or else receiv’st with pleasure thine annoy? If the true concord of well-tuned sounds,By unions married, do offend thine ear,They do but sweetly chide thee, who confoundsIn singleness the parts that thou shouldst bear. Mark how one string, sweet husband to another,Strikes each in each by mutual ordering;Resembling sire and child and happy mother,Who, all in one, one pleasing note do sing:    Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,    Sings this to thee: ‘Thou single wilt prove none. ’IXIs it for fear to wet a widow’s eye,That thou consum’st thyself in single life? Ah! if thou issueless shalt hap to die,The world will wail thee like a makeless wife;The world will be thy widow and still weepThat thou no form of thee hast left behind,When every private widow well may keepBy children’s eyes, her husband’s shape in mind:Look! what an unthrift in the world doth spendShifts but his place, for still the world enjoys it;But beauty’s waste hath in the world an end,And kept unused the user so destroys it.    No love toward others in that bosom sits    That on himself such murd’rous shame commits. XFor shame! deny that thou bear’st love to any,Who for thyself art so unprovident. Grant, if thou wilt, thou art belov’d of many,But that thou none lov’st is most evident:For thou art so possess’d with murderous hate,That ’gainst thyself thou stick’st not to conspire,Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinateWhich to repair should be thy chief desire. O! change thy thought, that I may change my mind:Shall hate be fairer lodg’d than gentle love?

Be, as thy presence is, gracious and kind,Or to thyself at least kind-hearted prove:    Make thee another self for love of me,    That beauty still may live in thine or thee. XIAs fast as thou shalt wane, so fast thou grow’st,In one of thine, from that which thou departest;And that fresh blood which youngly thou bestow’st,Thou mayst call thine when thou from youth convertest,Herein lives wisdom, beauty, and increase;Without this folly, age, and cold decay:If all were minded so, the times should ceaseAnd threescore year would make the world away. Let those whom nature hath not made for store,Harsh, featureless, and rude, barrenly perish:Look, whom she best endow’d, she gave thee more;Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:    She carv’d thee for her seal, and meant thereby,    Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die. XIIWhen I do count the clock that tells the time,And see the brave day sunk in hideous night;When I behold the violet past prime,And sable curls, all silvered o’er with white;When lofty trees I see barren of leaves,Which erst from heat did canopy the herd,And summer’s green all girded up in sheaves,Borne on the bier with white and bristly beard,Then of thy beauty do I question make,That thou among the wastes of time must go,Since sweets and beauties do themselves forsakeAnd die as fast as they see others grow;    And nothing ’gainst Time’s scythe can make defence    Save breed, to brave him when he takes thee hence. XIIIO! that you were your self; but, love you areNo longer yours, than you yourself here live:Against this coming end you should prepare,And your sweet semblance to some other give:So should that beauty which you hold in leaseFind no determination; then you wereYourself again, after yourself’s decease,When your sweet issue your sweet form should bear. Who lets so fair a house fall to decay,Which husbandry in honour might uphold,Against the stormy gusts of winter’s dayAnd barren rage of death’s eternal cold?    O! none but unthrifts. Dear my love, you know,    You had a father: let your son say so. XIVNot from the stars do I my judgement pluck;And yet methinks I have astronomy,But not to tell of good or evil luck,Of plagues, of dearths, or seasons’ quality;Nor can I fortune to brief minutes tell,Pointing to each his thunder, rain and wind,Or say with princes if it shall go wellBy oft predict that I in heaven find:But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,And constant stars in them I read such artAs ‘Truth and beauty shall together thrive,If from thyself, to store thou wouldst convert’;    Or else of thee this I prognosticate:    ‘Thy end is truth’s and beauty’s doom and date. ’XVWhen I consider everything that growsHolds in perfection but a little moment,That this huge stage presenteth nought but showsWhereon the stars in secret influence comment;When I perceive that men as plants increase,Cheered and checked even by the self-same sky,Vaunt in their youthful sap, at height decrease,And wear their brave state out of memory;Then the conceit of this inconstant staySets you most rich in youth before my sight,Where wasteful Time debateth with DecayTo change your day of youth to sullied night,    And all in war with Time for love of you,    As he takes from you, I engraft you new. XVIBut wherefore do not you a mightier wayMake war upon this bloody tyrant, Time? And fortify yourself in your decayWith means more blessed than my barren rhyme? Now stand you on the top of happy hours,And many maiden gardens, yet unset,With virtuous wish would bear you living flowers,Much liker than your painted counterfeit:So should the lines of life that life repair,Which this, Time’s pencil, or my pupil pen,Neither in inward worth nor outward fair,Can make you live yourself in eyes of men.    To give away yourself, keeps yourself still,    And you must live, drawn by your own sweet skill. XVIIWho will believe my verse in time to come,If it were fill’d with your most high deserts? Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tombWhich hides your life, and shows not half your parts. If I could write the beauty of your eyes,And in fresh numbers number all your graces,The age to come would say ‘This poet lies;Such heavenly touches ne’er touch’d earthly faces. ’So should my papers, yellow’d with their age,Be scorn’d, like old men of less truth than tongue,And your true rights be term’d a poet’s rageAnd stretched metre of an antique song:    But were some child of yours alive that time,    You should live twice,—in it, and in my rhyme. XVIIIShall I compare thee to a summer’s day? Thou art more lovely and more temperate:Rough winds do shake the darling buds of May,And summer’s lease hath all too short a date:Sometime too hot the eye of heaven shines,And often is his gold complexion dimm’d,And every fair from fair sometime declines,By chance, or nature’s changing course untrimm’d:But thy eternal summer shall not fade,Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow’st,Nor shall death brag thou wander’st in his shade,When in eternal lines to time thou grow’st,    So long as men can breathe, or eyes can see,    So long lives this, and this gives life to thee. XIXDevouring Time, blunt thou the lion’s paws,And make the earth devour her own sweet brood;Pluck the keen teeth from the fierce tiger’s jaws,And burn the long-liv’d phoenix, in her blood;Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleets,And do whate’er thou wilt, swift-footed Time,To the wide world and all her fading sweets;But I forbid thee one most heinous crime:O! carve not with thy hours my love’s fair brow,Nor draw no lines there with thine antique pen;Him in thy course untainted do allowFor beauty’s pattern to succeeding men.    Yet do thy worst, old Time; despite thy wrong,    My love shall in my verse ever live young. XXA woman’s face with nature’s own hand painted,Hast thou, the master mistress of my passion;A woman’s gentle heart, but not acquaintedWith shifting change, as is false women’s fashion:An eye more bright than theirs, less false in rolling,Gilding the object whereupon it gazeth;A man in hue all ‘hues’ in his controlling,Which steals men’s eyes and women’s souls amazeth. And for a woman wert thou first created;Till Nature, as she wrought thee, fell a-doting,And by addition me of thee defeated,By adding one thing to my purpose nothing.    But since she prick’d thee out for women’s pleasure,    Mine be thy love and thy love’s use their treasure. XXISo is it not with me as with that Muse,Stirr’d by a painted beauty to his verse,Who heaven itself for ornament doth useAnd every fair with his fair doth rehearse,Making a couplement of proud compare. With sun and moon, with earth and sea’s rich gems,With April’s first-born flowers, and all things rare,That heaven’s air in this huge rondure hems. O! let me, true in love, but truly write,And then believe me, my love is as fairAs any mother’s child, though not so brightAs those gold candles fix’d in heaven’s air:    Let them say more that like of hearsay well;    I will not praise that purpose not to sell. XXIIMy glass shall not persuade me I am old,So long as youth and thou are of one date;But when in thee time’s furrows I behold,Then look I death my days should expiate. For all that beauty that doth cover thee,Is but the seemly raiment of my heart,Which in thy breast doth live, as thine in me:How can I then be elder than thou art? O! therefore love, be of thyself so waryAs I, not for myself, but for thee will;Bearing thy heart, which I will keep so charyAs tender nurse her babe from faring ill.    Presume not on thy heart when mine is slain,    Thou gav’st me thine not to give back again. XXIIIAs an unperfect actor on the stage,Who with his fear is put beside his part,Or some fierce thing replete with too much rage,Whose strength’s abundance weakens his own heart;So I, for fear of trust, forget to sayThe perfect ceremony of love’s rite,And in mine own love’s strength seem to decay,O’ercharg’d with burthen of mine own love’s might. O!

let my looks be then the eloquenceAnd dumb presagers of my speaking breast,Who plead for love, and look for recompense,More than that tongue that more hath more express’d.    O! learn to read what silent love hath writ:    To hear with eyes belongs to love’s fine wit. XXIVMine eye hath play’d the painter and hath stell’d,Thy beauty’s form in table of my heart;My body is the frame wherein ’tis held,And perspective it is best painter’s art. For through the painter must you see his skill,To find where your true image pictur’d lies,Which in my bosom’s shop is hanging still,That hath his windows glazed with thine eyes. Now see what good turns eyes for eyes have done:Mine eyes have drawn thy shape, and thine for meAre windows to my breast, where-through the sunDelights to peep, to gaze therein on thee;    Yet eyes this cunning want to grace their art,    They draw but what they see, know not the heart. XXVLet those who are in favour with their starsOf public honour and proud titles boast,Whilst I, whom fortune of such triumph barsUnlook’d for joy in that I honour most. Great princes’ favourites their fair leaves spreadBut as the marigold at the sun’s eye,And in themselves their pride lies buried,For at a frown they in their glory die. The painful warrior famoused for fight,After a thousand victories once foil’d,Is from the book of honour razed quite,And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d:    Then happy I, that love and am belov’d,    Where I may not remove nor be remov’d. XXVILord of my love, to whom in vassalageThy merit hath my duty strongly knit,To thee I send this written embassage,To witness duty, not to show my wit:Duty so great, which wit so poor as mineMay make seem bare, in wanting words to show it,But that I hope some good conceit of thineIn thy soul’s thought, all naked, will bestow it:Till whatsoever star that guides my moving,Points on me graciously with fair aspect,And puts apparel on my tatter’d loving,To show me worthy of thy sweet respect:    Then may I dare to boast how I do love thee;    Till then, not show my head where thou mayst prove me. XXVIIWeary with toil, I haste me to my bed,The dear respose for limbs with travel tir’d;But then begins a journey in my headTo work my mind, when body’s work’s expired:For then my thoughts, from far where I abide,Intend a zealous pilgrimage to thee,And keep my drooping eyelids open wide,Looking on darkness which the blind do see:Save that my soul’s imaginary sightPresents thy shadow to my sightless view,Which, like a jewel hung in ghastly night,Makes black night beauteous, and her old face new.    Lo! thus, by day my limbs, by night my mind,    For thee, and for myself, no quiet find. XXVIIIHow can I then return in happy plight,That am debarre’d the benefit of rest? When day’s oppression is not eas’d by night,But day by night and night by day oppress’d,And each, though enemies to either’s reign,Do in consent shake hands to torture me,The one by toil, the other to complainHow far I toil, still farther off from thee. I tell the day, to please him thou art bright,And dost him grace when clouds do blot the heaven:So flatter I the swart-complexion’d night,When sparkling stars twire not thou gild’st the even.    But day doth daily draw my sorrows longer,    And night doth nightly make grief’s length seem stronger. XXIXWhen in disgrace with fortune and men’s eyesI all alone beweep my outcast state,And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,And look upon myself, and curse my fate,Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,Featur’d like him, like him with friends possess’d,Desiring this man’s art, and that man’s scope,With what I most enjoy contented least;Yet in these thoughts my self almost despising,Haply I think on thee, and then my state,Like to the lark at break of day arisingFrom sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven’s gate;    For thy sweet love remember’d such wealth brings    That then I scorn to change my state with kings. XXXWhen to the sessions of sweet silent thoughtI summon up remembrance of things past,I sigh the lack of many a thing I sought,And with old woes new wail my dear time’s waste:Then can I drown an eye, unused to flow,For precious friends hid in death’s dateless night,And weep afresh love’s long since cancell’d woe,And moan the expense of many a vanish’d sight:Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,And heavily from woe to woe tell o’erThe sad account of fore-bemoaned moan,Which I new pay as if not paid before.    But if the while I think on thee, dear friend,    All losses are restor’d and sorrows end. XXXIThy bosom is endeared with all hearts,Which I by lacking have supposed dead;And there reigns Love, and all Love’s loving parts,And all those friends which I thought buried. How many a holy and obsequious tearHath dear religious love stol’n from mine eye,As interest of the dead, which now appearBut things remov’d that hidden in thee lie! Thou art the grave where buried love doth live,Hung with the trophies of my lovers gone,Who all their parts of me to thee did give,That due of many now is thine alone:    Their images I lov’d, I view in thee,    And thou, all they, hast all the all of me. XXXIIIf thou survive my well-contented day,When that churl Death my bones with dust shall coverAnd shalt by fortune once more re-surveyThese poor rude lines of thy deceased lover,Compare them with the bett’ring of the time,And though they be outstripp’d by every pen,Reserve them for my love, not for their rhyme,Exceeded by the height of happier men. O! then vouchsafe me but this loving thought:‘Had my friend’s Muse grown with this growing age,A dearer birth than this his love had brought,To march in ranks of better equipage:    But since he died and poets better prove,    Theirs for their style I’ll read, his for his love’. XXXIIIFull many a glorious morning have I seenFlatter the mountain tops with sovereign eye,Kissing with golden face the meadows green,Gilding pale streams with heavenly alchemy;Anon permit the basest clouds to rideWith ugly rack on his celestial face,And from the forlorn world his visage hide,Stealing unseen to west with this disgrace:Even so my sun one early morn did shine,With all triumphant splendour on my brow;But out! alack! he was but one hour mine,The region cloud hath mask’d him from me now.    Yet him for this my love no whit disdaineth;    Suns of the world may stain when heaven’s sun staineth. XXXIVWhy didst thou promise such a beauteous day,And make me travel forth without my cloak,To let base clouds o’ertake me in my way,Hiding thy bravery in their rotten smoke? ’Tis not enough that through the cloud thou break,To dry the rain on my storm-beaten face,For no man well of such a salve can speak,That heals the wound, and cures not the disgrace:Nor can thy shame give physic to my grief;Though thou repent, yet I have still the loss:The offender’s sorrow lends but weak reliefTo him that bears the strong offence’s cross.    Ah! but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,    And they are rich and ransom all ill deeds. XXXVNo more be griev’d at that which thou hast done:Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud:Clouds and eclipses stain both moon and sun,And loathsome canker lives in sweetest bud. All men make faults, and even I in this,Authorizing thy trespass with compare,Myself corrupting, salving thy amiss,Excusing thy sins more than thy sins are;For to thy sensual fault I bring in sense;Thy adverse party is thy advocate,And ’gainst myself a lawful plea commence:Such civil war is in my love and hate,    That I an accessary needs must be,    To that sweet thief which sourly robs from me. XXXVILet me confess that we two must be twain,Although our undivided loves are one:So shall those blots that do with me remain,Without thy help, by me be borne alone. In our two loves there is but one respect,Though in our lives a separable spite,Which though it alter not love’s sole effect,Yet doth it steal sweet hours from love’s delight. I may not evermore acknowledge thee,Lest my bewailed guilt should do thee shame,Nor thou with public kindness honour me,Unless thou take that honour from thy name:    But do not so, I love thee in such sort,    As thou being mine, mine is thy good report.

XXXVIIAs a decrepit father takes delightTo see his active child do deeds of youth,So I, made lame by Fortune’s dearest spite,Take all my comfort of thy worth and truth;For whether beauty, birth, or wealth, or wit,Or any of these all, or all, or more,Entitled in thy parts, do crowned sit,I make my love engrafted, to this store:So then I am not lame, poor, nor despis’d,Whilst that this shadow doth such substance giveThat I in thy abundance am suffic’d,And by a part of all thy glory live.    Look what is best, that best I wish in thee:    This wish I have; then ten times happy me! XXXVIIIHow can my muse want subject to invent,While thou dost breathe, that pour’st into my verseThine own sweet argument, too excellentFor every vulgar paper to rehearse? O! give thyself the thanks, if aught in meWorthy perusal stand against thy sight;For who’s so dumb that cannot write to thee,When thou thyself dost give invention light? Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worthThan those old nine which rhymers invocate;And he that calls on thee, let him bring forthEternal numbers to outlive long date.    If my slight muse do please these curious days,    The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise. XXXIXO! how thy worth with manners may I sing,When thou art all the better part of me? What can mine own praise to mine own self bring? And what is’t but mine own when I praise thee? Even for this, let us divided live,And our dear love lose name of single one,That by this separation I may giveThat due to thee which thou deserv’st alone. O absence! what a torment wouldst thou prove,Were it not thy sour leisure gave sweet leave,To entertain the time with thoughts of love,Which time and thoughts so sweetly doth deceive,    And that thou teachest how to make one twain,    By praising him here who doth hence remain. XLTake all my loves, my love, yea take them all;What hast thou then more than thou hadst before? No love, my love, that thou mayst true love call;All mine was thine, before thou hadst this more. Then, if for my love, thou my love receivest,I cannot blame thee, for my love thou usest;But yet be blam’d, if thou thyself deceivestBy wilful taste of what thyself refusest. I do forgive thy robbery, gentle thief,Although thou steal thee all my poverty:And yet, love knows it is a greater griefTo bear love’s wrong, than hate’s known injury.    Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,    Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes. XLIThose pretty wrongs that liberty commits,When I am sometime absent from thy heart,Thy beauty, and thy years full well befits,For still temptation follows where thou art. Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assail’d;And when a woman woos, what woman’s sonWill sourly leave her till he have prevail’d? Ay me! but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,And chide thy beauty and thy straying youth,Who lead thee in their riot even thereWhere thou art forced to break a twofold truth:    Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,    Thine by thy beauty being false to me. XLIIThat thou hast her it is not all my grief,And yet it may be said I loved her dearly;That she hath thee is of my wailing chief,A loss in love that touches me more nearly. Loving offenders thus I will excuse ye:Thou dost love her, because thou know’st I love her;And for my sake even so doth she abuse me,Suffering my friend for my sake to approve her. If I lose thee, my loss is my love’s gain,And losing her, my friend hath found that loss;Both find each other, and I lose both twain,And both for my sake lay on me this cross:    But here’s the joy; my friend and I are one;    Sweet flattery! then she loves but me alone. XLIIIWhen most I wink, then do mine eyes best see,For all the day they view things unrespected;But when I sleep, in dreams they look on thee,And darkly bright, are bright in dark directed. Then thou, whose shadow shadows doth make bright,How would thy shadow’s form form happy showTo the clear day with thy much clearer light,When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so! How would, I say, mine eyes be blessed madeBy looking on thee in the living day,When in dead night thy fair imperfect shadeThrough heavy sleep on sightless eyes doth stay!    All days are nights to see till I see thee,    And nights bright days when dreams do show thee me. XLIVIf the dull substance of my flesh were thought,Injurious distance should not stop my way;For then despite of space I would be brought,From limits far remote, where thou dost stay. No matter then although my foot did standUpon the farthest earth remov’d from thee;For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,As soon as think the place where he would be. But, ah! thought kills me that I am not thought,To leap large lengths of miles when thou art gone,But that so much of earth and water wrought,I must attend time’s leisure with my moan;    Receiving nought by elements so slow    But heavy tears, badges of either’s woe. XLVThe other two, slight air, and purging fireAre both with thee, wherever I abide;The first my thought, the other my desire,These present-absent with swift motion slide. For when these quicker elements are goneIn tender embassy of love to thee,My life, being made of four, with two aloneSinks down to death, oppress’d with melancholy;Until life’s composition be recur’dBy those swift messengers return’d from thee,Who even but now come back again, assur’d,Of thy fair health, recounting it to me:    This told, I joy; but then no longer glad,    I send them back again, and straight grow sad. XLVIMine eye and heart are at a mortal war,How to divide the conquest of thy sight;Mine eye my heart thy picture’s sight would bar,My heart mine eye the freedom of that right. My heart doth plead that thou in him dost lie,A closet never pierced with crystal eyes;But the defendant doth that plea deny,And says in him thy fair appearance lies.

To side this title is impannelledA quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart;And by their verdict is determinedThe clear eye’s moiety, and the dear heart’s part:    As thus; mine eye’s due is thy outward part,    And my heart’s right, thy inward love of heart. XLVIIBetwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,And each doth good turns now unto the other:When that mine eye is famish’d for a look,Or heart in love with sighs himself doth smother,With my love’s picture then my eye doth feast,And to the painted banquet bids my heart;Another time mine eye is my heart’s guest,And in his thoughts of love doth share a part:So, either by thy picture or my love,Thyself away, art present still with me;For thou not farther than my thoughts canst move,And I am still with them, and they with thee;    Or, if they sleep, thy picture in my sight    Awakes my heart, to heart’s and eye’s delight. XLVIIIHow careful was I when I took my way,Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,That to my use it might unused stayFrom hands of falsehood, in sure wards of trust! But thou, to whom my jewels trifles are,Most worthy comfort, now my greatest grief,Thou best of dearest, and mine only care,Art left the prey of every vulgar thief. Thee have I not lock’d up in any chest,Save where thou art not, though I feel thou art,Within the gentle closure of my breast,From whence at pleasure thou mayst come and part;    And even thence thou wilt be stol’n I fear,    For truth proves thievish for a prize so dear. XLIXAgainst that time, if ever that time come,When I shall see thee frown on my defects,When as thy love hath cast his utmost sum,Call’d to that audit by advis’d respects;Against that time when thou shalt strangely pass,And scarcely greet me with that sun, thine eye,When love, converted from the thing it was,Shall reasons find of settled gravity;Against that time do I ensconce me here,Within the knowledge of mine own desert,And this my hand, against my self uprear,To guard the lawful reasons on thy part:    To leave poor me thou hast the strength of laws,    Since why to love I can allege no cause. LHow heavy do I journey on the way,When what I seek, my weary travel’s end,Doth teach that ease and that repose to say,‘Thus far the miles are measured from thy friend! ’The beast that bears me, tired with my woe,Plods dully on, to bear that weight in me,As if by some instinct the wretch did knowHis rider lov’d not speed, being made from thee:The bloody spur cannot provoke him on,That sometimes anger thrusts into his hide,Which heavily he answers with a groan,More sharp to me than spurring to his side;    For that same groan doth put this in my mind,    My grief lies onward, and my joy behind. LIThus can my love excuse the slow offenceOf my dull bearer when from thee I speed:From where thou art why should I haste me thence? Till I return, of posting is no need. O! what excuse will my poor beast then find,When swift extremity can seem but slow? Then should I spur, though mounted on the wind,In winged speed no motion shall I know,Then can no horse with my desire keep pace;Therefore desire, of perfect’st love being made,Shall neigh no dull flesh in his fiery race,But love, for love, thus shall excuse my jade:    ‘Since from thee going, he went wilful-slow,    Towards thee I’ll run, and give him leave to go. ’LIISo am I as the rich, whose blessed key,Can bring him to his sweet up-locked treasure,The which he will not every hour survey,For blunting the fine point of seldom pleasure. Therefore are feasts so solemn and so rare,Since, seldom coming in that long year set,Like stones of worth they thinly placed are,Or captain jewels in the carcanet. So is the time that keeps you as my chest,Or as the wardrobe which the robe doth hide,To make some special instant special-blest,By new unfolding his imprison’d pride.    Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,    Being had, to triumph; being lacked, to hope. LIIIWhat is your substance, whereof are you made,That millions of strange shadows on you tend? Since every one, hath every one, one shade,And you but one, can every shadow lend. Describe Adonis, and the counterfeitIs poorly imitated after you;On Helen’s cheek all art of beauty set,And you in Grecian tires are painted new:Speak of the spring, and foison of the year,The one doth shadow of your beauty show,The other as your bounty doth appear;And you in every blessed shape we know.    In all external grace you have some part,    But you like none, none you, for constant heart. LIVO! how much more doth beauty beauteous seemBy that sweet ornament which truth doth give. The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deemFor that sweet odour, which doth in it live. The canker blooms have full as deep a dyeAs the perfumed tincture of the roses. Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonlyWhen summer’s breath their masked buds discloses:But, for their virtue only is their show,They live unwoo’d, and unrespected fade;Die to themselves. Sweet roses do not so;Of their sweet deaths, are sweetest odours made:    And so of you, beauteous and lovely youth,    When that shall vade, by verse distills your truth. LVNot marble, nor the gilded monumentsOf princes, shall outlive this powerful rhyme;But you shall shine more bright in these contentsThan unswept stone, besmear’d with sluttish time. When wasteful war shall statues overturn,And broils root out the work of masonry,Nor Mars his sword, nor war’s quick fire shall burnThe living record of your memory. ’Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmityShall you pace forth; your praise shall still find roomEven in the eyes of all posterityThat wear this world out to the ending doom.    So, till the judgment that yourself arise,    You live in this, and dwell in lovers’ eyes. LVISweet love, renew thy force; be it not saidThy edge should blunter be than appetite,Which but to-day by feeding is allay’d,To-morrow sharpened in his former might:So, love, be thou, although to-day thou fillThy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,To-morrow see again, and do not killThe spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness. Let this sad interim like the ocean beWhich parts the shore, where two contracted newCome daily to the banks, that when they seeReturn of love, more blest may be the view;    Or call it winter, which being full of care,    Makes summer’s welcome, thrice more wished, more rare. LVIIBeing your slave what should I do but tend,Upon the hours, and times of your desire? I have no precious time at all to spend;Nor services to do, till you require. Nor dare I chide the world-without-end hour,Whilst I, my sovereign, watch the clock for you,Nor think the bitterness of absence sour,When you have bid your servant once adieu;Nor dare I question with my jealous thoughtWhere you may be, or your affairs suppose,But, like a sad slave, stay and think of noughtSave, where you are, how happy you make those.    So true a fool is love, that in your will,    Though you do anything, he thinks no ill. LVIIIThat god forbid, that made me first your slave,I should in thought control your times of pleasure,Or at your hand the account of hours to crave,Being your vassal, bound to stay your leisure! O!

let me suffer, being at your beck,The imprison’d absence of your liberty;And patience, tame to sufferance, bide each check,Without accusing you of injury. Be where you list, your charter is so strongThat you yourself may privilage your timeTo what you will; to you it doth belongYourself to pardon of self-doing crime.    I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,    Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well. LIXIf there be nothing new, but that which isHath been before, how are our brains beguil’d,Which labouring for invention bear amissThe second burthen of a former child! O! that record could with a backward look,Even of five hundred courses of the sun,Show me your image in some antique book,Since mind at first in character was done! That I might see what the old world could sayTo this composed wonder of your frame;Wh’r we are mended, or wh’r better they,Or whether revolution be the same.    O! sure I am the wits of former days,    To subjects worse have given admiring praise. LXLike as the waves make towards the pebbled shore,So do our minutes hasten to their end;Each changing place with that which goes before,In sequent toil all forwards do contend. Nativity, once in the main of light,Crawls to maturity, wherewith being crown’d,Crooked eclipses ’gainst his glory fight,And Time that gave doth now his gift confound. Time doth transfix the flourish set on youthAnd delves the parallels in beauty’s brow,Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth,And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow:    And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand.    Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand. LXIIs it thy will, thy image should keep openMy heavy eyelids to the weary night? Dost thou desire my slumbers should be broken,While shadows like to thee do mock my sight? Is it thy spirit that thou send’st from theeSo far from home into my deeds to pry,To find out shames and idle hours in me,The scope and tenure of thy jealousy? O, no! thy love, though much, is not so great:It is my love that keeps mine eye awake:Mine own true love that doth my rest defeat,To play the watchman ever for thy sake:    For thee watch I, whilst thou dost wake elsewhere,    From me far off, with others all too near. LXIISin of self-love possesseth all mine eyeAnd all my soul, and all my every part;And for this sin there is no remedy,It is so grounded inward in my heart. Methinks no face so gracious is as mine,No shape so true, no truth of such account;And for myself mine own worth do define,As I all other in all worths surmount. But when my glass shows me myself indeedBeated and chopp’d with tanned antiquity,Mine own self-love quite contrary I read;Self so self-loving were iniquity.    ’Tis thee, myself, that for myself I praise,    Painting my age with beauty of thy days. LXIIIAgainst my love shall be as I am now,With Time’s injurious hand crush’d and o’erworn;When hours have drain’d his blood and fill’d his browWith lines and wrinkles; when his youthful mornHath travell’d on to age’s steepy night;And all those beauties whereof now he’s kingAre vanishing, or vanished out of sight,Stealing away the treasure of his spring;For such a time do I now fortifyAgainst confounding age’s cruel knife,That he shall never cut from memoryMy sweet love’s beauty, though my lover’s life:    His beauty shall in these black lines be seen,    And they shall live, and he in them still green. LXIVWhen I have seen by Time’s fell hand defac’dThe rich-proud cost of outworn buried age;When sometime lofty towers I see down-raz’d,And brass eternal slave to mortal rage;When I have seen the hungry ocean gainAdvantage on the kingdom of the shore,And the firm soil win of the watery main,Increasing store with loss, and loss with store;When I have seen such interchange of state,Or state itself confounded, to decay;Ruin hath taught me thus to ruminate:That Time will come and take my love away.    This thought is as a death which cannot choose    But weep to have, that which it fears to lose. LXVSince brass, nor stone, nor earth, nor boundless sea,But sad mortality o’ersways their power,How with this rage shall beauty hold a plea,Whose action is no stronger than a flower? O! how shall summer’s honey breath hold out,Against the wrackful siege of battering days,When rocks impregnable are not so stout,Nor gates of steel so strong but Time decays? O fearful meditation! where, alack,Shall Time’s best jewel from Time’s chest lie hid? Or what strong hand can hold his swift foot back? Or who his spoil of beauty can forbid?    O! none, unless this miracle have might,    That in black ink my love may still shine bright. LXVITired with all these, for restful death I cry:As to behold desert a beggar born,And needy nothing trimm’d in jollity,And purest faith unhappily forsworn,And gilded honour shamefully misplac’d,And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,And right perfection wrongfully disgrac’d,And strength by limping sway disabledAnd art made tongue-tied by authority,And folly, doctor-like, controlling skill,And simple truth miscall’d simplicity,And captive good attending captain ill:    Tir’d with all these, from these would I be gone,    Save that, to die, I leave my love alone. LXVIIAh! wherefore with infection should he live,And with his presence grace impiety,That sin by him advantage should achieve,And lace itself with his society? Why should false painting imitate his cheek,And steel dead seeming of his living hue? Why should poor beauty indirectly seekRoses of shadow, since his rose is true?

Why should he live, now Nature bankrupt is,Beggar’d of blood to blush through lively veins? For she hath no exchequer now but his,And proud of many, lives upon his gains.    O! him she stores, to show what wealth she had    In days long since, before these last so bad. LXVIIIThus is his cheek the map of days outworn,When beauty lived and died as flowers do now,Before these bastard signs of fair were born,Or durst inhabit on a living brow;Before the golden tresses of the dead,The right of sepulchres, were shorn away,To live a second life on second head;Ere beauty’s dead fleece made another gay:In him those holy antique hours are seen,Without all ornament, itself and true,Making no summer of another’s green,Robbing no old to dress his beauty new;    And him as for a map doth Nature store,    To show false Art what beauty was of yore. LXIXThose parts of thee that the world’s eye doth viewWant nothing that the thought of hearts can mend;All tongues, the voice of souls, give thee that due,Uttering bare truth, even so as foes commend. Thy outward thus with outward praise is crown’d;But those same tongues, that give thee so thine own,In other accents do this praise confoundBy seeing farther than the eye hath shown. They look into the beauty of thy mind,And that in guess they measure by thy deeds;Then churls their thoughts, although their eyes were kind,To thy fair flower add the rank smell of weeds:    But why thy odour matcheth not thy show,    The soil is this, that thou dost common grow. LXXThat thou art blam’d shall not be thy defect,For slander’s mark was ever yet the fair;The ornament of beauty is suspect,A crow that flies in heaven’s sweetest air. So thou be good, slander doth but approveThy worth the greater being woo’d of time;For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,And thou present’st a pure unstained prime. Thou hast passed by the ambush of young daysEither not assail’d, or victor being charg’d;Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,To tie up envy, evermore enlarg’d,    If some suspect of ill mask’d not thy show,    Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe. LXXINo longer mourn for me when I am deadThan you shall hear the surly sullen bellGive warning to the world that I am fledFrom this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:Nay, if you read this line, remember notThe hand that writ it, for I love you so,That I in your sweet thoughts would be forgot,If thinking on me then should make you woe. O if, I say, you look upon this verse,When I perhaps compounded am with clay,Do not so much as my poor name rehearse;But let your love even with my life decay;    Lest the wise world should look into your moan,    And mock you with me after I am gone. LXXIIO! lest the world should task you to reciteWhat merit lived in me, that you should loveAfter my death, dear love, forget me quite,For you in me can nothing worthy prove;Unless you would devise some virtuous lie,To do more for me than mine own desert,And hang more praise upon deceased IThan niggard truth would willingly impart:O! lest your true love may seem false in thisThat you for love speak well of me untrue,My name be buried where my body is,And live no more to shame nor me nor you.    For I am shamed by that which I bring forth,    And so should you, to love things nothing worth. LXXIIIThat time of year thou mayst in me beholdWhen yellow leaves, or none, or few, do hangUpon those boughs which shake against the cold,Bare ruin’d choirs, where late the sweet birds sang. In me thou see’st the twilight of such dayAs after sunset fadeth in the west;Which by and by black night doth take away,Death’s second self, that seals up all in rest. In me thou see’st the glowing of such fire,That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,Consum’d with that which it was nourish’d by.    This thou perceiv’st, which makes thy love more strong,    To love that well, which thou must leave ere long. LXXIVBut be contented: when that fell arrestWithout all bail shall carry me away,My life hath in this line some interest,Which for memorial still with thee shall stay. When thou reviewest this, thou dost reviewThe very part was consecrate to thee:The earth can have but earth, which is his due;My spirit is thine, the better part of me:So then thou hast but lost the dregs of life,The prey of worms, my body being dead;The coward conquest of a wretch’s knife,Too base of thee to be remembered.    The worth of that is that which it contains,    And that is this, and this with thee remains. LXXVSo are you to my thoughts as food to life,Or as sweet-season’d showers are to the ground;And for the peace of you I hold such strifeAs ’twixt a miser and his wealth is found. Now proud as an enjoyer, and anonDoubting the filching age will steal his treasure;Now counting best to be with you alone,Then better’d that the world may see my pleasure:Sometime all full with feasting on your sight,And by and by clean starved for a look;Possessing or pursuing no delight,Save what is had, or must from you be took.    Thus do I pine and surfeit day by day,    Or gluttoning on all, or all away. LXXVIWhy is my verse so barren of new pride,So far from variation or quick change? Why with the time do I not glance asideTo new-found methods, and to compounds strange? Why write I still all one, ever the same,And keep invention in a noted weed,That every word doth almost tell my name,Showing their birth, and where they did proceed? O! know sweet love I always write of you,And you and love are still my argument;So all my best is dressing old words new,Spending again what is already spent:    For as the sun is daily new and old,    So is my love still telling what is told. LXXVIIThy glass will show thee how thy beauties wear,Thy dial how thy precious minutes waste;These vacant leaves thy mind’s imprint will bear,And of this book, this learning mayst thou taste. The wrinkles which thy glass will truly showOf mouthed graves will give thee memory;Thou by thy dial’s shady stealth mayst knowTime’s thievish progress to eternity. Look! what thy memory cannot contain,Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt findThose children nursed, deliver’d from thy brain,To take a new acquaintance of thy mind.    These offices, so oft as thou wilt look,    Shall profit thee and much enrich thy book. LXXVIIISo oft have I invoked thee for my Muse,And found such fair assistance in my verseAs every alien pen hath got my useAnd under thee their poesy disperse. Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to singAnd heavy ignorance aloft to fly,Have added feathers to the learned’s wingAnd given grace a double majesty.

Yet be most proud of that which I compile,Whose influence is thine, and born of thee:In others’ works thou dost but mend the style,And arts with thy sweet graces graced be;    But thou art all my art, and dost advance    As high as learning, my rude ignorance. LXXIXWhilst I alone did call upon thy aid,My verse alone had all thy gentle grace;But now my gracious numbers are decay’d,And my sick Muse doth give an other place. I grant, sweet love, thy lovely argumentDeserves the travail of a worthier pen;Yet what of thee thy poet doth inventHe robs thee of, and pays it thee again. He lends thee virtue, and he stole that wordFrom thy behaviour; beauty doth he give,And found it in thy cheek: he can affordNo praise to thee, but what in thee doth live.    Then thank him not for that which he doth say,    Since what he owes thee, thou thyself dost pay. LXXXO! how I faint when I of you do write,Knowing a better spirit doth use your name,And in the praise thereof spends all his might,To make me tongue-tied speaking of your fame! But since your wort, wide as the ocean is,The humble as the proudest sail doth bear,My saucy bark, inferior far to his,On your broad main doth wilfully appear. Your shallowest help will hold me up afloat,Whilst he upon your soundless deep doth ride;Or, being wrack’d, I am a worthless boat,He of tall building, and of goodly pride:    Then if he thrive and I be cast away,    The worst was this: my love was my decay. LXXXIOr I shall live your epitaph to make,Or you survive when I in earth am rotten;From hence your memory death cannot take,Although in me each part will be forgotten. Your name from hence immortal life shall have,Though I, once gone, to all the world must die:The earth can yield me but a common grave,When you entombed in men’s eyes shall lie. Your monument shall be my gentle verse,Which eyes not yet created shall o’er-read;And tongues to be, your being shall rehearse,When all the breathers of this world are dead;    You still shall live, such virtue hath my pen,    Where breath most breathes, even in the mouths of men. LXXXIII grant thou wert not married to my Muse,And therefore mayst without attaint o’erlookThe dedicated words which writers useOf their fair subject, blessing every book. Thou art as fair in knowledge as in hue,Finding thy worth a limit past my praise;And therefore art enforced to seek anewSome fresher stamp of the time-bettering days. And do so, love; yet when they have devis’d,What strained touches rhetoric can lend,Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathiz’dIn true plain words, by thy true-telling friend;    And their gross painting might be better us’d    Where cheeks need blood; in thee it is abus’d. LXXXIIII never saw that you did painting need,And therefore to your fair no painting set;I found, or thought I found, you did exceedThat barren tender of a poet’s debt:And therefore have I slept in your report,That you yourself, being extant, well might showHow far a modern quill doth come too short,Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow. This silence for my sin you did impute,Which shall be most my glory being dumb;For I impair not beauty being mute,When others would give life, and bring a tomb.    There lives more life in one of your fair eyes    Than both your poets can in praise devise. LXXXIVWho is it that says most, which can say more,Than this rich praise: that you alone are you,In whose confine immured is the storeWhich should example where your equal grew. Lean penury within that pen doth dwellThat to his subject lends not some small glory;But he that writes of you, if he can tellThat you are you, so dignifies his story,Let him but copy what in you is writ,Not making worse what nature made so clear,And such a counterpart shall fame his wit,Making his style admired every where.    You to your beauteous blessings add a curse,    Being fond on praise, which makes your praises worse. LXXXVMy tongue-tied Muse in manners holds her still,While comments of your praise richly compil’d,Reserve their character with golden quill,And precious phrase by all the Muses fil’d. I think good thoughts, whilst others write good words,And like unlettered clerk still cry ‘Amen’To every hymn that able spirit affords,In polish’d form of well-refined pen. Hearing you praised, I say ‘’tis so, ’tis true,’And to the most of praise add something more;But that is in my thought, whose love to you,Though words come hindmost, holds his rank before.    Then others, for the breath of words respect,    Me for my dumb thoughts, speaking in effect. LXXXVIWas it the proud full sail of his great verse,Bound for the prize of all too precious you,That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew? Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write,Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead? No, neither he, nor his compeers by nightGiving him aid, my verse astonished. He, nor that affable familiar ghostWhich nightly gulls him with intelligence,As victors of my silence cannot boast;I was not sick of any fear from thence:    But when your countenance fill’d up his line,    Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine. LXXXVIIFarewell! thou art too dear for my possessing,And like enough thou know’st thy estimate,The charter of thy worth gives thee releasing;My bonds in thee are all determinate. For how do I hold thee but by thy granting? And for that riches where is my deserving? The cause of this fair gift in me is wanting,And so my patent back again is swerving. Thyself thou gav’st, thy own worth then not knowing,Or me to whom thou gav’st it, else mistaking;So thy great gift, upon misprision growing,Comes home again, on better judgement making.    Thus have I had thee, as a dream doth flatter,    In sleep a king, but waking no such matter. LXXXVIIIWhen thou shalt be dispos’d to set me light,And place my merit in the eye of scorn,Upon thy side, against myself I’ll fight,And prove thee virtuous, though thou art forsworn. With mine own weakness, being best acquainted,Upon thy part I can set down a storyOf faults conceal’d, wherein I am attainted;That thou in losing me shalt win much glory:And I by this will be a gainer too;For bending all my loving thoughts on thee,The injuries that to myself I do,Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.    Such is my love, to thee I so belong,    That for thy right, myself will bear all wrong.

LXXXIXSay that thou didst forsake me for some fault,And I will comment upon that offence:Speak of my lameness, and I straight will halt,Against thy reasons making no defence. Thou canst not love disgrace me half so ill,To set a form upon desired change,As I’ll myself disgrace; knowing thy will,I will acquaintance strangle, and look strange;Be absent from thy walks; and in my tongueThy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,Lest I, too much profane, should do it wrong,And haply of our old acquaintance tell.    For thee, against my self I’ll vow debate,    For I must ne’er love him whom thou dost hate. XCThen hate me when thou wilt; if ever, now;Now, while the world is bent my deeds to cross,Join with the spite of fortune, make me bow,And do not drop in for an after-loss:Ah! do not, when my heart hath ’scap’d this sorrow,Come in the rearward of a conquer’d woe;Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,To linger out a purpos’d overthrow. If thou wilt leave me, do not leave me last,When other petty griefs have done their spite,But in the onset come: so shall I tasteAt first the very worst of fortune’s might;    And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,    Compar’d with loss of thee, will not seem so. XCISome glory in their birth, some in their skill,Some in their wealth, some in their body’s force,Some in their garments though new-fangled ill;Some in their hawks and hounds, some in their horse;And every humour hath his adjunct pleasure,Wherein it finds a joy above the rest:But these particulars are not my measure,All these I better in one general best. Thy love is better than high birth to me,Richer than wealth, prouder than garments’ costs,Of more delight than hawks and horses be;And having thee, of all men’s pride I boast:    Wretched in this alone, that thou mayst take    All this away, and me most wretchcd make. XCIIBut do thy worst to steal thyself away,For term of life thou art assured mine;And life no longer than thy love will stay,For it depends upon that love of thine. Then need I not to fear the worst of wrongs,When in the least of them my life hath end. I see a better state to me belongsThan that which on thy humour doth depend:Thou canst not vex me with inconstant mind,Since that my life on thy revolt doth lie. O! what a happy title do I find,Happy to have thy love, happy to die!    But what’s so blessed-fair that fears no blot?    Thou mayst be false, and yet I know it not. XCIIISo shall I live, supposing thou art true,Like a deceived husband; so love’s faceMay still seem love to me, though alter’d new;Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place:For there can live no hatred in thine eye,Therefore in that I cannot know thy change. In many’s looks, the false heart’s historyIs writ in moods, and frowns, and wrinkles strange. But heaven in thy creation did decreeThat in thy face sweet love should ever dwell;Whate’er thy thoughts, or thy heart’s workings be,Thy looks should nothing thence, but sweetness tell.    How like Eve’s apple doth thy beauty grow,    If thy sweet virtue answer not thy show! XCIVThey that have power to hurt, and will do none,That do not do the thing they most do show,Who, moving others, are themselves as stone,Unmoved, cold, and to temptation slow;They rightly do inherit heaven’s graces,And husband nature’s riches from expense;They are the lords and owners of their faces,Others, but stewards of their excellence. The summer’s flower is to the summer sweet,Though to itself, it only live and die,But if that flower with base infection meet,The basest weed outbraves his dignity:    For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;    Lilies that fester, smell far worse than weeds. XCVHow sweet and lovely dost thou make the shameWhich, like a canker in the fragrant rose,Doth spot the beauty of thy budding name! O! in what sweets dost thou thy sins enclose. That tongue that tells the story of thy days,Making lascivious comments on thy sport,Cannot dispraise, but in a kind of praise;Naming thy name, blesses an ill report. O! what a mansion have those vices gotWhich for their habitation chose out thee,Where beauty’s veil doth cover every blotAnd all things turns to fair that eyes can see!    Take heed, dear heart, of this large privilege;    The hardest knife ill-us’d doth lose his edge. XCVISome say thy fault is youth, some wantonness;Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport;Both grace and faults are lov’d of more and less:Thou mak’st faults graces that to thee resort. As on the finger of a throned queenThe basest jewel will be well esteem’d,So are those errors that in thee are seenTo truths translated, and for true things deem’d. How many lambs might the stern wolf betray,If like a lamb he could his looks translate! How many gazers mightst thou lead away,if thou wouldst use the strength of all thy state!    But do not so; I love thee in such sort,    As, thou being mine, mine is thy good report. XCVIIHow like a winter hath my absence beenFrom thee, the pleasure of the fleeting year! What freezings have I felt, what dark days seen! What old December’s bareness everywhere! And yet this time removed was summer’s time;The teeming autumn, big with rich increase,Bearing the wanton burden of the prime,Like widow’d wombs after their lords’ decease:Yet this abundant issue seem’d to meBut hope of orphans, and unfather’d fruit;For summer and his pleasures wait on thee,And, thou away, the very birds are mute:    Or, if they sing, ’tis with so dull a cheer,    That leaves look pale, dreading the winter’s near. XCVIIIFrom you have I been absent in the spring,When proud-pied April, dress’d in all his trim,Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing,That heavy Saturn laugh’d and leap’d with him. Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smellOf different flowers in odour and in hue,Could make me any summer’s story tell,Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew:Nor did I wonder at the lily’s white,Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose;They were but sweet, but figures of delight,Drawn after you, you pattern of all those.

Yet seem’d it winter still, and you away,    As with your shadow I with these did play. XCIXThe forward violet thus did I chide:Sweet thief, whence didst thou steal thy sweet that smells,If not from my love’s breath? The purple prideWhich on thy soft cheek for complexion dwellsIn my love’s veins thou hast too grossly dy’d. The lily I condemned for thy hand,And buds of marjoram had stol’n thy hair;The roses fearfully on thorns did stand,One blushing shame, another white despair;A third, nor red nor white, had stol’n of both,And to his robbery had annex’d thy breath;But, for his theft, in pride of all his growthA vengeful canker eat him up to death.    More flowers I noted, yet I none could see,    But sweet, or colour it had stol’n from thee. CWhere art thou Muse that thou forget’st so long,To speak of that which gives thee all thy might? Spend’st thou thy fury on some worthless song,Darkening thy power to lend base subjects light? Return forgetful Muse, and straight redeem,In gentle numbers time so idly spent;Sing to the ear that doth thy lays esteemAnd gives thy pen both skill and argument. Rise, resty Muse, my love’s sweet face survey,If Time have any wrinkle graven there;If any, be a satire to decay,And make time’s spoils despised every where.    Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,    So thou prevent’st his scythe and crooked knife. CIO truant Muse what shall be thy amendsFor thy neglect of truth in beauty dy’d? Both truth and beauty on my love depends;So dost thou too, and therein dignified. Make answer Muse: wilt thou not haply say,‘Truth needs no colour, with his colour fix’d;Beauty no pencil, beauty’s truth to lay;But best is best, if never intermix’d’? Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb? Excuse not silence so, for’t lies in theeTo make him much outlive a gilded tombAnd to be prais’d of ages yet to be.    Then do thy office, Muse; I teach thee how    To make him seem long hence as he shows now. CIIMy love is strengthen’d, though more weak in seeming;I love not less, though less the show appear;That love is merchandiz’d, whose rich esteeming,The owner’s tongue doth publish every where. Our love was new, and then but in the spring,When I was wont to greet it with my lays;As Philomel in summer’s front doth sing,And stops her pipe in growth of riper days:Not that the summer is less pleasant nowThan when her mournful hymns did hush the night,But that wild music burthens every bough,And sweets grown common lose their dear delight.    Therefore like her, I sometime hold my tongue:    Because I would not dull you with my song. CIIIAlack! what poverty my Muse brings forth,That having such a scope to show her pride,The argument, all bare, is of more worthThan when it hath my added praise beside! O! blame me not, if I no more can write! Look in your glass, and there appears a faceThat over-goes my blunt invention quite,Dulling my lines, and doing me disgrace. Were it not sinful then, striving to mend,To mar the subject that before was well? For to no other pass my verses tendThan of your graces and your gifts to tell;    And more, much more, than in my verse can sit,    Your own glass shows you when you look in it. CIVTo me, fair friend, you never can be old,For as you were when first your eye I ey’d,Such seems your beauty still. Three winters cold,Have from the forests shook three summers’ pride,Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turn’d,In process of the seasons have I seen,Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burn’d,Since first I saw you fresh, which yet are green. Ah! yet doth beauty like a dial-hand,Steal from his figure, and no pace perceiv’d;So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand,Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceiv’d:    For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred:    Ere you were born was beauty’s summer dead. CVLet not my love be call’d idolatry,Nor my beloved as an idol show,Since all alike my songs and praises beTo one, of one, still such, and ever so. Kind is my love to-day, to-morrow kind,Still constant in a wondrous excellence;Therefore my verse to constancy confin’d,One thing expressing, leaves out difference. ‘Fair, kind, and true,’ is all my argument,‘Fair, kind, and true,’ varying to other words;And in this change is my invention spent,Three themes in one, which wondrous scope affords.    Fair, kind, and true, have often liv’d alone,    Which three till now, never kept seat in one. CVIWhen in the chronicle of wasted timeI see descriptions of the fairest wights,And beauty making beautiful old rime,In praise of ladies dead and lovely knights,Then, in the blazon of sweet beauty’s best,Of hand, of foot, of lip, of eye, of brow,I see their antique pen would have express’dEven such a beauty as you master now. So all their praises are but propheciesOf this our time, all you prefiguring;And for they looked but with divining eyes,They had not skill enough your worth to sing:    For we, which now behold these present days,    Have eyes to wonder, but lack tongues to praise. CVIINot mine own fears, nor the prophetic soulOf the wide world dreaming on things to come,Can yet the lease of my true love control,Supposed as forfeit to a confin’d doom. The mortal moon hath her eclipse endur’d,And the sad augurs mock their own presage;Incertainties now crown themselves assur’d,And peace proclaims olives of endless age. Now with the drops of this most balmy time,My love looks fresh, and Death to me subscribes,Since, spite of him, I’ll live in this poor rime,While he insults o’er dull and speechless tribes:    And thou in this shalt find thy monument,    When tyrants’ crests and tombs of brass are spent.

CVIIIWhat’s in the brain, that ink may character,Which hath not figur’d to thee my true spirit? What’s new to speak, what now to register,That may express my love, or thy dear merit? Nothing, sweet boy; but yet, like prayers divine,I must each day say o’er the very same;Counting no old thing old, thou mine, I thine,Even as when first I hallow’d thy fair name. So that eternal love in love’s fresh case,Weighs not the dust and injury of age,Nor gives to necessary wrinkles place,But makes antiquity for aye his page;    Finding the first conceit of love there bred,    Where time and outward form would show it dead. CIXO! never say that I was false of heart,Though absence seem’d my flame to qualify,As easy might I from my self departAs from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:That is my home of love: if I have rang’d,Like him that travels, I return again;Just to the time, not with the time exchang’d,So that myself bring water for my stain. Never believe though in my nature reign’d,All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,That it could so preposterously be stain’d,To leave for nothing all thy sum of good;    For nothing this wide universe I call,    Save thou, my rose, in it thou art my all. CXAlas! ’tis true, I have gone here and there,And made my self a motley to the view,Gor’d mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,Made old offences of affections new;Most true it is, that I have look’d on truthAskance and strangely; but, by all above,These blenches gave my heart another youth,And worse essays prov’d thee my best of love. Now all is done, save what shall have no end:Mine appetite I never more will grindOn newer proof, to try an older friend,A god in love, to whom I am confin’d.    Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,    Even to thy pure and most most loving breast. CXIO! for my sake do you with Fortune chide,The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,That did not better for my life provideThan public means which public manners breeds. Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,And almost thence my nature is subdu’dTo what it works in, like the dyer’s hand:Pity me, then, and wish I were renew’d;Whilst, like a willing patient, I will drink,Potions of eisel ’gainst my strong infection;No bitterness that I will bitter think,Nor double penance, to correct correction.    Pity me then, dear friend, and I assure ye,    Even that your pity is enough to cure me. CXIIYour love and pity doth the impression fill,Which vulgar scandal stamp’d upon my brow;For what care I who calls me well or ill,So you o’er-green my bad, my good allow? You are my all-the-world, and I must striveTo know my shames and praises from your tongue;None else to me, nor I to none alive,That my steel’d sense or changes right or wrong. In so profound abysm I throw all careOf others’ voices, that my adder’s senseTo critic and to flatterer stopped are. Mark how with my neglect I do dispense:    You are so strongly in my purpose bred,    That all the world besides methinks are dead. CXIIISince I left you, mine eye is in my mind;And that which governs me to go aboutDoth part his function and is partly blind,Seems seeing, but effectually is out;For it no form delivers to the heartOf bird, of flower, or shape which it doth latch:Of his quick objects hath the mind no part,Nor his own vision holds what it doth catch;For if it see the rud’st or gentlest sight,The most sweet favour or deformed’st creature,The mountain or the sea, the day or night:The crow, or dove, it shapes them to your feature.    Incapable of more, replete with you,    My most true mind thus maketh mine untrue. CXIVOr whether doth my mind, being crown’d with you,Drink up the monarch’s plague, this flattery? Or whether shall I say, mine eye saith true,And that your love taught it this alchemy,To make of monsters and things indigestSuch cherubins as your sweet self resemble,Creating every bad a perfect best,As fast as objects to his beams assemble? O! ’tis the first, ’tis flattery in my seeing,And my great mind most kingly drinks it up:Mine eye well knows what with his gust is ’greeing,And to his palate doth prepare the cup:    If it be poison’d, ’tis the lesser sin    That mine eye loves it and doth first begin. CXVThose lines that I before have writ do lie,Even those that said I could not love you dearer:Yet then my judgment knew no reason whyMy most full flame should afterwards burn clearer. But reckoning Time, whose million’d accidentsCreep in ’twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp’st intents,Divert strong minds to the course of altering things;Alas! why fearing of Time’s tyranny,Might I not then say, ‘Now I love you best,’When I was certain o’er incertainty,Crowning the present, doubting of the rest?    Love is a babe, then might I not say so,    To give full growth to that which still doth grow? CXVILet me not to the marriage of true mindsAdmit impediments. Love is not loveWhich alters when it alteration finds,Or bends with the remover to remove:O, no! it is an ever-fixed mark,That looks on tempests and is never shaken;It is the star to every wandering bark,Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken. Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeksWithin his bending sickle’s compass come;Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,But bears it out even to the edge of doom.    If this be error and upon me prov’d,    I never writ, nor no man ever lov’d. CXVIIAccuse me thus: that I have scanted all,Wherein I should your great deserts repay,Forgot upon your dearest love to call,Whereto all bonds do tie me day by day;That I have frequent been with unknown minds,And given to time your own dear-purchas’d right;That I have hoisted sail to all the windsWhich should transport me farthest from your sight. Book both my wilfulness and errors down,And on just proof surmise, accumulate;Bring me within the level of your frown,But shoot not at me in your waken’d hate;    Since my appeal says I did strive to prove    The constancy and virtue of your love. CXVIIILike as, to make our appetite more keen,With eager compounds we our palate urge;As, to prevent our maladies unseen,We sicken to shun sickness when we purge;Even so, being full of your ne’er-cloying sweetness,To bitter sauces did I frame my feeding;And, sick of welfare, found a kind of meetnessTo be diseas’d, ere that there was true needing. Thus policy in love, to anticipateThe ills that were not, grew to faults assur’d,And brought to medicine a healthful stateWhich, rank of goodness, would by ill be cur’d;    But thence I learn and find the lesson true,    Drugs poison him that so fell sick of you. CXIXWhat potions have I drunk of Siren tears,Distill’d from limbecks foul as hell within,Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,Still losing when I saw myself to win!

What wretched errors hath my heart committed,Whilst it hath thought itself so blessed never! How have mine eyes out of their spheres been fitted,In the distraction of this madding fever! O benefit of ill! now I find trueThat better is, by evil still made better;And ruin’d love, when it is built anew,Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.    So I return rebuk’d to my content,    And gain by ill thrice more than I have spent. CXXThat you were once unkind befriends me now,And for that sorrow, which I then did feel,Needs must I under my transgression bow,Unless my nerves were brass or hammer’d steel. For if you were by my unkindness shaken,As I by yours, you’ve pass’d a hell of time;And I, a tyrant, have no leisure takenTo weigh how once I suffer’d in your crime. O! that our night of woe might have remember’dMy deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,And soon to you, as you to me, then tender’dThe humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits!    But that your trespass now becomes a fee;    Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me. CXXI’Tis better to be vile than vile esteem’d,When not to be receives reproach of being;And the just pleasure lost, which is so deem’dNot by our feeling, but by others’ seeing:For why should others’ false adulterate eyesGive salutation to my sportive blood? Or on my frailties why are frailer spies,Which in their wills count bad what I think good? No, I am that I am, and they that levelAt my abuses reckon up their own:I may be straight though they themselves be bevel;By their rank thoughts, my deeds must not be shown;    Unless this general evil they maintain,    All men are bad and in their badness reign. CXXIIThy gift, thy tables, are within my brainFull character’d with lasting memory,Which shall above that idle rank remain,Beyond all date; even to eternity:Or, at the least, so long as brain and heartHave faculty by nature to subsist;Till each to raz’d oblivion yield his partOf thee, thy record never can be miss’d. That poor retention could not so much hold,Nor need I tallies thy dear love to score;Therefore to give them from me was I bold,To trust those tables that receive thee more:    To keep an adjunct to remember thee    Were to import forgetfulness in me. CXXIIINo, Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change:Thy pyramids built up with newer mightTo me are nothing novel, nothing strange;They are but dressings of a former sight. Our dates are brief, and therefore we admireWhat thou dost foist upon us that is old;And rather make them born to our desireThan think that we before have heard them told. Thy registers and thee I both defy,Not wondering at the present nor the past,For thy records and what we see doth lie,Made more or less by thy continual haste.    This I do vow and this shall ever be;    I will be true despite thy scythe and thee. CXXIVIf my dear love were but the child of state,It might for Fortune’s bastard be unfather’d,As subject to Time’s love or to Time’s hate,Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gather’d. No, it was builded far from accident;It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor fallsUnder the blow of thralled discontent,Whereto th’ inviting time our fashion calls:It fears not policy, that heretic,Which works on leases of short-number’d hours,But all alone stands hugely politic,That it nor grows with heat, nor drowns with showers.    To this I witness call the fools of time,    Which die for goodness, who have lived for crime. CXXVWere’t aught to me I bore the canopy,With my extern the outward honouring,Or laid great bases for eternity,Which proves more short than waste or ruining? Have I not seen dwellers on form and favourLose all and more by paying too much rentFor compound sweet; forgoing simple savour,Pitiful thrivers, in their gazing spent? No; let me be obsequious in thy heart,And take thou my oblation, poor but free,Which is not mix’d with seconds, knows no art,But mutual render, only me for thee.    Hence, thou suborned informer! a true soul    When most impeach’d, stands least in thy control. CXXVIO thou, my lovely boy, who in thy powerDost hold Time’s fickle glass, his fickle hour;Who hast by waning grown, and therein show’stThy lovers withering, as thy sweet self grow’st. If Nature, sovereign mistress over wrack,As thou goest onwards, still will pluck thee back,She keeps thee to this purpose, that her skillMay time disgrace and wretched minutes kill. Yet fear her, O thou minion of her pleasure! She may detain, but not still keep, her treasure:    Her audit (though delayed) answered must be,    And her quietus is to render thee. CXXVIIIn the old age black was not counted fair,Or if it were, it bore not beauty’s name;But now is black beauty’s successive heir,And beauty slander’d with a bastard shame:For since each hand hath put on Nature’s power,Fairing the foul with Art’s false borrowed face,Sweet beauty hath no name, no holy bower,But is profan’d, if not lives in disgrace. Therefore my mistress’ eyes are raven black,Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seemAt such who, not born fair, no beauty lack,Sland’ring creation with a false esteem:    Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,    That every tongue says beauty should look so. CXXVIIIHow oft when thou, my music, music play’st,Upon that blessed wood whose motion soundsWith thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway’stThe wiry concord that mine ear confounds,Do I envy those jacks that nimble leap,To kiss the tender inward of thy hand,Whilst my poor lips which should that harvest reap,At the wood’s boldness by thee blushing stand! To be so tickled, they would change their stateAnd situation with those dancing chips,O’er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,Making dead wood more bless’d than living lips.    Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,    Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss. CXXIXThe expense of spirit in a waste of shameIs lust in action: and till action, lustIs perjur’d, murderous, bloody, full of blame,Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust;Enjoy’d no sooner but despised straight;Past reason hunted; and no sooner had,Past reason hated, as a swallow’d bait,On purpose laid to make the taker mad:Mad in pursuit and in possession so;Had, having, and in quest, to have extreme;A bliss in proof, and proved, a very woe;Before, a joy propos’d; behind a dream.    All this the world well knows; yet none knows well    To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell. CXXXMy mistress’ eyes are nothing like the sun;Coral is far more red, than her lips red:If snow be white, why then her breasts are dun;If hairs be wires, black wires grow on her head.

I have seen roses damask’d, red and white,But no such roses see I in her cheeks;And in some perfumes is there more delightThan in the breath that from my mistress reeks. I love to hear her speak, yet well I knowThat music hath a far more pleasing sound:I grant I never saw a goddess go;My mistress, when she walks, treads on the ground:    And yet by heaven, I think my love as rare,    As any she belied with false compare. CXXXIThou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;For well thou know’st to my dear doting heartThou art the fairest and most precious jewel. Yet, in good faith, some say that thee behold,Thy face hath not the power to make love groan;To say they err I dare not be so bold,Although I swear it to myself alone. And to be sure that is not false I swear,A thousand groans, but thinking on thy face,One on another’s neck, do witness bearThy black is fairest in my judgment’s place.    In nothing art thou black save in thy deeds,    And thence this slander, as I think, proceeds. CXXXIIThine eyes I love, and they, as pitying me,Knowing thy heart torment me with disdain,Have put on black and loving mourners be,Looking with pretty ruth upon my pain. And truly not the morning sun of heavenBetter becomes the grey cheeks of the east,Nor that full star that ushers in the even,Doth half that glory to the sober west,As those two mourning eyes become thy face:O! let it then as well beseem thy heartTo mourn for me since mourning doth thee grace,And suit thy pity like in every part.    Then will I swear beauty herself is black,    And all they foul that thy complexion lack. CXXXIIIBeshrew that heart that makes my heart to groanFor that deep wound it gives my friend and me! Is’t not enough to torture me alone,But slave to slavery my sweet’st friend must be? Me from myself thy cruel eye hath taken,And my next self thou harder hast engross’d:Of him, myself, and thee I am forsaken;A torment thrice three-fold thus to be cross’d:Prison my heart in thy steel bosom’s ward,But then my friend’s heart let my poor heart bail;Whoe’er keeps me, let my heart be his guard;Thou canst not then use rigour in my jail:    And yet thou wilt; for I, being pent in thee,    Perforce am thine, and all that is in me. CXXXIVSo, now I have confess’d that he is thine,And I my self am mortgag’d to thy will,Myself I’ll forfeit, so that other mineThou wilt restore to be my comfort still:But thou wilt not, nor he will not be free,For thou art covetous, and he is kind;He learn’d but surety-like to write for me,Under that bond that him as fast doth bind. The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,Thou usurer, that putt’st forth all to use,And sue a friend came debtor for my sake;So him I lose through my unkind abuse.    Him have I lost; thou hast both him and me:    He pays the whole, and yet am I not free. CXXXVWhoever hath her wish, thou hast thy ‘Will,’And ‘Will’ to boot, and ‘Will’ in over-plus;More than enough am I that vex’d thee still,To thy sweet will making addition thus. Wilt thou, whose will is large and spacious,Not once vouchsafe to hide my will in thine? Shall will in others seem right gracious,And in my will no fair acceptance shine? The sea, all water, yet receives rain still,And in abundance addeth to his store;So thou, being rich in ‘Will,’ add to thy ‘Will’One will of mine, to make thy large will more.    Let no unkind ‘No’ fair beseechers kill;    Think all but one, and me in that one ‘Will. ’CXXXVIIf thy soul check thee that I come so near,Swear to thy blind soul that I was thy ‘Will’,And will, thy soul knows, is admitted there;Thus far for love, my love-suit, sweet, fulfil. ‘Will’, will fulfil the treasure of thy love,Ay, fill it full with wills, and my will one. In things of great receipt with ease we proveAmong a number one is reckon’d none:Then in the number let me pass untold,Though in thy store’s account I one must be;For nothing hold me, so it please thee holdThat nothing me, a something sweet to thee:    Make but my name thy love, and love that still,    And then thou lov’st me for my name is ‘Will. ’CXXXVIIThou blind fool, Love, what dost thou to mine eyes,That they behold, and see not what they see? They know what beauty is, see where it lies,Yet what the best is take the worst to be. If eyes, corrupt by over-partial looks,Be anchor’d in the bay where all men ride,Why of eyes’ falsehood hast thou forged hooks,Whereto the judgment of my heart is tied? Why should my heart think that a several plot,Which my heart knows the wide world’s common place? Or mine eyes, seeing this, say this is not,To put fair truth upon so foul a face?    In things right true my heart and eyes have err’d,    And to this false plague are they now transferr’d. CXXXVIIIWhen my love swears that she is made of truth,I do believe her though I know she lies,That she might think me some untutor’d youth,Unlearned in the world’s false subtleties. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young,Although she knows my days are past the best,Simply I credit her false-speaking tongue:On both sides thus is simple truth suppressed:But wherefore says she not she is unjust? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O! love’s best habit is in seeming trust,And age in love, loves not to have years told:    Therefore I lie with her, and she with me,    And in our faults by lies we flatter’d be. CXXXIXO! call not me to justify the wrongThat thy unkindness lays upon my heart;Wound me not with thine eye, but with thy tongue:Use power with power, and slay me not by art,Tell me thou lov’st elsewhere; but in my sight,Dear heart, forbear to glance thine eye aside:What need’st thou wound with cunning, when thy mightIs more than my o’erpress’d defence can bide? Let me excuse thee: ah! my love well knowsHer pretty looks have been mine enemies;And therefore from my face she turns my foes,That they elsewhere might dart their injuries:    Yet do not so; but since I am near slain,    Kill me outright with looks, and rid my pain.

CXLBe wise as thou art cruel; do not pressMy tongue-tied patience with too much disdain;Lest sorrow lend me words, and words expressThe manner of my pity-wanting pain. If I might teach thee wit, better it were,Though not to love, yet love to tell me so,As testy sick men, when their deaths be near,No news but health from their physicians know. For, if I should despair, I should grow mad,And in my madness might speak ill of thee;Now this ill-wresting world is grown so bad,Mad slanderers by mad ears believed be.    That I may not be so, nor thou belied,    Bear thine eyes straight, though thy proud heart go wide. CXLIIn faith I do not love thee with mine eyes,For they in thee a thousand errors note;But ’tis my heart that loves what they despise,Who, in despite of view, is pleased to dote. Nor are mine ears with thy tongue’s tune delighted;Nor tender feeling, to base touches prone,Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invitedTo any sensual feast with thee alone:But my five wits nor my five senses canDissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,Who leaves unsway’d the likeness of a man,Thy proud heart’s slave and vassal wretch to be:    Only my plague thus far I count my gain,    That she that makes me sin awards me pain. CXLIILove is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,Hate of my sin, grounded on sinful loving:O! but with mine compare thou thine own state,And thou shalt find it merits not reproving;Or, if it do, not from those lips of thine,That have profan’d their scarlet ornamentsAnd seal’d false bonds of love as oft as mine,Robb’d others’ beds’ revenues of their rents. Be it lawful I love thee, as thou lov’st thoseWhom thine eyes woo as mine importune thee:Root pity in thy heart, that, when it grows,Thy pity may deserve to pitied be.    If thou dost seek to have what thou dost hide,    By self-example mayst thou be denied! CXLIIILo, as a careful housewife runs to catchOne of her feather’d creatures broke away,Sets down her babe, and makes all swift dispatchIn pursuit of the thing she would have stay;Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,Cries to catch her whose busy care is bentTo follow that which flies before her face,Not prizing her poor infant’s discontent;So runn’st thou after that which flies from thee,Whilst I thy babe chase thee afar behind;But if thou catch thy hope, turn back to me,And play the mother’s part, kiss me, be kind;    So will I pray that thou mayst have thy ‘Will,’    If thou turn back and my loud crying still. CXLIVTwo loves I have of comfort and despair,Which like two spirits do suggest me still:The better angel is a man right fair,The worser spirit a woman colour’d ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil,Tempteth my better angel from my side,And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,Wooing his purity with her foul pride. And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend,Suspect I may, yet not directly tell;But being both from me, both to each friend,I guess one angel in another’s hell:    Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,    Till my bad angel fire my good one out. CXLVThose lips that Love’s own hand did make,Breathed forth the sound that said ‘I hate’,To me that languish’d for her sake:But when she saw my woeful state,Straight in her heart did mercy come,Chiding that tongue that ever sweetWas us’d in giving gentle doom;And taught it thus anew to greet;‘I hate’ she alter’d with an end,That followed it as gentle day,Doth follow night, who like a fiendFrom heaven to hell is flown away.    ‘I hate’, from hate away she threw,    And sav’d my life, saying ‘not you’. CXLVIPoor soul, the centre of my sinful earth,My sinful earth these rebel powers array,Why dost thou pine within and suffer dearth,Painting thy outward walls so costly gay? Why so large cost, having so short a lease,Dost thou upon thy fading mansion spend? Shall worms, inheritors of this excess,Eat up thy charge? Is this thy body’s end? Then soul, live thou upon thy servant’s loss,And let that pine to aggravate thy store;Buy terms divine in selling hours of dross;Within be fed, without be rich no more:    So shall thou feed on Death, that feeds on men,    And Death once dead, there’s no more dying then. CXLVIIMy love is as a fever longing still,For that which longer nurseth the disease;Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love,Angry that his prescriptions are not kept,Hath left me, and I desperate now approveDesire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now Reason is past care,And frantic-mad with evermore unrest;My thoughts and my discourse as madmen’s are,At random from the truth vainly express’d;    For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,    Who art as black as hell, as dark as night. CXLVIIIO me! what eyes hath Love put in my head,Which have no correspondence with true sight;Or, if they have, where is my judgment fled,That censures falsely what they see aright? If that be fair whereon my false eyes dote,What means the world to say it is not so? If it be not, then love doth well denoteLove’s eye is not so true as all men’s: no,How can it? O! how can Love’s eye be true,That is so vexed with watching and with tears? No marvel then, though I mistake my view;The sun itself sees not, till heaven clears.    O cunning Love! with tears thou keep’st me blind,    Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find. CXLIXCanst thou, O cruel! say I love thee not,When I against myself with thee partake? Do I not think on thee, when I forgotAm of my self, all tyrant, for thy sake? Who hateth thee that I do call my friend,On whom frown’st thou that I do fawn upon,Nay, if thou lour’st on me, do I not spendRevenge upon myself with present moan? What merit do I in my self respect,That is so proud thy service to despise,When all my best doth worship thy defect,Commanded by the motion of thine eyes?    But, love, hate on, for now I know thy mind;    Those that can see thou lov’st, and I am blind.

CLO! from what power hast thou this powerful might,With insufficiency my heart to sway? To make me give the lie to my true sight,And swear that brightness doth not grace the day? Whence hast thou this becoming of things ill,That in the very refuse of thy deedsThere is such strength and warrantise of skill,That, in my mind, thy worst all best exceeds? Who taught thee how to make me love thee more,The more I hear and see just cause of hate? O! though I love what others do abhor,With others thou shouldst not abhor my state:    If thy unworthiness rais’d love in me,    More worthy I to be belov’d of thee. CLILove is too young to know what conscience is,Yet who knows not conscience is born of love? Then, gentle cheater, urge not my amiss,Lest guilty of my faults thy sweet self prove:For, thou betraying me, I do betrayMy nobler part to my gross body’s treason;My soul doth tell my body that he mayTriumph in love; flesh stays no farther reason,But rising at thy name doth point out thee,As his triumphant prize. Proud of this pride,He is contented thy poor drudge to be,To stand in thy affairs, fall by thy side.    No want of conscience hold it that I call    Her ‘love,’ for whose dear love I rise and fall. CLIIIn loving thee thou know’st I am forsworn,But thou art twice forsworn, to me love swearing;In act thy bed-vow broke, and new faith torn,In vowing new hate after new love bearing:But why of two oaths’ breach do I accuse thee,When I break twenty? I am perjur’d most;For all my vows are oaths but to misuse thee,And all my honest faith in thee is lost:For I have sworn deep oaths of thy deep kindness,Oaths of thy love, thy truth, thy constancy;And, to enlighten thee, gave eyes to blindness,Or made them swear against the thing they see;    For I have sworn thee fair; more perjured I,    To swear against the truth so foul a lie. CLIIICupid laid by his brand and fell asleep:A maid of Dian’s this advantage found,And his love-kindling fire did quickly steepIn a cold valley-fountain of that ground;Which borrow’d from this holy fire of Love,A dateless lively heat, still to endure,And grew a seeting bath, which yet men proveAgainst strange maladies a sovereign cure. But at my mistress’ eye Love’s brand new-fired,The boy for trial needs would touch my breast;I, sick withal, the help of bath desired,And thither hied, a sad distemper’d guest,    But found no cure, the bath for my help lies    Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress’ eyes. CLIVThe little Love-god lying once asleep,Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,Whilst many nymphs that vow’d chaste life to keepCame tripping by; but in her maiden handThe fairest votary took up that fireWhich many legions of true hearts had warm’d;And so the general of hot desireWas, sleeping, by a virgin hand disarm’d. This brand she quenched in a cool well by,Which from Love’s fire took heat perpetual,Growing a bath and healthful remedy,For men diseas’d; but I, my mistress’ thrall,    Came there for cure and this by that I prove,    Love’s fire heats water, water cools not love. *** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE SONNETS ***Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions willbe renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U. 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The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Taming of the Shrew, by William ShakespeareThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States andmost other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictionswhatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the termsof the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online atwww. gutenberg. org. If you are not located in the United States, youwill have to check the laws of the country where you are located beforeusing this eBook. Title: The Taming of the ShrewAuthor: William ShakespeareRelease Date: October 1998 [eBook #1508][Most recently updated: September 14, 2022]Language: EnglishProduced by: the PG Shakespeare Team, a team of about twenty Project Gutenberg volunteers*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TAMING OF THE SHREW ***THE TAMING OF THE SHREWby William ShakespeareContentsINDUCTIONScene I. Before an alehouse on a heath. Scene II. A bedchamber in the LORD’S house. ACT IScene I. Padua. A public place. Scene II. Padua. Before HORTENSIO’S house. ACT IIScene I. Padua. A room in BAPTISTA’S house. ACT IIIScene I. Padua. A room in BAPTISTA’S house. Scene II. The same. Before BAPTISTA’S house. ACT IVScene I. A hall in PETRUCHIO’S country house. Scene II. Padua. Before BAPTISTA’S house. Scene III. A room in PETRUCHIO’S house. Scene IV. Before BAPTISTA’S house. Scene V. A public road. ACT VScene I. Padua. Before LUCENTIO’S house. Scene II. A room in LUCENTIO’S house. Dramatis PersonæPersons in the InductionA LORDCHRISTOPHER SLY, a tinkerHOSTESSPAGEPLAYERSHUNTSMENSERVANTSBAPTISTA MINOLA, a rich gentleman of PaduaVINCENTIO, an old gentleman of PisaLUCENTIO, son to Vincentio; in love with BiancaPETRUCHIO, a gentleman of Verona; suitor to KatherinaSuitors to BiancaGREMIOHORTENSIOServants to LucentioTRANIOBIONDELLOServants to PetruchioGRUMIOCURTISPEDANT, set up to personate VincentioDaughters to BaptistaKATHERINA, the shrewBIANCAWIDOWTailor, Haberdasher, and Servants attending on Baptista and PetruchioSCENE: Sometimes in Padua, and sometimes in PETRUCHIO’S house inthe country. INDUCTIONSCENE I. Before an alehouse on a heath. Enter Hostess and SlySLY. I’ll pheeze you, in faith. HOSTESS. A pair of stocks, you rogue! SLY. Y’are a baggage; the Slys are no rogues; look in thechronicles: we came in with Richard Conqueror. Therefore, paucaspallabris; let the world slide. Sessa! HOSTESS. You will not pay for the glasses you have burst? SLY. No, not a denier. Go by, Saint Jeronimy, go to thy cold bedand warm thee. HOSTESS. I know my remedy; I must go fetch the third-borough. [Exit]SLY. Third, or fourth, or fifth borough, I’ll answer him by law. I’ll not budge an inch, boy: let him come, and kindly. [Lies down on the ground, and falls asleep. ]Horns winded. Enter a Lord from hunting, with Huntsmen and Servants. LORD. Huntsman, I charge thee, tender well my hounds;Brach Merriman, the poor cur is emboss’d,And couple Clowder with the deep-mouth’d brach. Saw’st thou not, boy, how Silver made it goodAt the hedge-corner, in the coldest fault? I would not lose the dog for twenty pound. FIRST HUNTSMAN. Why, Bellman is as good as he, my lord;He cried upon it at the merest loss,And twice today pick’d out the dullest scent;Trust me, I take him for the better dog. LORD. Thou art a fool: if Echo were as fleet,I would esteem him worth a dozen such. But sup them well, and look unto them all;Tomorrow I intend to hunt again. FIRST HUNTSMAN. I will, my lord. LORD. [ Sees Sly. ] What’s here? One dead, or drunk? See, doth he breathe? SECOND HUNTSMAN. He breathes, my lord. Were he not warm’d with ale,This were a bed but cold to sleep so soundly. LORD. O monstrous beast! how like a swine he lies! Grim death, how foul and loathsome is thine image! Sirs, I will practise on this drunken man. What think you, if he were convey’d to bed,Wrapp’d in sweet clothes, rings put upon his fingers,A most delicious banquet by his bed,And brave attendants near him when he wakes,Would not the beggar then forget himself? FIRST HUNTSMAN. Believe me, lord, I think he cannot choose. SECOND HUNTSMAN. It would seem strange unto him when he wak’d. LORD. Even as a flattering dream or worthless fancy. Then take him up, and manage well the jest. Carry him gently to my fairest chamber,And hang it round with all my wanton pictures;Balm his foul head in warm distilled waters,And burn sweet wood to make the lodging sweet. Procure me music ready when he wakes,To make a dulcet and a heavenly sound;And if he chance to speak, be ready straight,And with a low submissive reverenceSay ‘What is it your honour will command? ’Let one attend him with a silver basinFull of rose-water and bestrew’d with flowers;Another bear the ewer, the third a diaper,And say ‘Will’t please your lordship cool your hands? ’Someone be ready with a costly suit,And ask him what apparel he will wear;Another tell him of his hounds and horse,And that his lady mourns at his disease. Persuade him that he hath been lunatic;And, when he says he is—say that he dreams,For he is nothing but a mighty lord. This do, and do it kindly, gentle sirs;It will be pastime passing excellent,If it be husbanded with modesty. FIRST HUNTSMAN. My lord, I warrant you we will play our part,As he shall think by our true diligence,He is no less than what we say he is. LORD. Take him up gently, and to bed with him,And each one to his office when he wakes. [Sly is bourne out. A trumpet sounds. ]Sirrah, go see what trumpet ’tis that sounds:[Exit Servant. ]Belike some noble gentleman that means,Travelling some journey, to repose him here. Re-enter Servant. How now! who is it? SERVANT. An it please your honour, playersThat offer service to your lordship. LORD. Bid them come near. Enter Players. Now, fellows, you are welcome. PLAYERS. We thank your honour. LORD. Do you intend to stay with me tonight? PLAYER. So please your lordship to accept our duty. LORD. With all my heart. This fellow I rememberSince once he play’d a farmer’s eldest son;’Twas where you woo’d the gentlewoman so well. I have forgot your name; but, sure, that partWas aptly fitted and naturally perform’d. PLAYER. I think ’twas Soto that your honour means. LORD. ’Tis very true; thou didst it excellent. Well, you are come to me in happy time,The rather for I have some sport in handWherein your cunning can assist me much. There is a lord will hear you play tonight;But I am doubtful of your modesties,Lest, over-eying of his odd behaviour,—For yet his honour never heard a play,—You break into some merry passionAnd so offend him; for I tell you, sirs,If you should smile, he grows impatient. PLAYER. Fear not, my lord; we can contain ourselves,Were he the veriest antick in the world. LORD. Go, sirrah, take them to the buttery,And give them friendly welcome everyone:Let them want nothing that my house affords. [Exit one with the Players. ]Sirrah, go you to Barthol’mew my page,And see him dress’d in all suits like a lady;That done, conduct him to the drunkard’s chamber,And call him ‘madam,’ do him obeisance. Tell him from me—as he will win my love,—He bear himself with honourable action,Such as he hath observ’d in noble ladiesUnto their lords, by them accomplished;Such duty to the drunkard let him do,With soft low tongue and lowly courtesy,And say ‘What is’t your honour will command,Wherein your lady and your humble wifeMay show her duty and make known her love? ’And then with kind embracements, tempting kisses,And with declining head into his bosom,Bid him shed tears, as being overjoy’dTo see her noble lord restor’d to health,Who for this seven years hath esteemed himNo better than a poor and loathsome beggar. And if the boy have not a woman’s giftTo rain a shower of commanded tears,An onion will do well for such a shift,Which, in a napkin being close convey’d,Shall in despite enforce a watery eye. See this dispatch’d with all the haste thou canst;Anon I’ll give thee more instructions. [Exit Servant. ]I know the boy will well usurp the grace,Voice, gait, and action of a gentlewoman;I long to hear him call the drunkard husband;And how my men will stay themselves from laughterWhen they do homage to this simple peasant.

I’ll in to counsel them; haply my presenceMay well abate the over-merry spleen,Which otherwise would grow into extremes. [Exeunt. ]SCENE II. A bedchamber in the LORD’S house. Sly is discovered in a rich nightgown, with Attendants: some withapparel, basin, ewer, and other appurtenances; and Lord, dressedlike a servant. SLY. For God’s sake! a pot of small ale. FIRST SERVANT. Will’t please your lordship drink a cup of sack? SECOND SERVANT. Will’t please your honour taste of these conserves? THIRD SERVANT. What raiment will your honour wear today? SLY. I am Christophero Sly; call not me honour nor lordship. Ine’er drank sack in my life; and if you give me any conserves,give me conserves of beef. Ne’er ask me what raiment I’ll wear,for I have no more doublets than backs, no more stockings thanlegs, nor no more shoes than feet: nay, sometime more feet thanshoes, or such shoes as my toes look through the over-leather. LORD. Heaven cease this idle humour in your honour! O, that a mighty man of such descent,Of such possessions, and so high esteem,Should be infused with so foul a spirit! SLY. What! would you make me mad? Am not I Christopher Sly, oldSly’s son of Burton-heath; by birth a pedlar, by education acardmaker, by transmutation a bear-herd, and now by presentprofession a tinker? Ask Marian Hacket, the fat ale-wife ofWincot, if she know me not: if she say I am not fourteen pence onthe score for sheer ale, score me up for the lyingest knave inChristendom. What! I am not bestraught. Here’s—THIRD SERVANT. O! this it is that makes your lady mourn. SECOND SERVANT. O! this is it that makes your servants droop. LORD. Hence comes it that your kindred shuns your house,As beaten hence by your strange lunacy. O noble lord, bethink thee of thy birth,Call home thy ancient thoughts from banishment,And banish hence these abject lowly dreams. Look how thy servants do attend on thee,Each in his office ready at thy beck:Wilt thou have music? Hark! Apollo plays,[Music. ]And twenty caged nightingales do sing:Or wilt thou sleep? We’ll have thee to a couchSofter and sweeter than the lustful bedOn purpose trimm’d up for Semiramis. Say thou wilt walk: we will bestrew the ground:Or wilt thou ride? Thy horses shall be trapp’d,Their harness studded all with gold and pearl. Dost thou love hawking? Thou hast hawks will soarAbove the morning lark: or wilt thou hunt? Thy hounds shall make the welkin answer themAnd fetch shrill echoes from the hollow earth. FIRST SERVANT. Say thou wilt course; thy greyhounds are as swiftAs breathed stags; ay, fleeter than the roe. SECOND SERVANT. Dost thou love pictures? We will fetch thee straightAdonis painted by a running brook,And Cytherea all in sedges hid,Which seem to move and wanton with her breathEven as the waving sedges play with wind. LORD. We’ll show thee Io as she was a maidAnd how she was beguiled and surpris’d,As lively painted as the deed was done. THIRD SERVANT. Or Daphne roaming through a thorny wood,Scratching her legs, that one shall swear she bleedsAnd at that sight shall sad Apollo weep,So workmanly the blood and tears are drawn. LORD. Thou art a lord, and nothing but a lord:Thou hast a lady far more beautifulThan any woman in this waning age. FIRST SERVANT. And, till the tears that she hath shed for theeLike envious floods o’er-run her lovely face,She was the fairest creature in the world;And yet she is inferior to none. SLY. Am I a lord? and have I such a lady? Or do I dream? Or have I dream’d till now? I do not sleep: I see, I hear, I speak;I smell sweet savours, and I feel soft things:Upon my life, I am a lord indeed;And not a tinker, nor Christophero Sly. Well, bring our lady hither to our sight;And once again, a pot o’ the smallest ale. SECOND SERVANT. Will’t please your mightiness to wash your hands? [Servants present a ewer, basin and napkin. ]O, how we joy to see your wit restor’d! O, that once more you knew but what you are! These fifteen years you have been in a dream,Or, when you wak’d, so wak’d as if you slept. SLY. These fifteen years! by my fay, a goodly nap. But did I never speak of all that time? FIRST SERVANT. O! yes, my lord, but very idle words;For though you lay here in this goodly chamber,Yet would you say ye were beaten out of door,And rail upon the hostess of the house,And say you would present her at the leet,Because she brought stone jugs and no seal’d quarts. Sometimes you would call out for Cicely Hacket. SLY. Ay, the woman’s maid of the house. THIRD SERVANT. Why, sir, you know no house nor no such maid,Nor no such men as you have reckon’d up,As Stephen Sly, and old John Naps of Greece,And Peter Turph, and Henry Pimpernell;And twenty more such names and men as these,Which never were, nor no man ever saw. SLY. Now, Lord be thanked for my good amends! ALL. Amen. Enter the Page, as a lady, with Attendants. SLY. I thank thee; thou shalt not lose by it. PAGE. How fares my noble lord? SLY. Marry, I fare well; for here is cheer enough. Where is my wife? PAGE. Here, noble lord: what is thy will with her? SLY. Are you my wife, and will not call me husband? My men should call me lord: I am your goodman. PAGE. My husband and my lord, my lord and husband;I am your wife in all obedience. SLY. I know it well. What must I call her? LORD. Madam. SLY. Alice madam, or Joan madam? LORD. Madam, and nothing else; so lords call ladies. SLY. Madam wife, they say that I have dream’dAnd slept above some fifteen year or more. PAGE. Ay, and the time seems thirty unto me,Being all this time abandon’d from your bed. SLY. ’Tis much. Servants, leave me and her alone. Madam, undress you, and come now to bed. PAGE. Thrice noble lord, let me entreat of youTo pardon me yet for a night or two;Or, if not so, until the sun be set:For your physicians have expressly charg’d,In peril to incur your former malady,That I should yet absent me from your bed:I hope this reason stands for my excuse. SLY. Ay, it stands so that I may hardly tarry so long; but I wouldbe loath to fall into my dreams again: I will therefore tarry indespite of the flesh and the blood. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. Your honour’s players, hearing your amendment,Are come to play a pleasant comedy;For so your doctors hold it very meet,Seeing too much sadness hath congeal’d your blood,And melancholy is the nurse of frenzy:Therefore they thought it good you hear a play,And frame your mind to mirth and merriment,Which bars a thousand harms and lengthens life. SLY. Marry, I will; let them play it. Is not a commonty aChristmas gambold or a tumbling-trick? PAGE. No, my good lord; it is more pleasing stuff. SLY. What! household stuff? PAGE. It is a kind of history. SLY. Well, we’ll see’t. Come, madam wife, sit by my side and letthe world slip: we shall ne’er be younger. ACT ISCENE I. Padua. A public place. Flourish. Enter Lucentio and Tranio. LUCENTIO.

Tranio, since for the great desire I hadTo see fair Padua, nursery of arts,I am arriv’d for fruitful Lombardy,The pleasant garden of great Italy,And by my father’s love and leave am arm’dWith his good will and thy good company,My trusty servant well approv’d in all,Here let us breathe, and haply instituteA course of learning and ingenious studies. Pisa, renowned for grave citizens,Gave me my being and my father first,A merchant of great traffic through the world,Vincentio, come of the Bentivolii. Vincentio’s son, brought up in Florence,It shall become to serve all hopes conceiv’d,To deck his fortune with his virtuous deeds:And therefore, Tranio, for the time I study,Virtue and that part of philosophyWill I apply that treats of happinessBy virtue specially to be achiev’d. Tell me thy mind; for I have Pisa leftAnd am to Padua come as he that leavesA shallow plash to plunge him in the deep,And with satiety seeks to quench his thirst. TRANIO. Mi perdonato, gentle master mine;I am in all affected as yourself;Glad that you thus continue your resolveTo suck the sweets of sweet philosophy. Only, good master, while we do admireThis virtue and this moral discipline,Let’s be no stoics nor no stocks, I pray;Or so devote to Aristotle’s checksAs Ovid be an outcast quite abjur’d. Balk logic with acquaintance that you have,And practise rhetoric in your common talk;Music and poesy use to quicken you;The mathematics and the metaphysics,Fall to them as you find your stomach serves you:No profit grows where is no pleasure ta’en;In brief, sir, study what you most affect. LUCENTIO. Gramercies, Tranio, well dost thou advise. If, Biondello, thou wert come ashore,We could at once put us in readiness,And take a lodging fit to entertainSuch friends as time in Padua shall beget. But stay awhile; what company is this? TRANIO. Master, some show to welcome us to town. [Lucentio and Tranio stand aside. ]Enter Baptista, Katherina, Bianca, Gremio and Hortensio. BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, importune me no farther,For how I firmly am resolv’d you know;That is, not to bestow my youngest daughterBefore I have a husband for the elder. If either of you both love Katherina,Because I know you well and love you well,Leave shall you have to court her at your pleasure. GREMIO. To cart her rather: she’s too rough for me. There, there, Hortensio, will you any wife? KATHERINA. [To Baptista] I pray you, sir, is it your willTo make a stale of me amongst these mates? HORTENSIO. Mates, maid! How mean you that? No mates for you,Unless you were of gentler, milder mould. KATHERINA. I’ faith, sir, you shall never need to fear;I wis it is not half way to her heart;But if it were, doubt not her care should beTo comb your noddle with a three-legg’d stool,And paint your face, and use you like a fool. HORTENSIO. From all such devils, good Lord deliver us! GREMIO. And me, too, good Lord! TRANIO. Husht, master! Here’s some good pastime toward:That wench is stark mad or wonderful froward. LUCENTIO. But in the other’s silence do I seeMaid’s mild behaviour and sobriety. Peace, Tranio! TRANIO. Well said, master; mum! and gaze your fill. BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, that I may soon make goodWhat I have said,—Bianca, get you in:And let it not displease thee, good Bianca,For I will love thee ne’er the less, my girl. KATHERINA. A pretty peat! it is best put finger in the eye, and she knew why. BIANCA. Sister, content you in my discontent. Sir, to your pleasure humbly I subscribe:My books and instruments shall be my company,On them to look, and practise by myself. LUCENTIO. Hark, Tranio! thou mayst hear Minerva speak. HORTENSIO. Signior Baptista, will you be so strange? Sorry am I that our good will effectsBianca’s grief. GREMIO. Why will you mew her up,Signior Baptista, for this fiend of hell,And make her bear the penance of her tongue? BAPTISTA. Gentlemen, content ye; I am resolv’d. Go in, Bianca. [Exit Bianca. ]And for I know she taketh most delightIn music, instruments, and poetry,Schoolmasters will I keep within my houseFit to instruct her youth. If you, Hortensio,Or, Signior Gremio, you, know any such,Prefer them hither; for to cunning menI will be very kind, and liberalTo mine own children in good bringing up;And so, farewell. Katherina, you may stay;For I have more to commune with Bianca. [Exit. ]KATHERINA. Why, and I trust I may go too, may I not? What! shall I be appointed hours, asthough, belike, I knew not what to take and what to leave? Ha! [Exit. ]GREMIO. You may go to the devil’s dam: your gifts are so goodhere’s none will hold you. Their love is not so great,Hortensio, but we may blow our nails together, and fast it fairlyout; our cake’s dough on both sides. Farewell: yet, for the love Ibear my sweet Bianca, if I can by any means light on a fit man toteach her that wherein she delights, I will wish him to herfather. HORTENSIO. So will I, Signior Gremio: but a word, I pray. Thoughthe nature of our quarrel yet never brooked parle, know now, uponadvice, it toucheth us both,—that we may yet again have access toour fair mistress, and be happy rivals in Bianca’s love,—to labourand effect one thing specially. GREMIO. What’s that, I pray? HORTENSIO. Marry, sir, to get a husband for her sister. GREMIO. A husband! a devil. HORTENSIO. I say, a husband. GREMIO. I say, a devil. Thinkest thou, Hortensio, though herfather be very rich, any man is so very a fool to be married tohell? HORTENSIO. Tush, Gremio! Though it pass your patience and mine toendure her loud alarums, why, man, there be good fellows in theworld, and a man could light on them, would take her with allfaults, and money enough. GREMIO. I cannot tell; but I had as lief take her dowry with thiscondition: to be whipp’d at the high cross every morning. HORTENSIO. Faith, as you say, there’s small choice in rottenapples. But come; since this bar in law makes us friends, itshall be so far forth friendly maintained, till by helpingBaptista’s eldest daughter to a husband, we set his youngest freefor a husband, and then have to’t afresh. Sweet Bianca! Happy manbe his dole! He that runs fastest gets the ring. How say you,Signior Gremio? GREMIO. I am agreed; and would I had given him the best horse inPadua to begin his wooing, that would thoroughly woo her, wedher, and bed her, and rid the house of her. Come on. [Exeunt Gremio and Hortensio. ]TRANIO. I pray, sir, tell me, is it possibleThat love should of a sudden take such hold? LUCENTIO. O Tranio! till I found it to be true,I never thought it possible or likely;But see, while idly I stood looking on,I found the effect of love in idleness;And now in plainness do confess to thee,That art to me as secret and as dearAs Anna to the Queen of Carthage was,Tranio, I burn, I pine, I perish, Tranio,If I achieve not this young modest girl. Counsel me, Tranio, for I know thou canst:Assist me, Tranio, for I know thou wilt. TRANIO. Master, it is no time to chide you now;Affection is not rated from the heart:If love have touch’d you, nought remains but so:Redime te captum quam queas minimo. LUCENTIO. Gramercies, lad; go forward; this contents;The rest will comfort, for thy counsel’s sound. TRANIO. Master, you look’d so longly on the maid. Perhaps you mark’d not what’s the pith of all. LUCENTIO. O, yes, I saw sweet beauty in her face,Such as the daughter of Agenor had,That made great Jove to humble him to her hand,When with his knees he kiss’d the Cretan strand. TRANIO. Saw you no more? mark’d you not how her sisterBegan to scold and raise up such a stormThat mortal ears might hardly endure the din? LUCENTIO. Tranio, I saw her coral lips to move,And with her breath she did perfume the air;Sacred and sweet was all I saw in her. TRANIO. Nay, then, ’tis time to stir him from his trance. I pray, awake, sir: if you love the maid,Bend thoughts and wits to achieve her. Thus it stands:Her elder sister is so curst and shrewd,That till the father rid his hands of her,Master, your love must live a maid at home;And therefore has he closely mew’d her up,Because she will not be annoy’d with suitors. LUCENTIO. Ah, Tranio, what a cruel father’s he! But art thou not advis’d he took some careTo get her cunning schoolmasters to instruct her? TRANIO. Ay, marry, am I, sir, and now ’tis plotted. LUCENTIO. I have it, Tranio. TRANIO. Master, for my hand,Both our inventions meet and jump in one. LUCENTIO. Tell me thine first. TRANIO. You will be schoolmaster,And undertake the teaching of the maid:That’s your device. LUCENTIO. It is: may it be done?

TRANIO. Not possible; for who shall bear your partAnd be in Padua here Vincentio’s son;Keep house and ply his book, welcome his friends;Visit his countrymen, and banquet them? LUCENTIO. Basta, content thee, for I have it full. We have not yet been seen in any house,Nor can we be distinguish’d by our facesFor man or master: then it follows thus:Thou shalt be master, Tranio, in my stead,Keep house and port and servants, as I should;I will some other be; some Florentine,Some Neapolitan, or meaner man of Pisa. ’Tis hatch’d, and shall be so: Tranio, at onceUncase thee; take my colour’d hat and cloak. When Biondello comes, he waits on thee;But I will charm him first to keep his tongue. [They exchange habits]TRANIO. So had you need. In brief, sir, sith it your pleasure is,And I am tied to be obedient;For so your father charg’d me at our parting,‘Be serviceable to my son,’ quoth he,Although I think ’twas in another sense:I am content to be Lucentio,Because so well I love Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Tranio, be so, because Lucentio loves;And let me be a slave, to achieve that maidWhose sudden sight hath thrall’d my wounded eye. Enter Biondello. Here comes the rogue. Sirrah, where have you been? BIONDELLO. Where have I been? Nay, how now! where are you? Master, has my fellow Tranio stol’n your clothes? Or you stol’n his? or both? Pray, what’s the news? LUCENTIO. Sirrah, come hither: ’tis no time to jest,And therefore frame your manners to the time. Your fellow Tranio here, to save my life,Puts my apparel and my count’nance on,And I for my escape have put on his;For in a quarrel since I came ashoreI kill’d a man, and fear I was descried. Wait you on him, I charge you, as becomes,While I make way from hence to save my life. You understand me? BIONDELLO. I, sir! Ne’er a whit. LUCENTIO. And not a jot of Tranio in your mouth:Tranio is changed to Lucentio. BIONDELLO. The better for him: would I were so too! TRANIO. So could I, faith, boy, to have the next wish after,That Lucentio indeed had Baptista’s youngest daughter. But, sirrah, not for my sake but your master’s, I adviseYou use your manners discreetly in all kind of companies:When I am alone, why, then I am Tranio;But in all places else your master, Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Tranio, let’s go. One thing more rests, that thyself execute,To make one among these wooers: if thou ask me why,Sufficeth my reasons are both good and weighty. [Exeunt. ][The Presenters above speak. ]FIRST SERVANT. My lord, you nod; you do not mind the play. SLY. Yes, by Saint Anne, I do. A good matter, surely: comes thereany more of it? PAGE. My lord, ’tis but begun. SLY. ’Tis a very excellent piece of work, madam lady: would’twere done! [They sit and mark. ]SCENE II. Padua. Before HORTENSIO’S house. Enter Petruchio and his man Grumio. PETRUCHIO. Verona, for a while I take my leave,To see my friends in Padua; but of allMy best beloved and approved friend,Hortensio; and I trow this is his house. Here, sirrah Grumio, knock, I say. GRUMIO. Knock, sir? Whom should I knock? Is there any man has rebusedyour worship? PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me here soundly. GRUMIO. Knock you here, sir? Why, sir, what am I, sir, that Ishould knock you here, sir? PETRUCHIO. Villain, I say, knock me at this gate;And rap me well, or I’ll knock your knave’s pate. GRUMIO. My master is grown quarrelsome. I should knock you first,And then I know after who comes by the worst. PETRUCHIO. Will it not be? Faith, sirrah, and you’ll not knock, I’ll ring it;I’ll try how you can sol, fa, and sing it. [He wrings Grumio by the ears. ]GRUMIO. Help, masters, help! my master is mad. PETRUCHIO. Now, knock when I bid you, sirrah villain! Enter Hortensio. HORTENSIO. How now! what’s the matter? My old friend Grumio! and mygood friend Petruchio! How do you all at Verona? PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, come you to part the fray? Con tutto il cuore ben trovato, may I say. HORTENSIO. Alla nostra casa ben venuto; molto honorato signor mio Petruchio. Rise, Grumio, rise: we will compound this quarrel. GRUMIO. Nay, ’tis no matter, sir, what he ’leges in Latin. If thisbe not a lawful cause for me to leave his service, look you, sir,he bid me knock him and rap him soundly, sir: well, was it fit fora servant to use his master so; being, perhaps, for aught I see,two-and-thirty, a pip out? Whom would to God I had well knock’dat first, then had not Grumio come by the worst. PETRUCHIO. A senseless villain! Good Hortensio,I bade the rascal knock upon your gate,And could not get him for my heart to do it. GRUMIO. Knock at the gate! O heavens! Spake you not these wordsplain: ‘Sirrah knock me here, rap me here, knock me well, andknock me soundly’? And come you now with ‘knocking at the gate’? PETRUCHIO. Sirrah, be gone, or talk not, I advise you. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, patience; I am Grumio’s pledge;Why, this’s a heavy chance ’twixt him and you,Your ancient, trusty, pleasant servant Grumio. And tell me now, sweet friend, what happy galeBlows you to Padua here from old Verona? PETRUCHIO. Such wind as scatters young men through the worldTo seek their fortunes farther than at home,Where small experience grows. But in a few,Signior Hortensio, thus it stands with me:Antonio, my father, is deceas’d,And I have thrust myself into this maze,Haply to wive and thrive as best I may;Crowns in my purse I have, and goods at home,And so am come abroad to see the world. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, shall I then come roundly to theeAnd wish thee to a shrewd ill-favour’d wife? Thou’dst thank me but a little for my counsel;And yet I’ll promise thee she shall be rich,And very rich: but th’art too much my friend,And I’ll not wish thee to her. PETRUCHIO. Signior Hortensio, ’twixt such friends as weFew words suffice; and therefore, if thou knowOne rich enough to be Petruchio’s wife,As wealth is burden of my wooing dance,Be she as foul as was Florentius’ love,As old as Sibyl, and as curst and shrewdAs Socrates’ Xanthippe or a worse,She moves me not, or not removes, at least,Affection’s edge in me, were she as roughAs are the swelling Adriatic seas:I come to wive it wealthily in Padua;If wealthily, then happily in Padua. GRUMIO. Nay, look you, sir, he tells you flatly what his mind is: why,give him gold enough and marry him to a puppet or anaglet-baby; or an old trot with ne’er a tooth in her head, thoughshe have as many diseases as two-and-fifty horses: why, nothingcomes amiss, so money comes withal. HORTENSIO. Petruchio, since we are stepp’d thus far in,I will continue that I broach’d in jest. I can, Petruchio, help thee to a wifeWith wealth enough, and young and beauteous;Brought up as best becomes a gentlewoman:Her only fault,—and that is faults enough,—Is, that she is intolerable curst,And shrewd and froward, so beyond all measure,That, were my state far worser than it is,I would not wed her for a mine of gold. PETRUCHIO. Hortensio, peace! thou know’st not gold’s effect:Tell me her father’s name, and ’tis enough;For I will board her, though she chide as loudAs thunder when the clouds in autumn crack. HORTENSIO. Her father is Baptista Minola,An affable and courteous gentleman;Her name is Katherina Minola,Renown’d in Padua for her scolding tongue. PETRUCHIO. I know her father, though I know not her;And he knew my deceased father well. I will not sleep, Hortensio, till I see her;And therefore let me be thus bold with you,To give you over at this first encounter,Unless you will accompany me thither. GRUMIO. I pray you, sir, let him go while the humour lasts. O’ myword, and she knew him as well as I do, she would think scoldingwould do little good upon him. She may perhaps call him half ascore knaves or so; why, that’s nothing; and he begin once, he’llrail in his rope-tricks. I’ll tell you what, sir, and she stand himbut a little, he will throw a figure in her face, and so disfigureher with it that she shall have no more eyes to see withal than acat. You know him not, sir. HORTENSIO. Tarry, Petruchio, I must go with thee,For in Baptista’s keep my treasure is:He hath the jewel of my life in hold,His youngest daughter, beautiful Bianca,And her withholds from me and other more,Suitors to her and rivals in my love;Supposing it a thing impossible,For those defects I have before rehears’d,That ever Katherina will be woo’d:Therefore this order hath Baptista ta’en,That none shall have access unto BiancaTill Katherine the curst have got a husband. GRUMIO. Katherine the curst! A title for a maid of all titles the worst. HORTENSIO. Now shall my friend Petruchio do me grace,And offer me disguis’d in sober robes,To old Baptista as a schoolmasterWell seen in music, to instruct Bianca;That so I may, by this device at leastHave leave and leisure to make love to her,And unsuspected court her by herself.

GRUMIO. Here’s no knavery! See, to beguile the old folks, how theyoung folks lay their heads together! Enter Gremio and Lucentio disguised, with books under his arm. Master, master, look about you: who goes there, ha? HORTENSIO. Peace, Grumio! It is the rival of my love. Petruchio,stand by awhile. GRUMIO. A proper stripling, and an amorous! GREMIO. O! very well; I have perus’d the note. Hark you, sir; I’ll have them very fairly bound:All books of love, see that at any hand,And see you read no other lectures to her. You understand me. Over and besideSignior Baptista’s liberality,I’ll mend it with a largess. Take your papers too,And let me have them very well perfum’d;For she is sweeter than perfume itselfTo whom they go to. What will you read to her? LUCENTIO. Whate’er I read to her, I’ll plead for you,As for my patron, stand you so assur’d,As firmly as yourself were still in place;Yea, and perhaps with more successful wordsThan you, unless you were a scholar, sir. GREMIO. O! this learning, what a thing it is. GRUMIO. O! this woodcock, what an ass it is. PETRUCHIO. Peace, sirrah! HORTENSIO. Grumio, mum! God save you, Signior Gremio! GREMIO. And you are well met, Signior Hortensio. Trow you whither I am going? To Baptista Minola. I promis’d to enquire carefullyAbout a schoolmaster for the fair Bianca;And by good fortune I have lighted wellOn this young man; for learning and behaviourFit for her turn, well read in poetryAnd other books, good ones, I warrant ye. HORTENSIO. ’Tis well; and I have met a gentlemanHath promis’d me to help me to another,A fine musician to instruct our mistress:So shall I no whit be behind in dutyTo fair Bianca, so belov’d of me. GREMIO. Belov’d of me, and that my deeds shall prove. GRUMIO. [Aside. ] And that his bags shall prove. HORTENSIO. Gremio, ’tis now no time to vent our love:Listen to me, and if you speak me fair,I’ll tell you news indifferent good for either. Here is a gentleman whom by chance I met,Upon agreement from us to his liking,Will undertake to woo curst Katherine;Yea, and to marry her, if her dowry please. GREMIO. So said, so done, is well. Hortensio, have you told him all her faults? PETRUCHIO. I know she is an irksome brawling scold;If that be all, masters, I hear no harm. GREMIO. No, say’st me so, friend? What countryman? PETRUCHIO. Born in Verona, old Antonio’s son. My father dead, my fortune lives for me;And I do hope good days and long to see. GREMIO. O sir, such a life, with such a wife, were strange! But if you have a stomach, to’t a God’s name;You shall have me assisting you in all. But will you woo this wild-cat? PETRUCHIO. Will I live? GRUMIO. Will he woo her? Ay, or I’ll hang her. PETRUCHIO. Why came I hither but to that intent? Think you a little din can daunt mine ears? Have I not in my time heard lions roar? Have I not heard the sea, puff’d up with winds,Rage like an angry boar chafed with sweat? Have I not heard great ordnance in the field,And heaven’s artillery thunder in the skies? Have I not in a pitched battle heardLoud ’larums, neighing steeds, and trumpets’ clang? And do you tell me of a woman’s tongue,That gives not half so great a blow to hearAs will a chestnut in a farmer’s fire? Tush, tush! fear boys with bugs. GRUMIO. [Aside] For he fears none. GREMIO. Hortensio, hark:This gentleman is happily arriv’d,My mind presumes, for his own good and yours. HORTENSIO. I promis’d we would be contributors,And bear his charge of wooing, whatsoe’er. GREMIO. And so we will, provided that he win her. GRUMIO. I would I were as sure of a good dinner. Enter Tranio brave, and Biondello. TRANIO. Gentlemen, God save you! If I may be bold,Tell me, I beseech you, which is the readiest wayTo the house of Signior Baptista Minola? BIONDELLO. He that has the two fair daughters; is’t he you mean? TRANIO. Even he, Biondello! GREMIO. Hark you, sir, you mean not her to—TRANIO. Perhaps him and her, sir; what have you to do? PETRUCHIO. Not her that chides, sir, at any hand, I pray. TRANIO. I love no chiders, sir. Biondello, let’s away. LUCENTIO. [Aside]  Well begun, Tranio. HORTENSIO. Sir, a word ere you go. Are you a suitor to the maid you talk of, yea or no? TRANIO. And if I be, sir, is it any offence? GREMIO. No; if without more words you will get you hence. TRANIO. Why, sir, I pray, are not the streets as freeFor me as for you? GREMIO. But so is not she. TRANIO. For what reason, I beseech you? GREMIO. For this reason, if you’ll know,That she’s the choice love of Signior Gremio. HORTENSIO. That she’s the chosen of Signior Hortensio. TRANIO. Softly, my masters! If you be gentlemen,Do me this right; hear me with patience. Baptista is a noble gentleman,To whom my father is not all unknown;And were his daughter fairer than she is,She may more suitors have, and me for one. Fair Leda’s daughter had a thousand wooers;Then well one more may fair Bianca have;And so she shall: Lucentio shall make one,Though Paris came in hope to speed alone. GREMIO. What, this gentleman will out-talk us all. LUCENTIO. Sir, give him head; I know he’ll prove a jade. PETRUCHIO. Hortensio, to what end are all these words? HORTENSIO. Sir, let me be so bold as ask you,Did you yet ever see Baptista’s daughter? TRANIO. No, sir, but hear I do that he hath two,The one as famous for a scolding tongueAs is the other for beauteous modesty. PETRUCHIO. Sir, sir, the first’s for me; let her go by. GREMIO. Yea, leave that labour to great Hercules,And let it be more than Alcides’ twelve. PETRUCHIO. Sir, understand you this of me, in sooth:The youngest daughter, whom you hearken for,Her father keeps from all access of suitors,And will not promise her to any manUntil the elder sister first be wed;The younger then is free, and not before. TRANIO. If it be so, sir, that you are the manMust stead us all, and me amongst the rest;And if you break the ice, and do this feat,Achieve the elder, set the younger freeFor our access, whose hap shall be to have herWill not so graceless be to be ingrate. HORTENSIO. Sir, you say well, and well you do conceive;And since you do profess to be a suitor,You must, as we do, gratify this gentleman,To whom we all rest generally beholding.

TRANIO. Sir, I shall not be slack; in sign whereof,Please ye we may contrive this afternoon,And quaff carouses to our mistress’ health;And do as adversaries do in law,Strive mightily, but eat and drink as friends. GRUMIO, BIONDELLO. O excellent motion! Fellows, let’s be gone. HORTENSIO. The motion’s good indeed, and be it so:—Petruchio, I shall be your ben venuto. [Exeunt. ]ACT IISCENE I. Padua. A room in BAPTISTA’S house. Enter Katherina and Bianca. BIANCA. Good sister, wrong me not, nor wrong yourself,To make a bondmaid and a slave of me;That I disdain; but for these other gawds,Unbind my hands, I’ll pull them off myself,Yea, all my raiment, to my petticoat;Or what you will command me will I do,So well I know my duty to my elders. KATHERINA. Of all thy suitors here I charge thee tellWhom thou lov’st best: see thou dissemble not. BIANCA. Believe me, sister, of all the men aliveI never yet beheld that special faceWhich I could fancy more than any other. KATHERINA. Minion, thou liest. Is’t not Hortensio? BIANCA. If you affect him, sister, here I swearI’ll plead for you myself but you shall have him. KATHERINA. O! then, belike, you fancy riches more:You will have Gremio to keep you fair. BIANCA. Is it for him you do envy me so? Nay, then you jest; and now I well perceiveYou have but jested with me all this while:I prithee, sister Kate, untie my hands. KATHERINA. If that be jest, then all the rest was so. [Strikes her. ]Enter Baptista. BAPTISTA. Why, how now, dame! Whence grows this insolence? Bianca, stand aside. Poor girl! she weeps. Go ply thy needle; meddle not with her. For shame, thou hilding of a devilish spirit,Why dost thou wrong her that did ne’er wrong thee? When did she cross thee with a bitter word? KATHERINA. Her silence flouts me, and I’ll be reveng’d. [Flies after Bianca. ]BAPTISTA. What! in my sight? Bianca, get thee in. [Exit Bianca. ]KATHERINA. What! will you not suffer me? Nay, now I seeShe is your treasure, she must have a husband;I must dance bare-foot on her wedding-day,And, for your love to her, lead apes in hell. Talk not to me: I will go sit and weepTill I can find occasion of revenge. [Exit. ]BAPTISTA. Was ever gentleman thus griev’d as I? But who comes here? Enter Gremio, with Lucentio in the habit of a mean man;Petruchio, with Hortensio as a musician; and Tranio, withBiondello bearing a lute and books. GREMIO. Good morrow, neighbour Baptista. BAPTISTA. Good morrow, neighbour Gremio. God save you, gentlemen! PETRUCHIO. And you, good sir! Pray, have you not a daughterCall’d Katherina, fair and virtuous? BAPTISTA. I have a daughter, sir, call’d Katherina. GREMIO. You are too blunt: go to it orderly. PETRUCHIO. You wrong me, Signior Gremio: give me leave. I am a gentleman of Verona, sir,That, hearing of her beauty and her wit,Her affability and bashful modesty,Her wondrous qualities and mild behaviour,Am bold to show myself a forward guestWithin your house, to make mine eye the witnessOf that report which I so oft have heard. And, for an entrance to my entertainment,I do present you with a man of mine,[Presenting Hortensio. ]Cunning in music and the mathematics,To instruct her fully in those sciences,Whereof I know she is not ignorant. Accept of him, or else you do me wrong:His name is Licio, born in Mantua. BAPTISTA. Y’are welcome, sir, and he for your good sake;But for my daughter Katherine, this I know,She is not for your turn, the more my grief. PETRUCHIO. I see you do not mean to part with her;Or else you like not of my company. BAPTISTA. Mistake me not; I speak but as I find. Whence are you, sir? What may I call your name? PETRUCHIO. Petruchio is my name, Antonio’s son;A man well known throughout all Italy. BAPTISTA. I know him well: you are welcome for his sake. GREMIO. Saving your tale, Petruchio, I pray,Let us, that are poor petitioners, speak too. Backare! you are marvellous forward. PETRUCHIO. O, pardon me, Signior Gremio; I would fain be doing. GREMIO. I doubt it not, sir; but you will curse your wooing. Neighbour, this is a gift very grateful, I am sure of it. Toexpress the like kindness, myself, that have been more kindlybeholding to you than any, freely give unto you this youngscholar,[Presenting Lucentio. ]that has been long studying at Rheims; as cunning in Greek,Latin, and other languages, as the other in music andmathematics. His name is Cambio; pray accept his service. BAPTISTA. A thousand thanks, Signior Gremio; welcome, good Cambio. [To Tranio. ]But, gentle sir, methinks you walk like a stranger. May I be so bold to know the cause of your coming? TRANIO. Pardon me, sir, the boldness is mine own,That, being a stranger in this city here,Do make myself a suitor to your daughter,Unto Bianca, fair and virtuous. Nor is your firm resolve unknown to me,In the preferment of the eldest sister. This liberty is all that I request,That, upon knowledge of my parentage,I may have welcome ’mongst the rest that woo,And free access and favour as the rest:And, toward the education of your daughters,I here bestow a simple instrument,And this small packet of Greek and Latin books:If you accept them, then their worth is great. BAPTISTA. Lucentio is your name, of whence, I pray? TRANIO. Of Pisa, sir; son to Vincentio. BAPTISTA. A mighty man of Pisa: by reportI know him well: you are very welcome, sir. [To Hortensio. ] Take you the lute,[To Lucentio. ] and you the set of books;You shall go see your pupils presently. Holla, within! Enter a Servant. Sirrah, lead these gentlemenTo my daughters, and tell them bothThese are their tutors: bid them use them well. [Exeunt Servant with Hortensio, Lucentio and Biondello. ]We will go walk a little in the orchard,And then to dinner. You are passing welcome,And so I pray you all to think yourselves. PETRUCHIO. Signior Baptista, my business asketh haste,And every day I cannot come to woo. You knew my father well, and in him me,Left solely heir to all his lands and goods,Which I have bettered rather than decreas’d:Then tell me, if I get your daughter’s love,What dowry shall I have with her to wife? BAPTISTA. After my death, the one half of my lands,And in possession twenty thousand crowns. PETRUCHIO. And, for that dowry, I’ll assure her ofHer widowhood, be it that she survive me,In all my lands and leases whatsoever. Let specialities be therefore drawn between us,That covenants may be kept on either hand. BAPTISTA. Ay, when the special thing is well obtain’d,That is, her love; for that is all in all. PETRUCHIO. Why, that is nothing; for I tell you, father,I am as peremptory as she proud-minded;And where two raging fires meet together,They do consume the thing that feeds their fury:Though little fire grows great with little wind,Yet extreme gusts will blow out fire and all;So I to her, and so she yields to me;For I am rough and woo not like a babe. BAPTISTA. Well mayst thou woo, and happy be thy speed! But be thou arm’d for some unhappy words. PETRUCHIO. Ay, to the proof, as mountains are for winds,That shake not though they blow perpetually. Re-enter Hortensio, with his head broke. BAPTISTA. How now, my friend! Why dost thou look so pale?

HORTENSIO. For fear, I promise you, if I look pale. BAPTISTA. What, will my daughter prove a good musician? HORTENSIO. I think she’ll sooner prove a soldier:Iron may hold with her, but never lutes. BAPTISTA. Why, then thou canst not break her to the lute? HORTENSIO. Why, no; for she hath broke the lute to me. I did but tell her she mistook her frets,And bow’d her hand to teach her fingering;When, with a most impatient devilish spirit,’Frets, call you these? ’ quoth she ‘I’llfume with them’;And with that word she struck me on the head,And through the instrument my pate made way;And there I stood amazed for a while,As on a pillory, looking through the lute;While she did call me rascal fiddler,And twangling Jack, with twenty such vile terms,As had she studied to misuse me so. PETRUCHIO. Now, by the world, it is a lusty wench! I love her ten times more than e’er I did:O! how I long to have some chat with her! BAPTISTA. [To Hortensio. ] Well, go with me, and be not so discomfited;Proceed in practice with my younger daughter;She’s apt to learn, and thankful for good turns. Signior Petruchio, will you go with us,Or shall I send my daughter Kate to you? PETRUCHIO. I pray you do. [Exeunt Baptista, Gremio, Tranio and Hortensio. ]I will attend her here,And woo her with some spirit when she comes. Say that she rail; why, then I’ll tell her plainShe sings as sweetly as a nightingale:Say that she frown; I’ll say she looks as clearAs morning roses newly wash’d with dew:Say she be mute, and will not speak a word;Then I’ll commend her volubility,And say she uttereth piercing eloquence:If she do bid me pack, I’ll give her thanks,As though she bid me stay by her a week:If she deny to wed, I’ll crave the dayWhen I shall ask the banns, and when be married. But here she comes; and now, Petruchio, speak. Enter Katherina. Good morrow, Kate; for that’s your name, I hear. KATHERINA. Well have you heard, but something hard of hearing:They call me Katherine that do talk of me. PETRUCHIO. You lie, in faith, for you are call’d plain Kate,And bonny Kate, and sometimes Kate the curst;But, Kate, the prettiest Kate in Christendom,Kate of Kate Hall, my super-dainty Kate,For dainties are all Kates, and therefore, Kate,Take this of me, Kate of my consolation;Hearing thy mildness prais’d in every town,Thy virtues spoke of, and thy beauty sounded,—Yet not so deeply as to thee belongs,—Myself am mov’d to woo thee for my wife. KATHERINA. Mov’d! in good time: let him that mov’d you hitherRemove you hence. I knew you at the first,You were a moveable. PETRUCHIO. Why, what’s a moveable? KATHERINA. A joint-stool. PETRUCHIO. Thou hast hit it: come, sit on me. KATHERINA. Asses are made to bear, and so are you. PETRUCHIO. Women are made to bear, and so are you. KATHERINA. No such jade as bear you, if me you mean. PETRUCHIO. Alas! good Kate, I will not burden thee;For, knowing thee to be but young and light,—KATHERINA. Too light for such a swain as you to catch;And yet as heavy as my weight should be. PETRUCHIO. Should be! should buz! KATHERINA. Well ta’en, and like a buzzard. PETRUCHIO. O, slow-wing’d turtle! shall a buzzard take thee? KATHERINA. Ay, for a turtle, as he takes a buzzard. PETRUCHIO. Come, come, you wasp; i’ faith, you are too angry. KATHERINA. If I be waspish, best beware my sting. PETRUCHIO. My remedy is then to pluck it out. KATHERINA. Ay, if the fool could find it where it lies. PETRUCHIO. Who knows not where a wasp does wear his sting? In his tail. KATHERINA. In his tongue. PETRUCHIO. Whose tongue? KATHERINA. Yours, if you talk of tales; and so farewell. PETRUCHIO. What! with my tongue in your tail? Nay, come again,Good Kate; I am a gentleman. KATHERINA. That I’ll try. [Striking him. ]PETRUCHIO. I swear I’ll cuff you if you strike again. KATHERINA. So may you lose your arms:If you strike me, you are no gentleman;And if no gentleman, why then no arms. PETRUCHIO. A herald, Kate? O! put me in thy books. KATHERINA. What is your crest? a coxcomb? PETRUCHIO. A combless cock, so Kate will be my hen. KATHERINA. No cock of mine; you crow too like a craven. PETRUCHIO. Nay, come, Kate, come; you must not look so sour. KATHERINA. It is my fashion when I see a crab. PETRUCHIO. Why, here’s no crab, and therefore look not sour. KATHERINA. There is, there is. PETRUCHIO. Then show it me. KATHERINA. Had I a glass I would. PETRUCHIO. What, you mean my face? KATHERINA. Well aim’d of such a young one. PETRUCHIO. Now, by Saint George, I am too young for you. KATHERINA. Yet you are wither’d. PETRUCHIO. ’Tis with cares. KATHERINA. I care not. PETRUCHIO. Nay, hear you, Kate: in sooth, you ’scape not so. KATHERINA. I chafe you, if I tarry; let me go. PETRUCHIO. No, not a whit; I find you passing gentle. ’Twas told me you were rough, and coy, and sullen,And now I find report a very liar;For thou art pleasant, gamesome, passing courteous,But slow in speech, yet sweet as spring-time flowers. Thou canst not frown, thou canst not look askance,Nor bite the lip, as angry wenches will,Nor hast thou pleasure to be cross in talk;But thou with mildness entertain’st thy wooers;With gentle conference, soft and affable. Why does the world report that Kate doth limp? O sland’rous world! Kate like the hazel-twigIs straight and slender, and as brown in hueAs hazel-nuts, and sweeter than the kernels. O! let me see thee walk: thou dost not halt. KATHERINA. Go, fool, and whom thou keep’st command. PETRUCHIO. Did ever Dian so become a groveAs Kate this chamber with her princely gait? O! be thou Dian, and let her be Kate,And then let Kate be chaste, and Dian sportful! KATHERINA. Where did you study all this goodly speech? PETRUCHIO.

It is extempore, from my mother-wit. KATHERINA. A witty mother! witless else her son. PETRUCHIO. Am I not wise? KATHERINA. Yes; keep you warm. PETRUCHIO. Marry, so I mean, sweet Katherine, in thy bed;And therefore, setting all this chat aside,Thus in plain terms: your father hath consentedThat you shall be my wife your dowry ’greed on;And will you, nill you, I will marry you. Now, Kate, I am a husband for your turn;For, by this light, whereby I see thy beauty,—Thy beauty that doth make me like thee well,—Thou must be married to no man but me;For I am he am born to tame you, Kate,And bring you from a wild Kate to a KateConformable as other household Kates. Re-enter Baptista, Gremio and Tranio. Here comes your father. Never make denial;I must and will have Katherine to my wife. BAPTISTA. Now, Signior Petruchio, how speed you with my daughter? PETRUCHIO. How but well, sir? how but well? It were impossible I should speed amiss. BAPTISTA. Why, how now, daughter Katherine, in your dumps? KATHERINA. Call you me daughter? Now I promise youYou have show’d a tender fatherly regardTo wish me wed to one half lunatic,A mad-cap ruffian and a swearing Jack,That thinks with oaths to face the matter out. PETRUCHIO. Father, ’tis thus: yourself and all the worldThat talk’d of her have talk’d amiss of her:If she be curst, it is for policy,For she’s not froward, but modest as the dove;She is not hot, but temperate as the morn;For patience she will prove a second Grissel,And Roman Lucrece for her chastity;And to conclude, we have ’greed so well togetherThat upon Sunday is the wedding-day. KATHERINA. I’ll see thee hang’d on Sunday first. GREMIO. Hark, Petruchio; she says she’ll see thee hang’d first. TRANIO. Is this your speeding? Nay, then good-night our part! PETRUCHIO. Be patient, gentlemen. I choose her for myself;If she and I be pleas’d, what’s that to you? ’Tis bargain’d ’twixt us twain, being alone,That she shall still be curst in company. I tell you, ’tis incredible to believeHow much she loves me: O! the kindest KateShe hung about my neck, and kiss on kissShe vied so fast, protesting oath on oath,That in a twink she won me to her love. O! you are novices: ’tis a world to see,How tame, when men and women are alone,A meacock wretch can make the curstest shrew. Give me thy hand, Kate; I will unto Venice,To buy apparel ’gainst the wedding-day. Provide the feast, father, and bid the guests;I will be sure my Katherine shall be fine. BAPTISTA. I know not what to say; but give me your hands. God send you joy, Petruchio! ’Tis a match. GREMIO, TRANIO. Amen, say we; we will be witnesses. PETRUCHIO. Father, and wife, and gentlemen, adieu. I will to Venice; Sunday comes apace;We will have rings and things, and fine array;And kiss me, Kate; we will be married o’ Sunday. [Exeunt Petruchio and Katherina, severally. ]GREMIO. Was ever match clapp’d up so suddenly? BAPTISTA. Faith, gentlemen, now I play a merchant’s part,And venture madly on a desperate mart. TRANIO. ’Twas a commodity lay fretting by you;’Twill bring you gain, or perish on the seas. BAPTISTA. The gain I seek is, quiet in the match. GREMIO. No doubt but he hath got a quiet catch. But now, Baptista, to your younger daughter:Now is the day we long have looked for;I am your neighbour, and was suitor first. TRANIO. And I am one that love Bianca moreThan words can witness or your thoughts can guess. GREMIO. Youngling, thou canst not love so dear as I. TRANIO. Greybeard, thy love doth freeze. GREMIO. But thine doth fry. Skipper, stand back; ’tis age that nourisheth. TRANIO. But youth in ladies’ eyes that flourisheth. BAPTISTA. Content you, gentlemen; I’ll compound this strife:’Tis deeds must win the prize, and he of bothThat can assure my daughter greatest dowerShall have my Bianca’s love. Say, Signior Gremio, what can you assure her? GREMIO. First, as you know, my house within the cityIs richly furnished with plate and gold:Basins and ewers to lave her dainty hands;My hangings all of Tyrian tapestry;In ivory coffers I have stuff’d my crowns;In cypress chests my arras counterpoints,Costly apparel, tents, and canopies,Fine linen, Turkey cushions boss’d with pearl,Valance of Venice gold in needlework;Pewter and brass, and all things that belongTo house or housekeeping: then, at my farmI have a hundred milch-kine to the pail,Six score fat oxen standing in my stalls,And all things answerable to this portion. Myself am struck in years, I must confess;And if I die tomorrow this is hers,If whilst I live she will be only mine. TRANIO. That ‘only’ came well in. Sir, list to me:I am my father’s heir and only son;If I may have your daughter to my wife,I’ll leave her houses three or four as goodWithin rich Pisa’s walls as anyoneOld Signior Gremio has in Padua;Besides two thousand ducats by the yearOf fruitful land, all which shall be her jointure. What, have I pinch’d you, Signior Gremio? GREMIO. Two thousand ducats by the year of land! My land amounts not to so much in all:That she shall have, besides an argosyThat now is lying in Marseilles’ road. What, have I chok’d you with an argosy? TRANIO. Gremio, ’tis known my father hath no lessThan three great argosies, besides two galliasses,And twelve tight galleys; these I will assure her,And twice as much, whate’er thou offer’st next. GREMIO. Nay, I have offer’d all; I have no more;And she can have no more than all I have;If you like me, she shall have me and mine. TRANIO. Why, then the maid is mine from all the world,By your firm promise; Gremio is out-vied. BAPTISTA. I must confess your offer is the best;And let your father make her the assurance,She is your own; else, you must pardon me;If you should die before him, where’s her dower? TRANIO. That’s but a cavil; he is old, I young. GREMIO. And may not young men die as well as old? BAPTISTA. Well, gentlemen,I am thus resolv’d. On Sunday next, you know,My daughter Katherine is to be married;Now, on the Sunday following, shall BiancaBe bride to you, if you make this assurance;If not, to Signior Gremio. And so I take my leave, and thank you both. GREMIO. Adieu, good neighbour. [Exit Baptista. ]Now, I fear thee not:Sirrah young gamester, your father were a foolTo give thee all, and in his waning ageSet foot under thy table. Tut! a toy! An old Italian fox is not so kind, my boy. [Exit. ]TRANIO. A vengeance on your crafty wither’d hide! Yet I have fac’d it with a card of ten. ’Tis in my head to do my master good:I see no reason but suppos’d LucentioMust get a father, call’d suppos’d Vincentio;And that’s a wonder: fathers commonlyDo get their children; but in this case of wooingA child shall get a sire, if I fail not of my cunning. [Exit. ]ACT IIISCENE I. Padua. A room in BAPTISTA’S house. Enter Lucentio, Hortensio and Bianca. LUCENTIO. Fiddler, forbear; you grow too forward, sir. Have you so soon forgot the entertainmentHer sister Katherine welcome’d you withal? HORTENSIO. But, wrangling pedant, this isThe patroness of heavenly harmony:Then give me leave to have prerogative;And when in music we have spent an hour,Your lecture shall have leisure for as much. LUCENTIO. Preposterous ass, that never read so farTo know the cause why music was ordain’d! Was it not to refresh the mind of manAfter his studies or his usual pain? Then give me leave to read philosophy,And while I pause serve in your harmony. HORTENSIO. Sirrah, I will not bear these braves of thine. BIANCA. Why, gentlemen, you do me double wrong,To strive for that which resteth in my choice. I am no breeching scholar in the schools,I’ll not be tied to hours nor ’pointed times,But learn my lessons as I please myself. And, to cut off all strife, here sit we down;Take you your instrument, play you the whiles;His lecture will be done ere you have tun’d. HORTENSIO. You’ll leave his lecture when I am in tune? [Retires. ]LUCENTIO. That will be never: tune your instrument. BIANCA. Where left we last? LUCENTIO. Here, madam:—Hic ibat Simois; hic est Sigeia tellus;Hic steterat Priami regia celsa senis.

BIANCA. Construe them. LUCENTIO. Hic ibat, as I told you before, Simois, I am Lucentio, hicest, son unto Vincentio of Pisa, Sigeia tellus, disguised thusto get your love, Hic steterat, and that Lucentio that comesa-wooing, Priami, is my man Tranio, regia, bearing my port,celsa senis, that we might beguile the old pantaloon. HORTENSIO. [Returning. ]Madam, my instrument’s in tune. BIANCA. Let’s hear. —[Hortensio plays. ]O fie! the treble jars. LUCENTIO. Spit in the hole, man, and tune again. BIANCA. Now let me see if I can construe it: Hic ibat Simois, Iknow you not; hic est Sigeia tellus, I trust you not; Hicsteterat Priami, take heed he hear us not; regia, presume not;celsa senis, despair not. HORTENSIO. Madam, ’tis now in tune. LUCENTIO. All but the base. HORTENSIO. The base is right; ’tis the base knave that jars. [Aside] How fiery and forward our pedant is! Now, for my life, the knave doth court my love:Pedascule, I’ll watch you better yet. BIANCA. In time I may believe, yet I mistrust. LUCENTIO. Mistrust it not; for sure, ÆacidesWas Ajax, call’d so from his grandfather. BIANCA. I must believe my master; else, I promise you,I should be arguing still upon that doubt;But let it rest. Now, Licio, to you. Good master, take it not unkindly, pray,That I have been thus pleasant with you both. HORTENSIO. [To Lucentio] You may go walk and give me leave a while;My lessons make no music in three parts. LUCENTIO. Are you so formal, sir? Well, I must wait,[Aside] And watch withal; for, but I be deceiv’d,Our fine musician groweth amorous. HORTENSIO. Madam, before you touch the instrument,To learn the order of my fingering,I must begin with rudiments of art;To teach you gamut in a briefer sort,More pleasant, pithy, and effectual,Than hath been taught by any of my trade:And there it is in writing, fairly drawn. BIANCA. Why, I am past my gamut long ago. HORTENSIO. Yet read the gamut of Hortensio. BIANCA.   Gamut I am, the ground of all accord,     A re, to plead Hortensio’s passion;   B mi, Bianca, take him for thy lord,     C fa ut, that loves with all affection:   D sol re, one clef, two notes have I   E la mi, show pity or I die. Call you this gamut? Tut, I like it not:Old fashions please me best; I am not so nice,To change true rules for odd inventions. Enter a Servant. SERVANT. Mistress, your father prays you leave your books,And help to dress your sister’s chamber up:You know tomorrow is the wedding-day. BIANCA. Farewell, sweet masters, both: I must be gone. [Exeunt Bianca and Servant. ]LUCENTIO. Faith, mistress, then I have no cause to stay. [Exit. ]HORTENSIO. But I have cause to pry into this pedant:Methinks he looks as though he were in love. Yet if thy thoughts, Bianca, be so humbleTo cast thy wand’ring eyes on every stale,Seize thee that list: if once I find thee ranging,Hortensio will be quit with thee by changing. [Exit. ]SCENE II. The same. Before BAPTISTA’S house. Enter Baptista, Gremio, Tranio, Katherina, Bianca, Lucentio and Attendants. BAPTISTA.  [To Tranio. ]Signior Lucentio, this is the ’pointed dayThat Katherine and Petruchio should be married,And yet we hear not of our son-in-law. What will be said? What mockery will it beTo want the bridegroom when the priest attendsTo speak the ceremonial rites of marriage! What says Lucentio to this shame of ours? KATHERINA. No shame but mine; I must, forsooth, be forc’dTo give my hand, oppos’d against my heart,Unto a mad-brain rudesby, full of spleen;Who woo’d in haste and means to wed at leisure. I told you, I, he was a frantic fool,Hiding his bitter jests in blunt behaviour;And to be noted for a merry man,He’ll woo a thousand, ’point the day of marriage,Make friends, invite, and proclaim the banns;Yet never means to wed where he hath woo’d. Now must the world point at poor Katherine,And say ‘Lo! there is mad Petruchio’s wife,If it would please him come and marry her. ’TRANIO. Patience, good Katherine, and Baptista too. Upon my life, Petruchio means but well,Whatever fortune stays him from his word:Though he be blunt, I know him passing wise;Though he be merry, yet withal he’s honest. KATHERINA. Would Katherine had never seen him though! [Exit weeping, followed by Bianca and others. ]BAPTISTA. Go, girl, I cannot blame thee now to weep,For such an injury would vex a very saint;Much more a shrew of thy impatient humour. Enter Biondello. Master, master! News! old news, and such news as you never heardof! BAPTISTA. Is it new and old too? How may that be? BIONDELLO. Why, is it not news to hear of Petruchio’s coming? BAPTISTA. Is he come? BIONDELLO. Why, no, sir. BAPTISTA. What then? BIONDELLO. He is coming. BAPTISTA. When will he be here? BIONDELLO. When he stands where I am and sees you there. TRANIO. But say, what to thine old news? BIONDELLO. Why, Petruchio is coming, in a new hat and an oldjerkin; a pair of old breeches thrice turned; a pair of bootsthat have been candle-cases, one buckled, another laced; an oldrusty sword ta’en out of the town armoury, with a broken hilt,and chapeless; with two broken points: his horse hipped with anold mothy saddle and stirrups of no kindred; besides, possessedwith the glanders and like to mose in the chine; troubled withthe lampass, infected with the fashions, full of windgalls, spedwith spavins, rayed with the yellows, past cure of the fives,stark spoiled with the staggers, begnawn with the bots, swayed inthe back and shoulder-shotten; near-legged before, and with ahalf-checked bit, and a head-stall of sheep’s leather, which,being restrained to keep him from stumbling, hath been oftenburst, and now repaired with knots; one girth six times pieced,and a woman’s crupper of velure, which hath two letters for hername fairly set down in studs, and here and there pieced withpack-thread. BAPTISTA. Who comes with him? BIONDELLO. O, sir! his lackey, for all the world caparisoned likethe horse; with a linen stock on one leg and a kersey boot-hoseon the other, gartered with a red and blue list; an old hat, andthe humour of forty fancies prick’d in’t for a feather: amonster, a very monster in apparel, and not like a Christianfootboy or a gentleman’s lackey. TRANIO. ’Tis some odd humour pricks him to this fashion;Yet oftentimes he goes but mean-apparell’d. BAPTISTA. I am glad he’s come, howsoe’er he comes. BIONDELLO. Why, sir, he comes not. BAPTISTA. Didst thou not say he comes? BIONDELLO. Who? that Petruchio came? BAPTISTA. Ay, that Petruchio came. BIONDELLO. No, sir; I say his horse comes, with him on his back. BAPTISTA. Why, that’s all one. BIONDELLO.     Nay, by Saint Jamy,     I hold you a penny,     A horse and a man     Is more than one,     And yet not many. Enter Petruchio and Grumio. PETRUCHIO. Come, where be these gallants? Who is at home? BAPTISTA. You are welcome, sir. PETRUCHIO. And yet I come not well. BAPTISTA. And yet you halt not. TRANIO. Not so well apparell’d as I wish you were. PETRUCHIO. Were it better, I should rush in thus. But where is Kate?

Where is my lovely bride? How does my father? Gentles, methinks you frown;And wherefore gaze this goodly company,As if they saw some wondrous monument,Some comet or unusual prodigy? BAPTISTA. Why, sir, you know this is your wedding-day:First were we sad, fearing you would not come;Now sadder, that you come so unprovided. Fie! doff this habit, shame to your estate,An eye-sore to our solemn festival. TRANIO. And tell us what occasion of importHath all so long detain’d you from your wife,And sent you hither so unlike yourself? PETRUCHIO. Tedious it were to tell, and harsh to hear;Sufficeth I am come to keep my word,Though in some part enforced to digress;Which at more leisure I will so excuseAs you shall well be satisfied withal. But where is Kate? I stay too long from her;The morning wears, ’tis time we were at church. TRANIO. See not your bride in these unreverent robes;Go to my chamber, put on clothes of mine. PETRUCHIO. Not I, believe me: thus I’ll visit her. BAPTISTA. But thus, I trust, you will not marry her. PETRUCHIO. Good sooth, even thus; therefore ha’ done with words;To me she’s married, not unto my clothes. Could I repair what she will wear in meAs I can change these poor accoutrements,’Twere well for Kate and better for myself. But what a fool am I to chat with youWhen I should bid good morrow to my bride,And seal the title with a lovely kiss! [Exeunt Petruchio, Grumio and Biondello. ]TRANIO. He hath some meaning in his mad attire. We will persuade him, be it possible,To put on better ere he go to church. BAPTISTA. I’ll after him and see the event of this. [Exeunt Baptista, Gremio and Attendants. ]TRANIO. But, sir, to love concerneth us to addHer father’s liking; which to bring to pass,As I before imparted to your worship,I am to get a man,—whate’er he beIt skills not much; we’ll fit him to our turn,—And he shall be Vincentio of Pisa,And make assurance here in Padua,Of greater sums than I have promised. So shall you quietly enjoy your hope,And marry sweet Bianca with consent. LUCENTIO. Were it not that my fellow schoolmasterDoth watch Bianca’s steps so narrowly,’Twere good, methinks, to steal our marriage;Which once perform’d, let all the world say no,I’ll keep mine own despite of all the world. TRANIO. That by degrees we mean to look into,And watch our vantage in this business. We’ll over-reach the greybeard, Gremio,The narrow-prying father, Minola,The quaint musician, amorous Licio;All for my master’s sake, Lucentio. Re-enter Gremio. Signior Gremio, came you from the church? GREMIO. As willingly as e’er I came from school. TRANIO. And is the bride and bridegroom coming home? GREMIO. A bridegroom, say you? ’Tis a groom indeed,A grumbling groom, and that the girl shall find. TRANIO. Curster than she? Why, ’tis impossible. GREMIO. Why, he’s a devil, a devil, a very fiend. TRANIO. Why, she’s a devil, a devil, the devil’s dam. GREMIO. Tut! she’s a lamb, a dove, a fool, to him. I’ll tell you, Sir Lucentio: when the priestShould ask if Katherine should be his wife,’Ay, by gogs-wouns’ quoth he, and swore so loudThat, all amaz’d, the priest let fall the book;And as he stoop’d again to take it up,The mad-brain’d bridegroom took him such a cuffThat down fell priest and book, and book and priest:‘Now take them up,’ quoth he ‘if any list. ’TRANIO. What said the wench, when he rose again? GREMIO. Trembled and shook, for why, he stamp’d and sworeAs if the vicar meant to cozen him. But after many ceremonies done,He calls for wine: ‘A health! ’ quoth he, as ifHe had been abroad, carousing to his matesAfter a storm; quaff’d off the muscadel,And threw the sops all in the sexton’s face,Having no other reasonBut that his beard grew thin and hungerlyAnd seem’d to ask him sops as he was drinking. This done, he took the bride about the neck,And kiss’d her lips with such a clamorous smackThat at the parting all the church did echo. And I, seeing this, came thence for very shame;And after me, I know, the rout is coming. Such a mad marriage never was before. Hark, hark! I hear the minstrels play. [Music plays. ]Enter Petrucio, Katherina, Bianca, Baptista, Hortensio, Grumio and Train. PETRUCHIO. Gentlemen and friends, I thank you for your pains:I know you think to dine with me today,And have prepar’d great store of wedding cheerBut so it is, my haste doth call me hence,And therefore here I mean to take my leave. BAPTISTA. Is’t possible you will away tonight? PETRUCHIO. I must away today before night come. Make it no wonder: if you knew my business,You would entreat me rather go than stay. And, honest company, I thank you all,That have beheld me give away myselfTo this most patient, sweet, and virtuous wife. Dine with my father, drink a health to me. For I must hence; and farewell to you all. TRANIO. Let us entreat you stay till after dinner. PETRUCHIO. It may not be. GREMIO. Let me entreat you. PETRUCHIO. It cannot be. KATHERINA. Let me entreat you. PETRUCHIO. I am content. KATHERINA. Are you content to stay? PETRUCHIO. I am content you shall entreat me stay;But yet not stay, entreat me how you can. KATHERINA. Now, if you love me, stay. PETRUCHIO. Grumio, my horse! GRUMIO. Ay, sir, they be ready; the oats have eaten the horses. KATHERINA. Nay, then,Do what thou canst, I will not go today;No, nor tomorrow, not till I please myself. The door is open, sir; there lies your way;You may be jogging whiles your boots are green;For me, I’ll not be gone till I please myself. ’Tis like you’ll prove a jolly surly groomThat take it on you at the first so roundly. PETRUCHIO. O Kate! content thee: prithee be not angry. KATHERINA. I will be angry: what hast thou to do? Father, be quiet; he shall stay my leisure. GREMIO. Ay, marry, sir, now it begins to work. KATHERINA. Gentlemen, forward to the bridal dinner:I see a woman may be made a fool,If she had not a spirit to resist. PETRUCHIO. They shall go forward, Kate, at thy command. Obey the bride, you that attend on her;Go to the feast, revel and domineer,Carouse full measure to her maidenhead,Be mad and merry, or go hang yourselves:But for my bonny Kate, she must with me. Nay, look not big, nor stamp, nor stare, nor fret;I will be master of what is mine own. She is my goods, my chattels; she is my house,My household stuff, my field, my barn,My horse, my ox, my ass, my anything;And here she stands, touch her whoever dare;I’ll bring mine action on the proudest heThat stops my way in Padua. Grumio,Draw forth thy weapon; we are beset with thieves;Rescue thy mistress, if thou be a man. Fear not, sweet wench; they shall not touch thee, Kate;I’ll buckler thee against a million. [Exeunt Petrucio, Katherina and Grumio. ]BAPTISTA. Nay, let them go, a couple of quiet ones. GREMIO. Went they not quickly, I should die with laughing. TRANIO. Of all mad matches, never was the like. LUCENTIO. Mistress, what’s your opinion of your sister? BIANCA. That, being mad herself, she’s madly mated. GREMIO. I warrant him, Petruchio is Kated. BAPTISTA. Neighbours and friends, though bride and bridegroom wantsFor to supply the places at the table,You know there wants no junkets at the feast. Lucentio, you shall supply the bridegroom’s place;And let Bianca take her sister’s room. TRANIO. Shall sweet Bianca practise how to bride it? BAPTISTA. She shall, Lucentio. Come, gentlemen, let’s go. [Exeunt. ]ACT IVSCENE I.

A hall in PETRUCHIO’S country house. Enter Grumio. GRUMIO. Fie, fie on all tired jades, on all mad masters, and allfoul ways! Was ever man so beaten? Was ever man so ray’d? Wasever man so weary? I am sent before to make a fire, and they arecoming after to warm them. Now, were not I a little pot and soonhot, my very lips might freeze to my teeth, my tongue to the roofof my mouth, my heart in my belly, ere I should come by a fire tothaw me. But I with blowing the fire shall warm myself; for,considering the weather, a taller man than I will take cold. Holla, ho! Curtis! Enter Curtis. CURTIS. Who is that calls so coldly? GRUMIO. A piece of ice: if thou doubt it, thou mayst slide from myshoulder to my heel with no greater a run but my head and myneck. A fire, good Curtis. CURTIS. Is my master and his wife coming, Grumio? GRUMIO. O, ay! Curtis, ay; and therefore fire, fire; cast on nowater. CURTIS. Is she so hot a shrew as she’s reported? GRUMIO. She was, good Curtis, before this frost; but thou knowestwinter tames man, woman, and beast; for it hath tamed my oldmaster, and my new mistress, and myself, fellow Curtis. CURTIS. Away, you three-inch fool! I am no beast. GRUMIO. Am I but three inches? Why, thy horn is a foot; and so longam I at the least. But wilt thou make a fire, or shall I complainon thee to our mistress, whose hand,—she being now at hand,—thou shalt soon feel, to thy cold comfort, for being slow in thyhot office? CURTIS. I prithee, good Grumio, tell me, how goes the world? GRUMIO. A cold world, Curtis, in every office but thine; andtherefore fire. Do thy duty, and have thy duty, for my master andmistress are almost frozen to death. CURTIS. There’s fire ready; and therefore, good Grumio, the news. GRUMIO. Why, ‘Jack boy! ho, boy! ’ and as much news as wilt thou. CURTIS. Come, you are so full of cony-catching. GRUMIO. Why, therefore, fire; for I have caught extreme cold. Where’s the cook? Is supper ready, the house trimmed, rushesstrewed, cobwebs swept, the servingmen in their new fustian,their white stockings, and every officer his wedding-garment on? Be the Jacks fair within, the Jills fair without, and carpetslaid, and everything in order? CURTIS. All ready; and therefore, I pray thee, news. GRUMIO. First, know my horse is tired; my master and mistress fallen out. CURTIS. How? GRUMIO. Out of their saddles into the dirt; and thereby hangs a tale. CURTIS. Let’s ha’t, good Grumio. GRUMIO. Lend thine ear. CURTIS. Here. GRUMIO. [Striking him. ] There. CURTIS. This ’tis to feel a tale, not to hear a tale. GRUMIO. And therefore ’tis called a sensible tale; and this cuffwas but to knock at your ear and beseech listening. Now I begin:Imprimis, we came down a foul hill, my master riding behind mymistress,—CURTIS. Both of one horse? GRUMIO. What’s that to thee? CURTIS. Why, a horse. GRUMIO. Tell thou the tale: but hadst thou not crossed me, thoushouldst have heard how her horse fell, and she under her horse;thou shouldst have heard in how miry a place, how she wasbemoiled; how he left her with the horse upon her; how he beat mebecause her horse stumbled; how she waded through the dirt topluck him off me: how he swore; how she prayed, that never prayedbefore; how I cried; how the horses ran away; how her bridle wasburst; how I lost my crupper; with many things of worthy memory,which now shall die in oblivion, and thou return unexperienced tothy grave. CURTIS. By this reckoning he is more shrew than she. GRUMIO. Ay; and that thou and the proudest of you all shall findwhen he comes home. But what talk I of this? Call forthNathaniel, Joseph, Nicholas, Philip, Walter, Sugarsop, and therest; let their heads be sleekly combed, their blue coats brush’dand their garters of an indifferent knit; let them curtsy withtheir left legs, and not presume to touch a hair of my master’shorse-tail till they kiss their hands. Are they all ready? CURTIS. They are. GRUMIO. Call them forth. CURTIS. Do you hear? ho! You must meet my master to countenance mymistress. GRUMIO. Why, she hath a face of her own. CURTIS. Who knows not that? GRUMIO. Thou, it seems, that calls for company to countenance her. CURTIS. I call them forth to credit her. GRUMIO. Why, she comes to borrow nothing of them. Enter four or five Servants. NATHANIEL. Welcome home, Grumio! PHILIP. How now, Grumio! JOSEPH. What, Grumio! NICHOLAS. Fellow Grumio! NATHANIEL. How now, old lad! GRUMIO. Welcome, you; how now, you; what, you; fellow, you;and thus much for greeting. Now, my spruce companions, is allready, and all things neat? NATHANIEL. All things is ready. How near is our master? GRUMIO. E’en at hand, alighted by this; and therefore be not,—Cock’s passion, silence! I hear my master. Enter Petrucio and Katherina. PETRUCHIO. Where be these knaves? What! no man at doorTo hold my stirrup nor to take my horse? Where is Nathaniel, Gregory, Philip? —ALL SERVANTS. Here, here, sir; here, sir. PETRUCHIO. Here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! here, sir! You logger-headed and unpolish’d grooms! What, no attendance? no regard? no duty? Where is the foolish knave I sent before? GRUMIO. Here, sir; as foolish as I was before. PETRUCHIO.

You peasant swain! you whoreson malt-horse drudge! Did I not bid thee meet me in the park,And bring along these rascal knaves with thee? GRUMIO. Nathaniel’s coat, sir, was not fully made,And Gabriel’s pumps were all unpink’d i’ the heel;There was no link to colour Peter’s hat,And Walter’s dagger was not come from sheathing;There was none fine but Adam, Ralph, and Gregory;The rest were ragged, old, and beggarly;Yet, as they are, here are they come to meet you. PETRUCHIO. Go, rascals, go and fetch my supper in. [Exeunt some of the Servants. ]Where is the life that late I led?   Where are those—?  Sit down, Kate, and welcome. Food, food, food, food! Re-enter Servants with supper. Why, when, I say? —Nay, good sweet Kate, be merry. —Off with my boots, you rogues! you villains! when?   It was the friar of orders grey,   As he forth walked on his way:Out, you rogue! you pluck my foot awry:[Strikes him. ]Take that, and mend the plucking off the other. Be merry, Kate. Some water, here; what, ho! Where’s my spaniel Troilus? Sirrah, get you henceAnd bid my cousin Ferdinand come hither:[Exit Servant. ]One, Kate, that you must kiss and be acquainted with. Where are my slippers? Shall I have some water? Come, Kate, and wash, and welcome heartily. —[Servant lets the ewer fall. Petruchio strikes him. ]You whoreson villain! will you let it fall? KATHERINA. Patience, I pray you; ’twas a fault unwilling. PETRUCHIO. A whoreson, beetle-headed, flap-ear’d knave! Come, Kate, sit down; I know you have a stomach. Will you give thanks, sweet Kate, or else shall I? —What’s this? Mutton? FIRST SERVANT. Ay. PETRUCHIO. Who brought it? PETER. I. PETRUCHIO. ’Tis burnt; and so is all the meat. What dogs are these! Where is the rascal cook? How durst you, villains, bring it from the dresser,And serve it thus to me that love it not? [Throws the meat, etc. , at them. ]There, take it to you, trenchers, cups, and all. You heedless joltheads and unmanner’d slaves! What! do you grumble? I’ll be with you straight. KATHERINA. I pray you, husband, be not so disquiet;The meat was well, if you were so contented. PETRUCHIO. I tell thee, Kate, ’twas burnt and dried away,And I expressly am forbid to touch it;For it engenders choler, planteth anger;And better ’twere that both of us did fast,Since, of ourselves, ourselves are choleric,Than feed it with such over-roasted flesh. Be patient; tomorrow ’t shall be mended. And for this night we’ll fast for company:Come, I will bring thee to thy bridal chamber. [Exeunt Petruchio, Katherina and Curtis. ]NATHANIEL. Peter, didst ever see the like? PETER. He kills her in her own humour. Re-enter Curtis. GRUMIO. Where is he? CURTIS. In her chamber, making a sermon of continency to her;And rails, and swears, and rates, that she, poor soul,Knows not which way to stand, to look, to speak,And sits as one new risen from a dream. Away, away! for he is coming hither. [Exeunt. ]Re-enter Petruchio. PETRUCHIO. Thus have I politicly begun my reign,And ’tis my hope to end successfully. My falcon now is sharp and passing empty. And till she stoop she must not be full-gorg’d,For then she never looks upon her lure. Another way I have to man my haggard,To make her come, and know her keeper’s call,That is, to watch her, as we watch these kitesThat bate and beat, and will not be obedient. She eat no meat today, nor none shall eat;Last night she slept not, nor tonight she shall not;As with the meat, some undeserved faultI’ll find about the making of the bed;And here I’ll fling the pillow, there the bolster,This way the coverlet, another way the sheets;Ay, and amid this hurly I intendThat all is done in reverend care of her;And, in conclusion, she shall watch all night:And if she chance to nod I’ll rail and brawl,And with the clamour keep her still awake. This is a way to kill a wife with kindness;And thus I’ll curb her mad and headstrong humour. He that knows better how to tame a shrew,Now let him speak; ’tis charity to show. [Exit. ]SCENE II. Padua. Before BAPTISTA’S house. Enter Tranio and Hortensio. TRANIO. Is ’t possible, friend Licio, that Mistress BiancaDoth fancy any other but Lucentio? I tell you, sir, she bears me fair in hand. HORTENSIO. Sir, to satisfy you in what I have said,Stand by and mark the manner of his teaching. [They stand aside. ]Enter Bianca and Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Now, mistress, profit you in what you read? BIANCA. What, master, read you? First resolve me that. LUCENTIO. I read that I profess, The Art to Love. BIANCA. And may you prove, sir, master of your art! LUCENTIO. While you, sweet dear, prove mistress of my heart. [They retire. ]HORTENSIO. Quick proceeders, marry! Now tell me, I pray,You that durst swear that your Mistress BiancaLov’d none in the world so well as Lucentio. TRANIO. O despiteful love! unconstant womankind! I tell thee, Licio, this is wonderful. HORTENSIO. Mistake no more; I am not Licio. Nor a musician as I seem to be;But one that scorn to live in this disguiseFor such a one as leaves a gentlemanAnd makes a god of such a cullion:Know, sir, that I am call’d Hortensio. TRANIO. Signior Hortensio, I have often heardOf your entire affection to Bianca;And since mine eyes are witness of her lightness,I will with you, if you be so contented,Forswear Bianca and her love for ever. HORTENSIO. See, how they kiss and court! Signior Lucentio,Here is my hand, and here I firmly vowNever to woo her more, but do forswear her,As one unworthy all the former favoursThat I have fondly flatter’d her withal. TRANIO. And here I take the like unfeigned oath,Never to marry with her though she would entreat;Fie on her! See how beastly she doth court him! HORTENSIO. Would all the world but he had quite forsworn! For me, that I may surely keep mine oath,I will be married to a wealthy widowEre three days pass, which hath as long lov’d meAs I have lov’d this proud disdainful haggard. And so farewell, Signior Lucentio. Kindness in women, not their beauteous looks,Shall win my love; and so I take my leave,In resolution as I swore before. [Exit Hortensio. Lucentio and Bianca advance. ]TRANIO. Mistress Bianca, bless you with such graceAs ’longeth to a lover’s blessed case! Nay, I have ta’en you napping, gentle love,And have forsworn you with Hortensio. BIANCA. Tranio, you jest; but have you both forsworn me? TRANIO. Mistress, we have. LUCENTIO. Then we are rid of Licio. TRANIO. I’ faith, he’ll have a lusty widow now,That shall be woo’d and wedded in a day.

BIANCA. God give him joy! TRANIO. Ay, and he’ll tame her. BIANCA. He says so, Tranio. TRANIO. Faith, he is gone unto the taming-school. BIANCA. The taming-school! What, is there such a place? TRANIO. Ay, mistress; and Petruchio is the master,That teacheth tricks eleven and twenty long,To tame a shrew and charm her chattering tongue. Enter Biondello, running. BIONDELLO. O master, master! I have watch’d so longThat I am dog-weary; but at last I spiedAn ancient angel coming down the hillWill serve the turn. TRANIO. What is he, Biondello? BIONDELLO. Master, a mercatante or a pedant,I know not what; but formal in apparel,In gait and countenance surely like a father. LUCENTIO. And what of him, Tranio? TRANIO. If he be credulous and trust my tale,I’ll make him glad to seem Vincentio,And give assurance to Baptista Minola,As if he were the right Vincentio. Take in your love, and then let me alone. [Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca. ]Enter a Pedant. PEDANT. God save you, sir! TRANIO. And you, sir! you are welcome. Travel you far on, or are you at the farthest? PEDANT. Sir, at the farthest for a week or two;But then up farther, and as far as Rome;And so to Tripoli, if God lend me life. TRANIO. What countryman, I pray? PEDANT. Of Mantua. TRANIO. Of Mantua, sir?  Marry, God forbid,And come to Padua, careless of your life! PEDANT. My life, sir! How, I pray? for that goes hard. TRANIO. ’Tis death for anyone in MantuaTo come to Padua. Know you not the cause? Your ships are stay’d at Venice; and the Duke,—For private quarrel ’twixt your Duke and him,—Hath publish’d and proclaim’d it openly. ’Tis marvel, but that you are but newly comeYou might have heard it else proclaim’d about. PEDANT. Alas, sir! it is worse for me than so;For I have bills for money by exchangeFrom Florence, and must here deliver them. TRANIO. Well, sir, to do you courtesy,This will I do, and this I will advise you:First, tell me, have you ever been at Pisa? PEDANT. Ay, sir, in Pisa have I often been,Pisa renowned for grave citizens. TRANIO. Among them know you one Vincentio? PEDANT. I know him not, but I have heard of him,A merchant of incomparable wealth. TRANIO. He is my father, sir; and, sooth to say,In countenance somewhat doth resemble you. BIONDELLO. [Aside. ]  As much as an apple doth an oyster, and all one. TRANIO. To save your life in this extremity,This favour will I do you for his sake;And think it not the worst of all your fortunesThat you are like to Sir Vincentio. His name and credit shall you undertake,And in my house you shall be friendly lodg’d;Look that you take upon you as you should! You understand me, sir; so shall you stayTill you have done your business in the city. If this be courtesy, sir, accept of it. PEDANT. O, sir, I do; and will repute you everThe patron of my life and liberty. TRANIO. Then go with me to make the matter good. This, by the way, I let you understand:My father is here look’d for every dayTo pass assurance of a dower in marriage’Twixt me and one Baptista’s daughter here:In all these circumstances I’ll instruct you. Go with me to clothe you as becomes you. [Exeunt. ]SCENE III. A room in PETRUCHIO’S house. Enter Katherina and Grumio. GRUMIO. No, no, forsooth; I dare not for my life. KATHERINA. The more my wrong, the more his spite appears. What, did he marry me to famish me? Beggars that come unto my father’s doorUpon entreaty have a present alms;If not, elsewhere they meet with charity;But I, who never knew how to entreat,Nor never needed that I should entreat,Am starv’d for meat, giddy for lack of sleep;With oaths kept waking, and with brawling fed. And that which spites me more than all these wants,He does it under name of perfect love;As who should say, if I should sleep or eat’Twere deadly sickness, or else present death. I prithee go and get me some repast;I care not what, so it be wholesome food. GRUMIO. What say you to a neat’s foot? KATHERINA. ’Tis passing good; I prithee let me have it. GRUMIO. I fear it is too choleric a meat. How say you to a fat tripe finely broil’d? KATHERINA. I like it well; good Grumio, fetch it me. GRUMIO. I cannot tell; I fear ’tis choleric. What say you to a piece of beef and mustard? KATHERINA. A dish that I do love to feed upon. GRUMIO. Ay, but the mustard is too hot a little. KATHERINA. Why then the beef, and let the mustard rest. GRUMIO. Nay, then I will not: you shall have the mustard,Or else you get no beef of Grumio. KATHERINA. Then both, or one, or anything thou wilt. GRUMIO. Why then the mustard without the beef. KATHERINA. Go, get thee gone, thou false deluding slave,[Beats him. ]That feed’st me with the very name of meat. Sorrow on thee and all the pack of youThat triumph thus upon my misery! Go, get thee gone, I say. Enter Petruchio with a dish of meat; and Hortensio. PETRUCHIO. How fares my Kate? What, sweeting, all amort? HORTENSIO. Mistress, what cheer? KATHERINA. Faith, as cold as can be. PETRUCHIO. Pluck up thy spirits; look cheerfully upon me. Here, love; thou seest how diligent I am,To dress thy meat myself, and bring it thee:[Sets the dish on a table. ]I am sure, sweet Kate, this kindness merits thanks. What! not a word? Nay, then thou lov’st it not,And all my pains is sorted to no proof. Here, take away this dish. KATHERINA. I pray you, let it stand. PETRUCHIO. The poorest service is repaid with thanks;And so shall mine, before you touch the meat. KATHERINA. I thank you, sir. HORTENSIO. Signior Petruchio, fie! you are to blame. Come, Mistress Kate, I’ll bear you company. PETRUCHIO.

[Aside. ]  Eat it up all, Hortensio, if thou lovest me. Much good do it unto thy gentle heart! Kate, eat apace: and now, my honey love,Will we return unto thy father’s houseAnd revel it as bravely as the best,With silken coats and caps, and golden rings,With ruffs and cuffs and farthingales and things;With scarfs and fans and double change of bravery,With amber bracelets, beads, and all this knavery. What! hast thou din’d? The tailor stays thy leisure,To deck thy body with his ruffling treasure. Enter Tailor. Come, tailor, let us see these ornaments;Lay forth the gown. —Enter Haberdasher. What news with you, sir? HABERDASHER. Here is the cap your worship did bespeak. PETRUCHIO. Why, this was moulded on a porringer;A velvet dish: fie, fie! ’tis lewd and filthy:Why, ’tis a cockle or a walnut-shell,A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby’s cap:Away with it! come, let me have a bigger. KATHERINA. I’ll have no bigger; this doth fit the time,And gentlewomen wear such caps as these. PETRUCHIO. When you are gentle, you shall have one too,And not till then. HORTENSIO. [Aside] That will not be in haste. KATHERINA. Why, sir, I trust I may have leave to speak;And speak I will. I am no child, no babe. Your betters have endur’d me say my mind,And if you cannot, best you stop your ears. My tongue will tell the anger of my heart,Or else my heart, concealing it, will break;And rather than it shall, I will be freeEven to the uttermost, as I please, in words. PETRUCHIO. Why, thou say’st true; it is a paltry cap,A custard-coffin, a bauble, a silken pie;I love thee well in that thou lik’st it not. KATHERINA. Love me or love me not, I like the cap;And it I will have, or I will have none. [Exit Haberdasher. ]PETRUCHIO. Thy gown? Why, ay: come, tailor, let us see’t. O mercy, God! what masquing stuff is here? What’s this? A sleeve? ’Tis like a demi-cannon. What, up and down, carv’d like an apple tart? Here’s snip and nip and cut and slish and slash,Like to a censer in a barber’s shop. Why, what i’ devil’s name, tailor, call’st thou this? HORTENSIO. [Aside] I see she’s like to have neither cap nor gown. TAILOR. You bid me make it orderly and well,According to the fashion and the time. PETRUCHIO. Marry, and did; but if you be remember’d,I did not bid you mar it to the time. Go, hop me over every kennel home,For you shall hop without my custom, sir. I’ll none of it: hence! make your best of it. KATHERINA. I never saw a better fashion’d gown,More quaint, more pleasing, nor more commendable;Belike you mean to make a puppet of me. PETRUCHIO. Why, true; he means to make a puppet of thee. TAILOR. She says your worship means to make a puppet of her. PETRUCHIO. O monstrous arrogance! Thou liest, thou thread,Thou thimble,Thou yard, three-quarters, half-yard, quarter, nail! Thou flea, thou nit, thou winter-cricket thou! Brav’d in mine own house with a skein of thread! Away! thou rag, thou quantity, thou remnant,Or I shall so be-mete thee with thy yardAs thou shalt think on prating whilst thou liv’st! I tell thee, I, that thou hast marr’d her gown. TAILOR. Your worship is deceiv’d: the gown is madeJust as my master had direction. Grumio gave order how it should be done. GRUMIO. I gave him no order; I gave him the stuff. TAILOR. But how did you desire it should be made? GRUMIO. Marry, sir, with needle and thread. TAILOR. But did you not request to have it cut? GRUMIO. Thou hast faced many things. TAILOR. I have. GRUMIO. Face not me. Thou hast braved many men; brave not me: Iwill neither be fac’d nor brav’d. I say unto thee, I bid thymaster cut out the gown; but I did not bid him cut it to pieces:ergo, thou liest. TAILOR. Why, here is the note of the fashion to testify. PETRUCHIO. Read it. GRUMIO. The note lies in ’s throat, if he say I said so. TAILOR. ’Imprimis, a loose-bodied gown. ’GRUMIO. Master, if ever I said loose-bodied gown, sew me in the skirts of it andbeat me to death with a bottom of brown thread; I said, a gown. PETRUCHIO. Proceed. TAILOR. ’With a small compassed cape. ’GRUMIO. I confess the cape. TAILOR. ’With a trunk sleeve. ’GRUMIO. I confess two sleeves. TAILOR. ’The sleeves curiously cut. ’PETRUCHIO. Ay, there’s the villainy. GRUMIO. Error i’ the bill, sir; error i’ the bill. I commanded thesleeves should be cut out, and sew’d up again; and that I’llprove upon thee, though thy little finger be armed in a thimble. TAILOR. This is true that I say; and I had thee in place where thoushouldst know it. GRUMIO. I am for thee straight; take thou the bill, give me thymete-yard, and spare not me. HORTENSIO. God-a-mercy, Grumio! Then he shall have no odds. PETRUCHIO. Well, sir, in brief, the gown is not for me. GRUMIO. You are i’ the right, sir; ’tis for my mistress. PETRUCHIO. Go, take it up unto thy master’s use. GRUMIO. Villain, not for thy life! Take up my mistress’ gown forthy master’s use! PETRUCHIO. Why, sir, what’s your conceit in that? GRUMIO. O, sir, the conceit is deeper than you think for. Take up my mistress’ gown to his master’s use! O fie, fie, fie! PETRUCHIO. [Aside]  Hortensio, say thou wilt see the tailor paid. [To Tailor. ] Go take it hence; be gone, and say no more. HORTENSIO. [Aside to Tailor. ] Tailor, I’ll pay thee for thy gown tomorrow;Take no unkindness of his hasty words. Away, I say! commend me to thy master. [Exit Tailor. ]PETRUCHIO. Well, come, my Kate; we will unto your father’sEven in these honest mean habiliments.

Our purses shall be proud, our garments poorFor ’tis the mind that makes the body rich;And as the sun breaks through the darkest clouds,So honour peereth in the meanest habit. What, is the jay more precious than the larkBecause his feathers are more beautiful? Or is the adder better than the eelBecause his painted skin contents the eye? O no, good Kate; neither art thou the worseFor this poor furniture and mean array. If thou account’st it shame, lay it on me;And therefore frolic; we will hence forthwith,To feast and sport us at thy father’s house. Go call my men, and let us straight to him;And bring our horses unto Long-lane end;There will we mount, and thither walk on foot. Let’s see; I think ’tis now some seven o’clock,And well we may come there by dinner-time. KATHERINA. I dare assure you, sir, ’tis almost two,And ’twill be supper-time ere you come there. PETRUCHIO. It shall be seven ere I go to horse. Look what I speak, or do, or think to do,You are still crossing it. Sirs, let ’t alone:I will not go today; and ere I do,It shall be what o’clock I say it is. HORTENSIO. Why, so this gallant will command the sun. [Exeunt. ]SCENE IV. Padua. Before BAPTISTA’S house. Enter Tranio and the Pedant dressed like VincentioTRANIO. Sir, this is the house; please it you that I call? PEDANT. Ay, what else? and, but I be deceived,Signior Baptista may remember me,Near twenty years ago in Genoa,Where we were lodgers at the Pegasus. TRANIO. ’Tis well; and hold your own, in any case,With such austerity as ’longeth to a father. PEDANT. I warrant you. But, sir, here comes your boy;’Twere good he were school’d. Enter Biondello. TRANIO. Fear you not him. Sirrah Biondello,Now do your duty throughly, I advise you. Imagine ’twere the right Vincentio. BIONDELLO. Tut! fear not me. TRANIO. But hast thou done thy errand to Baptista? BIONDELLO. I told him that your father was at Venice,And that you look’d for him this day in Padua. TRANIO. Th’art a tall fellow; hold thee that to drink. Here comes Baptista. Set your countenance, sir. Enter Baptista and Lucentio. Signior Baptista, you are happily met. [To the Pedant] Sir, this is the gentleman I told you of;I pray you stand good father to me now;Give me Bianca for my patrimony. PEDANT. Soft, son! Sir, by your leave: having come to PaduaTo gather in some debts, my son LucentioMade me acquainted with a weighty causeOf love between your daughter and himself:And,—for the good report I hear of you,And for the love he beareth to your daughter,And she to him,—to stay him not too long,I am content, in a good father’s care,To have him match’d; and, if you please to likeNo worse than I, upon some agreementMe shall you find ready and willingWith one consent to have her so bestow’d;For curious I cannot be with you,Signior Baptista, of whom I hear so well. BAPTISTA. Sir, pardon me in what I have to say. Your plainness and your shortness please me well. Right true it is your son Lucentio hereDoth love my daughter, and she loveth him,Or both dissemble deeply their affections;And therefore, if you say no more than this,That like a father you will deal with him,And pass my daughter a sufficient dower,The match is made, and all is done:Your son shall have my daughter with consent. TRANIO. I thank you, sir. Where then do you know bestWe be affied, and such assurance ta’enAs shall with either part’s agreement stand? BAPTISTA. Not in my house, Lucentio, for you knowPitchers have ears, and I have many servants;Besides, old Gremio is hearkening still,And happily we might be interrupted. TRANIO. Then at my lodging, and it like you:There doth my father lie; and there this nightWe’ll pass the business privately and well. Send for your daughter by your servant here;My boy shall fetch the scrivener presently. The worst is this, that at so slender warningYou are like to have a thin and slender pittance. BAPTISTA. It likes me well. Cambio, hie you home,And bid Bianca make her ready straight;And, if you will, tell what hath happened:Lucentio’s father is arriv’d in Padua,And how she’s like to be Lucentio’s wife. LUCENTIO. I pray the gods she may, with all my heart! TRANIO. Dally not with the gods, but get thee gone. Signior Baptista, shall I lead the way? Welcome! One mess is like to be your cheer;Come, sir; we will better it in Pisa. BAPTISTA. I follow you. [Exeunt Tranio, Pedant and Baptista. ]BIONDELLO. Cambio! LUCENTIO. What say’st thou, Biondello? BIONDELLO. You saw my master wink and laugh upon you? LUCENTIO. Biondello, what of that? BIONDELLO. Faith, nothing; but has left me here behind to expoundthe meaning or moral of his signs and tokens. LUCENTIO. I pray thee moralize them. BIONDELLO. Then thus: Baptista is safe, talking with thedeceiving father of a deceitful son. LUCENTIO. And what of him? BIONDELLO. His daughter is to be brought by you to the supper. LUCENTIO. And then? BIONDELLO. The old priest at Saint Luke’s church is at yourcommand at all hours. LUCENTIO. And what of all this? BIONDELLO. I cannot tell, except they are busied about a counterfeit assurance. Takeyour assurance of her, cum privilegio ad imprimendum solum; to the church! takethe priest, clerk, and some sufficient honest witnesses. If this be not that you look for, I have more to say,But bid Bianca farewell for ever and a day. [Going. ]LUCENTIO. Hear’st thou, Biondello? BIONDELLO. I cannot tarry: I knew a wench married in an afternoonas she went to the garden for parsley to stuff a rabbit; and somay you, sir; and so adieu, sir. My master hath appointed me togo to Saint Luke’s to bid the priest be ready to come against youcome with your appendix. [Exit. ]LUCENTIO. I may, and will, if she be so contented. She will be pleas’d; then wherefore should I doubt? Hap what hap may, I’ll roundly go about her;It shall go hard if Cambio go without her:[Exit. ]SCENE V. A public road. Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio and Servants. PETRUCHIO. Come on, i’ God’s name; once more toward our father’s. Good Lord, how bright and goodly shines the moon! KATHERINA. The moon! The sun; it is not moonlight now. PETRUCHIO. I say it is the moon that shines so bright. KATHERINA. I know it is the sun that shines so bright. PETRUCHIO. Now by my mother’s son, and that’s myself,It shall be moon, or star, or what I list,Or ere I journey to your father’s house. Go on and fetch our horses back again. Evermore cross’d and cross’d; nothing but cross’d! HORTENSIO. Say as he says, or we shall never go. KATHERINA. Forward, I pray, since we have come so far,And be it moon, or sun, or what you please;And if you please to call it a rush-candle,Henceforth I vow it shall be so for me. PETRUCHIO. I say it is the moon. KATHERINA. I know it is the moon. PETRUCHIO. Nay, then you lie; it is the blessed sun. KATHERINA. Then, God be bless’d, it is the blessed sun;But sun it is not when you say it is not,And the moon changes even as your mind. What you will have it nam’d, even that it is,And so it shall be so for Katherine.

HORTENSIO. Petruchio, go thy ways; the field is won. PETRUCHIO. Well, forward, forward! thus the bowl should run,And not unluckily against the bias. But, soft! Company is coming here. Enter Vincentio, in a travelling dress. [To Vincentio] Good morrow, gentle mistress; where away? Tell me, sweet Kate, and tell me truly too,Hast thou beheld a fresher gentlewoman? Such war of white and red within her cheeks! What stars do spangle heaven with such beautyAs those two eyes become that heavenly face? Fair lovely maid, once more good day to thee. Sweet Kate, embrace her for her beauty’s sake. HORTENSIO. A will make the man mad, to make a woman of him. KATHERINA. Young budding virgin, fair and fresh and sweet,Whither away, or where is thy abode? Happy the parents of so fair a child;Happier the man whom favourable starsAllot thee for his lovely bedfellow. PETRUCHIO. Why, how now, Kate! I hope thou art not mad:This is a man, old, wrinkled, faded, wither’d,And not a maiden, as thou sayst he is. KATHERINA. Pardon, old father, my mistaking eyes,That have been so bedazzled with the sunThat everything I look on seemeth green:Now I perceive thou art a reverend father;Pardon, I pray thee, for my mad mistaking. PETRUCHIO. Do, good old grandsire, and withal make knownWhich way thou travellest: if along with us,We shall be joyful of thy company. VINCENTIO. Fair sir, and you my merry mistress,That with your strange encounter much amaz’d me,My name is called Vincentio; my dwelling Pisa;And bound I am to Padua, there to visitA son of mine, which long I have not seen. PETRUCHIO. What is his name? VINCENTIO. Lucentio, gentle sir. PETRUCHIO. Happily met; the happier for thy son. And now by law, as well as reverend age,I may entitle thee my loving father:The sister to my wife, this gentlewoman,Thy son by this hath married. Wonder not,Nor be not griev’d: she is of good esteem,Her dowry wealthy, and of worthy birth;Beside, so qualified as may beseemThe spouse of any noble gentleman. Let me embrace with old Vincentio;And wander we to see thy honest son,Who will of thy arrival be full joyous. VINCENTIO. But is this true? or is it else your pleasure,Like pleasant travellers, to break a jestUpon the company you overtake? HORTENSIO. I do assure thee, father, so it is. PETRUCHIO. Come, go along, and see the truth hereof;For our first merriment hath made thee jealous. [Exeunt all but Hortensio. ]HORTENSIO. Well, Petruchio, this has put me in heart. Have to my widow! and if she be froward,Then hast thou taught Hortensio to be untoward. [Exit. ]ACT VSCENE I. Padua. Before LUCENTIO’S house. Enter on one side Biondello, Lucentio and Bianca; Gremio walking on other side. BIONDELLO. Softly and swiftly, sir, for the priest is ready. LUCENTIO. I fly, Biondello; but they may chance to need thee athome, therefore leave us. BIONDELLO. Nay, faith, I’ll see the church o’ your back; and thencome back to my master’s as soon as I can. [Exeunt Lucentio, Bianca and Biondello. ]GREMIO. I marvel Cambio comes not all this while. Enter Petruchio, Katherina, Vincentio and Attendants. PETRUCHIO. Sir, here’s the door; this is Lucentio’s house:My father’s bears more toward the market-place;Thither must I, and here I leave you, sir. VINCENTIO. You shall not choose but drink before you go. I think I shall command your welcome here,And by all likelihood some cheer is toward. [Knocks. ]GREMIO. They’re busy within; you were best knock louder. Enter Pedant above, at a window. PEDANT. What’s he that knocks as he would beat down the gate? VINCENTIO. Is Signior Lucentio within, sir? PEDANT. He’s within, sir, but not to be spoken withal. VINCENTIO. What if a man bring him a hundred pound or two to makemerry withal? PEDANT. Keep your hundred pounds to yourself: he shall need none solong as I live. PETRUCHIO. Nay, I told you your son was well beloved in Padua. Doyou hear, sir? To leave frivolous circumstances, I pray you tellSignior Lucentio that his father is come from Pisa, and is hereat the door to speak with him. PEDANT. Thou liest: his father is come from Padua, and here lookingout at the window. VINCENTIO. Art thou his father? PEDANT. Ay, sir; so his mother says, if I may believe her. PETRUCHIO. [To Vincentio]  Why, how now, gentleman! why, this is flatknavery to take upon you another man’s name. PEDANT. Lay hands on the villain: I believe a means to cozensomebody in this city under my countenance. Re-enter Biondello. BIONDELLO. I have seen them in the church together: God send ’emgood shipping! But who is here? Mine old master, Vincentio! Nowwe are undone and brought to nothing. VINCENTIO. [Seeing Biondello. ] Come hither, crack-hemp. BIONDELLO. I hope I may choose, sir. VINCENTIO. Come hither, you rogue. What, have you forgot me? BIONDELLO. Forgot you! No, sir: I could not forget you, for I neversaw you before in all my life. VINCENTIO. What, you notorious villain! didst thou never see thymaster’s father, Vincentio? BIONDELLO. What, my old worshipful old master? Yes, marry, sir; seewhere he looks out of the window. VINCENTIO. Is’t so, indeed? [He beats Biondello. ]BIONDELLO. Help, help, help! here’s a madman will murder me. [Exit. ]PEDANT. Help, son! help, Signior Baptista! [Exit from the window. ]PETRUCHIO. Prithee, Kate, let’s stand aside and see the end of thiscontroversy. [They retire. ]Re-enter Pedant, below; Baptista, Tranio and Servants. TRANIO. Sir, what are you that offer to beat my servant? VINCENTIO. What am I, sir! nay, what are you, sir? O immortal gods! O fine villain! A silken doublet, a velvet hose, a scarlet cloak,and a copatain hat! O, I am undone! I am undone! While I play thegood husband at home, my son and my servant spend all at theuniversity.

TRANIO. How now! what’s the matter? BAPTISTA. What, is the man lunatic? TRANIO. Sir, you seem a sober ancient gentleman by your habit, butyour words show you a madman. Why, sir, what ’cerns it you if Iwear pearl and gold? I thank my good father, I am able tomaintain it. VINCENTIO. Thy father! O villain! he is a sailmaker in Bergamo. BAPTISTA. You mistake, sir; you mistake, sir. Pray, what do youthink is his name? VINCENTIO. His name! As if I knew not his name! I have brought himup ever since he was three years old, and his name is Tranio. PEDANT. Away, away, mad ass! His name is Lucentio; and he is mineonly son, and heir to the lands of me, Signior Vincentio. VINCENTIO. Lucentio! O, he hath murdered his master! Lay hold onhim, I charge you, in the Duke’s name. O, my son, my son! Tellme, thou villain, where is my son, Lucentio? TRANIO. Call forth an officer. Enter one with an Officer. Carry this mad knave to the gaol. Father Baptista, I charge yousee that he be forthcoming. VINCENTIO. Carry me to the gaol! GREMIO. Stay, officer; he shall not go to prison. BAPTISTA. Talk not, Signior Gremio; I say he shall go to prison. GREMIO. Take heed, Signior Baptista, lest you be cony-catched inthis business; I dare swear this is the right Vincentio. PEDANT. Swear if thou darest. GREMIO. Nay, I dare not swear it. TRANIO. Then thou wert best say that I am not Lucentio. GREMIO. Yes, I know thee to be Signior Lucentio. BAPTISTA. Away with the dotard! to the gaol with him! VINCENTIO. Thus strangers may be haled and abus’d: O monstrousvillain! Re-enter Biondello, with Lucentio and Bianca. BIONDELLO. O! we are spoiled; and yonder he is: deny him, forswearhim, or else we are all undone. LUCENTIO. [Kneeling. ] Pardon, sweet father. VINCENTIO. Lives my sweetest son? [Biondello, Tranio and Pedant run out. ]BIANCA. [Kneeling. ] Pardon, dear father. BAPTISTA. How hast thou offended? Where is Lucentio? LUCENTIO. Here’s Lucentio,Right son to the right Vincentio;That have by marriage made thy daughter mine,While counterfeit supposes blear’d thine eyne. GREMIO. Here ’s packing, with a witness, to deceive us all! VINCENTIO. Where is that damned villain, Tranio,That fac’d and brav’d me in this matter so? BAPTISTA. Why, tell me, is not this my Cambio? BIANCA. Cambio is chang’d into Lucentio. LUCENTIO. Love wrought these miracles. Bianca’s loveMade me exchange my state with Tranio,While he did bear my countenance in the town;And happily I have arriv’d at the lastUnto the wished haven of my bliss. What Tranio did, myself enforc’d him to;Then pardon him, sweet father, for my sake. VINCENTIO. I’ll slit the villain’s nose that would have sent me tothe gaol. BAPTISTA. [To Lucentio. ] But do you hear, sir? Have you married mydaughter without asking my good will? VINCENTIO. Fear not, Baptista; we will content you, go to: but Iwill in, to be revenged for this villainy. [Exit. ]BAPTISTA. And I to sound the depth of this knavery. [Exit. ]LUCENTIO. Look not pale, Bianca; thy father will not frown. [Exeunt Lucentio and Bianca. ]GREMIO. My cake is dough, but I’ll in among the rest;Out of hope of all but my share of the feast. [Exit. ]Petruchio and Katherina advance. KATHERINA. Husband, let’s follow to see the end of this ado. PETRUCHIO. First kiss me, Kate, and we will. KATHERINA. What! in the midst of the street? PETRUCHIO. What! art thou ashamed of me? KATHERINA. No, sir; God forbid; but ashamed to kiss. PETRUCHIO. Why, then, let’s home again. Come, sirrah, let’s away. KATHERINA. Nay, I will give thee a kiss: now pray thee, love, stay. PETRUCHIO. Is not this well? Come, my sweet Kate:Better once than never, for never too late. [Exeunt. ]SCENE II. A room in LUCENTIO’S house. Enter Baptista, Vincentio, Gremio, thePedant, Lucentio, Bianca, Petruchio, Katherina, Hortensio andWidow. Tranio, Biondello and Grumioand Others, attending. LUCENTIO. At last, though long, our jarring notes agree:And time it is when raging war is done,To smile at ’scapes and perils overblown. My fair Bianca, bid my father welcome,While I with self-same kindness welcome thine. Brother Petruchio, sister Katherina,And thou, Hortensio, with thy loving widow,Feast with the best, and welcome to my house:My banquet is to close our stomachs up,After our great good cheer. Pray you, sit down;For now we sit to chat as well as eat. [They sit at table. ]PETRUCHIO. Nothing but sit and sit, and eat and eat! BAPTISTA. Padua affords this kindness, son Petruchio. PETRUCHIO. Padua affords nothing but what is kind. HORTENSIO. For both our sakes I would that word were true. PETRUCHIO. Now, for my life, Hortensio fears his widow. WIDOW. Then never trust me if I be afeard.

PETRUCHIO. You are very sensible, and yet you miss my sense:I mean Hortensio is afeard of you. WIDOW. He that is giddy thinks the world turns round. PETRUCHIO. Roundly replied. KATHERINA. Mistress, how mean you that? WIDOW. Thus I conceive by him. PETRUCHIO. Conceives by me! How likes Hortensio that? HORTENSIO. My widow says thus she conceives her tale. PETRUCHIO. Very well mended. Kiss him for that, good widow. KATHERINA. ’He that is giddy thinks the world turns round’:I pray you tell me what you meant by that. WIDOW. Your husband, being troubled with a shrew,Measures my husband’s sorrow by his woe;And now you know my meaning. KATHERINA. A very mean meaning. WIDOW. Right, I mean you. KATHERINA. And I am mean, indeed, respecting you. PETRUCHIO. To her, Kate! HORTENSIO. To her, widow! PETRUCHIO. A hundred marks, my Kate does put her down. HORTENSIO. That’s my office. PETRUCHIO. Spoke like an officer: ha’ to thee, lad. [Drinks to Hortensio. ]BAPTISTA. How likes Gremio these quick-witted folks? GREMIO. Believe me, sir, they butt together well. BIANCA. Head and butt! An hasty-witted bodyWould say your head and butt were head and horn. VINCENTIO. Ay, mistress bride, hath that awaken’d you? BIANCA. Ay, but not frighted me; therefore I’ll sleep again. PETRUCHIO. Nay, that you shall not; since you have begun,Have at you for a bitter jest or two. BIANCA. Am I your bird? I mean to shift my bush,And then pursue me as you draw your bow. You are welcome all. [Exeunt Bianca, Katherina and Widow. ]PETRUCHIO. She hath prevented me. Here, Signior Tranio;This bird you aim’d at, though you hit her not:Therefore a health to all that shot and miss’d. TRANIO. O, sir! Lucentio slipp’d me like his greyhound,Which runs himself, and catches for his master. PETRUCHIO. A good swift simile, but something currish. TRANIO. ’Tis well, sir, that you hunted for yourself:’Tis thought your deer does hold you at a bay. BAPTISTA. O ho, Petruchio! Tranio hits you now. LUCENTIO. I thank thee for that gird, good Tranio. HORTENSIO. Confess, confess; hath he not hit you here? PETRUCHIO. A has a little gall’d me, I confess;And as the jest did glance away from me,’Tis ten to one it maim’d you two outright. BAPTISTA. Now, in good sadness, son Petruchio,I think thou hast the veriest shrew of all. PETRUCHIO. Well, I say no; and therefore, for assurance,Let’s each one send unto his wife,And he whose wife is most obedient,To come at first when he doth send for her,Shall win the wager which we will propose. HORTENSIO. Content. What’s the wager? LUCENTIO. Twenty crowns. PETRUCHIO. Twenty crowns! I’ll venture so much of my hawk or hound,But twenty times so much upon my wife. LUCENTIO. A hundred then. HORTENSIO. Content. PETRUCHIO. A match! ’tis done. HORTENSIO. Who shall begin? LUCENTIO. That will I. Go, Biondello, bid your mistress come to me. BIONDELLO. I go. [Exit. ]BAPTISTA. Son, I’ll be your half, Bianca comes. LUCENTIO. I’ll have no halves; I’ll bear it all myself. Re-enter Biondello. How now! what news? BIONDELLO. Sir, my mistress sends you wordThat she is busy and she cannot come. PETRUCHIO. How! She’s busy, and she cannot come! Is that an answer? GREMIO. Ay, and a kind one too:Pray God, sir, your wife send you not a worse. PETRUCHIO. I hope better. HORTENSIO. Sirrah Biondello, go and entreat my wifeTo come to me forthwith. [Exit Biondello. ]PETRUCHIO. O, ho! entreat her! Nay, then she must needs come. HORTENSIO. I am afraid, sir,Do what you can, yours will not be entreated. Re-enter Biondello. Now, where’s my wife? BIONDELLO. She says you have some goodly jest in hand:She will not come; she bids you come to her. PETRUCHIO. Worse and worse; she will not come! O vile,Intolerable, not to be endur’d! Sirrah Grumio, go to your mistress,Say I command her come to me. [Exit Grumio. ]HORTENSIO. I know her answer. PETRUCHIO. What? HORTENSIO. She will not. PETRUCHIO. The fouler fortune mine, and there an end. Re-enter Katherina.

BAPTISTA. Now, by my holidame, here comes Katherina! KATHERINA. What is your will sir, that you send for me? PETRUCHIO. Where is your sister, and Hortensio’s wife? KATHERINA. They sit conferring by the parlour fire. PETRUCHIO. Go fetch them hither; if they deny to come,Swinge me them soundly forth unto their husbands. Away, I say, and bring them hither straight. [Exit Katherina. ]LUCENTIO. Here is a wonder, if you talk of a wonder. HORTENSIO. And so it is. I wonder what it bodes. PETRUCHIO. Marry, peace it bodes, and love, and quiet life,An awful rule, and right supremacy;And, to be short, what not that’s sweet and happy. BAPTISTA. Now fair befall thee, good Petruchio! The wager thou hast won; and I will addUnto their losses twenty thousand crowns;Another dowry to another daughter,For she is chang’d, as she had never been. PETRUCHIO. Nay, I will win my wager better yet,And show more sign of her obedience,Her new-built virtue and obedience. See where she comes, and brings your froward wivesAs prisoners to her womanly persuasion. Re-enter Katherina with Bianca and Widow. Katherine, that cap of yours becomes you not:Off with that bauble, throw it underfoot. [Katherina pulls off her cap and throws it down. ]WIDOW. Lord, let me never have a cause to sighTill I be brought to such a silly pass! BIANCA. Fie! what a foolish duty call you this? LUCENTIO. I would your duty were as foolish too;The wisdom of your duty, fair Bianca,Hath cost me a hundred crowns since supper-time! BIANCA. The more fool you for laying on my duty. PETRUCHIO. Katherine, I charge thee, tell these headstrong womenWhat duty they do owe their lords and husbands. WIDOW. Come, come, you’re mocking; we will have no telling. PETRUCHIO. Come on, I say; and first begin with her. WIDOW. She shall not. PETRUCHIO. I say she shall: and first begin with her. KATHERINA. Fie, fie! unknit that threatening unkind brow,And dart not scornful glances from those eyesTo wound thy lord, thy king, thy governor:It blots thy beauty as frosts do bite the meads,Confounds thy fame as whirlwinds shake fair buds,And in no sense is meet or amiable. A woman mov’d is like a fountain troubled,Muddy, ill-seeming, thick, bereft of beauty;And while it is so, none so dry or thirstyWill deign to sip or touch one drop of it. Thy husband is thy lord, thy life, thy keeper,Thy head, thy sovereign; one that cares for thee,And for thy maintenance commits his bodyTo painful labour both by sea and land,To watch the night in storms, the day in cold,Whilst thou liest warm at home, secure and safe;And craves no other tribute at thy handsBut love, fair looks, and true obedience;Too little payment for so great a debt. Such duty as the subject owes the prince,Even such a woman oweth to her husband;And when she is froward, peevish, sullen, sour,And not obedient to his honest will,What is she but a foul contending rebelAnd graceless traitor to her loving lord? —I am asham’d that women are so simpleTo offer war where they should kneel for peace,Or seek for rule, supremacy, and sway,When they are bound to serve, love, and obey. Why are our bodies soft and weak and smooth,Unapt to toil and trouble in the world,But that our soft conditions and our heartsShould well agree with our external parts? Come, come, you froward and unable worms! My mind hath been as big as one of yours,My heart as great, my reason haply more,To bandy word for word and frown for frown;But now I see our lances are but straws,Our strength as weak, our weakness past compare,That seeming to be most which we indeed least are. Then vail your stomachs, for it is no boot,And place your hands below your husband’s foot:In token of which duty, if he please,My hand is ready; may it do him ease. PETRUCHIO. Why, there’s a wench! Come on, and kiss me, Kate. LUCENTIO. Well, go thy ways, old lad, for thou shalt ha’t. VINCENTIO. ’Tis a good hearing when children are toward. LUCENTIO. But a harsh hearing when women are froward. PETRUCHIO. Come, Kate, we’ll to bed. We three are married, but you two are sped. ’Twas I won the wager,[To Lucentio. ] though you hit the white;And being a winner, God give you good night! [Exeunt Petrucio and Katherina. ]HORTENSIO. Now go thy ways; thou hast tam’d a curst shrew. LUCENTIO. ’Tis a wonder, by your leave, she will be tam’d so. [Exeunt. ]*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TAMING OF THE SHREW ***Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions willbe renamed. Creating the works from print editions not protected by U. 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The Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tempest, by William ShakespeareThis eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www. gutenberg. orgTitle: The Tempest       The Works of William Shakespeare [Cambridge Edition] [9 vols. ]Author: William ShakespeareEditor: William George Clark        John GloverRelease Date: October 26, 2007 [EBook #23042]Language: EnglishCharacter set encoding: UTF-8*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TEMPEST ***Produced by Louise Hope, Jonathan Ingram and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www. pgdp. net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)[Transcriber’s Note:This text uses utf-8 (unicode) file encoding. If the apostrophes andquotation marks in this paragraph appear as garbage, make sure yourtext reader’s “character set” or “file encoding” is set to Unicode(UTF-8). You may also need to change the default font. As a lastresort, use the ascii-7 version of the file instead. The text of _The Tempest_ is from Volume I of the nine-volume 1863Cambridge edition of Shakespeare. The Preface (e-text 23041) and theother plays from this volume are each available as separate e-texts. General Notes are in their original location at the end of the play. Text-critical notes are grouped at the end of each Scene. All linenumbers are from the original text; line breaks in dialogue--includingprose passages--are unchanged. Brackets are also unchanged; to avoidambiguity, footnotes and linenotes are given without added brackets. In the notes, numerals printed as subscripts are shown inline asF1, F2, Q1. . . . Texts cited in the Notes are listed at the end of the e-text. ]  THE WORKS  of  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE  Edited by  WILLIAM GEORGE CLARK, M. A.  Fellow and Tutor of Trinity College, and Public Orator  in the University of Cambridge;  and JOHN GLOVER, M. A.  Librarian Of Trinity College, Cambridge.  _VOLUME I. _  Cambridge and London:  MACMILLAN AND CO.  1863. THE TEMPEST. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ[1].  ALONSO, King of Naples.  SEBASTIAN, his brother.  PROSPERO, the right Duke of Milan.  ANTONIO, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan.  FERDINAND, son to the King of Naples.  GONZALO, an honest old Counsellor.  ADRIAN, Lord  FRANCISCO, „  CALIBAN, a savage and deformed Slave.  TRINCULO, a Jester.  STEPHANO, a drunken Butler.  Master of a Ship.  Boatswain.  Mariners.  MIRANDA, daughter to Prospero.  ARIEL, an airy Spirit.  IRIS, presented by[2] Spirits.  CERES,     „             „  JUNO,      „             „  Nymphs,    „             „  Reapers,   „             „  Other Spirits attending on Prospero[3]. SCENE--_A ship at sea[4]: an uninhabited island. _  Footnotes:  1: DRAMATIS PERSONÆ] NAMES OF THE ACTORS F1 at the end of the Play.  2: _presented by_] Edd.  3: _Other . . . Prospero_] Theobald.  4: A ship at sea:] At sea: Capell. ]THE TEMPEST. ACT I. SCENE I. _On a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise of thunderand lightning heard. _  _Enter _a Ship-Master_ and _a Boatswain_. __Mast. _ Boatswain! _Boats. _ Here, master: what cheer? _Mast. _ Good, speak to the mariners: fall to’t, yarely, orwe run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir.    [_Exit. _  _Enter _Mariners_. __Boats. _ Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts!              5yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master’swhistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!  _Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND, GONZALO,  and others. __Alon. _ Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master? Play the men. _Boats. _ I pray now, keep below.                                    10_Ant. _ Where is the master, boatswain? _Boats. _ Do you not hear him? You mar our labour:keep your cabins: you do assist the storm. _Gon. _ Nay, good, be patient. _Boats. _ When the sea is. Hence! What cares these                   15roarers for the name of king? To cabin: silence! troubleus not. _Gon. _ Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard. _Boats. _ None that I more love than myself. You are aCounsellor; if you can command these elements to silence,           20and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a ropemore; use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks youhave lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabinfor the mischance of the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, goodhearts! Out of our way, I say.    [_Exit. _                          25_Gon. _ I have great comfort from this fellow: methinkshe hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion isperfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging:make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own dothlittle advantage. If he be not born to be hanged, our case          30is miserable.    [_Exeunt. _  _Re-enter Boatswain. __Boats. _ Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower! Bring her to try with main-course. [_A cry within. _] Aplague upon this howling! they are louder than the weatheror our office.                                                      35  _Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO. _Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o’er, anddrown? Have you a mind to sink? _Seb. _ A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous,incharitable dog! _Boats. _ Work you, then.                                            40_Ant. _ Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noise-maker. We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art. _Gon. _ I’ll warrant him for drowning; though the shipwere no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanchedwench.                                                              45_Boats. _ Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses offto sea again; lay her off.  _Enter _Mariners_ wet. __Mariners. _ All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost! _Boats. _ What, must our mouths be cold? _Gon. _ The king and prince at prayers! let’s assist them,           50For our case is as theirs. _Seb. _                   I’m out of patience. _Ant. _ We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards:This wide-chapp’d rascal,--would thou mightst lie drowningThe washing of ten tides! _Gon. _                  He’ll be hang’d yet,Though every drop of water swear against it,                        55And gape at widest to glut him.  [_A confused noise within:_ “Mercy on us! ”--  “We split, we split! ”-- “Farewell my wife and children! ”--  “Farewell, brother! ”-- “We split, we split, we split! ”]_Ant. _ Let’s all sink with the king.                                60_Seb. _ Let’s take leave of him. [_Exeunt Ant. and Seb. __Gon. _ Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea foran acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, anything. The wills above be done! but I would fain die adry death.    [_Exeunt. _                                            65  Notes: I, 1.  SC. I. On a ship at sea] Pope.  Enter . . . Boatswain] Collier MS. adds ‘shaking off wet. ’  3: _Good,_] Rowe. _Good:_ Ff. _Good. _ Collier.  7: _till thou burst thy wind_] _till thou burst, wind_ Johnson conj.    _till thou burst thee, wind_ Steevens conj.  8: Capell adds stage direction [Exeunt Mariners aloft.  11: _boatswain_] Pope. _boson_ Ff.  11-18: Verse.

S. Walker conj.  15: _cares_] _care_ Rowe. See note (I).  31:  [Exeunt] Theobald. [Exit. Ff.  33: _Bring her to try_] F4. _Bring her to Try_ F1 F2 F3.    _Bring her to. Try_ Story conj.  33-35: Text as in Capell. _A plague_--A cry within. Enter Sebastian,    Anthonio, and Gonzalo. _upon this howling. _ Ff.  34-37: Verse. S. Walker conj.  43: _for_] _from_ Theobald.  46: _two courses off to sea_] _two courses; off to sea_ Steevens    (Holt conj. ).  46: [Enter. . . ] [Re-enter. . . Dyce.  47: [Exeunt. Theobald.  50: _at_] _are at_ Rowe.  50-54: Printed as prose in Ff.  56: _to glut_] _t’ englut_ Johnson conj.  57: See note (II).  59: _Farewell, brother! _] _Brother, farewell! _ Theobald.  60: _with the_] Rowe. _with’_ F1 F2. _with_ F3 F4.  61: [Exeunt A. and S. ] [Exit. Ff.  63: _furze_ Rowe. _firrs_ F1 F2 F3. _firs_ F4.  _long heath, brown furze_] _ling, heath, broom, furze_ Hanmer. ]  65: [Exeunt] [Exit F1, om. F2 F3 F4. ]SCENE II. _The island. Before PROSPERO’S cell. _  _Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA. __Mir. _ If by your art, my dearest father, you havePut the wild waters in this roar, allay them. The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,But that the sea, mounting to the welkin’s cheek,Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer’d                              5With those that I saw suffer! a brave vessel,Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,Dash’d all to pieces. O, the cry did knockAgainst my very heart! Poor souls, they perish’d! Had I been any god of power, I would                                10Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ereIt should the good ship so have swallow’d andThe fraughting souls within her. _Pros. _                        Be collected:No more amazement: tell your piteous heartThere’s no harm done. _Mir. _              O, woe the day! _Pros. _                           No harm.                          15I have done nothing but in care of thee,Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, whoArt ignorant of what thou art, nought knowingOf whence I am, nor that I am more betterThan Prospero, master of a full poor cell,                          20And thy no greater father. _Mir. _                   More to knowDid never meddle with my thoughts. _Pros. _                          ’Tis timeI should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,And pluck my magic garment from me. --So:                                [_Lays down his mantle. _Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort.              25The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch’dThe very virtue of compassion in thee,I have with such provision in mine artSo safely order’d, that there is no soul,No, not so much perdition as an hair                                30Betid to any creature in the vesselWhich thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink. Sit down;For thou must now know farther. _Mir. _                        You have oftenBegun to tell me what I am; but stopp’d,And left me to a bootless inquisition,                              35Concluding “Stay: not yet. ”_Pros. _                The hour’s now come;The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou rememberA time before we came unto this cell? I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not                   40Out three years old. _Mir. _             Certainly, sir, I can. _Pros. _ By what? by any other house or person? Of any thing the image tell me thatHath kept with thy remembrance. _Mir. _                        ’Tis far off,And rather like a dream than an assurance                           45That my remembrance warrants. Had I notFour or five women once that tended me? _Pros. _ Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is itThat this lives in thy mind? What seest thou elseIn the dark backward and abysm of time?                             50If thou remember’st ought ere thou camest here,How thou camest here thou mayst. _Mir. _                         But that I do not. _Pros. _ Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,Thy father was the Duke of Milan, andA prince of power. _Mir. _           Sir, are not you my father?                        55_Pros. _ Thy mother was a piece of virtue, andShe said thou wast my daughter; and thy fatherWas Duke of Milan; and his only heirAnd princess, no worse issued. _Mir. _                       O the heavens! What foul play had we, that we came from thence?                    60Or blessed was’t we did? _Pros. _                Both, both, my girl:By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heaved thence;But blessedly holp hither. _Mir. _                   O, my heart bleedsTo think o’ the teen that I have turn’d you to. Which is from my remembrance! Please you, farther.                  65_Pros. _ My brother, and thy uncle, call’d Antonio,--I pray thee, mark me,--that a brother shouldBe so perfidious! --he whom, next thyself,Of all the world I loved, and to him putThe manage of my state; as, at that time,                           70Through all the signories it was the first,And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputedIn dignity, and for the liberal artsWithout a parallel; those being all my study,The government I cast upon my brother,                              75And to my state grew stranger, being transportedAnd rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle--Dost thou attend me? _Mir. _             Sir, most heedfully. _Pros. _ Being once perfected how to grant suits,How to deny them, whom to advance, and whom                         80To trash for over-topping, new createdThe creatures that were mine, I say, or changed ’em,Or else new form’d ’em; having both the keyOf officer and office, set all hearts i’ the stateTo what tune pleased his ear; that now he was                       85The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,And suck’d my verdure out on’t. Thou attend’st not. _Mir. _ O, good sir, I do. _Pros. _                 I pray thee, mark me. I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicatedTo closeness and the bettering of my mind                           90With that which, but by being so retired,O’er-prized all popular rate, in my false brotherAwaked an evil nature; and my trust,Like a good parent, did beget of himA falsehood in its contrary, as great                               95As my trust was; which had indeed no limit,A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,Not only with what my revenue yielded,But what my power might else exact, like oneWho having into truth, by telling of it,                           100Made such a sinner of his memory,To credit his own lie, he did believeHe was indeed the duke; out o’ the substitution,And executing the outward face of royalty,With all prerogative:--hence his ambition growing,--               105Dost thou hear? _Mir. _        Your tale, sir, would cure deafness. _Pros. _ To have no screen between this part he play’dAnd him he play’d it for, he needs will beAbsolute Milan. Me, poor man, my libraryWas dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties                    110He thinks me now incapable; confederates,So dry he was for sway, wi’ the King of NaplesTo give him annual tribute, do him homage,Subject his coronet to his crown, and bendThe dukedom, yet unbow’d,--alas, poor Milan! --                     115To most ignoble stooping. _Mir. _                  O the heavens! _Pros. _ Mark his condition, and th’ event; then tell meIf this might be a brother. _Mir. _                    I should sinTo think but nobly of my grandmother:Good wombs have borne bad sons. _Pros. _                       Now the condition.                   120This King of Naples, being an enemyTo me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit;Which was, that he, in lieu o’ the premises,Of homage and I know not how much tribute,Should presently extirpate me and mine                             125Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,With all the honours, on my brother: whereon,A treacherous army levied, one midnightFated to the purpose, did Antonio openThe gates of Milan; and, i’ the dead of darkness,                  130The ministers for the purpose hurried thenceMe and thy crying self. _Mir. _                Alack, for pity! I, not remembering how I cried out then,Will cry it o’er again: it is a hintThat wrings mine eyes to’t. _Pros. _                   Hear a little further,                   135And then I’ll bring thee to the present businessWhich now’s upon ’s; without the which, this storyWere most impertinent. _Mir. _               Wherefore did they notThat hour destroy us? _Pros. _             Well demanded, wench:My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not,              140So dear the love my people bore me; nor setA mark so bloody on the business; butWith colours fairer painted their foul ends. In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared                   145A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg’d,Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very ratsInstinctively have quit it: there they hoist us,To cry to the sea that roar’d to us; to sighTo the winds, whose pity, sighing back again,                      150Did us but loving wrong. _Mir. _                 Alack, what troubleWas I then to you! _Pros. _          O, a cherubinThou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile,Infused with a fortitude from heaven,When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt,                   155Under my burthen groan’d; which raised in meAn undergoing stomach, to bear upAgainst what should ensue. _Mir. _                   How came we ashore? _Pros. _ By Providence divine. Some food we had, and some fresh water, that                       160A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,Out of his charity, who being then appointedMaster of this design, did give us, withRich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries,Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness,              165Knowing I loved my books, he furnish’d meFrom mine own library with volumes thatI prize above my dukedom. _Mir. _                  Would I mightBut ever see that man! _Pros. _              Now I arise:  [_Resumes his mantle. _Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow.                    170Here in this island we arrived; and hereHave I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profitThan other princesses can, that have more timeFor vainer hours, and tutors not so careful. _Mir. _ Heavens thank you for’t! And now, I pray you, sir,          175For still ’tis beating in my mind, your reasonFor raising this sea-storm? _Pros. _                   Know thus far forth. By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,Now my dear lady, hath mine enemiesBrought to this shore; and by my prescience                        180I find my zenith doth depend uponA most auspicious star, whose influenceIf now I court not, but omit, my fortunesWill ever after droop. Here cease more questions:Thou art inclined to sleep; ’tis a good dulness,                   185And give it way: I know thou canst not choose.                                        [_Miranda sleeps. _Come away, servant, come. I am ready now. Approach, my Ariel, come.

_Enter _ARIEL_. __Ari. _ All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I comeTo answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly,                          190To swim, to dive into the fire, to rideOn the curl’d clouds, to thy strong bidding taskAriel and all his quality. _Pros. _                  Hast thou, spirit,Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee? _Ari. _ To every article.                                           195I boarded the king’s ship; now on the beak,Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,I flamed amazement: sometime I’ld divide,And burn in many places; on the topmast,The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly,                  200Then meet and join. Jove’s lightnings, the precursorsO’ the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentaryAnd sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracksOf sulphurous roaring the most mighty NeptuneSeem to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble,                  205Yea, his dread trident shake. _Pros. _                     My brave spirit! Who was so firm, so constant, that this coilWould not infect his reason? _Ari. _                     Not a soulBut felt a fever of the mad, and play’dSome tricks of desperation. All but mariners                       210Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel,Then all afire with me: the king’s son, Ferdinand,With hair up-staring,--then like reeds, not hair,--Was the first man that leap’d; cried, “Hell is empty,And all the devils are here. ”_Pros. _                 Why, that’s my spirit!                     215But was not this nigh shore? _Ari. _                    Close by, my master. _Pros. _ But are they, Ariel, safe? _Ari. _                           Not a hair perish’d;On their sustaining garments not a blemish,But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me,In troops I have dispersed them ’bout the isle.                    220The king’s son have I landed by himself;Whom I left cooling of the air with sighsIn an odd angle of the isle, and sitting,His arms in this sad knot. _Pros. _                  Of the king’s shipThe mariners, say how thou hast disposed,                          225And all the rest o’ the fleet. _Ari. _                       Safely in harbourIs the king’s ship; in the deep nook, where onceThou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dewFrom the still-vex’d Bermoothes, there she’s hid:The mariners all under hatches stow’d;                             230Who, with a charm join’d to their suffer’d labour,I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ the fleet,Which I dispersed, they all have met again,And are upon the Mediterranean flote,Bound sadly home for Naples;                                       235Supposing that they saw the king’s ship wreck’d,And his great person perish. _Pros. _                    Ariel, thy chargeExactly is perform’d: but there’s more work. What is the time o’ the day? _Ari. _                     Past the mid season. _Pros. _ At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and now          240Must by us both be spent most preciously. _Ari. _ Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,Let me remember thee what thou hast promised,Which is not yet perform’d me. _Pros. _                      How now? moody? What is’t thou canst demand? _Ari. _                     My liberty.                             245_Pros. _ Before the time be out? no more! _Ari. _                                 I prithee,Remember I have done thee worthy service;Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, servedWithout or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promiseTo bate me a full year. _Pros. _               Dost thou forget                             250From what a torment I did free thee? _Ari. _                             No. _Pros. _ Thou dost; and think’st it much to tread the oozeOf the salt deep,To run upon the sharp wind of the north,To do me business in the veins o’ the earth                        255When it is baked with frost. _Ari. _                     I do not, sir. _Pros. _ Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgotThe foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envyWas grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her? _Ari. _ No, sir. _Pros. _       Thou hast. Where was she born? speak; tell me.       260_Ari. _ Sir, in Argier. _Pros. _              O, was she so? I mustOnce in a month recount what thou hast been,Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch Sycorax,For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terribleTo enter human hearing, from Argier,                               265Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she didThey would not take her life. Is not this true? _Ari. _ Ay, sir. _Pros. _ This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child,And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave,                  270As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant;And, for thou wast a spirit too delicateTo act her earthy and abhorr’d commands,Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,By help of her more potent ministers,                              275And in her most unmitigable rage,Into a cloven pine; within which riftImprison’d thou didst painfully remainA dozen years; within which space she died,And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans              280As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island--Save for the son that she did litter here,A freckled whelp hag-born--not honour’d withA human shape. _Ari. _       Yes, Caliban her son. _Pros. _ Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban,                    285Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’stWhat torment I did find thee in; thy groansDid make wolves howl, and penetrate the breastsOf ever-angry bears: it was a tormentTo lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax                              290Could not again undo: it was mine art,When I arrived and heard thee, that made gapeThe pine, and let thee out. _Ari. _                    I thank thee, master. _Pros. _ If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak,And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till                          295Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters. _Ari. _                              Pardon, master:I will be correspondent to command,And do my spiriting gently. _Pros. _                   Do so; and after two daysI will discharge thee. _Ari. _               That’s my noble master! What shall I do? say what; what shall I do?                        300_Pros. _ Go make thyself like a nymph o’ the sea:Be subject to no sight but thine and mine; invisibleTo every eyeball else. Go take this shape,And hither come in’t: go, hence with diligence!    [_Exit Ariel. _Awake, dear heart, awake! thou hast slept well;                    305Awake! _Mir. _ The strangeness of your story putHeaviness in me. _Pros. _        Shake it off. Come on;We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who neverYields us kind answer. _Mir. _               ’Tis a villain, sir,I do not love to look on. _Pros. _                 But, as ’tis,                              310We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,Fetch in our wood, and serves in officesThat profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban! Thou earth, thou! speak. _Cal. _ [_within_] There’s wood enough within. _Pros. _ Come forth, I say! there’s other business for thee:        315Come, thou tortoise! when?  _Re-enter ARIEL like a water-nymph. _Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,Hark in thine ear. _Ari. _           My lord, it shall be done.    [_Exit. __Pros. _ Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himselfUpon thy wicked dam, come forth!                                   320  _Enter CALIBAN. __Cal. _ As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’dWith raven’s feather from unwholesome fenDrop on you both! a south-west blow on yeAnd blister you all o’er! _Pros. _ For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps,        325Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchinsShall, for that vast of night that they may work,All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch’dAs thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stingingThan bees that made ’em. _Cal. _                 I must eat my dinner.                       330This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first,Thou strokedst me, and madest much of me; wouldst give meWater with berries in’t; and teach me howTo name the bigger light, and how the less,                        335That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee,And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile:Curs’d be I that did so! All the charmsOf Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you!                    340For I am all the subjects that you have,Which first was mine own king: and here you sty meIn this hard rock, whiles you do keep from meThe rest o’ th’ island. _Pros. _               Thou most lying slave,Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee,             345Filth as thou art, with human care; and lodged theeIn mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violateThe honour of my child. _Cal. _ O ho, O ho! would ’t had been done! Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else                          350This isle with Calibans. _Pros. _                Abhorred slave,Which any print of goodness wilt not take,Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hourOne thing or other: when thou didst not, savage,                   355Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble likeA thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposesWith words that made them known. But thy vile race,Though thou didst learn, had that in’t which good naturesCould not abide to be with; therefore wast thou                    360Deservedly confined into this rock,Who hadst deserved more than a prison. _Cal. _ You taught me language; and my profit on’tIs, I know how to curse. The red plague rid youFor learning me your language! _Pros. _                      Hag-seed, hence!                      365Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou’rt best,To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice? If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillinglyWhat I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps,Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar,                     370That beasts shall tremble at thy din. _Cal. _                              No, pray thee. [_Aside_] I must obey: his art is of such power,It would control my dam’s god, Setebos,And make a vassal of him. _Pros. _                 So, slave; hence!    [_Exit Caliban. _  _Re-enter ARIEL, invisible, playing and singing; FERDINAND  following. __ARIEL’S song. _    Come unto these yellow sands,                                  375        And then take hands:    Courtsied when you have and kiss’d        The wild waves whist:    Foot it featly here and there;    And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear.                          380 _Burthen_ [_dispersedly_]. Hark, hark!                           Bow-wow.        The watch-dogs bark:                            Bow-wow. _Ari. _  Hark, hark! I hear        The strain of strutting chanticleer                        385        Cry, Cock-a-diddle-dow. _Fer. _ Where should this music be? i’ th’ air or th’ earth? It sounds no more: and, sure, it waits uponSome god o’ th’ island.

Sitting on a bank,Weeping again the king my father’s wreck,                          390This music crept by me upon the waters,Allaying both their fury and my passionWith its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it. Or it hath drawn me rather. But ’tis gone. No, it begins again.                                               395_ARIEL sings. _    Full fathom five thy father lies;        Of his bones are coral made;    Those are pearls that were his eyes:        Nothing of him that doth fade,    But doth suffer a sea-change                                   400    Into something rich and strange.    Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:                    _Burthen:_ Ding-dong. _Ari. _ Hark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell. _Fer. _ The ditty does remember my drown’d father.                  405This is no mortal business, nor no soundThat the earth owes:--I hear it now above me. _Pros. _ The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,And say what thou seest yond. _Mir. _                      What is’t? a spirit? Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir,                         410It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit. _Pros. _ No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such sensesAs we have, such. This gallant which thou seestWas in the wreck; and, but he’s something stain’dWith grief, that’s beauty’s canker, thou mightst call him          415A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows,And strays about to find ’em. _Mir. _                      I might call himA thing divine; for nothing naturalI ever saw so noble. _Pros. _ [_Aside_] It goes on, I see,As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I’ll free thee         420Within two days for this. _Fer. _                  Most sure, the goddessOn whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayerMay know if you remain upon this island;And that you will some good instruction giveHow I may bear me here: my prime request,                          425Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder! If you be maid or no? _Mir. _              No wonder, sir;But certainly a maid. _Fer. _              My language! heavens! I am the best of them that speak this speech,Were I but where ’tis spoken. _Pros. _                     How? the best?                         430What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee? _Fer. _ A single thing, as I am now, that wondersTo hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me;And that he does I weep: myself am Naples,Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld                     435The king my father wreck’d. _Mir. _                    Alack, for mercy! _Fer. _ Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of MilanAnd his brave son being twain. _Pros. _                      [_Aside_] The Duke of MilanAnd his more braver daughter could control thee,If now ’twere fit to do’t. At the first sight                      440They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel,I’ll set thee free for this. [_To Fer. _] A word, good sir;I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word. _Mir. _ Why speaks my father so ungently? ThisIs the third man that e’er I saw; the first                        445That e’er I sigh’d for: pity move my fatherTo be inclined my way! _Fer. _               O, if a virgin,And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make youThe queen of Naples. _Pros. _            Soft, sir! one word more. [_Aside_] They are both in either’s powers:        but this swift business                                    450I must uneasy make, lest too light winningMake the prize light. [_To Fer. _] One word more; I charge theeThat thou attend me: thou dost here usurpThe name thou owest not; and hast put thyselfUpon this island as a spy, to win it                               455From me, the lord on’t. _Fer. _                No, as I am a man. _Mir. _ There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:If the ill spirit have so fair a house,Good things will strive to dwell with’t. _Pros. _                                Follow me. Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor. Come;                       460I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together:Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall beThe fresh-brook muscles, wither’d roots, and husksWherein the acorn cradled. Follow. _Fer. _                           No;I will resist such entertainment till                              465Mine enemy has more power.            [_Draws, and is charmed from moving. __Mir. _                O dear father,Make not too rash a trial of him, forHe’s gentle, and not fearful. _Pros. _                     What! I say,My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;Who makest a show, but darest not strike, thy conscience           470Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward;For I can here disarm thee with this stickAnd make thy weapon drop. _Mir. _                  Beseech you, father. _Pros. _ Hence! hang not on my garments. _Mir. _                                Sir, have pity;I’ll be his surety. _Pros. _           Silence! one word more                           475Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What! An advocate for an impostor! hush! Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he,Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench! To the most of men this is a Caliban,                              480And they to him are angels. _Mir. _                    My affectionsAre, then, most humble; I have no ambitionTo see a goodlier man. _Pros. _              Come on; obey:Thy nerves are in their infancy again,And have no vigour in them. _Fer. _             So they are:                                    485My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up. My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel,The wreck of all my friends, nor this man’s threats,To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,Might I but through my prison once a day                           490Behold this maid: all corners else o’ th’ earthLet liberty make use of; space enoughHave I in such a prison. _Pros. _ [_Aside_]      It works. [_To Fer. _] Come on. Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [_To Fer. _] Follow me. [_To Ari. _] Hark what thou else shalt do me. _Mir. _                                     Be of comfort;          495My father’s of a better nature, sir,Than he appears by speech: this is unwontedWhich now came from him. _Pros. _                Thou shalt be as freeAs mountain winds: but then exactly doAll points of my command. _Ari. _                  To the syllable.                           500_Pros. _ Come, follow. Speak not for him.    [_Exeunt. _  Notes: I, 2.  3: _stinking_] _flaming_ Singer conj. _kindling_ S. Verges conj.  4: _cheek_] _heat_ Collier MS. _crack_ Staunton conj.  7: _creature_] _creatures_ Theobald.  13: _fraughting_] Ff. _fraighted_ Pope. _fraighting_ Theobald.    _freighting_ Steevens.  15: Mir. _O, woe the day! _ Pros. _No harm. _] Mir. _O woe the day!    no harm? _ Johnson conj.  19: _I am more better_] _I’m more or better_ Pope.  24: [Lays . . . mantle] Pope.  28: _provision_] F1. _compassion_ F2 F3 F4. _prevision_ Hunter conj.  29: _soul_] _soul lost_ Rowe. _foyle_ Theobald. _soil_ Johnson conj.    _loss_ Capell. _foul_ Wright conj.  31: _betid_] F1. _betide_ F2 F3 F4.  35: _a_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.  38: _thou_] om. Pope.  41: _Out_] _Full_ Pope (after Dryden). _Quite_ Collier MS.  44: _with_] _in_ Pope (after Dryden).  53: _Twelve year . . . year_] _Tis twelve years . . . years_ Pope.  58, 59: _and his only heir And princess_] _and his only heir    A princess_ Pope. _thou his only heir And princess_ Steevens.    _and though his only heir A princess_] Johnson conj.  63: _holp_] _help’d_ Pope.  _O, my heart_] _My heart_ Pope.  78: _me_] om. F3 F4.  80: _whom . . . whom_] F2 F3 F4.

_who . . . who_ F1.  81: _trash_] _plash_ Hanmer.  82, 83: _’em . . . ’em_] _them . . . them_ Capell.  84: _i’ the state_] _i’th state_ F1. _e’th state_ F2.    _o’th state_ F3 F4. om. Pope.  88: _O, good sir . . . mark me. _] _Good sir . . . mark me then. _ Pope.    _O yes, good sir . . . mark me. _ Capell.  Mir. _O, . . . do. _ Pros. _I . . . me_] _I . . . me. _ Mir. _O . . . do. _    Steevens.  89: _dedicated_] _dedicate_ Steevens (Ritson conj. ).  91: _so_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.  97: _lorded_] _loaded_ Collier MS.  99: _exact, like_] _exact. Like_ Ff.  100: _having into truth . . . of it_] _loving an untruth, and telling    ’t oft_ Hanmer. _having unto truth . . . oft_ Warburton. _having to    untruth . . . of it_ Collier MS. _having sinn’d to truth . . . oft_    Musgrave conj.  _telling_] _quelling_ S. Verges conj.  101: _Made . . . memory_] _Makes . . . memory_ Hanmer. _Makes . . .    memory too_ Musgrave conj.  103: _indeed the duke_] _the duke_ Steevens. _indeed duke_ S. Walker    conj.  _out o’ the_] _from_ Pope.  105: _his_] _is_ F2.  105, 106: _ambition growing_] _ambition Growing_ Steevens.  106: _hear? _] _hear, child? _ Hanmer.  109: _Milan_] _Millanie_ F1 (Capell’s copy).  112: _wi’ the_] Capell. _with_ Ff. _wi’ th’_ Rowe. _with the_    Steevens.  116: _most_] F1. _much_ F2 F3 F4.  119: _but_] _not_ Pope.  120: _Good . . . sons_] Theobald suggested that these words should be    given to Prospero. Hanmer prints them so.  122: _hearkens_] _hears_ Pope. _hearks_ Theobald.  129: _Fated_] _Mated_ Dryden’s version.  _purpose_] _practise_ Collier MS.  131: _ministers_] _minister_ Rowe.  133: _out_] _on’t_ Steevens conj.  135: _to ’t_] om. Steevens (Farmer conj. ).  138: _Wherefore_] _Why_ Pope.  141: _me_] om. Pope.  146: _boat_] Rowe (after Dryden). _butt_ F1 F2 F3. _but_ F4.    _busse_ Black conj.  147: _sail_] F1. _nor sail_ F2 F3 F4.  148: _have_] _had_ Rowe (after Dryden).  150: _the winds_] _winds_ Pope.  155: _deck’d_] _brack’d_ Hanmer. _mock’d_ Warburton. _fleck’d_    Johnson conj. _degg’d_ anon. ap. Reed conj.  162: _who_] om. Pope. _he_ Steevens conj.  169: _Now I arise_] Continued to Miranda. Blackstone conj.  [Resumes his mantle] om. Ff. [Put on robe again. Collier MS.  173: _princesses_] _princesse_ F1 F2 F3. _princess_ F4.    _princes_ Rowe. _princess’_ Dyce (S. Walker conj. ). See note (III).  186: [M. sleeps] Theobald.  189: SCENE III. Pope.  190: _be’t_] F1. _be it_ F2 F3 F4.  193: _quality_] _qualities_ Pope (after Dryden).  198: _sometime_] F1. _sometimes_ F2 F3 F4.  200: _bowsprit_] _bore-sprit_ Ff. _bolt-sprit_ Rowe.  201: _lightnings_] Theobald. _lightning_ Ff.  202: _o’ the_] _of_ Pope.  _thunder-claps_] _thunder-clap_ Johnson.  205: _Seem_] _Seem’d_ Theobald.  206: _dread_] F1. _dead_ F2 F3 F4.  _My brave_] _My brave, brave_ Theobald. _That’s my brave_ Hanmer.  209: _mad_] _mind_ Pope (after Dryden).  211, 212: _vessel, . . . son_] _vessell; Then all a fire with me    the King’s sonne_ Ff.  218: _sustaining_] _sea-stained_ Edwards conj. _unstaining_ or    _sea-staining_ Spedding conj.  229: _Bermoothes_] _Bermudas_ Theobald.  231: _Who_] _Whom_ Hanmer.  234: _are_] _all_ Collier MS.  _upon_] _on_ Pope.  239-240: Ari. _Past the mid season. _ Pros. _At least two glasses_]    Ari.

_Past the mid season at least two glasses. _ Warburton.    Pros. _. . . Past the mid season? _ Ari. _At least two glasses_    Johnson conj.  244: _How now? moody? _] _How now, moody! _ Dyce (so Dryden, ed. 1808).  245: _What_] F1. _Which_ F2 F3 F4.  248: _made thee_] Ff. _made_ Pope.  249: _didst_] F3 F4. _did_ F1 F2.  264: _and sorceries_] _sorceries too_ Hanmer.  267: _Is not this true? _] _Is this not true? _ Pope.  271: _wast then_] Rowe (after Dryden). _was then_ Ff.  273: _earthy_] _earthly_ Pope.  282: _son_] F1. _sunne_ F2. _sun_ F3 F4.  _she_] Rowe (after Dryden). _he_ Ff.  298: See note (IV).  301: _like_] F1. _like to_ F2 F3 F4.  302: _Be subject to_] _be subject To_ Malone.  _but thine and mine_] _but mine_ Pope.  304: _in’t_] _in it_ Pope.  _go, hence_] _goe: hence_ Ff. _go hence_ Pope. _hence_ Hanmer.  307: _Heaviness_] _Strange heaviness_ Edd. conj.  312: _serves in offices_] F1. _serves offices_ F2 F3 F4.    _serveth offices_ Collier MS.  316: _Come, thou tortoise! when? _] om. Pope.  _Come_] _Come forth_ Steevens. ]  320: _come forth! _] _come forth, thou tortoise! _ Pope.  321: SCENE IV. Pope.  332: _camest_] Rowe. _cam’st_ Ff. _cam’st here_ Ritson conj.  333: _madest_] Rowe (after Dryden). _made_ Ff.  339: _Curs’d be I that_] F1. _Curs’d be I that I_ F2 F3 F4.    _cursed be I that_ Steevens.  342: _Which_] _Who_ Pope, and at line 351.  346: _thee_] om. F4.  349: _would ’t_] Ff. _I wou’d it_ Pope.  351: Pros. ] Theobald (after Dryden). Mira. Ff.  352: _wilt_] F1. _will_ F2 F3 F4.  355, 356: _didst not . . . Know_] _couldst not . . . Shew_ Hanmer.  356: _wouldst_] _didst_ Hanmer.  361, 362: _Deservedly . . . deserved_] _Justly . . . who hadst Deserv’d_    S. Walker conj. _Confin’d . . . deserv’d_ id. conj.  362: _Who . . . prison_] om. Pope (after Dryden).  366: _thou’rt_] F1 F2 F3. _thou art_ F4. _thou wer’t_ Rowe.  375: SCENE V. Pope.  following. ] Malone.  378: _The wild waves whist_] Printed as a parenthesis by Steevens.    See note (V).  380: _the burthen bear_] Pope. _bear the burthen_ Ff.  381-383: Steevens gives _Hark, hark! The watch-dogs bark_ to Ariel.  387: _i’ th’ air or th’ earth? _] _in air or earth? _ Pope.  390: _again_] _against_ Rowe (after Dryden).  407: _owes_] _owns_ Pope (after Dryden), but leaves _ow’st_ 454.  408: SCENE VI. Pope.  419: _It goes on, I see,_] _It goes, I see_ Capell. _It goes on_    Steevens.  420: _fine spirit! _] om. Hanmer.  427: _maid_] F3. _mayd_ F1 F2. _made_ F4.  443: See note (VI).  444: _ungently_] F1. _urgently_ F2 F3 F4.  451: _lest_] F4. _least_ F1 F2 F3.  452: _One_] _Sir, one_ Pope.    _I charge thee_] _I charge thee_ [to Ariel. Pope.  460: Pros. prefixed again to this line in Ff.  468: _and_] _tho’_ Hanmer.  469: _foot_] _fool_ S. Walker conj. _child_ Dryden’s version.  470: _makest_] _mak’st_ F1. _makes_ F2 F3 F4.  471: _so_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _all_ Pope.  478: _is_] _are_ Rowe.  488: _nor_] _and_ Rowe (after Dryden). _or_ Capell.  489: _are_] _were_ Malone conj. ACT II. SCENE I. _Another part of the island. _  _Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO,  and others. __Gon. _ Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,So have we all, of joy; for our escapeIs much beyond our loss. Our hint of woeIs common; every day, some sailor’s wife,The masters of some merchant, and the merchant,                      5Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,I mean our preservation, few in millionsCan speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weighOur sorrow with our comfort. _Alon. _                    Prithee, peace. _Seb. _ He receives comfort like cold porridge.                      10_Ant. _ The visitor will not give him o’er so. _Seb. _ Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; byand by it will strike. _Gon. _ Sir,--_Seb. _ One: tell.                                                   15_Gon. _ When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d,Comes to the entertainer--_Seb. _ A dollar. _Gon. _ Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spokentruer than you purposed.                                            20_Seb. _ You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should. _Gon. _ Therefore, my lord,--_Ant. _ Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue! _Alon. _ I prithee, spare. _Gon. _ Well, I have done: but yet,--                                25_Seb. _ He will be talking.

_Ant. _ Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, firstbegins to crow? _Seb. _ The old cock. _Ant. _ The cockerel.                                                30_Seb. _ Done. The wager? _Ant. _ A laughter. _Seb. _ A match! _Adr. _ Though this island seem to be desert,--_Seb. _ Ha, ha, ha! --So, you’re paid.                                35_Adr. _ Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,--_Seb. _ Yet,--_Adr. _ Yet,--_Ant. _ He could not miss’t. _Adr. _ It must needs be of subtle, tender and delicate              40temperance. _Ant. _ Temperance was a delicate wench. _Seb. _ Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered. _Adr. _ The air breathes upon us here most sweetly. _Seb. _ As if it had lungs, and rotten ones.                         45_Ant. _ Or as ’twere perfumed by a fen. _Gon. _ Here is every thing advantageous to life. _Ant. _ True; save means to live. _Seb. _ Of that there’s none, or little. _Gon. _ How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green!               50_Ant. _ The ground, indeed, is tawny. _Seb. _ With an eye of green in’t. _Ant. _ He misses not much. _Seb. _ No; he doth but mistake the truth totally. _Gon. _ But the rarity of it is,--which is indeed almost             55beyond credit,--_Seb. _ As many vouched rarities are. _Gon. _ That our garments, being, as they were, drenchedin the sea, hold, notwithstanding, their freshness and glosses,being rather new-dyed than stained with salt water.                 60_Ant. _ If but one of his pockets could speak, would itnot say he lies? _Seb. _ Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report. _Gon. _ Methinks our garments are now as fresh as whenwe put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the king’s        65fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis. _Seb. _ ’Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well inour return. _Adr. _ Tunis was never graced before with such a paragonto their queen.                                                     70_Gon. _ Not since widow Dido’s time. _Ant. _ Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widowin? widow Dido! _Seb. _ What if he had said ‘widower Æneas’ too? GoodLord, how you take it!                                              75_Adr. _ ‘Widow Dido’ said you? you make me study ofthat: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis. _Gon. _ This Tunis, sir, was Carthage. _Adr. _ Carthage? _Gon. _ I assure you, Carthage.                                      80_Seb. _ His word is more than the miraculous harp; hehath raised the wall, and houses too. _Ant. _ What impossible matter will he make easy next? _Seb. _ I think he will carry this island home in hispocket, and give it his son for an apple.                           85_Ant. _ And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bringforth more islands. _Gon. _ Ay. _Ant. _ Why, in good time. _Gon. _ Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now              90as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of yourdaughter, who is now queen. _Ant. _ And the rarest that e’er came there. _Seb. _ Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido. _Ant. _ O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido.                               95_Gon. _ Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day Iwore it? I mean, in a sort. _Ant. _ That sort was well fished for. _Gon. _ When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage? _Alon. _ You cram these words into mine ears against                100The stomach of my sense. Would I had neverMarried my daughter there! for, coming thence,My son is lost, and, in my rate, she too. Who is so far from Italy removedI ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir                      105Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fishHath made his meal on thee? _Fran. _                   Sir, he may live:I saw him beat the surges under him,And ride upon their backs; he trod the water. Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted                          110The surge most swoln that met him; his bold head’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar’dHimself with his good arms in lusty strokeTo the shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bow’d,As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt                            115He came alive to land. _Alon. _              No, no, he’s gone. _Seb. _ Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,But rather lose her to an African;Where she, at least, is banish’d from your eye,                    120Who hath cause to wet the grief on’t. _Alon. _                             Prithee, peace. _Seb. _ You were kneel’d to, and importuned otherwise,By all of us; and the fair soul herselfWeigh’d between loathness and obedience, atWhich end o’ the beam should bow. We have lost your son,           125I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples haveMore widows in them of this business’ makingThan we bring men to comfort them:The fault’s your own. _Alon. _             So is the dear’st o’ the loss. _Gon. _ My lord Sebastian,                                          130The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,And time to speak it in: you rub the sore,When you should bring the plaster. _Seb. _                           Very well. _Ant. _ And most chirurgeonly. _Gon. _ It is foul weather in us all, good sir,                     135When you are cloudy. _Seb. _             Foul weather? _Ant. _                         Very foul. _Gon. _ Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,--_Ant. _ He’ld sow’t with nettle-seed. _Seb. _                             Or docks, or mallows. _Gon. _ And were the king on’t, what would I do? _Seb. _ ’Scape being drunk for want of wine.                        140_Gon. _ I’ the commonwealth I would by contrariesExecute all things; for no kind of trafficWould I admit; no name of magistrate;Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,And use of service, none; contract, succession,                    145Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;No occupation; all men idle, all;And women too, but innocent and pure;No sovereignty;--                                                  150_Seb. _      Yet he would be king on’t. _Ant. _ The latter end of his commonwealth forgets thebeginning. _Gon. _ All things in common nature should produceWithout sweat or endeavour: treason, felony,Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine,                    155Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance,To feed my innocent people. _Seb. _ No marrying ’mong his subjects? _Ant. _ None, man; all idle; whores and knaves.                     160_Gon. _ I would with such perfection govern, sir,To excel the golden age. _Seb. _                 ’Save his majesty! _Ant. _ Long live Gonzalo! _Gon. _                  And,--do you mark me, sir? _Alon. _ Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me. _Gon. _ I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister     165occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensibleand nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing. _Ant. _ ’Twas you we laughed at. _Gon. _ Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing toyou: so you may continue, and laugh at nothing still.              170_Ant. _ What a blow was there given! _Seb. _ An it had not fallen flat-long. _Gon.

_ You are gentlemen of brave mettle; you wouldlift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in itfive weeks without changing.                                       175  _Enter ARIEL (invisible) playing solemn music. __Seb. _ We would so, and then go a bat-fowling. _Ant. _ Nay, good my lord, be not angry. _Gon. _ No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretionso weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am veryheavy?                                                             180_Ant. _ Go sleep, and hear us.            [_All sleep except Alon. , Seb. , and Ant. __Alon. _ What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyesWould, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I findThey are inclined to do so. _Seb. _                    Please you, sir,Do not omit the heavy offer of it:                                 185It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,It is a comforter. _Ant. _           We two, my lord,Will guard your person while you take your rest,And watch your safety. _Alon. _              Thank you. --Wondrous heavy.                                [_Alonso sleeps. Exit Ariel. __Seb. _ What a strange drowsiness possesses them!                   190_Ant. _ It is the quality o’ the climate. _Seb. _                                 WhyDoth it not then our eyelids sink? I find notMyself disposed to sleep. _Ant. _                  Nor I; my spirits are nimble. They fell together all, as by consent;They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might,                  195Worthy Sebastian? --O, what might? --No more:--And yet methinks I see it in thy face,What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee; andMy strong imagination sees a crownDropping upon thy head. _Seb. _                What, art thou waking?                       200_Ant. _ Do you not hear me speak? _Seb. _                         I do; and surelyIt is a sleepy language, and thou speak’stOut of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say? This is a strange repose, to be asleepWith eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving,                   205And yet so fast asleep. _Ant. _                Noble Sebastian,Thou let’st thy fortune sleep--die, rather; wink’stWhiles thou art waking. _Seb. _                Thou dost snore distinctly;There’s meaning in thy snores. _Ant. _ I am more serious than my custom: you                       210Must be so too, if heed me; which to doTrebles thee o’er. _Seb. _           Well, I am standing water. _Ant. _ I’ll teach you how to flow. _Seb. _                           Do so: to ebbHereditary sloth instructs me. _Ant. _                       O,If you but knew how you the purpose cherish                        215Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,Most often do so near the bottom runBy their own fear or sloth. _Seb. _                    Prithee, say on:The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim                        220A matter from thee; and a birth, indeed,Which throes thee much to yield. _Ant. _                         Thus, sir:Although this lord of weak remembrance, this,Who shall be of as little memoryWhen he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,--                  225For he’s a spirit of persuasion, onlyProfesses to persuade,--the king his son’s alive,’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’dAs he that sleeps here swims. _Seb. _                      I have no hopeThat he’s undrown’d. _Ant. _             O, out of that ‘no hope’                        230What great hope have you! no hope that way isAnother way so high a hope that evenAmbition cannot pierce a wink beyond,But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with meThat Ferdinand is drown’d? _Seb. _                   He’s gone. _Ant. _                            Then, tell me,                   235Who’s the next heir of Naples? _Seb. _                       Claribel. _Ant. _ She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwellsTen leagues beyond man’s life; she that from NaplesCan have no note, unless the sun were post,--The man i’ the moon’s too slow,--till new-born chins               240Be rough and razorable; she that from whomWe all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again,And by that destiny, to perform an actWhereof what’s past is prologue; what to come,In yours and my discharge. _Seb. _                   What stuff is this! How say you?          245’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s queen of Tunis;So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regionsThere is some space. _Ant. _             A space whose every cubitSeems to cry out, “How shall that ClaribelMeasure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis,                          250And let Sebastian wake. ” Say, this were deathThat now hath seized them; why, they were no worseThan now they are. There be that can rule NaplesAs well as he that sleeps; lords that can prateAs amply and unnecessarily                                         255As this Gonzalo; I myself could makeA chough of as deep chat. O, that you boreThe mind that I do! what a sleep were thisFor your advancement! Do you understand me? _Seb. _ Methinks I do. _Ant. _              And how does your content                      260Tender your own good fortune? _Seb. _                      I rememberYou did supplant your brother Prospero. _Ant. _                                True:And look how well my garments sit upon me;Much feater than before: my brother’s servantsWere then my fellows; now they are my men.                         265_Seb. _ But for your conscience. _Ant. _ Ay, sir; where lies that? if ’twere a kibe,’Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel notThis deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they,                   270And melt, ere they molest! Here lies your brother,No better than the earth he lies upon,If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead;Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it,Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus,                   275To the perpetual wink for aye might putThis ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, whoShould not upbraid our course. For all the rest,They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk;They’ll tell the clock to any business that                        280We say befits the hour. _Seb. _                Thy case, dear friend,Shall be my precedent; as thou got’st Milan,I’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one strokeShall free thee from the tribute which thou payest;And I the king shall love thee. _Ant. _                        Draw together;                       285And when I rear my hand, do you the like,To fall it on Gonzalo. _Seb. _               O, but one word.      [_They talk apart. _  _Re-enter ARIEL invisible. __Ari. _ My master through his art foresees the dangerThat you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth,--For else his project dies,--to keep them living.                   290                            [_Sings in Gonzalo’s ear. _While you here do snoring lie,Open-eyed conspiracy    His time doth take. If of life you keep a care,Shake off slumber, and beware:                                     295    Awake, awake! _Ant. _ Then let us both be sudden. _Gon. _                           Now, good angelsPreserve the king!                          [_They wake. __Alon. _ Why, how now? ho, awake! --Why are you drawn? Wherefore this ghastly looking? _Gon. _                        What’s the matter?                   300_Seb. _ Whiles we stood here securing your repose,Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowingLike bulls, or rather lions: did’t not wake you? It struck mine ear most terribly. _Alon. _                         I heard nothing. _Ant. _ O, ’twas a din to fright a monster’s ear,                   305To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roarOf a whole herd of lions. _Alon. _                 Heard you this, Gonzalo? _Gon. _ Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,And that a strange one too, which did awake me:I shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open’d,                 310I saw their weapons drawn:--there was a noise,That’s verily. ’Tis best we stand upon our guard,Or that we quit this place: let’s draw our weapons. _Alon. _ Lead off this ground; and let’s make further searchFor my poor son. _Gon. _         Heavens keep him from these beasts!                 315For he is, sure, i’ th’ island. _Alon. _                       Lead away. _Ari. _ Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:So, king, go safely on to seek thy son.    [_Exeunt. _  Notes: II, 1.  3: _hint_] _stint_ Warburton.  5: _masters_] _master_ Johnson. _mistress_ Steevens conj.    _master’s_ Edd. conj.  6: _of woe_] om. Steevens conj.  11-99: Marked as interpolated by Pope.  11: _visitor_] _’viser_ Warburton.  _him_] om. Rowe.  15: _one_] F1. _on_ F2 F3 F4.  16: _entertain’d . . . Comes_] Capell. _entertain’d, That’s offer’d    comes_] Ff. Printed as prose by Pope.  27: _of he_] Ff. _of them, he_ Pope. _or he_ Collier MS.    See note (VII).  35: Seb. _Ha, ha, ha! --So you’re paid_] Theobald. Seb. _Ha, ha, ha!

_    Ant. _So you’r paid_ Ff. Ant. _So you’ve paid_ Capell.  81, 82: Seb. _His . . . too_] Edd. Ant. _His . . . harp. _    Seb. _He . . . too_ Ff.  88: _Ay. _] I. Ff. _Ay? _ Pope.  96: _sir, my doublet_] F1. _my doublet, sir_ F2 F3 F4.  113: _stroke_] F1 F2 F3. _strokes_ F4.  124: _Weigh’d_] _Sway’d_ S. Verges conj.  _at_] _as_ Collier MS. ]  125: _o’ the_] _the_ Pope.  _should_] _she’d_ Malone.  129: _The fault’s your own_] _the fault’s your own_ (at the end    of 128) Capell. _the fault’s Your own_ Malone.  137: _plantation_] _the plantation_ Rowe. _the planting_ Hanmer.  139: _on’t_] _of it_ Hanmer.  144: _riches, poverty_] _wealth, poverty_ Pope. _poverty, riches_    Capell.  145: _contract, succession_] _succession, Contract_ Malone conj.    _succession, None_ id. conj.  146: _none_] _olives, none_ Hanmer.  157: _its_] F3 F4. _it_ F1 F2. See note (VIII).  162: _’Save_] F1 F2 F3. _Save_ F4. _God save_ Edd. conj.  175: Enter . . . invisible . . . music. ] Malone. Enter Ariel, playing    solemn music. Ff. om. Pope. [Solemn music. Capell.  181: [All sleep . . . Ant. ] Stage direction to the same effect,    first inserted by Capell.  182-189: Text as in Pope. In Ff. the lines begin _Would . . . I find    . . . Do not . . . It seldom . . . We two . . . While . . . Thank. _  189: [Exit Ariel] Malone.  192: _find not_ Pope. _find Not_ Ff.  211: _so too, if heed_] _so too, if you heed_ Rowe.    _so, if you heed_ Pope.  212: _Trebles thee o’er_] _Troubles thee o’er_ Pope.    _Troubles thee not_ Hanmer.  222: _throes_] Pope. _throwes_ F1 F2 F3. _throws_ F4.  _Thus, sir_] _Why then thus Sir_ Hanmer.  226: _he’s_] _he’as_ Hanmer. _he_ Johnson conj.  227: _Professes to persuade_] om. Steevens.  234: _doubt_] _drops_ Hanmer. _doubts_ Capell.  241: _she that from whom_] Ff. _she from whom_ Rowe.    _she for whom_ Pope. _she from whom coming_ Singer.    _she that--from whom? _ Spedding conj. See note (IX).  242: _all_] om. Pope.  243: _And . . . to perform_] _May . . . perform_ Pope. _And by that    destin’d to perform_ Musgrave conj. _(And that by destiny)    to perform_ Staunton conj.  244: _is_] F1. _in_ F2 F3 F4.  245: _In_] _Is_ Pope.  250: _to_] F1. _by_ F2 F3 F4.  _Keep_] _Sleep_ Johnson conj.  251: See note (X).  267: _’twere_] _it were_ Singer.  267-271: Pope ends the lines with _that? . . . slipper . . . bosom . . .    Milan . . . molest . . . brother. _  267: See note (XI).  269: _twenty_] _Ten_ Pope.  270: _stand_] _stood_ Hanmer.  _candied_] _Discandy’d_ Upton conj.  271: _And melt_] _Would melt_ Johnson conj. _Or melt_ id. conj.  273, 274: _like, that’s dead; Whom I, with_] _like, whom I With_    Steevens (Farmer conj. ).  275: _whiles_] om. Pope.  277: _morsel_] _Moral_ Warburton.  280, 281: _business . . . hour. _] _hour . . . business. _ Farmer conj.  282: _precedent_] Pope. _president_ Ff.  _O_] om. Pope.  [They talk apart] Capell.  Re-enter Ariel invisible. ] Capell. Enter Ariel with music and    song. Ff.  289: _you, his friend,_] _these, his friends_ Steevens    (Johnson conj. ).  289, 290: _friend . . .

project dies . . . them_] _friend . . . projects    dies . . . you_ Hanmer. _friend . . . projects die . . . them_    Malone conj. _friend . . . project dies . . . thee_ Dyce.  298: [They wake. ] Rowe.  300: _this_] _thus_ Collier MS.  307: _Gonzalo_] om. Pope.  312: _verily_] _verity_ Pope.  _upon our guard_] _on guard_ Pope. SCENE II. _Another part of the island. _  _Enter CALIBAN with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard. __Cal. _ All the infections that the sun sucks upFrom bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make himBy inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me,And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch,Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire,                   5Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the darkOut of my way, unless he bid ’em: butFor every trifle are they set upon me;Sometime like apes, that mow and chatter at me,And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which                       10Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mountTheir pricks at my footfall; sometime am IAll wound with adders, who with cloven tonguesDo hiss me into madness.  _Enter TRINCULO. _                        Lo, now, lo! Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me                       15For bringing wood in slowly. I’ll fall flat;Perchance he will not mind me. _Trin. _ Here’s neither bush nor shrub, to bear off anyweather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks               20like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it shouldthunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head:yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. Whathave we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: hesmells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind      25of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish! Were Iin England now, as once I was, and had but this fishpainted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece ofsilver: there would this monster make a man; any strangebeast there makes a man: when they will not give a doit to          30relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a deadIndian. Legged like a man! and his fins like arms! Warmo’ my troth! I do now let loose my opinion; hold it nolonger: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath latelysuffered by a thunderbolt. [_Thunder. _] Alas, the storm is come     35again! my best way is to creep under his gaberdine; thereis no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man withstrange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of thestorm be past.  _Enter STEPHANO, singing: a bottle in his hand. __Ste. _ I shall no more to sea, to sea,                              40                Here shall I die a-shore,--This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral: well,here’s my comfort.                                  [_Drinks. _[_Sings. _ The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,                       The gunner, and his mate,                    45               Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,                   But none of us cared for Kate;                   For she had a tongue with a tang,                   Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!               She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch;        50               Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch.                   Then, to sea, boys, and let her go hang! This is a scurvy tune too: but here’s my comfort. [_Drinks. __Cal. _ Do not torment me:--O! _Ste. _ What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do                   55you put tricks upon ’s with savages and men of Ind, ha? Ihave not scaped drowning, to be afeard now of your fourlegs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever wenton four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall besaid so again, while Stephano breathes at’s nostrils.               60_Cal. _ The spirit torments me:--O! _Ste. _ This is some monster of the isle with four legs, whohath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should helearn our language? I will give him some relief, if it bebut for that. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, and          65get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor thatever trod on neat’s-leather. _Cal. _ Do not torment me, prithee; I’ll bring my woodhome faster. _Ste. _ He’s in his fit now, and does not talk after the             70wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never drunkwine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recoverhim, and keep him tame, I will not take too much forhim; he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly. _Cal. _ Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I          75know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee. _Ste. _ Come on your ways; open your mouth; here is thatwhich will give language to you, cat: open your mouth; thiswill shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly:you cannot tell who’s your friend: open your chaps again.           80_Trin. _ I should know that voice: it should be--but heis drowned; and these are devils:--O defend me! _Ste. _ Four legs and two voices,--a most delicate monster! His forward voice, now, is to speak well of his friend;his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract.        85If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will helphis ague. Come:--Amen! I will pour some in thy othermouth. _Trin. _ Stephano! _Ste. _ Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, mercy!                  90This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I haveno long spoon. _Trin. _ Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me,and speak to me; for I am Trinculo,--be not afeard,--thygood friend Trinculo.                                               95_Ste. _ If thou beest Trinculo, come forth: I’ll pull theeby the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo’s legs, these are they. Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How earnest thou to bethe siege of this moon-calf? can he vent Trinculos? _Trin. _ I took him to be killed with a thunder-stroke.             100But art thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope, now, thouart not drowned. Is the storm overblown? I hid meunder the dead moon-calf’s gaberdine for fear of the storm. And art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitansscaped!                                                            105_Ste. _ Prithee, do not turn me about; my stomach is notconstant. _Cal. _ [_aside_] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites. That’s a brave god, and bears celestial liquor:I will kneel to him.                                               110_Ste. _ How didst thou ’scape? How camest thou hither? swear, by this bottle, how thou camest hither. I escapedupon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved o’erboard, bythis bottle! which I made of the bark of a tree with mineown hands, since I was cast ashore.                                115_Cal. _ I’ll swear, upon that bottle, to be thy true subject;for the liquor is not earthly. _Ste. _ Here; swear, then, how thou escapedst. _Trin. _ Swum ashore, man, like a duck: I can swimlike a duck, I’ll be sworn.                                        120_Ste. _ Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swimlike a duck, thou art made like a goose. _Trin. _ O Stephano, hast any more of this? _Ste. _ The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock bythe sea-side, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf!            125how does thine ague? _Cal. _ Hast thou not dropp’d from heaven? _Ste. _ Out o’ the moon, I do assure thee: I was the mani’ the moon when time was. _Cal. _ I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee:               130My mistress show’d me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush. _Ste. _ Come, swear to that; kiss the book: I will furnishit anon with new contents: swear. _Trin. _ By this good light, this is a very shallow monster! I afeard of him! A very weak monster! The                          135man i’ the moon! A most poor credulous monster! Welldrawn, monster, in good sooth! _Cal. _ I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island;And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god. _Trin. _ By this light, a most perfidious and drunken               140monster! when’s god’s asleep, he’ll rob his bottle. _Cal. _ I’ll kiss thy foot; I’ll swear myself thy subject. _Ste. _ Come on, then; down, and swear. _Trin. _ I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headedmonster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in                    145my heart to beat him,--_Ste. _ Come, kiss. _Trin. _ But that the poor monster’s in drink: an abominablemonster! _Cal. _ I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries;   150I’ll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough. A plague upon the tyrant that I serve! I’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,Thou wondrous man. _Trin.

_ A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder                155of a poor drunkard! _Cal. _ I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow;And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts;Show thee a jay’s nest, and instruct thee howTo snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee                      160To clustering filberts, and sometimes I’ll get theeYoung scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me? _Ste. _ I prithee now, lead the way, without any moretalking. Trinculo, the king and all our company else beingdrowned, we will inherit here: here; bear my bottle: fellow        165Trinculo, we’ll fill him by and by again. _Cal. sings drunkenly. _] Farewell, master; farewell, farewell! _Trin. _ A howling monster; a drunken monster! _Cal. _ No more dams I’ll make for fish;                Nor fetch in firing                                170                At requiring;             Nor scrape trencher, nor wash dish:                ’Ban, ’Ban, Cacaliban                Has a new master:--get a new man. Freedom, hey-day! hey-day, freedom! freedom, hey-day,              175freedom! _Ste. _ O brave monster! Lead the way.    [_Exeunt. _  Notes: II, 2.  4: _nor_] F1 F2. _not_ F3 F4.  15: _and_] _now_ Pope. _sent_ Edd. conj. (so Dryden).  21: _foul_] _full_ Upton conj.  35: [Thunder] Capell.  38: _dregs_] _drench_ Collier MS.  40: SCENE III. Pope.  [a bottle in his hand] Capell. ]  46: _and Marian_] _Mirian_ Pope.  56: _savages_] _salvages_ Ff.  60: _at’s nostrils_] Edd. _at ’nostrils_ F1. _at nostrils_ F2 F3 F4.    _at his nostrils_ Pope.  78: _you, cat_] _you Cat_ Ff. _a cat_ Hanmer. _your cat_ Edd. conj.  84: _well_] F1 om. F2 F3 F4.  115, 116: Steevens prints as verse, _I’ll . . . thy True . . . earthly. _  118: _swear, then, how thou escapedst_] _swear then: how escapedst    thou? _ Pope.  119: _Swum_] _Swom_ Ff.  131: _and thy dog, and thy bush_] _thy dog and bush_ Steevens.  133: _new_] F1. _the new_ F2 F3 F4.  135: _weak_] F1. _shallow_ F2 F3 F4.  138: _island_] F1. _isle_ F2 F3 F4.  150-154, 157-162, printed as verse by Pope (after Dryden).  162: _scamels_] _shamois_ Theobald. _seamalls, stannels_ id. conj.  163: Ste. ] F1. Cal. F2 F3 F4.  165: Before _here; bear my bottle_ Capell inserts [To Cal. ].    See note (XII).  172: _trencher_] Pope (after Dryden). _trenchering_ Ff.  175: _hey-day_] Rowe. _high-day_ Ff. ACT III. SCENE I. _Before PROSPERO’S cell. _  _Enter FERDINAND, bearing a log. __Fer. _ There be some sports are painful, and their labourDelight in them sets off: some kinds of basenessAre nobly undergone, and most poor mattersPoint to rich ends. This my mean taskWould be as heavy to me as odious, but                               5The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead,And makes my labours pleasures: O, she isTen times more gentle than her father’s crabbed. And he’s composed of harshness. I must removeSome thousands of these logs, and pile them up,                     10Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistressWeeps when she sees me work, and says, such basenessHad never like executor. I forget:But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,Most busy lest, when I do it.  _Enter MIRANDA; and PROSPERO at a distance, unseen. __Mir. _                  Alas, now, pray you,                        15Work not so hard: I would the lightning hadBurnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile! Pray, set it down, and rest you: when this burns,’Twill weep for having wearied you. My fatherIs hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself;                         20He’s safe for these three hours. _Fer. _                         O most dear mistress,The sun will set before I shall dischargeWhat I must strive to do. _Mir. _                  If you’ll sit down,I’ll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that;I’ll carry it to the pile. _Fer. _                   No, precious creature;                     25I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,Than you should such dishonour undergo,While I sit lazy by. _Mir. _             It would become meAs well as it does you: and I should do itWith much more ease; for my good will is to it,                     30And yours it is against. _Pros. _                Poor worm, thou art infected! This visitation shows it. _Mir. _                  You look wearily. _Fer. _ No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with meWhen you are by at night. I do beseech you,--Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,--                        35What is your name? _Mir. _           Miranda. --O my father,I have broke your hest to say so! _Fer. _                          Admired Miranda! Indeed the top of admiration! worthWhat’s dearest to the world! Full many a ladyI have eyed with best regard, and many a time                       40The harmony of their tongues hath into bondageBrought my too diligent ear: for several virtuesHave I liked several women; never anyWith so full soul, but some defect in herDid quarrel with the noblest grace she owed,                        45And put it to the foil: but you, O you,So perfect and so peerless, are createdOf every creature’s best! _Mir. _             I do not knowOne of my sex; no woman’s face remember,Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen                      50More that I may call men than you, good friend,And my dear father: how features are abroad,I am skilless of; but, by my modesty,The jewel in my dower, I would not wishAny companion in the world but you;                                 55Nor can imagination form a shape,Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattleSomething too wildly, and my father’s preceptsI therein do forget. _Fer. _             I am, in my condition,A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king;                              60I would, not so! --and would no more endureThis wooden slavery than to sufferThe flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:The very instant that I saw you, didMy heart fly to your service; there resides,                        65To make me slave to it; and for your sakeAm I this patient log-man. _Mir. _                   Do you love me? _Fer. _ O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound,And crown what I profess with kind event,If I speak true! if hollowly, invert                                70What best is boded me to mischief! I,Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world,Do love, prize, honour you. _Mir. _                    I am a foolTo weep at what I am glad of. _Pros. _                     Fair encounterOf two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace                     75On that which breeds between ’em! _Fer. _                          Wherefore weep you? _Mir. _ At mine unworthiness, that dare not offerWhat I desire to give; and much less takeWhat I shall die to want. But this is trifling;And all the more it seeks to hide itself,                           80The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning! And prompt me, plain and holy innocence! I am your wife, if you will marry me;If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellowYou may deny me; but I’ll be your servant,                          85Whether you will or no. _Fer. _                My mistress, dearest;And I thus humble ever. _Mir. _                My husband, then? _Fer. _ Ay, with a heart as willingAs bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand. _Mir. _ And mine, with my heart in’t: and now farewell               90Till half an hour hence. _Fer. _                 A thousand thousand!    [_Exeunt Fer. and Mir. severally. __Pros. _ So glad of this as they I cannot be,Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicingAt nothing can be more. I’ll to my book;For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform                            95Much business appertaining.    [_Exit. _  Notes: III, 1.  1: _and_] _but_ Pope.  2: _sets_] Rowe. _set_ Ff.  4, 5: _my . . . odious_] _my mean task would be As heavy to me as    ’tis odious_ Pope.  9: _remove_] _move_ Pope.  14: _labours_] _labour_ Hanmer.  15: _Most busy lest_] F1. _Most busy least_ F2 F3 F4. _Least busy_    Pope. _Most busie-less_ Theobald. _ Most busiest_ Holt White conj.    _Most busy felt_ Staunton. _Most busy still_ Staunton conj.    _Most busy-blest_ Collier MS. _Most busiliest_ Bullock conj.  _Most busy lest, when I do_ (_doe_ F1 F2 F3) _it_] _Most busy when    least I do it_ Brae conj. _Most busiest when idlest_ Spedding    conj. _Most busy left when idlest_ Edd. conj. See note (XIII).  at a distance, unseen] Rowe.  17: _you are_] F1.

_thou art_ F2 F3 F4.  31: _it is_] _is it_ Steevens conj. (ed. 1, 2, and 3). om. Steevens    (ed. 4) (Farmer conj. ).  34, 35: _I do beseech you,--Chiefly_] _I do beseech you Chiefly_ Ff.  59: _I therein do_] _I do_ Pope. _Therein_ Steevens.  62: _wooden_] _wodden_ F1.  _than to_] _than I would_ Pope.  72: _what else_] _aught else_ Malone conj. (withdrawn).  80: _seeks_] _seekd_ F3 F4.  88: _as_] F1. _so_ F2 F3 F4.  91: _severally_] Capell.  93: _withal_] Theobald. _with all_ Ff. SCENE II. _Another part of the island. _  _Enter CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO. __Ste. _ Tell not me;--when the butt is out, we will drinkwater; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board ’em. Servant-monster, drink to me. _Trin. _ Servant-monster! the folly of this island! Theysay there’s but five upon this isle: we are three of them; if        5th’ other two be brained like us, the state totters. _Ste. _ Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyesare almost set in thy head. _Trin. _ Where should they be set else? he were a bravemonster indeed, if they were set in his tail.                       10_Ste. _ My man-monster hath drowned his tongue in sack:for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I couldrecover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues off and on. Bythis light, thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or mystandard.                                                           15_Trin. _ Your lieutenant, if you list; he’s no standard. _Ste. _ We’ll not run, Monsieur Monster. _Trin. _ Nor go neither; but you’ll lie, like dogs, andyet say nothing neither. _Ste. _ Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a           20good moon-calf. _Cal. _ How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe. I’ll not serve him, he is not valiant. _Trin. _ Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in caseto justle a constable. Why, thou debauched fish, thou, was          25there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack asI to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half afish and half a monster? _Cal. _ Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord? _Trin. _ ‘Lord,’ quoth he! That a monster should be                  30such a natural! _Cal. _ Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I prithee. _Ste. _ Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if youprove a mutineer,--the next tree! The poor monster’s mysubject, and he shall not suffer indignity.                         35_Cal. _ I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased tohearken once again to the suit I made to thee? _Ste. _ Marry, will I: kneel and repeat it; I will stand,and so shall Trinculo.  _Enter ARIEL, invisible. __Cal. _ As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a           40sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island. _Ari. _ Thou liest. _Cal. _           Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou:I would my valiant master would destroy thee! I do not lie. _Ste. _ Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in’s tale, by          45this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth. _Trin. _ Why, I said nothing. _Ste. _ Mum, then, and no more. Proceed. _Cal. _ I say, by sorcery he got this isle;From me he got it. If thy greatness will                            50Revenge it on him,--for I know thou darest,But this thing dare not,--_Ste. _ That’s most certain. _Cal. _ Thou shalt be lord of it, and I’ll serve thee. _Ste. _ How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou                  55bring me to the party? _Cal. _ Yea, yea, my lord: I’ll yield him thee asleep,Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head. _Ari. _ Thou liest; thou canst not. _Cal. _ What a pied ninny’s this! Thou scurvy patch!                 60I do beseech thy Greatness, give him blows,And take his bottle from him: when that’s gone,He shall drink nought but brine; for I’ll not show himWhere the quick freshes are. _Ste. _ Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt the          65monster one word further, and, by this hand, I’ll turn mymercy out o’ doors, and make a stock-fish of thee. _Trin. _ Why, what did I? I did nothing. I’ll go fartheroff. _Ste. _ Didst thou not say he lied?                                  70_Ari. _ Thou liest. _Ste. _ Do I so? take thou that. [_Beats him. _] As youlike this, give me the lie another time. _Trin. _ I did not give the lie. Out o’ your wits, andhearing too? A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and                75drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the deviltake your fingers! _Cal. _ Ha, ha, ha! _Ste. _ Now, forward with your tale. --Prithee, stand fartheroff.                                                                80_Cal. _ Beat him enough: after a little time,I’ll beat him too. _Ste. _ Stand farther. Come, proceed. _Cal. _ Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with himI’ th’ afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him,Having first seized his books; or with a log                        85Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,Or cut his wezand with thy knife. RememberFirst to possess his books; for without themHe’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath notOne spirit to command: they all do hate him                         90As rootedly as I. Burn but his books. He has brave utensils,--for so he calls them,--Which, when he has a house, he’ll deck withal. And that most deeply to consider isThe beauty of his daughter; he himself                              95Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman,But only Sycorax my dam and she;But she as far surpasseth SycoraxAs great’st does least. _Ste. _                Is it so brave a lass? _Cal. _ Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I warrant,               100And bring thee forth brave brood. _Ste. _ Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and Iwill be king and queen,--save our Graces! --and Trinculoand thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot,Trinculo?                                                          105_Trin. _ Excellent. _Ste. _ Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but,while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head. _Cal. _ Within this half hour will he be asleep:Wilt thou destroy him then? _Ste. _                    Ay, on mine honour.                      110_Ari. _ This will I tell my master. _Cal. _ Thou makest me merry; I am full of pleasure:Let us be jocund: will you troll the catchYou taught me but while-ere? _Ste. _ At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any              115reason. --Come on. Trinculo, let us sing.      [_Sings. _  Flout ’em and scout ’em, and scout ’em and flout ’em;  Thought is free. _Cal. _ That’s not the tune.  [_Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and pipe. __Ste. _ What is this same?                                          120_Trin. _ This is the tune of our catch, played by the pictureof Nobody. _Ste. _ If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness:if thou beest a devil, take’t as thou list. _Trin. _ O, forgive me my sins!                                     125_Ste. _ He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercyupon us! _Cal. _ Art thou afeard? _Ste. _ No, monster, not I. _Cal.

_ Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises,                  130Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not. Sometimes a thousand twangling instrumentsWill hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,That, if I then had waked after long sleep,Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming,                   135The clouds methought would open, and show richesReady to drop upon me; that, when I waked,I cried to dream again. _Ste. _ This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where Ishall have my music for nothing.                                   140_Cal. _ When Prospero is destroyed. _Ste. _ That shall be by and by: I remember the story. _Trin. _ The sound is going away; let’s follow it, andafter do our work. _Ste. _ Lead, monster; we’ll follow. I would I could see            145this taborer; he lays it on. _Trin. _ Wilt come? I’ll follow, Stephano.    [_Exeunt. _  Notes: III, 2.  SCENE II. Another. . . ] Theobald. The other. . . Pope.  Enter . . . ] Enter S. and T. reeling, Caliban following with a bottle.    Capell. Enter C. S. and T. with a bottle. Johnson. ]  8: _head_] F1. _heart_ F2 F3 F4.  13, 14: _on. By this light, thou_] _on, by this light thou_ Ff.    _on, by this light. --Thou_ Capell.  25: _debauched_] _debosh’d_ Ff.  37: _to the suit I made to thee_] _the suit I made thee_ Steevens,    who prints all Caliban’s speeches as verse.  60: Johnson conjectured that this line was spoken by Stephano.  68: _farther_] F1 _no further_ F2 F3 F4.  72: [Beats him. ] Rowe.  84: _there_] _then_ Collier MS.  89: _nor_] _and_ Pope.  93: _deck_] _deck’t_ Hanmer.  96: _I never saw a woman_] _I ne’er saw woman_ Pope.  99: _great’st does least_] _greatest does the least_ Rowe.  115, 116:] Printed as verse in Ff.  115: _any_] F1. _and_ F2 F3 F4.  117: _scout ’em, and scout ’em_] Pope. _cout ’em and skowt ’em_ Ff.  125: _sins_] _sin_ F4.  132: _twangling_] _twanging_ Pope.  133: _sometime_] F1. _sometimes_ F2 F3 F4.  137: _that_] om. Pope.  147: Trin. _Will come? I’ll follow, Stephano_] Trin. _Wilt come? _    Ste. _I’ll follow. _ Capell. Ste. _. . . Wilt come? _    Trin. _I’ll follow, Stephano. _ Ritson conj. SCENE III. _Another part of the island. _  _Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO,  and others. __Gon. _ By’r lakin, I can go no further, sir;My old bones ache: here’s a maze trod, indeed,Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,I needs must rest me. _Alon. _             Old lord, I cannot blame thee,Who am myself attach’d with weariness,                               5To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest. Even here I will put off my hope, and keep itNo longer for my flatterer: he is drown’dWhom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocksOur frustrate search on land. Well, let him go.                     10_Ant. _ [_Aside to Seb. _] I am right glad that he’s so out of hope. Do not, for one repulse, forego the purposeThat you resolved to effect. _Seb. _ [_Aside to Ant. _] The next advantageWill we take throughly. _Ant. _ [_Aside to Seb. _] Let it be to-night;For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they                       15Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilanceAs when they are fresh. _Seb. _ [_Aside to Ant. _] I say, to-night: no more.  [_Solemn and strange music. __Alon. _ What harmony is this? --My good friends, hark! _Gon. _ Marvellous sweet music!  _Enter PROSPERO above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes,  bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of  salutation; and, inviting the King, &c. to eat, they depart. __Alon. _ Give us kind keepers, heavens! --What were these?            20_Seb. _ A living drollery. Now I will believeThat there are unicorns; that in ArabiaThere is one tree, the phœnix’ throne; one phœnixAt this hour reigning there. _Ant. _                     I’ll believe both;And what does else want credit, come to me,                         25And I’ll be sworn ’tis true: travellers ne’er did lie,Though fools at home condemn ’em. _Gon. _                          If in NaplesI should report this now, would they believe me? If I should say, I saw such islanders,--For, certes, these are people of the island,--                      30Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,Their manners are more gentle-kind than ofOur human generation you shall findMany, nay, almost any. _Pros. _              [_Aside_] Honest lord,Thou hast said well; for some of you there present                  35Are worse than devils. _Alon. _              I cannot too much museSuch shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing--Although they want the use of tongue--a kindOf excellent dumb discourse. _Pros. _                    [_Aside_] Praise in departing. _Fran. _ They vanish’d strangely. _Seb. _                         No matter, since                     40They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs. --Will’t please you taste of what is here? _Alon. _                                Not I. _Gon. _ Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,Who would believe that there were mountaineersDew-lapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at ’em             45Wallets of flesh? or that there were such menWhose heads stood in their breasts? which now we findEach putter-out of five for one will bring usGood warrant of. _Alon. _        I will stand to, and feed,Although my last: no matter, since I feel                           50The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke,Stand to, and do as we.  _Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL, like a harpy; claps his  wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet  vanishes. __Ari. _ You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,--That hath to instrument this lower worldAnd what is in’t,--the never-surfeited sea                          55Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island,Where man doth not inhabit,--you ’mongst menBeing most unfit to live. I have made you mad;And even with such-like valour men hang and drownTheir proper selves.    [_Alon. , Seb. &c. draw their swords. _                   You fools! I and my fellows                      60Are ministers of Fate: the elements,Of whom your swords are temper’d, may as wellWound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabsKill the still-closing waters, as diminishOne dowle that’s in my plume: my fellow-ministers                   65Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,And will not be uplifted. But remember,--For that’s my business to you,--that you threeFrom Milan did supplant good Prospero;                              70Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,Him and his innocent child: for which foul deedThe powers, delaying, not forgetting, haveIncensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso,                        75They have bereft; and do pronounce by me:Lingering perdition--worse than any deathCan be at once--shall step by step attendYou and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from,--Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls                  80Upon your heads,--is nothing but heart-sorrowAnd a clear life ensuing.  _He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the Shapes  again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carrying out the  table. __Pros. _ Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thouPerform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated                           85In what thou hadst to say: so, with good lifeAnd observation strange, my meaner ministersTheir several kinds have done. My high charms work,And these mine enemies are all knit upIn their distractions: they now are in my power;                    90And in these fits I leave them, while I visitYoung Ferdinand,--whom they suppose is drown’d,--And his and mine loved darling.    [_Exit above. __Gon. _ I’ the name of something holy, sir, why stand youIn this strange stare? _Alon. _              O, it is monstrous, monstrous!                 95Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it;The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder,That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronouncedThe name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass. Therefore my son i’ th’ ooze is bedded; and                        100I’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded,And with him there lie mudded.    [_Exit. __Seb. _                       But one fiend at a time,I’ll fight their legions o’er. _Ant. _                       I’ll be thy second.    [_Exeunt Seb. and Ant. __Gon. _ All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,Like poison given to work a great time after,                      105Now ’gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you,That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly,And hinder them from what this ecstasyMay now provoke them to. _Adr. _                 Follow, I pray you.    [_Exeunt. _  Notes: III, 3.  2: _ache_] _ake_ F2 F3 F4.

_akes_ F1.  3: _forth-rights_] F2 F3 F4. _fourth rights_ F1.  8: _flatterer_] F1. _flatterers_ F2 F3 F4.  17: Prospero above] Malone. Prosper on the top Ff. See note (XIV).  20: _were_] F1 F2 F3. _are_ F4.  26: _’tis true_] _to ’t_ Steevens conj.  _did lie_] _lied_ Hanmer.  29: _islanders_] F2 F3 F4. _islands_ F1.  32: _gentle-kind_] Theobald. _gentle, kind_ Ff. _gentle kind_ Rowe.  36: _muse_] F1 F2 F3. _muse_, F4. _muse_; Capell.  48: _of five for one_] Ff. _on five for one_ Theobald.    _of one for five_ Malone, (Thirlby conj. ) See note (XV).  49-51: _I will . . . past_] Mason conjectured that these lines formed    a rhyming couplet.  53: SCENE IV. Pope.  54: _instrument_] _instruments_ F4.  56: _belch up you_] F1 F2 F3. _belch you up_ F4. _belch up_ Theobald.  60: [. . . draw their swords] Hanmer.  65: _dowle_] _down_ Pope. ]  _plume_] Rowe. _plumbe_ F1 F2 F3. _plumb_ F4.  67: _strengths_] _strength_ F4.  79: _wraths_] _wrath_ Theobald.  81: _heart-sorrow_] Edd. _hearts-sorrow_ Ff. _heart’s-sorrow_ Rowe.    _heart’s sorrow_ Pope.  82: mocks] mopps Theobald.  86: _life_] _list_ Johnson conj.  90: _now_] om. Pope.  92: _whom_] _who_ Hanmer.  93: _mine_] _my_ Rowe.  [Exit above] Theobald. ]  94: _something holy, sir_,] _something, holy Sir_, F4.  99: _bass_] Johnson. _base_ Ff.  106: _do_] om. Pope. ACT IV. SCENE I. _Before PROSPERO’S cell. _  _Enter PROSPERO, FERDINAND, and MIRANDA. __Pros. _ If I have too austerely punish’d you,Your compensation makes amends; for IHave given you here a third of mine own life,Or that for which I live; who once againI tender to thy hand: all thy vexations                              5Were but my trials of thy love, and thouHast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven,I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand,Do not smile at me that I boast her off,For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise,                   10And make it halt behind her. _Fer. _                     I do believe itAgainst an oracle. _Pros. _          Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisitionWorthily purchased, take my daughter: butIf thou dost break her virgin-knot before                           15All sanctimonious ceremonies mayWith full and holy rite be minister’d,No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fallTo make this contract grow; but barren hate,Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew                         20The union of your bed with weeds so loathlyThat you shall hate it both: therefore take heed,As Hymen’s lamps shall light you. _Fer. _                          As I hopeFor quiet days, fair issue and long life,With such love as ’tis now, the murkiest den,                       25The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestionOur worser Genius can, shall never meltMine honour into lust, to take awayThe edge of that day’s celebrationWhen I shall think, or Phœbus’ steeds are founder’d,                30Or Night kept chain’d below. _Pros. _                    Fairly spoke. Sit, then, and talk with her; she is thine own. What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel!  _Enter ARIEL. __Ari. _ What would my potent master? here I am. _Pros. _ Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service               35Did worthily perform; and I must use youIn such another trick. Go bring the rabble,O’er whom I give thee power, here to this place:Incite them to quick motion; for I mustBestow upon the eyes of this young couple                           40Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise,And they expect it from me. _Ari. _                    Presently? _Pros. _ Ay, with a twink. _Ari. _ Before you can say, ‘come,’ and ‘go,’            And breathe twice, and cry, ‘so, so,’                   45            Each one, tripping on his toe,            Will be here with mop and mow.            Do you love me, master? no? _Pros. _ Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approachTill thou dost hear me call. _Ari. _                     Well, I conceive.    [_Exit. _            50_Pros. _ Look thou be true; do not give dallianceToo much the rein: the strongest oaths are strawTo the fire i’ the blood: be more abstemious,Or else, good night your vow! _Fer. _                      I warrant you, sir;The white cold virgin snow upon my heart                            55Abates the ardour of my liver. _Pros. _                      Well. Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly! No tongue! all eyes! be silent.                  [_Soft music. _    _Enter IRIS. _  _Iris. _ Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas                 60    Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease;    Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,    And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep;    Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,    Which spongy April at thy best betrims,                         65    To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom-groves,    Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,    Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard;    And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,    Where thou thyself dost air;--the queen o’ the sky,             70    Whose watery arch and messenger am I,    Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace,    Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,    To come and sport:--her peacocks fly amain:    Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain.                         75    _Enter CERES. _  _Cer. _ Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne’er    Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;    Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers    Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers;    And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown                    80    My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down,    Rich scarf to my proud earth;--why hath thy queen    Summon’d me hither, to this short-grass’d green?  _Iris. _ A contract of true love to celebrate;    And some donation freely to estate                              85    On the blest lovers.  _Cer. _             Tell me, heavenly bow,    If Venus or her son, as thou dost know,    Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot    The means that dusky Dis my daughter got,    Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company                       90    I have forsworn.  _Iris. _        Of her society    Be not afraid: I met her Deity    Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son    Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done    Some wanton charm upon this man and maid,                       95    Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid    Till Hymen’s torch be lighted: but in vain;    Mars’s hot minion is returned again;    Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,    Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows,          100    And be a boy right out.  _Cer. _                High’st queen of state,    Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait.    _Enter JUNO. _  _Juno. _ How does my bounteous sister? Go with me    To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be,    And honour’d in their issue.         [_They sing:_             105  _Juno. _ Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,            Long continuance, and increasing,            Hourly joys be still upon you!            Juno sings her blessings on you.  _Cer. _  Earth’s increase, foison plenty,                         110            Barns and garners never empty;            Vines with clustering bunches growing;            Plants with goodly burthen bowing;            Spring come to you at the farthest            In the very end of harvest!                            115            Scarcity and want shall shun you;            Ceres’ blessing so is on you. _Fer. _ This is a most majestic vision, andHarmonious charmingly. May I be boldTo think these spirits? _Pros. _               Spirits, which by mine art                   120I have from their confines call’d to enactMy present fancies. _Fer. _            Let me live here ever;So rare a wonder’d father and a wifeMakes this place Paradise.    [_Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment. __Pros. _                  Sweet, now, silence! Juno and Ceres whisper seriously;                                  125There’s something else to do: hush, and be mute,Or else our spell is marr’d.  _Iris. _ You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the windring brooks,            With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks,            Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land      130            Answer your summons; Juno does command:            Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate            A contract of true love; be not too late.    _Enter certain Nymphs. _            You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,            Come hither from the furrow, and be merry:             135            Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on,            And these fresh nymphs encounter every one            In country footing.    _Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the    Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof PROSPERO    starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow,    and confused noise, they heavily vanish. __Pros. _ [_Aside_] I had forgot that foul conspiracyOf the beast Caliban and his confederates                          140Against my life: the minute of their plotIs almost come. [_To the Spirits. _] Well done! avoid; no more! _Fer. _ This is strange: your father’s in some passionThat works him strongly. _Mir. _                 Never till this daySaw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d.                       145_Pros. _ You do look, my son, in a moved sort,As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir. Our revels now are ended. These our actors,As I foretold you, were all spirits, andAre melted into air, into thin air:                                150And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,The solemn temples, the great globe itself,Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,                        155Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuffAs dreams are made on; and our little lifeIs rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d;Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled:Be not disturb’d with my infirmity:                                160If you be pleased, retire into my cell,And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk,To still my beating mind. _Fer. _ _Mir. _           We wish your peace.    [_Exeunt. __Pros. _ Come with a thought. I thank thee, Ariel: come.  _Enter ARIEL. __Ari. _ Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy pleasure?              165_Pros. _                                             Spirit,We must prepare to meet with Caliban. _Ari. _ Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres,I thought to have told thee of it; but I fear’dLest I might anger thee. _Pros. _ Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets?           170_Ari.

_ I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking;So full of valour that they smote the airFor breathing in their faces; beat the groundFor kissing of their feet; yet always bendingTowards their project. Then I beat my tabor;                       175At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d their ears,Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their nosesAs they smelt music: so I charm’d their ears,That, calf-like, they my lowing follow’d throughTooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns,           180Which enter’d their frail shins: at last I left themI’ the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lakeO’erstunk their feet. _Pros. _             This was well done, my bird. Thy shape invisible retain thou still:                             185The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,For stale to catch these thieves. _Ari. _                          I go, I go.    [_Exit. __Pros. _ A devil, a born devil, on whose natureNurture can never stick; on whom my pains,Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost;                         190And as with age his body uglier grows,So his mind cankers. I will plague them all,Even to roaring.  _Re-enter ARIEL, loaden with glistering apparel, &c. _Come, hang them on this line.  _PROSPERO and ARIEL remain, invisible. Enter CALIBAN, STEPHANO,  and TRINCULO, all wet. __Cal. _ Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may notHear a foot fall: we now are near his cell.                        195_Ste. _ Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmlessfairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us. _Trin. _ Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which mynose is in great indignation. _Ste. _ So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should               200take a displeasure against you, look you,--_Trin. _ Thou wert but a lost monster. _Cal. _ Good my lord, give me thy favour still. Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee toShall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly.             205All’s hush’d as midnight yet. _Trin. _ Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,--_Ste. _ There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that,monster, but an infinite loss. _Trin. _ That’s more to me than my wetting: yet this is             210your harmless fairy, monster. _Ste. _ I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o’er ears formy labour. _Cal. _ Prithee, my king, be quiet. See’st thou here,This is the mouth o’ the cell: no noise, and enter.                215Do that good mischief which may make this islandThine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,For aye thy foot-licker. _Ste. _ Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloodythoughts.                                                          220_Trin. _ O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano! look what a wardrobe here is for thee! _Cal. _ Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash. _Trin. _ O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery. O King Stephano!                                                   225_Ste. _ Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I’llhave that gown. _Trin. _ Thy Grace shall have it. _Cal. _ The dropsy drown this fool! what do you meanTo dote thus on such luggage? Let’s alone,                         230And do the murder first: if he awake,From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches,Make us strange stuff. _Ste. _ Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not thismy jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin,          235you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin. _Trin. _ Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like yourGrace. _Ste. _ I thank thee for that jest; here’s a garment for’t:wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country.       240‘Steal by line and level’ is an excellent pass of pate;there’s another garment for’t. _Trin. _ Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers,and away with the rest. _Cal. _ I will have none on’t: we shall lose our time,              245And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apesWith foreheads villanous low. _Ste. _ Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear thisaway where my hogshead of wine is, or I’ll turn you outof my kingdom: go to, carry this.                                  250_Trin. _ And this. _Ste. _ Ay, and this.  _A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of  dogs and hounds, and hunt them about, PROSPERO and ARIEL setting  them on. __Pros. _ Hey, Mountain, hey! _Ari. _ Silver! there it goes, Silver! _Pros. _ Fury, fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark, hark!              255                        [_Cal. , Ste. , and Trin. are driven out. _Go charge my goblins that they grind their jointsWith dry convulsions; shorten up their sinewsWith aged cramps; and more pinch-spotted make themThen pard or cat o’ mountain. _Ari. _                      Hark, they roar! _Pros. _ Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour                   260Lie at my mercy all mine enemies:Shortly shall all my labours end, and thouShalt have the air at freedom: for a littleFollow, and do me service.    [_Exeunt. _  Notes: IV, 1.  3: _a third_] _a thread_ Theobald. _the thread_ Williams conj.  4: _who_] _whom_ Pope.  7: _test_] F1. _rest_ F2 F3 F4.  9: _off_] F2 F3 F4. _of_ F1.  11: _do_] om. Pope.  13: _gift_] Rowe. _guest_ Ff.  14: _but_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.  25: _’tis_] _is_ Capell.  30: _Phœbus’_] _Phœbus_ F1. _Phœdus_ F2 F3. _Phœduus_ F4.  34: SCENE II. Pope.  41: _vanity_] _rarity_ S. Walker conj.  48: _no_? ] _no_. Rowe.  53: _abstemious_] _abstenious_ F1.  60: SCENE III. A MASQUE. Pope. ]  _thy_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.  64: _pioned_] _pionied_ Warburton. _peonied_ Steevens.  _twilled_] _tulip’d_ Rowe. _tilled_ Capell (Holt conj. ). _lilied_    Steevens. ]  66: _broom-groves_] _brown groves_ Hanmer.  68: _pole-clipt_] _pale-clipt_ Hanmer.  72: After this line Ff. have the stage direction, ’_Juno descends. _’  74: _her_] Rowe. _here_ Ff.  83: _short-grass’d_] F3 F4. _short gras’d_ F1 F2. _short-grass_ Pope.  96: _bed-right_] _bed-rite_ Singer.  101: _High’st_] _High_ Pope.  102: Enter JUNO] om. Ff.  110: Cer. ] Theobald. om. Ff.  _foison_] F1 _and foison_ F2 F3 F4.  114: _Spring_] _Rain_ Collier MS.  119: _charmingly_] _charming lay_ Hanmer. _charming lays_ Warburton.    _Harmoniously charming_ Steevens conj.  121: _from their_] F1. _from all their_ F2 F3 F4.  123: _wife_] F1 (var. ). Rowe. _wise_ F1 (var. ) F2 F3 F4.  124: _Makes_] _make_ Pope.  _sweet, now, silence_] _now, silence, sweet_ Hanmer.  124: In Ff. the stage direction [Juno, &c. follows line 127.    Capell made the change.  128: _windring_] _winding_ Rowe. _wand’ring_ Steevens.  129: _sedged_] _sedge_ Collier MS.  136: _holiday_] _holly day_ F1 F2 F3. _holy-day_ F4.  139: SCENE IV. Pope.  143: _This is_] _This’_ (for This ’s) S. Walker conj.

]  _strange_] _most strange_ Hanmer.  145: Ff put a comma after _anger_. Warburton omitted it.  146: _do_] om. Pope. See note (XVI).  151: _this_] F1. _their_ F2 F3 F4. _th’ air visions_ Warburton.  156: _rack_] F3 F4. _racke_ F1 F2. _track_ Hanmer. _wreck_ Dyce    (Malone conj. ).  163: _your_] F1 F2 F3. _you_ F4.  164: _I thank thee, Ariel: come. _] _I thank you:--Ariel, come. _    Theobald.  169: _Lest_] F4. _Least_ F1 F2 F3.  170: _Say again_] _Well, say again_ Capell.  180: _furzes_] Rowe. _firzes_ Ff.  181: _shins_] _skins_ Warburton conj. (note, V. 1. p. 87).  182: _filthy-mantled_] _filthy mantled_ Ff. _filth-ymantled_    Steevens conj.  184: _feet_] _fear_ Spedding conj.  190: _all, all_] _are all_ Malone conj.  193: _them on_ Rowe. _on them_ Ff.  Prospero . . . invisible. Theobald, Capell. om. Ff.  194: SCENE V. Pope.  230: _Let’s alone_] _Let’s along_ Theobald. _Let it alone_ Hanmer.    _Let ’t alone_ Collier. See note (XVII).  246: _to apes_] om. _to_ Pope.  255: Stage direction added by Theobald.  256: _they_] F1 F3 F4. _thou_ F2.  261: _Lie_] Rowe. _lies_ Ff. ACT V. SCENE I. _Before the cell of Prospero. _  _Enter PROSPERO in his magic robes, and ARIEL. __Pros. _ Now does my project gather to a head:My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and timeGoes upright with his carriage. How’s the day? _Ari. _ On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,You said our work should cease. _Pros. _                       I did say so,                          5When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit,How fares the king and’s followers? _Ari. _                            Confined togetherIn the same fashion as you gave in charge,Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir,In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell;                    10They cannot budge till your release. The king,His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted,And the remainder mourning over them,Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chieflyHim that you term’d, sir, “The good old lord, Gonzalo;”             15His tears run down his beard, like winter’s dropsFrom eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works ’em,That if you now beheld them, your affectionsWould become tender. _Pros. _            Dost thou think so, spirit? _Ari. _ Mine would, sir, were I human. _Pros. _                             And mine shall.                 20Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feelingOf their afflictions, and shall not myself,One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art? Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick,             25Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my furyDo I take part: the rarer action isIn virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,The sole drift of my purpose doth extendNot a frown further. Go release them, Ariel:                        30My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore,And they shall be themselves. _Ari. _                      I’ll fetch them, sir.    [_Exit. __Pros. _ Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves;And ye that on the sands with printless footDo chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him                         35When he comes back; you demi-puppets thatBy moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastimeIs to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoiceTo hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid--                           40Weak masters though ye be--I have bedimm’dThe noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds. And ’twixt the green sea and the azured vaultSet roaring war: to the dread rattling thunderHave I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak                      45With his own bolt; the strong-based promontoryHave I made shake, and by the spurs pluck’d upThe pine and cedar: graves at my commandHave waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forthBy my so potent art. But this rough magic                           50I here abjure; and, when I have requiredSome heavenly music,--which even now I do,--To work mine end upon their senses, thatThis airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,Bury it certain fathoms in the earth,                               55And deeper than did ever plummet soundI’ll drown my book.                    [_Solemn music. _  _Re-enter ARIEL before: then ALONSO, with a frantic gesture,  attended by GONZALO; SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO in like manner,  attended by ADRIAN and FRANCISCO: they all enter the circle  which PROSPERO had made, and there stand charmed; which PROSPERO  observing, speaks:_A solemn air, and the best comforterTo an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains,Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There stand,                  60For you are spell-stopp’d. Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace;And as the morning steals upon the night,                           65Melting the darkness, so their rising sensesBegin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantleTheir clearer reason. O good Gonzalo,My true preserver, and a loyal sirTo him thou follow’st! I will pay thy graces                        70Home both in word and deed. Most cruellyDidst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:Thy brother was a furtherer in the act. Thou art pinch’d for’t now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood,You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition,                       75Expell’d remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,--Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,--Would here have kill’d your king; I do forgive thee,Unnatural though thou art. Their understandingBegins to swell; and the approaching tide                           80Will shortly fill the reasonable shore,That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of themThat yet looks on me, or would know me: Ariel,Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell:I will discase me, and myself present                               85As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit;Thou shalt ere long be free. _ARIEL sings and helps to attire him. _    Where the bee sucks, there suck I:    In a cowslip’s bell I lie;    There I couch when owls do cry.                                 90    On the bat’s back I do fly    After summer merrily. Merrily, merrily shall I live nowUnder the blossom that hangs on the bough. _Pros. _ Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee;             95But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so. To the king’s ship, invisible as thou art:There shalt thou find the mariners asleepUnder the hatches; the master and the boatswainBeing awake, enforce them to this place,                           100And presently, I prithee. _Ari. _ I drink the air before me, and returnOr ere your pulse twice beat.    [_Exit. __Gon. _ All torment, trouble, wonder and amazementInhabits here: some heavenly power guide us                        105Out of this fearful country! _Pros. _                    Behold, sir king,The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero:For more assurance that a living princeDoes now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;And to thee and thy company I bid                                  110A hearty welcome. _Alon. _         Whether thou be’st he or no,Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,As late I have been, I not know: thy pulseBeats, as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee,The affliction of my mind amends, with which,                      115I fear, a madness held me: this must crave--An if this be at all--a most strange story. Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreatThou pardon me my wrongs. --But how should ProsperoBe living and be here? _Pros. _              First, noble friend,                          120Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannotBe measured or confined. _Gon. _                 Whether this beOr be not, I’ll not swear. _Pros. _                  You do yet tasteSome subtilties o’ the isle, that will not let youBelieve things certain. Welcome, my friends all!                   125[_Aside to Seb. and Ant. _]    But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,I here could pluck his Highness’ frown upon you,And justify you traitors: at this timeI will tell no tales. _Seb. _ [_Aside_]    The devil speaks in him. _Pros. _                                    No. For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother                     130Would even infect my mouth, I do forgiveThy rankest fault,--all of them; and requireMy dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,Thou must restore. _Alon. _          If thou be’st Prospero,Give us particulars of thy preservation;                           135How thou hast met us here, who three hours sinceWere wreck’d upon this shore; where I have lost--How sharp the point of this remembrance is! --My dear son Ferdinand. _Pros. _              I am woe for’t, sir. _Alon. _ Irreparable is the loss; and patience                      140Says it is past her cure. _Pros. _                 I rather thinkYou have not sought her help, of whose soft graceFor the like loss I have her sovereign aid,And rest myself content. _Alon. _                You the like loss! _Pros. _ As great to me as late; and, supportable                   145To make the dear loss, have I means much weakerThan you may call to comfort you, for IHave lost my daughter. _Alon. _              A daughter? O heavens, that they were living both in Naples,The king and queen there! that they were, I wish                   150Myself were mudded in that oozy bedWhere my son lies. When did you lose you daughter? _Pros. _ In this last tempest. I perceive, these lordsAt this encounter do so much admire,That they devour their reason, and scarce think                    155Their eyes do offices of truth, their wordsAre natural breath: but, howsoe’er you haveBeen justled from your senses, know for certainThat I am Prospero, and that very dukeWhich was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely                160Upon this shore, where you were wreck’d, was landed,To be the Lord on’t. No more yet of this;For ’tis a chronicle of day by day,Not a relation for a breakfast, norBefitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir;                        165This cell’s my court: here have I few attendants,And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in. My dukedom since you have given me again,I will requite you with as good a thing;At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye                       170As much as me my dukedom.  _Here Prospero discovers FERDINAND and MIRANDA playing at chess. __Mir. _ Sweet lord, you play me false. _Fer. _                              No, my dear’st love,I would not for the world. _Mir. _ Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,And I would call it fair play. _Alon. _                      If this prove                         175A vision of the island, one dear sonShall I twice lose. _Seb. _            A most high miracle! _Fer. _ Though the seas threaten, they are merciful;I have cursed them without cause.               [_Kneels. __Alon. _                          Now all the blessingsOf a glad father compass thee about!                               180Arise, and say how thou camest here. _Mir. _                             O, wonder! How many goodly creatures are there here! How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,That has such people in’t! _Pros. _                  ’Tis new to thee. _Alon. _ What is this maid with whom thou wast at play?             185Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours:Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us,And brought us thus together? _Fer. _                      Sir, she is mortal;But by immortal Providence she’s mine:I chose her when I could not ask my father                         190For his advice, nor thought I had one.

SheIs daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,Of whom so often I have heard renown,But never saw before; of whom I haveReceived a second life; and second father                          195This lady makes him to me. _Alon. _                  I am hers:But, O, how oddly will it sound that IMust ask my child forgiveness! _Pros. _                      There, sir, stop:Let us not burthen our remembrances withA heaviness that’s gone. _Gon. _                 I have inly wept,                           200Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods,And on this couple drop a blessed crown! For it is you that have chalk’d forth the wayWhich brought us hither. _Alon. _                I say, Amen, Gonzalo! _Gon. _ Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue                 205Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoiceBeyond a common joy! and set it downWith gold on lasting pillars: In one voyageDid Claribel her husband find at Tunis,And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife                           210Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedomIn a poor isle, and all of us ourselvesWhen no man was his own. _Alon. _ [_to Fer. and Mir. _] Give me your hands:Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heartThat doth not wish you joy! _Gon. _                    Be it so! Amen!                          215  _Re-enter ARIEL, with the _Master_ and _Boatswain_ amazedly  following. _O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us:I prophesied, if a gallows were on land,This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy,That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore? Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news?                      220_Boats. _ The best news is, that we have safely foundOur king and company; the next, our ship--Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split--Is tight and yare and bravely rigg’d, as whenWe first put out to sea. _Ari. _ [_Aside to Pros. _] Sir, all this service                    225Have I done since I went. _Pros. _ [_Aside to Ari. _] My tricksy spirit! _Alon. _ These are not natural events; they strengthenFrom strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither? _Boats. _ If I did think, sir, I were well awake,I’ld strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep,                    230And--how we know not--all clapp’d under hatches;Where, but even now, with strange and several noisesOf roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,And more diversity of sounds, all horrible,We were awaked; straightway, at liberty;                           235Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheldOur royal, good, and gallant ship; our masterCapering to eye her:--on a trice, so please you,Even in a dream, were we divided from them,And were brought moping hither. _Ari. _ [_Aside to Pros. _] Was’t well done?                         240_Pros. _ [_Aside to Ari. _] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free. _Alon. _ This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod;And there is in this business more than natureWas ever conduct of: some oracleMust rectify our knowledge. _Pros. _                   Sir, my liege,                           245Do not infest your mind with beating onThe strangeness of this business; at pick’d leisureWhich shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you,Which to you shall seem probable, of everyThese happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful,                  250And think of each thing well.    [_Aside to Ari. _] Come hither, spirit:Set Caliban and his companions free;Untie the spell. [_Exit Ariel. _] How fares my gracious sir? There are yet missing of your companySome few odd lads that you remember not.                           255  _Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO,  in their stolen apparel. __Ste. _ Every man shift for all the rest, and let no mantake care for himself; for all is but fortune. --Coragio,bully-monster, coragio! _Trin. _ If these be true spies which I wear in my head,here’s a goodly sight.                                             260_Cal. _ O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed! How fine my master is! I am afraidHe will chastise me. _Seb. _             Ha, ha! What things are these, my lord Antonio? Will money buy ’em? _Ant. _            Very like; one of them                           265Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable. _Pros. _ Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave,His mother was a witch; and one so strongThat could control the moon, make flows and ebbs,                  270And deal in her command, without her power. These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil--For he’s a bastard one--had plotted with themTo take my life. Two of these fellows youMust know and own; this thing of darkness I                        275Acknowledge mine. _Cal. _          I shall be pinch’d to death. _Alon. _ Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler? _Seb. _ He is drunk now: where had he wine? _Alon. _ And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should theyFind this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em? --                     280How camest thou in this pickle? _Trin. _ I have been in such a pickle, since I saw youlast, that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I shall notfear fly-blowing. _Seb. _ Why, how now, Stephano!                                     285_Ste. _ O, touch me not;--I am not Stephano, but a cramp. _Pros. _ You’ld be king o’ the isle, sirrah? _Ste. _ I should have been a sore one, then. _Alon. _ This is a strange thing as e’er I look’d on.                                [_Pointing to Caliban. __Pros. _ He is as disproportion’d in his manners                    290As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;Take with you your companions; as you lookTo have my pardon, trim it handsomely. _Cal. _ Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter,And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass                       295Was I, to take this drunkard for a god,And worship this dull fool! _Pros. _                Go to; away! _Alon. _ Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it. _Seb. _ Or stole it, rather.    [_Exeunt Cal. , Ste. , and Trin. __Pros. _ Sir, I invite your Highness and your train                 300To my poor cell, where you shall take your restFor this one night; which, part of it, I’ll wasteWith such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make itGo quick away: the story of my life,And the particular accidents gone by                               305Since I came to this isle: and in the mornI’ll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,Where I have hope to see the nuptialOf these our dear-beloved solemnized;And thence retire me to my Milan, where                            310Every third thought shall be my grave. _Alon. _                              I longTo hear the story of your life, which mustTake the ear strangely. _Pros. _               I’ll deliver all;And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales,And sail so expeditious, that shall catchYour royal fleet far off. [_Aside to Ari. _] My Ariel, chick,       315That is thy charge: then to the elementsBe free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.    [_Exeunt. _  Notes: V, 1.  7: _together_] om. Pope.  9: _all_] _all your_ Pope.  10: _line-grove_] _lime-grove_ Rowe.  11: _your_] F1 F2. _you_ F3 F4.  15: _sir_] om. Pope.  16: _run_] _runs_ F1.  _winter’s_] _winter_ F4. ]  23: F1 F2 put a comma after _sharply_. F3 F4 omit it.  24: _Passion_] _Passion’d_ Pope.  26: _’gainst_] Pope. _gainst_ F1 F2. _against_ F3 F4.  33: SCENE II. Pope.  37: _green sour_] _green-sward_ Douce conj.  46: _strong-based_] Rowe. _strong-bass’d_ Ff.  58: SCENE III. Pope.  60: _boil’d_] Pope. _boile_ F1 F2. _boil_ F3 F4.  62: _Holy_] _Noble_ Collier MS.  63: _show_] _shew_ Ff. _flow_ Collier MS.  64: _fellowly_] _fellow_ Pope.  68: _O_] _O my_ Pope. _O thou_ S. Walker conj.  69: _sir_] _servant_ Collier MS.  72: _Didst_] F3 F4. _Did_ F1 F2.  74: _Sebastian. Flesh and blood,_] _Sebastian, flesh and blood. _    Theobald.  75: _entertain’d_] _entertaine_ F1.  76: _who_] Rowe. _whom_ Ff.  82: _lies_] F3 F4. _ly_ F1 F2.  83: _or_] _e’er_ Collier MS.  84: Theobald gives as stage direction “Exit Ariel and returns    immediately. ”  88: _suck_] _lurk_ Theobald.  90: _couch_] _crowch_ F3 F4.  [Capell punctuates _There I couch: when owls do cry,_]  92: _summer_] _sun-set_ Theobald.  106: _Behold,_] _lo! _ Pope.  111: _Whether thou be’st_] _Where thou beest_ Ff. _Be’st thou_ Pope.    _Whe’r thou be’st_ Capell.  112: _trifle_] _devil_ Collier MS.  119: _my_] _thy_ Collier MS.  124: _not_] F3 F4. _nor_ F1 F2.  132: _fault_] _faults_ F4.

136: _who_] F2 F3 F4. _whom_ F1.  145: _and,_] _sir, and_ Capell.  _supportable_] F1 F2. _insupportable_ F3 F4. _portable_ Steevens.  148: _my_] _my only_ Hanmer.  _A daughter_] _Only daughter_ Hanmer. _Daughter_ Capell.  156: _eyes_] F1. _eye_ F2 F3 F4.  _their_] _these_ Capell. ]  172: SCENE IV. Pope.  Here Prospero discovers. . . ] Ff. SCENE opens to the entrance of    the cell. Here Prospero discovers. . . Theobald. Cell opens and    discovers. . . Capell. ]  172: _dear’st_] _dearest_ Ff.  179: [Kneels] Theobald.  191: _advice_] F4. _advise_ F1 F2 F3.  199, 200: _remembrances with_] _remembrance with_ Pope.    _remembrances With_ Malone.  213: _When_] _Where_ Johnson conj. ]  _and_] om. Capell.  216: SCENE V. Pope.  _sir, look, sir_] _sir, look_ F3 F4. ]  _is_] _are_ Pope. ]  221: _safely_] _safe_ F3 F4.  230: _of sleep_] _a-sleep_ Pope.  234: _more_] Rowe. _mo_ F1 F2. _moe_ F3 F4.  236: _her_] Theobald (Thirlby conj. ). _our_ Ff.  242-245: Given to Ariel in F2 F3 F4.  247: _leisure_] F1. _seisure_ F2. _seizure_ F3 F4.  248: _Which shall be shortly, single_] Pope. _(which shall be    shortly single)_ Ff.  253: [Exit Ariel] Capell.  256: SCENE VI. Pope.  258: _Coragio_] _corasio_ F1.  268: _mis-shapen_] _mis-shap’d_ Pope.  271: _command, without her power. _] _command. Without her power,_    anon. conj.  _without_] _with all_ Collier MS.  280: _liquor_] _’lixir_ Theobald.  282-284: Printed as verse in Ff.  289: _This is_] F1 F2. _’Tis_ F3 F4. ]  _e’er I_] _I ever_ Hanmer.  [Pointing to Caliban. ] Steevens. ]  299: [Exeunt. . . Trin. ] Capell.  308: _nuptial_] _nuptiall_ F1. _nuptials_ F2 F3 F4.  309: See note (XVIII). EPILOGUE. SPOKEN BY PROSPERO. Now my charms are all o’erthrown,And what strength I have’s mine own,Which is most faint: now, ’tis true,I must be here confined by you,Or sent to Naples. Let me not,                                       5Since I have my dukedom got,And pardon’d the deceiver, dwellIn this bare island by your spell;But release me from my bandsWith the help of your good hands:                                   10Gentle breath of yours my sailsMust fill, or else my project fails,Which was to please. Now I wantSpirits to enforce, art to enchant;And my ending is despair,                                           15Unless I be relieved by prayer,Which pierces so, that it assaultsMercy itself, and frees all faults. As you from crimes would pardon’d be,Let your indulgence set me free.                                    20  Notes: Epilogue.  EPILOGUE . . . PROSPERO. ] advancing, Capell. ]  1: _Now_] _Now, now_ F3 F4.  3: _now_] _and now_ Pope.  13: _Now_] _For now_ Pope. NOTES. NOTE I. I. 1. 15. _What cares these roarers. _ This grammatical inaccuracy, whichescaped correction in the later folios, probably came from Shakespeare’spen. Similar cases occur frequently, especially when the verb precedesits nominative. For example, _Tempest_, IV. 1. 262, ‘Lies at my mercyall mine enemies,’ and _Measure for Measure_, II. 1. 22, ‘What knows thelaws, &c. ’ We correct it in those passages where the occurrence of avulgarism would be likely to annoy the reader. In the mouth of aBoatswain it can offend no one. We therefore leave it. NOTE II. I. 1. 57-59. _Mercy on us! --we split, &c. _ It may be doubtful whetherthe printer of the first folio intended these broken speeches to express‘a confused noise within. ’ Without question such was the author’smeaning. Rowe, however, and subsequent editors, printed them as part ofGonzalo’s speech. Capell was the first editor who gave the truearrangement. NOTE III. I. 2. 173. _princesses. _ See Mr Sidney Walker’s _Shakespeare’sVersification_, p. 243 sqq. ’The plurals of substantives ending in _s_,in certain instances, in _se_, _ss_, _ce_, and sometimes _ge_, . . . arefound without the usual addition of _s_ or _es_, in pronunciation atleast, although in many instances the plural affix is added in printing,where the metre shows that it is not to be pronounced. ’In this and other instances, we have thought it better to trust to theear of the reader for the rhythm than to introduce an innovation inorthography which might perplex him as to the sense. The form‘princesses,’ the use of which in Shakespeare’s time was doubted by oneof our correspondents, is found in the _History of King Leir_. Rowe’s reading ‘princes’ might be defended on the ground that thesentiment is general, and applicable to royal children of both sexes; orthat Sir Philip Sidney, in the first book of the _Arcadia_, calls Pamelaand Philoclea ‘princes. ’NOTE IV. I. 2. 298. The metre of this line, as well as of lines 301, 302, isdefective, but as no mode of correction can be regarded as completelysatisfactory we have in accordance with our custom left the lines asthey are printed in the Folio. The defect, indeed, in the metre of line298 has not been noticed except by Hanmer, who makes a line thus:  ‘Do so, and after two days I’ll discharge thee. ’Possibly it ought to be printed thus:              ‘Do so; and  After two days  I will discharge thee. ’There is a broken line, also of four syllables, 253 of the same scene,another of seven, 235. There is no reason to doubt that the _words_ are as Shakespeare wrotethem, for, although the action of the play terminates in less than fourhours (I. 2. 240 and V. 1. 186), yet Ariel’s ministry is not to end tillthe voyage to Naples shall be over. Prospero, too, repeats his promise,and marks his contentment by further shortening the time of servitude,‘within two days,’ I. 2. 420. Possibly ‘Invisible’ (301) should have aline to itself. Words thus occupying a broken line acquire a markedemphasis. But the truth is that in dialogue Shakespeare’s language passes sorapidly from verse to prose and from prose to verse, sometimes evenhovering, as it were, over the confines, being rhythmical rather thanmetrical, that all attempts to give regularity to the metre must be madewith diffidence and received with doubt. NOTE V. I. 2. 377, 378:  _Courtsied when you have and kiss’d_  _The wild waves whist. _This punctuation seems to be supported by what Ferdinand says (391,392):  ‘The music crept by me upon the waters,  Allaying both their fury and my passion, &c. ’At the end of the stanza we have printed _Hark, hark! . . . The watch-dogsbark_ as that part of the burthen which ‘sweet sprites bear. ’ The otherpart is borne by distant watch-dogs. NOTE VI. I. 2. 443. _I fear you have done yourself some wrong. _ See this phraseused in a similar sense, _Measure for Measure_, I. 11. 39. NOTE VII. II. 1. 27. _Which, of he or Adrian. _ ‘Of’ is found in the sameconstruction, _Midsummer Night’s Dream_, III. 2. 336,  ‘Now follow if thou darest to try whose right,  Of thine or mine, is most in Helena. ’NOTE VIII. II. 1. 157. _Of its own kind. _ There is no doubt, as Dr Guest has shewn,that ‘it,’ which is the reading of the 1st and 2nd folios, was commonlyused as a genitive in Shakespeare’s time, as it is still in someprovincial dialects.

‘Its,’ however, was coming into use. One instanceoccurs in this play, I. 11. 95, ‘in its contrary. ’NOTE IX. II. 1. 241. _she that from whom. _ Mr Spedding writes: ‘The receivedemendation is not satisfactory to me. I would rather read, “Shethat--From whom? All were sea-swallow’d &c. , i. e. from whom should shehave note? The report from Naples will be that all were drowned. Weshall be the only survivors. ” The break in the construction seems to mecharacteristic of the speaker. But you must read the whole speech tofeel the effect. ’NOTE X. II. 1. 249-251. All editors except Mr Staunton have printed in italics(or between inverted commas) only as far as ‘_Naples? _’, but as ‘_keep_’is printed with a small k in the folios, they seem to sanction thearrangement given in our text. NOTE XI. II. 1. 267. _Ay, sir; where lies that? if ’twere a kibe. _ Mr Singer andMr Dyce have changed ‘’twere’ to ‘it were’ for the sake of the metre. But then the first part of the line must be read with a wrong emphasis. The proper emphasis clearly falls on the first, third, and fifthsyllables, ‘Aý, sir; whére lies thát? ’ See Preface. NOTE XII. II. 2. 165. Before ‘here; bear my bottle’ Capell inserts a stagedirection [_To Cal. _], but it appears from III. 2. 62, that Trinculo wasentrusted with the office of bottle-bearer. NOTE XIII. III. 1. 15. _Most busy lest, when I do it. _ As none of the proposedemendations can be regarded as certain, we have left the reading of F1,though it is manifestly corrupt. The spelling ‘doe’ makes Mr Spedding’sconjecture ‘idlest’ for ‘I doe it’ more probable. NOTE XIV. III. 3. 17. The stage direction, which we have divided into two parts,is placed all at once in the folios after ‘as when they are fresh’[Solemne and strange Musicke; and Prosper on the top (invisible:) Enter. . . depart]. Pope transferred it to follow Sebastian’s words, ‘I say, to night: nomore. ’NOTE XV. III. 3. 48. _Each putter out of five for one. _ See Beaumont andFletcher, _The Noble Gentleman_, I. 1. (Vol. II. p. 261, ed. Moxon):‘The return will give you five for one. ’ MARINE is about to travel. NOTE XVI. IV. 1. 146. _You do look, my son, in a moved sort. _ Seymour suggests atransposition: ‘you do, my son, look in a moved sort. ’ This line howevercan scarcely have come from Shakespeare’s pen. Perhaps the writer whocomposed the Masque was allowed to join it, as best he might, toShakespeare’s words, which re-commence at ‘Our revels now are ended,’&c. NOTE XVII. IV. 1. 230. _Let’s alone. _ See Staunton’s “Shakespeare,” Vol. I. p. 81,note (b). NOTE XVIII. V. 1. 309. _Of these our dear-beloved solemnized. _ The Folios have‘belov’d’; a mode of spelling, which in this case is convenient asindicating the probable rhythm of the verse. We have written ‘beloved,’in accordance with the general rule mentioned in the Preface. ‘Solemnized’ occurs in four other verse passages of Shakespeare. It isthree times to be accented ‘sólemnized’ and once (_Love’s Labour’sLost_, II. 1. 41) ‘solémnized. ’       *       *       *       *       *           *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *       *Sources:The editors’ Preface (e-text 23041) discusses the 17th- and18th-century editions in detail; the newer (19th-century) editionsare simply listed by name. The following editions may appear in theNotes. All inset text is quoted from the Preface.  Folios:  F1 1623; F2 (no date given); F3 1663; F4 1685.    “The five plays contained in this volume occur in the first Folio    in the same order, and . . . were there printed for the first time. ”  Early editions:  Rowe 1709  Pope 1715    “Pope was the first to indicate the _place_ of each new scene;    as, for instance, _Tempest_, I. 1. ‘On a ship at sea. ’ He also    subdivided the scenes as given by the Folios and Rowe, making    a fresh scene whenever a new character entered--an arrangement    followed by Hanmer, Warburton, and Johnson. For convenience of    reference to these editions, we have always recorded the    commencement of Pope’s scenes. ”  Theobald 1733  Hanmer (“Oxford edition”) 1744  Warburton 1747  Johnson 1765  Capell 1768; _also Capell’s annotated copy of F2_  Steevens 1773  Malone 1790  Reed 1803  Later editions:  Singer, Knight, Cornwall, Collier, Phelps, Halliwell, Dyce, Staunton  Dryden:    “_The Tempest_ was altered by Dryden and D’Avenant, and published    as _The Tempest; or the Enchanted Island_, in 1669. We mark the    emendations derived from it: ‘Dryden’s version. ’”Errors and inconsistencies:  _Re-enter Boatswain. _    [printed BOATSWAIN in small capitals]  _Enter _Ariel_. _    [printed “Ariel” in lower case]  Where my son lies. When did you lose you daughter?    [Text unchanged: error for “your”? ]  [Text-critical notes]  I. 2. 135: _to ’t_] om. Steevens (Farmer conj. ).    [Here and elsewhere in the volume, body text has unspaced “to’t”    while line notes have spaced “to ’t”. ]  I. 2. 202: _o’ the_] _of_ Pope.    [Text unchanged: body text is capitalized “O’ the”]  II. 1. 88: _Ay. _] I. Ff. _Ay? _ Pope.    [Text unchanged: apparent error for italic _I. _]  III. 3. 17: Prospero above]    [Text unchanged: stage direction is after l. 19]  [Endnotes]  I: I. 1. 15.  [I. 1. 16]  V: 377, 378.  [376-377]  XVI: IV. 1. 146  [IV. 1. 147]End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of The Tempest, by William Shakespeare*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE TEMPEST ******** This file should be named 23042-0. txt or 23042-0. zip *****This and all associated files of various formats will be found in:        http://www. gutenberg. org/2/3/0/4/23042/Produced by Louise Hope, Jonathan Ingram and the OnlineDistributed Proofreading Team at http://www. pgdp. net (Thisfile was produced from images generously made availableby The Internet Archive/Canadian Libraries)Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editionswill be renamed. Creating the works from public domain print editions means that noone owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation(and you! ) can copy and distribute it in the United States withoutpermission and without paying copyright royalties.  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The Project Gutenberg EBook of Romeo and Juliet, by William Shakespeare*******************************************************************THIS EBOOK WAS ONE OF PROJECT GUTENBERG'S EARLY FILES PRODUCED AT ATIME WHEN PROOFING METHODS AND TOOLS WERE NOT WELL DEVELOPED. THEREIS AN IMPROVED EDITION OF THIS TITLE WHICH MAY BE VIEWED AS EBOOK(#1513) at https://www. gutenberg. org/ebooks/1513*******************************************************************This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and withalmost no restrictions whatsoever.  You may copy it, give it away orre-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License includedwith this eBook or online at www. gutenberg. org/licenseTitle: Romeo and JulietAuthor: William ShakespearePosting Date: May 25, 2012 [EBook #1112]Release Date: November, 1997  [Etext #1112]Language: English*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ROMEO AND JULIET ****Project Gutenberg is proud to cooperate with The World Library*in the presentation of The Complete Works of William Shakespearefor your reading for education and entertainment.  HOWEVER, THISIS NEITHER SHAREWARE NOR PUBLIC DOMAIN. . . AND UNDER THE LIBRARYOF THE FUTURE CONDITIONS OF THIS PRESENTATION. . . NO CHARGES MAYBE MADE FOR *ANY* ACCESS TO THIS MATERIAL.  YOU ARE ENCOURAGED! ! TO GIVE IT AWAY TO ANYONE YOU LIKE, BUT NO CHARGES ARE ALLOWED! ! The Complete Works of William ShakespeareThe Tragedy of Romeo and JulietThe Library of the Future Complete Works of William ShakespeareLibrary of the Future is a TradeMark (TM) of World Library Inc. <<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>1595THE TRAGEDY OF ROMEO AND JULIETby William ShakespeareDramatis Personae  Chorus.  Escalus, Prince of Verona.  Paris, a young Count, kinsman to the Prince.  Montague, heads of two houses at variance with each other.  Capulet, heads of two houses at variance with each other.  An old Man, of the Capulet family.  Romeo, son to Montague.  Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet.  Mercutio, kinsman to the Prince and friend to Romeo.  Benvolio, nephew to Montague, and friend to Romeo  Tybalt, nephew to Lady Capulet.  Friar Laurence, Franciscan.  Friar John, Franciscan.  Balthasar, servant to Romeo.  Abram, servant to Montague.  Sampson, servant to Capulet.  Gregory, servant to Capulet.  Peter, servant to Juliet's nurse.  An Apothecary.  Three Musicians.  An Officer.  Lady Montague, wife to Montague.  Lady Capulet, wife to Capulet.  Juliet, daughter to Capulet.  Nurse to Juliet.  Citizens of Verona; Gentlemen and Gentlewomen of both houses;    Maskers, Torchbearers, Pages, Guards, Watchmen, Servants, and    Attendants.                            SCENE. --Verona; Mantua.                        THE PROLOGUE                        Enter Chorus.  Chor. Two households, both alike in dignity,    In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,    From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,    Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.    From forth the fatal loins of these two foes    A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;    Whose misadventur'd piteous overthrows    Doth with their death bury their parents' strife.    The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love,    And the continuance of their parents' rage,    Which, but their children's end, naught could remove,    Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage;    The which if you with patient ears attend,    What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.                                                         [Exit. ]ACT I. Scene I. Verona. A public place. Enter Sampson and Gregory (with swords and bucklers) of the houseof Capulet.  Samp. Gregory, on my word, we'll not carry coals.  Greg. No, for then we should be colliers.  Samp. I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw.  Greg. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of collar.  Samp. I strike quickly, being moved.  Greg. But thou art not quickly moved to strike.  Samp. A dog of the house of Montague moves me.  Greg. To move is to stir, and to be valiant is to stand.    Therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away.  Samp. A dog of that house shall move me to stand. I will take    the wall of any man or maid of Montague's.  Greg. That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the    wall.  Samp. 'Tis true; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels,    are ever thrust to the wall. Therefore I will push Montague's men    from the wall and thrust his maids to the wall.  Greg. The quarrel is between our masters and us their men.  Samp. 'Tis all one. I will show myself a tyrant. When I have    fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids- I will cut off    their heads.  Greg. The heads of the maids?  Samp. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads.    Take it in what sense thou wilt.  Greg. They must take it in sense that feel it.  Samp. Me they shall feel while I am able to stand; and 'tis known I    am a pretty piece of flesh.  Greg. 'Tis well thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst    been poor-John. Draw thy tool! Here comes two of the house of    Montagues.           Enter two other Servingmen [Abram and Balthasar].  Samp. My naked weapon is out. Quarrel! I will back thee.  Greg. How? turn thy back and run?  Samp. Fear me not.  Greg. No, marry. I fear thee!  Samp. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.  Greg. I will frown as I pass by, and let them take it as they list.  Samp. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb at them; which is    disgrace to them, if they bear it.  Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?  Samp. I do bite my thumb, sir.  Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?  Samp. [aside to Gregory] Is the law of our side if I say ay?  Greg. [aside to Sampson] No.  Samp. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my    thumb, sir.  Greg. Do you quarrel, sir?  Abr. Quarrel, sir? No, sir.  Samp. But if you do, sir, am for you. I serve as good a man as    you.  Abr. No better.  Samp. Well, sir.                        Enter Benvolio.  Greg. [aside to Sampson] Say 'better. ' Here comes one of my    master's kinsmen.  Samp. Yes, better, sir.  Abr. You lie.  Samp. Draw, if you be men. Gregory, remember thy swashing blow.                                                     They fight.  Ben. Part, fools! [Beats down their swords. ]    Put up your swords. You know not what you do.                          Enter Tybalt.  Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these heartless hinds?    Turn thee Benvolio! look upon thy death.  Ben. I do but keep the peace. Put up thy sword,    Or manage it to part these men with me.  Tyb. What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the word    As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee.    Have at thee, coward!                            They fight.     Enter an officer, and three or four Citizens with clubs or                          partisans.

Officer. Clubs, bills, and partisans! Strike! beat them down!  Citizens. Down with the Capulets! Down with the Montagues!           Enter Old Capulet in his gown, and his Wife.  Cap. What noise is this? Give me my long sword, ho!  Wife. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for a sword?  Cap. My sword, I say! Old Montague is come    And flourishes his blade in spite of me.                 Enter Old Montague and his Wife.  Mon. Thou villain Capulet! - Hold me not, let me go.  M. Wife. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foe.                Enter Prince Escalus, with his Train.  Prince. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,    Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel-    Will they not hear? What, ho! you men, you beasts,    That quench the fire of your pernicious rage    With purple fountains issuing from your veins!    On pain of torture, from those bloody hands    Throw your mistempered weapons to the ground    And hear the sentence of your moved prince.    Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word    By thee, old Capulet, and Montague,    Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets    And made Verona's ancient citizens    Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments    To wield old partisans, in hands as old,    Cank'red with peace, to part your cank'red hate.    If ever you disturb our streets again,    Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.    For this time all the rest depart away.    You, Capulet, shall go along with me;    And, Montague, come you this afternoon,    To know our farther pleasure in this case,    To old Freetown, our common judgment place.    Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.              Exeunt [all but Montague, his Wife, and Benvolio].  Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?    Speak, nephew, were you by when it began?  Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary    And yours, close fighting ere I did approach.    I drew to part them. In the instant came    The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd;    Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears,    He swung about his head and cut the winds,    Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn.    While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,    Came more and more, and fought on part and part,    Till the Prince came, who parted either part.  M. Wife. O, where is Romeo? Saw you him to-day?    Right glad I am he was not at this fray.  Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun    Peer'd forth the golden window of the East,    A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad;    Where, underneath the grove of sycamore    That westward rooteth from the city's side,    So early walking did I see your son.    Towards him I made; but he was ware of me    And stole into the covert of the wood.    I- measuring his affections by my own,    Which then most sought where most might not be found,    Being one too many by my weary self-    Pursu'd my humour, not Pursuing his,    And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.  Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen,    With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,    Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs;    But all so soon as the all-cheering sun    Should in the furthest East bean to draw    The shady curtains from Aurora's bed,    Away from light steals home my heavy son    And private in his chamber pens himself,    Shuts up his windows, locks fair daylight    And makes himself an artificial night.    Black and portentous must this humour prove    Unless good counsel may the cause remove.  Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause?  Mon. I neither know it nor can learn of him  Ben. Have you importun'd him by any means?  Mon. Both by myself and many other friend;    But he, his own affections' counsellor,    Is to himself- I will not say how true-    But to himself so secret and so close,    So far from sounding and discovery,    As is the bud bit with an envious worm    Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air    Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.    Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow,    We would as willingly give cure as know.                       Enter Romeo.  Ben. See, where he comes. So please you step aside,    I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.  Mon. I would thou wert so happy by thy stay    To hear true shrift. Come, madam, let's away,                                     Exeunt [Montague and Wife].  Ben. Good morrow, cousin.  Rom. Is the day so young?  Ben. But new struck nine.  Rom. Ay me! sad hours seem long.    Was that my father that went hence so fast?  Ben. It was. What sadness lengthens Romeo's hours?  Rom. Not having that which having makes them short.  Ben. In love?  Rom. Out-  Ben. Of love?  Rom. Out of her favour where I am in love.  Ben. Alas that love, so gentle in his view,    Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof!  Rom. Alas that love, whose view is muffled still,    Should without eyes see pathways to his will!    Where shall we dine? O me! What fray was here?    Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all.    Here's much to do with hate, but more with love.    Why then, O brawling love! O loving hate!    O anything, of nothing first create!    O heavy lightness! serious vanity!    Misshapen chaos of well-seeming forms!    Feather of lead, bright smoke, cold fire, sick health!    Still-waking sleep, that is not what it is    This love feel I, that feel no love in this.    Dost thou not laugh?  Ben. No, coz, I rather weep.  Rom. Good heart, at what?  Ben. At thy good heart's oppression.  Rom. Why, such is love's transgression.    Griefs of mine own lie heavy in my breast,    Which thou wilt propagate, to have it prest    With more of thine. This love that thou hast shown    Doth add more grief to too much of mine own.    Love is a smoke rais'd with the fume of sighs;    Being purg'd, a fire sparkling in lovers' eyes;    Being vex'd, a sea nourish'd with lovers' tears.    What is it else? A madness most discreet,    A choking gall, and a preserving sweet.    Farewell, my coz.  Ben. Soft! I will go along.    An if you leave me so, you do me wrong.  Rom. Tut! I have lost myself; I am not here:    This is not Romeo, he's some other where.  Ben. Tell me in sadness, who is that you love?  Rom. What, shall I groan and tell thee?  Ben. Groan? Why, no;    But sadly tell me who.  Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness make his will.    Ah, word ill urg'd to one that is so ill!    In sadness, cousin, I do love a woman.  Ben. I aim'd so near when I suppos'd you lov'd.  Rom. A right good markman! And she's fair I love.  Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit.  Rom. Well, in that hit you miss. She'll not be hit    With Cupid's arrow. She hath Dian's wit,    And, in strong proof of chastity well arm'd,    From Love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd.    She will not stay the siege of loving terms,    Nor bide th' encounter of assailing eyes,    Nor ope her lap to saint-seducing gold.    O, she's rich in beauty; only poor    That, when she dies, with beauty dies her store.  Ben. Then she hath sworn that she will still live chaste?  Rom. She hath, and in that sparing makes huge waste;    For beauty, starv'd with her severity,    Cuts beauty off from all posterity.    She is too fair, too wise, wisely too fair,    To merit bliss by making me despair.    She hath forsworn to love, and in that vow    Do I live dead that live to tell it now.  Ben. Be rul'd by me: forget to think of her.  Rom. O, teach me how I should forget to think!  Ben. By giving liberty unto thine eyes.    Examine other beauties.  Rom. 'Tis the way    To call hers (exquisite) in question more.    These happy masks that kiss fair ladies' brows,    Being black puts us in mind they hide the fair.    He that is strucken blind cannot forget    The precious treasure of his eyesight lost.    Show me a mistress that is passing fair,    What doth her beauty serve but as a note    Where I may read who pass'd that passing fair?    Farewell. Thou canst not teach me to forget.  Ben. I'll pay that doctrine, or else die in debt.      Exeunt. Scene II.

A Street. Enter Capulet, County Paris, and [Servant] -the Clown.  Cap. But Montague is bound as well as I,    In penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think,    For men so old as we to keep the peace.  Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both,    And pity 'tis you liv'd at odds so long.    But now, my lord, what say you to my suit?  Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before:    My child is yet a stranger in the world,    She hath not seen the change of fourteen years;    Let two more summers wither in their pride    Ere we may think her ripe to be a bride.  Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made.  Cap. And too soon marr'd are those so early made.    The earth hath swallowed all my hopes but she;    She is the hopeful lady of my earth.    But woo her, gentle Paris, get her heart;    My will to her consent is but a part.    An she agree, within her scope of choice    Lies my consent and fair according voice.    This night I hold an old accustom'd feast,    Whereto I have invited many a guest,    Such as I love; and you among the store,    One more, most welcome, makes my number more.    At my poor house look to behold this night    Earth-treading stars that make dark heaven light.    Such comfort as do lusty young men feel    When well apparell'd April on the heel    Of limping Winter treads, even such delight    Among fresh female buds shall you this night    Inherit at my house. Hear all, all see,    And like her most whose merit most shall be;    Which, on more view of many, mine, being one,    May stand in number, though in reck'ning none.    Come, go with me. [To Servant, giving him a paper] Go,    sirrah, trudge about    Through fair Verona; find those persons out    Whose names are written there, and to them say,    My house and welcome on their pleasure stay-                                     Exeunt [Capulet and Paris].  Serv. Find them out whose names are written here? It is written    that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard and the tailor    with his last, the fisher with his pencil and the painter    with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons whose names are    here writ, and can never find what names the writing person    hath here writ. I must to the learned. In good time!                   Enter Benvolio and Romeo.  Ben. Tut, man, one fire burns out another's burning;    One pain is lessoned by another's anguish;    Turn giddy, and be holp by backward turning;    One desperate grief cures with another's languish.    Take thou some new infection to thy eye,    And the rank poison of the old will die.  Rom. Your plantain leaf is excellent for that.  Ben. For what, I pray thee?  Rom. For your broken shin.  Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad?  Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is;    Shut up in Prison, kept without my food,    Whipp'd and tormented and- God-den, good fellow.  Serv. God gi' go-den. I pray, sir, can you read?  Rom. Ay, mine own fortune in my misery.  Serv. Perhaps you have learned it without book. But I pray, can    you read anything you see?  Rom. Ay, If I know the letters and the language.  Serv. Ye say honestly. Rest you merry!  Rom. Stay, fellow; I can read.                       He reads.      'Signior Martino and his wife and daughters;      County Anselmo and his beauteous sisters;      The lady widow of Vitruvio;      Signior Placentio and His lovely nieces;      Mercutio and his brother Valentine;      Mine uncle Capulet, his wife, and daughters;      My fair niece Rosaline and Livia;      Signior Valentio and His cousin Tybalt;      Lucio and the lively Helena. '    [Gives back the paper. ] A fair assembly. Whither should they    come?  Serv. Up.  Rom. Whither?  Serv. To supper, to our house.  Rom. Whose house?  Serv. My master's.  Rom. Indeed I should have ask'd you that before.  Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking. My master is the great    rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray    come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry!               Exit.  Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet's    Sups the fair Rosaline whom thou so lov'st;    With all the admired beauties of Verona.    Go thither, and with unattainted eye    Compare her face with some that I shall show,    And I will make thee think thy swan a crow.  Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye    Maintains such falsehood, then turn tears to fires;    And these, who, often drown'd, could never die,    Transparent heretics, be burnt for liars!    One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun    Ne'er saw her match since first the world begun.  Ben. Tut! you saw her fair, none else being by,    Herself pois'd with herself in either eye;    But in that crystal scales let there be weigh'd    Your lady's love against some other maid    That I will show you shining at this feast,    And she shall scant show well that now seems best.  Rom. I'll go along, no such sight to be shown,    But to rejoice in splendour of my own.              [Exeunt. ]Scene III. Capulet's house. Enter Capulet's Wife, and Nurse.  Wife. Nurse, where's my daughter? Call her forth to me.  Nurse. Now, by my maidenhead at twelve year old,    I bade her come. What, lamb! what ladybird!    God forbid! Where's this girl? What, Juliet!                         Enter Juliet.  Jul. How now? Who calls?  Nurse. Your mother.  Jul. Madam, I am here.    What is your will?  Wife. This is the matter- Nurse, give leave awhile,    We must talk in secret. Nurse, come back again;    I have rememb'red me, thou's hear our counsel.    Thou knowest my daughter's of a pretty age.  Nurse. Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour.  Wife. She's not fourteen.  Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth-    And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four-    She is not fourteen. How long is it now    To Lammastide?  Wife. A fortnight and odd days.  Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year,    Come Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen.    Susan and she (God rest all Christian souls! )    Were of an age. Well, Susan is with God;    She was too good for me. But, as I said,    On Lammas Eve at night shall she be fourteen;    That shall she, marry; I remember it well.    'Tis since the earthquake now eleven years;    And she was wean'd (I never shall forget it),    Of all the days of the year, upon that day;    For I had then laid wormwood to my dug,    Sitting in the sun under the dovehouse wall.    My lord and you were then at Mantua.    Nay, I do bear a brain. But, as I said,    When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple    Of my dug and felt it bitter, pretty fool,    To see it tetchy and fall out with the dug!    Shake, quoth the dovehouse! 'Twas no need, I trow,    To bid me trudge.    And since that time it is eleven years,    For then she could stand high-lone; nay, by th' rood,    She could have run and waddled all about;    For even the day before, she broke her brow;    And then my husband (God be with his soul!    'A was a merry man) took up the child.    'Yea,' quoth he, 'dost thou fall upon thy face?    Thou wilt fall backward when thou hast more wit;    Wilt thou not, Jule? ' and, by my holidam,    The pretty wretch left crying, and said 'Ay. '    To see now how a jest shall come about!    I warrant, an I should live a thousand yeas,    I never should forget it. 'Wilt thou not, Jule? ' quoth he,    And, pretty fool, it stinted, and said 'Ay. '  Wife. Enough of this. I pray thee hold thy peace.  Nurse. Yes, madam. Yet I cannot choose but laugh    To think it should leave crying and say 'Ay. '    And yet, I warrant, it bad upon it brow    A bump as big as a young cock'rel's stone;    A perilous knock; and it cried bitterly.    'Yea,' quoth my husband, 'fall'st upon thy face?    Thou wilt fall backward when thou comest to age;    Wilt thou not, Jule? ' It stinted, and said 'Ay. '  Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I.  Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace!    Thou wast the prettiest babe that e'er I nurs'd.    An I might live to see thee married once, I have my wish.  Wife. Marry, that 'marry' is the very theme    I came to talk of. Tell me, daughter Juliet,    How stands your disposition to be married?  Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of.  Nurse. An honour? Were not I thine only nurse,    I would say thou hadst suck'd wisdom from thy teat.  Wife. Well, think of marriage now. Younger than you,    Here in Verona, ladies of esteem,    Are made already mothers. By my count,    I was your mother much upon these years    That you are now a maid. Thus then in brief:    The valiant Paris seeks you for his love.  Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man    As all the world- why he's a man of wax.

Wife. Verona's summer hath not such a flower.  Nurse. Nay, he's a flower, in faith- a very flower.  Wife. What say you? Can you love the gentleman?    This night you shall behold him at our feast.    Read o'er the volume of young Paris' face,    And find delight writ there with beauty's pen;    Examine every married lineament,    And see how one another lends content;    And what obscur'd in this fair volume lies    Find written in the margent of his eyes,    This precious book of love, this unbound lover,    To beautify him only lacks a cover.    The fish lives in the sea, and 'tis much pride    For fair without the fair within to hide.    That book in many's eyes doth share the glory,    That in gold clasps locks in the golden story;    So shall you share all that he doth possess,    By having him making yourself no less.  Nurse. No less? Nay, bigger! Women grow by men  Wife. Speak briefly, can you like of Paris' love?  Jul. I'll look to like, if looking liking move;    But no more deep will I endart mine eye    Than your consent gives strength to make it fly.                        Enter Servingman.  Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper serv'd up, you call'd,    my young lady ask'd for, the nurse curs'd in the pantry, and    everything in extremity. I must hence to wait. I beseech you    follow straight.  Wife. We follow thee.                       Exit [Servingman].    Juliet, the County stays.  Nurse. Go, girl, seek happy nights to happy days.                                                         Exeunt. Scene IV. A street. Enter Romeo, Mercutio, Benvolio, with five or six other Maskers;Torchbearers.  Rom. What, shall this speech be spoke for our excuse?    Or shall we on without apology?  Ben. The date is out of such prolixity.    We'll have no Cupid hoodwink'd with a scarf,    Bearing a Tartar's painted bow of lath,    Scaring the ladies like a crowkeeper;    Nor no without-book prologue, faintly spoke    After the prompter, for our entrance;    But, let them measure us by what they will,    We'll measure them a measure, and be gone.  Rom. Give me a torch. I am not for this ambling.    Being but heavy, I will bear the light.  Mer. Nay, gentle Romeo, we must have you dance.  Rom. Not I, believe me. You have dancing shoes    With nimble soles; I have a soul of lead    So stakes me to the ground I cannot move.  Mer. You are a lover. Borrow Cupid's wings    And soar with them above a common bound.  Rom. I am too sore enpierced with his shaft    To soar with his light feathers; and so bound    I cannot bound a pitch above dull woe.    Under love's heavy burthen do I sink.  Mer. And, to sink in it, should you burthen love-    Too great oppression for a tender thing.  Rom. Is love a tender thing? It is too rough,    Too rude, too boist'rous, and it pricks like thorn.  Mer. If love be rough with you, be rough with love.    Prick love for pricking, and you beat love down.    Give me a case to put my visage in.    A visor for a visor! What care I    What curious eye doth quote deformities?    Here are the beetle brows shall blush for me.  Ben. Come, knock and enter; and no sooner in    But every man betake him to his legs.  Rom. A torch for me! Let wantons light of heart    Tickle the senseless rushes with their heels;    For I am proverb'd with a grandsire phrase,    I'll be a candle-holder and look on;    The game was ne'er so fair, and I am done.  Mer. Tut! dun's the mouse, the constable's own word!    If thou art Dun, we'll draw thee from the mire    Of this sir-reverence love, wherein thou stick'st    Up to the ears. Come, we burn daylight, ho!  Rom. Nay, that's not so.  Mer. I mean, sir, in delay    We waste our lights in vain, like lamps by day.    Take our good meaning, for our judgment sits    Five times in that ere once in our five wits.  Rom. And we mean well, in going to this masque;    But 'tis no wit to go.  Mer. Why, may one ask?  Rom. I dreamt a dream to-night.  Mer. And so did I.  Rom. Well, what was yours?  Mer. That dreamers often lie.  Rom. In bed asleep, while they do dream things true.  Mer. O, then I see Queen Mab hath been with you.    She is the fairies' midwife, and she comes    In shape no bigger than an agate stone    On the forefinger of an alderman,    Drawn with a team of little atomies    Athwart men's noses as they lie asleep;    Her wagon spokes made of long spinners' legs,    The cover, of the wings of grasshoppers;    Her traces, of the smallest spider's web;    Her collars, of the moonshine's wat'ry beams;    Her whip, of cricket's bone; the lash, of film;    Her wagoner, a small grey-coated gnat,    Not half so big as a round little worm    Prick'd from the lazy finger of a maid;    Her chariot is an empty hazelnut,    Made by the joiner squirrel or old grub,    Time out o' mind the fairies' coachmakers.    And in this state she 'gallops night by night    Through lovers' brains, and then they dream of love;    O'er courtiers' knees, that dream on cursies straight;    O'er lawyers' fingers, who straight dream on fees;    O'er ladies' lips, who straight on kisses dream,    Which oft the angry Mab with blisters plagues,    Because their breaths with sweetmeats tainted are.    Sometime she gallops o'er a courtier's nose,    And then dreams he of smelling out a suit;    And sometime comes she with a tithe-pig's tail    Tickling a parson's nose as 'a lies asleep,    Then dreams he of another benefice.    Sometimes she driveth o'er a soldier's neck,    And then dreams he of cutting foreign throats,    Of breaches, ambuscadoes, Spanish blades,    Of healths five fadom deep; and then anon    Drums in his ear, at which he starts and wakes,    And being thus frighted, swears a prayer or two    And sleeps again. This is that very Mab    That plats the manes of horses in the night    And bakes the elflocks in foul sluttish, hairs,    Which once untangled much misfortune bodes    This is the hag, when maids lie on their backs,    That presses them and learns them first to bear,    Making them women of good carriage.    This is she-  Rom. Peace, peace, Mercutio, peace!    Thou talk'st of nothing.  Mer. True, I talk of dreams;    Which are the children of an idle brain,    Begot of nothing but vain fantasy;    Which is as thin of substance as the air,    And more inconstant than the wind, who wooes    Even now the frozen bosom of the North    And, being anger'd, puffs away from thence,    Turning his face to the dew-dropping South.  Ben. This wind you talk of blows us from ourselves.    Supper is done, and we shall come too late.  Rom. I fear, too early; for my mind misgives    Some consequence, yet hanging in the stars,    Shall bitterly begin his fearful date    With this night's revels and expire the term    Of a despised life, clos'd in my breast,    By some vile forfeit of untimely death.    But he that hath the steerage of my course    Direct my sail! On, lusty gentlemen!  Ben. Strike, drum.                           They march about the stage. [Exeunt. ]Scene V. Capulet's house. Servingmen come forth with napkins.  1. Serv. Where's Potpan, that he helps not to take away?    He shift a trencher! he scrape a trencher!  2. Serv. When good manners shall lie all in one or two men's    hands, and they unwash'd too, 'tis a foul thing.  1. Serv. Away with the join-stools, remove the court-cubbert,    look to the plate. Good thou, save me a piece of marchpane and, as    thou loves me, let the porter let in Susan Grindstone andNell.    Anthony, and Potpan!  2. Serv. Ay, boy, ready.  1. Serv. You are look'd for and call'd for, ask'd for and    sought for, in the great chamber.  3. Serv. We cannot be here and there too. Cheerly, boys!    Be brisk awhile, and the longer liver take all.      Exeunt.    Enter the Maskers, Enter, [with Servants,] Capulet, his Wife,              Juliet, Tybalt, and all the Guests               and Gentlewomen to the Maskers.  Cap. Welcome, gentlemen! Ladies that have their toes    Unplagu'd with corns will have a bout with you.    Ah ha, my mistresses! which of you all    Will now deny to dance? She that makes dainty,    She I'll swear hath corns. Am I come near ye now?    Welcome, gentlemen! I have seen the day    That I have worn a visor and could tell    A whispering tale in a fair lady's ear,    Such as would please. 'Tis gone, 'tis gone, 'tis gone!    You are welcome, gentlemen! Come, musicians, play.    A hall, a hall! give room! and foot it, girls.                                    Music plays, and they dance.    More light, you knaves! and turn the tables up,    And quench the fire, the room is grown too hot.    Ah, sirrah, this unlook'd-for sport comes well.    Nay, sit, nay, sit, good cousin Capulet,    For you and I are past our dancing days.    How long is't now since last yourself and I    Were in a mask?  2. Cap. By'r Lady, thirty years.  Cap. What, man? 'Tis not so much, 'tis not so much!    'Tis since the nuptial of Lucentio,    Come Pentecost as quickly as it will,    Some five-and-twenty years, and then we mask'd.  2. Cap. 'Tis more, 'tis more! His son is elder, sir;    His son is thirty.  Cap.

Will you tell me that?    His son was but a ward two years ago.  Rom. [to a Servingman] What lady's that, which doth enrich the    hand Of yonder knight?  Serv. I know not, sir.  Rom. O, she doth teach the torches to burn bright!    It seems she hangs upon the cheek of night    Like a rich jewel in an Ethiop's ear-    Beauty too rich for use, for earth too dear!    So shows a snowy dove trooping with crows    As yonder lady o'er her fellows shows.    The measure done, I'll watch her place of stand    And, touching hers, make blessed my rude hand.    Did my heart love till now? Forswear it, sight!    For I ne'er saw true beauty till this night.  Tyb. This, by his voice, should be a Montague.    Fetch me my rapier, boy. What, dares the slave    Come hither, cover'd with an antic face,    To fleer and scorn at our solemnity?    Now, by the stock and honour of my kin,    To strike him dead I hold it not a sin.  Cap. Why, how now, kinsman? Wherefore storm you so?  Tyb. Uncle, this is a Montague, our foe;    A villain, that is hither come in spite    To scorn at our solemnity this night.  Cap. Young Romeo is it?  Tyb. 'Tis he, that villain Romeo.  Cap. Content thee, gentle coz, let him alone.    'A bears him like a portly gentleman,    And, to say truth, Verona brags of him    To be a virtuous and well-govern'd youth.    I would not for the wealth of all this town    Here in my house do him disparagement.    Therefore be patient, take no note of him.    It is my will; the which if thou respect,    Show a fair presence and put off these frowns,    An ill-beseeming semblance for a feast.  Tyb. It fits when such a villain is a guest.    I'll not endure him.  Cap. He shall be endur'd.    What, goodman boy? I say he shall. Go to!    Am I the master here, or you? Go to!    You'll not endure him? God shall mend my soul!    You'll make a mutiny among my guests!    You will set cock-a-hoop! you'll be the man!  Tyb. Why, uncle, 'tis a shame.  Cap. Go to, go to!    You are a saucy boy. Is't so, indeed?    This trick may chance to scathe you. I know what.    You must contrary me! Marry, 'tis time. -    Well said, my hearts! - You are a princox- go!    Be quiet, or- More light, more light! - For shame!    I'll make you quiet; what! - Cheerly, my hearts!  Tyb. Patience perforce with wilful choler meeting    Makes my flesh tremble in their different greeting.    I will withdraw; but this intrusion shall,    Now seeming sweet, convert to bitt'rest gall.          Exit.  Rom. If I profane with my unworthiest hand    This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:    My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand    To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.  Jul. Good pilgrim, you do wrong your hand too much,    Which mannerly devotion shows in this;    For saints have hands that pilgrims' hands do touch,    And palm to palm is holy palmers' kiss.  Rom. Have not saints lips, and holy palmers too?  Jul. Ay, pilgrim, lips that they must use in pray'r.  Rom. O, then, dear saint, let lips do what hands do!    They pray; grant thou, lest faith turn to despair.  Jul. Saints do not move, though grant for prayers' sake.  Rom. Then move not while my prayer's effect I take.    Thus from my lips, by thine my sin is purg'd.  [Kisses her. ]  Jul. Then have my lips the sin that they have took.  Rom. Sin from my lips? O trespass sweetly urg'd!    Give me my sin again.                          [Kisses her. ]  Jul. You kiss by th' book.  Nurse. Madam, your mother craves a word with you.  Rom. What is her mother?  Nurse. Marry, bachelor,    Her mother is the lady of the house.    And a good lady, and a wise and virtuous.    I nurs'd her daughter that you talk'd withal.    I tell you, he that can lay hold of her    Shall have the chinks.  Rom. Is she a Capulet?    O dear account! my life is my foe's debt.  Ben. Away, be gone; the sport is at the best.  Rom. Ay, so I fear; the more is my unrest.  Cap. Nay, gentlemen, prepare not to be gone;    We have a trifling foolish banquet towards.    Is it e'en so? Why then, I thank you all.    I thank you, honest gentlemen. Good night.    More torches here! [Exeunt Maskers. ] Come on then, let's to bed.    Ah, sirrah, by my fay, it waxes late;    I'll to my rest.                              Exeunt [all but Juliet and Nurse].  Jul. Come hither, nurse. What is yond gentleman?  Nurse. The son and heir of old Tiberio.  Jul. What's he that now is going out of door?  Nurse. Marry, that, I think, be young Petruchio.  Jul. What's he that follows there, that would not dance?  Nurse. I know not.  Jul. Go ask his name. - If he be married,    My grave is like to be my wedding bed.  Nurse. His name is Romeo, and a Montague,    The only son of your great enemy.  Jul. My only love, sprung from my only hate!    Too early seen unknown, and known too late!    Prodigious birth of love it is to me    That I must love a loathed enemy.  Nurse. What's this? what's this?  Jul. A rhyme I learnt even now    Of one I danc'd withal.                                     One calls within, 'Juliet. '  Nurse. Anon, anon!    Come, let's away; the strangers all are gone.        Exeunt. PROLOGUEEnter Chorus.  Chor. Now old desire doth in his deathbed lie,    And young affection gapes to be his heir;    That fair for which love groan'd for and would die,    With tender Juliet match'd, is now not fair.    Now Romeo is belov'd, and loves again,    Alike bewitched by the charm of looks;    But to his foe suppos'd he must complain,    And she steal love's sweet bait from fearful hooks.    Being held a foe, he may not have access    To breathe such vows as lovers use to swear,    And she as much in love, her means much less    To meet her new beloved anywhere;    But passion lends them power, time means, to meet,    Temp'ring extremities with extreme sweet. Exit. ACT II. Scene I. A lane by the wall of Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo alone.  Rom. Can I go forward when my heart is here?    Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.                     [Climbs the wall and leaps down within it. ]                   Enter Benvolio with Mercutio.  Ben. Romeo! my cousin Romeo! Romeo!  Mer. He is wise,    And, on my life, hath stol'n him home to bed.  Ben. He ran this way, and leapt this orchard wall.    Call, good Mercutio.  Mer.

Nay, I'll conjure too.    Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!    Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh;    Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied!    Cry but 'Ay me! ' pronounce but 'love' and 'dove';    Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,    One nickname for her purblind son and heir,    Young Adam Cupid, he that shot so trim    When King Cophetua lov'd the beggar maid!    He heareth not, he stirreth not, be moveth not;    The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.    I conjure thee by Rosaline's bright eyes.    By her high forehead and her scarlet lip,    By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,    And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,    That in thy likeness thou appear to us!  Ben. An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.  Mer. This cannot anger him. 'Twould anger him    To raise a spirit in his mistress' circle    Of some strange nature, letting it there stand    Till she had laid it and conjur'd it down.    That were some spite; my invocation    Is fair and honest: in his mistress' name,    I conjure only but to raise up him.  Ben. Come, he hath hid himself among these trees    To be consorted with the humorous night.    Blind is his love and best befits the dark.  Mer. If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.    Now will he sit under a medlar tree    And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit    As maids call medlars when they laugh alone.    O, Romeo, that she were, O that she were    An open et cetera, thou a pop'rin pear!    Romeo, good night. I'll to my truckle-bed;    This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep.    Come, shall we go?  Ben. Go then, for 'tis in vain    'To seek him here that means not to be found.                                                         Exeunt. Scene II. Capulet's orchard. Enter Romeo.  Rom. He jests at scars that never felt a wound.                     Enter Juliet above at a window.    But soft! What light through yonder window breaks?    It is the East, and Juliet is the sun!    Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,    Who is already sick and pale with grief    That thou her maid art far more fair than she.    Be not her maid, since she is envious.    Her vestal livery is but sick and green,    And none but fools do wear it. Cast it off.    It is my lady; O, it is my love!    O that she knew she were!    She speaks, yet she says nothing. What of that?    Her eye discourses; I will answer it.    I am too bold; 'tis not to me she speaks.    Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,    Having some business, do entreat her eyes    To twinkle in their spheres till they return.    What if her eyes were there, they in her head?    The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars    As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven    Would through the airy region stream so bright    That birds would sing and think it were not night.    See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!    O that I were a glove upon that hand,    That I might touch that cheek!  Jul. Ay me!  Rom. She speaks.    O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art    As glorious to this night, being o'er my head,    As is a winged messenger of heaven    Unto the white-upturned wond'ring eyes    Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him    When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds    And sails upon the bosom of the air.  Jul. O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?    Deny thy father and refuse thy name!    Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,    And I'll no longer be a Capulet.  Rom. [aside] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?  Jul. 'Tis but thy name that is my enemy.    Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.    What's Montague? it is nor hand, nor foot,    Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part    Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!    What's in a name? That which we call a rose    By any other name would smell as sweet.    So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call'd,    Retain that dear perfection which he owes    Without that title. Romeo, doff thy name;    And for that name, which is no part of thee,    Take all myself.  Rom. I take thee at thy word.    Call me but love, and I'll be new baptiz'd;    Henceforth I never will be Romeo.  Jul. What man art thou that, thus bescreen'd in night,    So stumblest on my counsel?  Rom. By a name    I know not how to tell thee who I am.    My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,    Because it is an enemy to thee.    Had I it written, I would tear the word.  Jul. My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words    Of that tongue's utterance, yet I know the sound.    Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?  Rom. Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.  Jul. How cam'st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?    The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,    And the place death, considering who thou art,    If any of my kinsmen find thee here.  Rom. With love's light wings did I o'erperch these walls;    For stony limits cannot hold love out,    And what love can do, that dares love attempt.    Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.  Jul. If they do see thee, they will murther thee.  Rom. Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye    Than twenty of their swords! Look thou but sweet,    And I am proof against their enmity.  Jul. I would not for the world they saw thee here.  Rom. I have night's cloak to hide me from their sight;    And but thou love me, let them find me here.    My life were better ended by their hate    Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.  Jul. By whose direction found'st thou out this place?  Rom. By love, that first did prompt me to enquire.    He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.    I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far    As that vast shore wash'd with the farthest sea,    I would adventure for such merchandise.  Jul. Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face;    Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek    For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.    Fain would I dwell on form- fain, fain deny    What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!    Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say 'Ay';    And I will take thy word. Yet, if thou swear'st,    Thou mayst prove false. At lovers' perjuries,    They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,    If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully.    Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,    I'll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,    So thou wilt woo; but else, not for the world.    In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond,    And therefore thou mayst think my haviour light;    But trust me, gentleman, I'll prove more true    Than those that have more cunning to be strange.    I should have been more strange, I must confess,    But that thou overheard'st, ere I was ware,    My true-love passion. Therefore pardon me,    And not impute this yielding to light love,    Which the dark night hath so discovered.  Rom. Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,    That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops-  Jul. O, swear not by the moon, th' inconstant moon,    That monthly changes in her circled orb,    Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.  Rom. What shall I swear by?  Jul. Do not swear at all;    Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,    Which is the god of my idolatry,    And I'll believe thee.  Rom. If my heart's dear love-  Jul. Well, do not swear. Although I joy in thee,    I have no joy of this contract to-night.    It is too rash, too unadvis'd, too sudden;    Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be    Ere one can say 'It lightens. ' Sweet, good night!    This bud of love, by summer's ripening breath,    May prove a beauteous flow'r when next we meet.    Good night, good night! As sweet repose and rest    Come to thy heart as that within my breast!  Rom. O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?  Jul. What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?  Rom. Th' exchange of thy love's faithful vow for mine.  Jul. I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;    And yet I would it were to give again.  Rom. Would'st thou withdraw it? For what purpose, love?  Jul. But to be frank and give it thee again.    And yet I wish but for the thing I have.    My bounty is as boundless as the sea,    My love as deep; the more I give to thee,    The more I have, for both are infinite.    I hear some noise within. Dear love, adieu!                                           [Nurse] calls within.    Anon, good nurse! Sweet Montague, be true.    Stay but a little, I will come again.                [Exit. ]  Rom. O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,    Being in night, all this is but a dream,    Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.                       Enter Juliet above.  Jul. Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.    If that thy bent of love be honourable,    Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,    By one that I'll procure to come to thee,    Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;    And all my fortunes at thy foot I'll lay    And follow thee my lord throughout the world.  Nurse. (within) Madam!  Jul. I come, anon. - But if thou meanest not well,    I do beseech thee-  Nurse. (within) Madam!  Jul. By-and-by I come. -    To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief.    To-morrow will I send.

Rom. So thrive my soul-  Jul. A thousand times good night!                        Exit.  Rom. A thousand times the worse, to want thy light!    Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books;    But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.                     Enter Juliet again, [above].  Jul. Hist! Romeo, hist! O for a falconer's voice    To lure this tassel-gentle back again!    Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud;    Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,    And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine    With repetition of my Romeo's name.    Romeo!  Rom. It is my soul that calls upon my name.    How silver-sweet sound lovers' tongues by night,    Like softest music to attending ears!  Jul. Romeo!  Rom. My dear?  Jul. At what o'clock to-morrow    Shall I send to thee?  Rom. By the hour of nine.  Jul. I will not fail. 'Tis twenty years till then.    I have forgot why I did call thee back.  Rom. Let me stand here till thou remember it.  Jul. I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,    Rememb'ring how I love thy company.  Rom. And I'll still stay, to have thee still forget,    Forgetting any other home but this.  Jul. 'Tis almost morning. I would have thee gone-    And yet no farther than a wanton's bird,    That lets it hop a little from her hand,    Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,    And with a silk thread plucks it back again,    So loving-jealous of his liberty.  Rom. I would I were thy bird.  Jul. Sweet, so would I.    Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.    Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow,    That I shall say good night till it be morrow.                                                         [Exit. ]  Rom. Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!    Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!    Hence will I to my ghostly father's cell,    His help to crave and my dear hap to tell. ExitScene III. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar, [Laurence] alone, with a basket.  Friar. The grey-ey'd morn smiles on the frowning night,    Check'ring the Eastern clouds with streaks of light;    And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels    From forth day's path and Titan's fiery wheels.    Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye    The day to cheer and night's dank dew to dry,    I must up-fill this osier cage of ours    With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.    The earth that's nature's mother is her tomb.    What is her burying gave, that is her womb;    And from her womb children of divers kind    We sucking on her natural bosom find;    Many for many virtues excellent,    None but for some, and yet all different.    O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies    In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities;    For naught so vile that on the earth doth live    But to the earth some special good doth give;    Nor aught so good but, strain'd from that fair use,    Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse.    Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied,    And vice sometime's by action dignified.    Within the infant rind of this small flower    Poison hath residence, and medicine power;    For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;    Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.    Two such opposed kings encamp them still    In man as well as herbs- grace and rude will;    And where the worser is predominant,    Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.                        Enter Romeo.  Rom. Good morrow, father.  Friar. Benedicite!    What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?    Young son, it argues a distempered head    So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed.    Care keeps his watch in every old man's eye,    And where care lodges sleep will never lie;    But where unbruised youth with unstuff'd brain    Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign.    Therefore thy earliness doth me assure    Thou art uprous'd with some distemp'rature;    Or if not so, then here I hit it right-    Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.  Rom. That last is true-the sweeter rest was mine.  Friar. God pardon sin! Wast thou with Rosaline?  Rom. With Rosaline, my ghostly father? No.    I have forgot that name, and that name's woe.  Friar. That's my good son! But where hast thou been then?  Rom. I'll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.    I have been feasting with mine enemy,    Where on a sudden one hath wounded me    That's by me wounded. Both our remedies    Within thy help and holy physic lies.    I bear no hatred, blessed man, for, lo,    My intercession likewise steads my foe.  Friar. Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift    Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.  Rom. Then plainly know my heart's dear love is set    On the fair daughter of rich Capulet;    As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine,    And all combin'd, save what thou must combine    By holy marriage. When, and where, and how    We met, we woo'd, and made exchange of vow,    I'll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,    That thou consent to marry us to-day.  Friar. Holy Saint Francis! What a change is here!    Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,    So soon forsaken? Young men's love then lies    Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.    Jesu Maria! What a deal of brine    Hath wash'd thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!    How much salt water thrown away in waste,    To season love, that of it doth not taste!    The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,    Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears.    Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit    Of an old tear that is not wash'd off yet.    If e'er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,    Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline.    And art thou chang'd? Pronounce this sentence then:    Women may fall when there's no strength in men.  Rom. Thou chid'st me oft for loving Rosaline.  Friar. For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.  Rom. And bad'st me bury love.  Friar. Not in a grave    To lay one in, another out to have.  Rom. I pray thee chide not. She whom I love now    Doth grace for grace and love for love allow.    The other did not so.  Friar. O, she knew well    Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.    But come, young waverer, come go with me.    In one respect I'll thy assistant be;    For this alliance may so happy prove    To turn your households' rancour to pure love.  Rom. O, let us hence! I stand on sudden haste.  Friar. Wisely, and slow. They stumble that run fast.                                                         Exeunt. Scene IV. A street. Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.  Mer. Where the devil should this Romeo be?    Came he not home to-night?  Ben. Not to his father's. I spoke with his man.  Mer. Why, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,    Torments him so that he will sure run mad.  Ben. Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet,    Hath sent a letter to his father's house.  Mer. A challenge, on my life.  Ben. Romeo will answer it.  Mer. Any man that can write may answer a letter.  Ben. Nay, he will answer the letter's master, how he dares,    being dared.  Mer. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabb'd with a white    wench's black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the    very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy's    butt-shaft; and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?  Ben. Why, what is Tybalt?  Mer. More than Prince of Cats, I can tell you. O, he's the    courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing    pricksong-keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his    minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom! the very    butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist! a gentleman    of the very first house, of the first and second cause. Ah, the    immortal passado! the punto reverse! the hay.  Ben. The what?  Mer. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes-    these new tuners of accent! 'By Jesu, a very good blade! a very    tall man! a very good whore! ' Why, is not this a lamentable thing,    grandsir, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange    flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardona-mi's, who stand    so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old    bench? O, their bones, their bones!                               Enter Romeo.  Ben. Here comes Romeo! here comes Romeo!  Mer. Without his roe, like a dried herring. O flesh, flesh, how    art thou fishified!

Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch    flowed in. Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench (marry, she    had a better love to berhyme her), Dido a dowdy, Cleopatra a gypsy,    Helen and Hero hildings and harlots, This be a gray eye or so,    but not to the purpose. Signior Romeo, bon jour! There's a French    salutation to your French slop. You gave us the counterfeit    fairly last night.  Rom. Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?  Mer. The slip, sir, the slip. Can you not conceive?  Rom. Pardon, good Mercutio. My business was great, and in such a    case as mine a man may strain courtesy.  Mer. That's as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a    man to bow in the hams.  Rom. Meaning, to cursy.  Mer. Thou hast most kindly hit it.  Rom. A most courteous exposition.  Mer. Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.  Rom. Pink for flower.  Mer. Right.  Rom. Why, then is my pump well-flower'd.  Mer. Well said! Follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out    thy pump, that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may    remain, after the wearing, solely singular.  Rom. O single-sold jest, solely singular for the singleness!  Mer. Come between us, good Benvolio! My wits faint.  Rom. Swits and spurs, swits and spurs! or I'll cry a match.  Mer. Nay, if our wits run the wild-goose chase, I am done; for    thou hast more of the wild goose in one of thy wits than, I am    sure, I have in my whole five. Was I with you there for the goose?  Rom. Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not    there for the goose.  Mer. I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.  Rom. Nay, good goose, bite not!  Mer. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.  Rom. And is it not, then, well serv'd in to a sweet goose?  Mer. O, here's a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch    narrow to an ell broad!  Rom. I stretch it out for that word 'broad,' which, added to    the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.  Mer. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? Now    art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; now art thou what thou art, by    art as well as by nature. For this drivelling love is like a    great natural that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in    a hole.  Ben. Stop there, stop there!  Mer. Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.  Ben. Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.  Mer. O, thou art deceiv'd! I would have made it short; for I    was come to the whole depth of my tale, and meant indeed to    occupy the argument no longer.  Rom. Here's goodly gear!                      Enter Nurse and her Man [Peter].  Mer. A sail, a sail!  Ben. Two, two! a shirt and a smock.  Nurse. Peter!  Peter. Anon.  Nurse. My fan, Peter.  Mer. Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan's the fairer face of    the two.  Nurse. God ye good morrow, gentlemen.  Mer. God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.  Nurse. Is it good-den?  Mer. 'Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is    now upon the prick of noon.  Nurse. Out upon you! What a man are you!  Rom. One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.  Nurse. By my troth, it is well said. 'For himself to mar,'    quoth 'a? Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the    young Romeo?  Rom. I can tell you; but young Romeo will be older when you    have found him than he was when you sought him. I am the youngest    of that name, for fault of a worse.  Nurse. You say well.  Mer. Yea, is the worst well? Very well took, i' faith! wisely,    wisely.  Nurse. If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.  Ben. She will endite him to some supper.  Mer. A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!  Rom. What hast thou found?  Mer. No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is    something stale and hoar ere it be spent                                     He walks by them and sings.                   An old hare hoar,                   And an old hare hoar,                Is very good meat in Lent;                   But a hare that is hoar                   Is too much for a score                When it hoars ere it be spent.    Romeo, will you come to your father's? We'll to dinner thither.  Rom. I will follow you.  Mer. Farewell, ancient lady. Farewell,    [sings] lady, lady, lady.                                      Exeunt Mercutio, Benvolio.  Nurse. Marry, farewell! I Pray you, Sir, what saucy merchant    was this that was so full of his ropery?  Rom. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk and    will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.  Nurse. An 'a speak anything against me, I'll take him down, an'a    were lustier than he is, and twenty such jacks; and if I cannot,    I'll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his    flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates. And thou must    stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure!  Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure. If I had, my    weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you. I dare draw as    soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the    law on my side.  Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me    quivers. Scurvy knave! Pray you, sir, a word; and, as I told you,    my young lady bid me enquire you out. What she bid me say, I    will keep to myself; but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead    her into a fool's paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of    behaviour, as they say; for the gentlewoman is young; and    therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were    an ill thing to be off'red to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.  Rom. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto    thee-  Nurse. Good heart, and I faith I will tell her as much. Lord,    Lord! she will be a joyful woman.  Rom. What wilt thou tell her, nurse? Thou dost not mark me.  Nurse. I will tell her, sir, that you do protest, which, as I    take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.  Rom. Bid her devise    Some means to come to shrift this afternoon;    And there she shall at Friar Laurence' cell    Be shriv'd and married. Here is for thy pains.  Nurse. No, truly, sir; not a penny.  Rom. Go to! I say you shall.  Nurse. This afternoon, sir? Well, she shall be there.  Rom. And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey wall.    Within this hour my man shall be with thee    And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair,    Which to the high topgallant of my joy    Must be my convoy in the secret night.    Farewell. Be trusty, and I'll quit thy pains.    Farewell.

Commend me to thy mistress.  Nurse. Now God in heaven bless thee! Hark you, sir.  Rom. What say'st thou, my dear nurse?  Nurse. Is your man secret? Did you ne'er hear say,    Two may keep counsel, putting one away?  Rom. I warrant thee my man's as true as steel.  Nurse. Well, sir, my mistress is the sweetest lady. Lord, Lord!    when 'twas a little prating thing- O, there is a nobleman in    town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she,    good soul, had as lieve see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I    anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man;    but I'll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any    clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both    with a letter?  Rom. Ay, nurse; what of that? Both with an R.  Nurse. Ah, mocker! that's the dog's name. R is for the- No; I    know it begins with some other letter; and she hath the prettiest    sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you    good to hear it.  Rom. Commend me to thy lady.  Nurse. Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Romeo. ] Peter!  Peter. Anon.  Nurse. Peter, take my fan, and go before, and apace.                                                         Exeunt. Scene V. Capulet's orchard. Enter Juliet.  Jul. The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;    In half an hour she 'promis'd to return.    Perchance she cannot meet him. That's not so.    O, she is lame! Love's heralds should be thoughts,    Which ten times faster glide than the sun's beams    Driving back shadows over low'ring hills.    Therefore do nimble-pinion'd doves draw Love,    And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.    Now is the sun upon the highmost hill    Of this day's journey, and from nine till twelve    Is three long hours; yet she is not come.    Had she affections and warm youthful blood,    She would be as swift in motion as a ball;    My words would bandy her to my sweet love,    And his to me,    But old folks, many feign as they were dead-    Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.                      Enter Nurse [and Peter].    O God, she comes! O honey nurse, what news?    Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.  Nurse. Peter, stay at the gate.                                                   [Exit Peter. ]  Jul. Now, good sweet nurse- O Lord, why look'st thou sad?    Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;    If good, thou shamest the music of sweet news    By playing it to me with so sour a face.  Nurse. I am aweary, give me leave awhile.    Fie, how my bones ache! What a jaunce have I had!  Jul. I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news.    Nay, come, I pray thee speak. Good, good nurse, speak.  Nurse. Jesu, what haste! Can you not stay awhile?    Do you not see that I am out of breath?  Jul. How art thou out of breath when thou hast breath    To say to me that thou art out of breath?    The excuse that thou dost make in this delay    Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.    Is thy news good or bad? Answer to that.    Say either, and I'll stay the circumstance.    Let me be satisfied, is't good or bad?  Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to    choose a man. Romeo? No, not he. Though his face be better    than any man's, yet his leg excels all men's; and for a hand and a    foot, and a body, though they be not to be talk'd on, yet    they are past compare. He is not the flower of courtesy, but, I'll    warrant him, as gentle as a lamb. Go thy ways, wench; serveGod.    What, have you din'd at home?  Jul. No, no. But all this did I know before.    What says he of our marriage? What of that?  Nurse. Lord, how my head aches! What a head have I!    It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.    My back o' t' other side,- ah, my back, my back!    Beshrew your heart for sending me about    To catch my death with jauncing up and down!  Jul. I' faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.    Sweet, sweet, Sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?  Nurse. Your love says, like an honest gentleman, and a courteous,    and a kind, and a handsome; and, I warrant, a virtuous- Where    is your mother?  Jul. Where is my mother? Why, she is within.    Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!    'Your love says, like an honest gentleman,    "Where is your mother? "'  Nurse. O God's Lady dear!    Are you so hot? Marry come up, I trow.    Is this the poultice for my aching bones?    Henceforward do your messages yourself.  Jul. Here's such a coil! Come, what says Romeo?  Nurse. Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?  Jul. I have.  Nurse. Then hie you hence to Friar Laurence' cell;    There stays a husband to make you a wife.    Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks:    They'll be in scarlet straight at any news.    Hie you to church; I must another way,    To fetch a ladder, by the which your love    Must climb a bird's nest soon when it is dark.    I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;    But you shall bear the burthen soon at night.    Go; I'll to dinner; hie you to the cell.  Jul. Hie to high fortune! Honest nurse, farewell.                                                         Exeunt. Scene VI. Friar Laurence's cell. Enter Friar [Laurence] and Romeo.  Friar. So smile the heavens upon this holy act    That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!  Rom. Amen, amen! But come what sorrow can,    It cannot countervail the exchange of joy    That one short minute gives me in her sight.    Do thou but close our hands with holy words,    Then love-devouring death do what he dare-    It is enough I may but call her mine.  Friar. These violent delights have violent ends    And in their triumph die, like fire and powder,    Which, as they kiss, consume. The sweetest honey    Is loathsome in his own deliciousness    And in the taste confounds the appetite.    Therefore love moderately: long love doth so;    Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.                     Enter Juliet.    Here comes the lady. O, so light a foot    Will ne'er wear out the everlasting flint.    A lover may bestride the gossamer    That idles in the wanton summer air,    And yet not fall; so light is vanity.  Jul. Good even to my ghostly confessor.  Friar. Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.  Jul. As much to him, else is his thanks too much.  Rom. Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy    Be heap'd like mine, and that thy skill be more    To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath    This neighbour air, and let rich music's tongue    Unfold the imagin'd happiness that both    Receive in either by this dear encounter.  Jul. Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,    Brags of his substance, not of ornament.    They are but beggars that can count their worth;    But my true love is grown to such excess    cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.  Friar. Come, come with me, and we will make short work;    For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone    Till Holy Church incorporate two in one.                                                       [Exeunt. ]ACT III. Scene I. A public place. Enter Mercutio, Benvolio, and Men.  Ben. I pray thee, good Mercutio, let's retire.    The day is hot, the Capulets abroad.    And if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl,    For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.  Mer. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters    the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table and    says 'God send me no need of thee! ' and by the operation of the    second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.  Ben. Am I like such a fellow?  Mer. Come, come, thou art as hot a jack in thy mood as any in    Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be    moved.  Ben. And what to?  Mer. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly,    for one would kill the other.

Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a    man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast.    Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no    other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes. What eye but such an    eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels    as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as    addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrell'd with a    man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog    that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a    tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter, with    another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? And yet thou wilt    tutor me from quarrelling!  Ben. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should    buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.  Mer. The fee simple? O simple!                       Enter Tybalt and others.  Ben. By my head, here come the Capulets.  Mer. By my heel, I care not.  Tyb. Follow me close, for I will speak to them.    Gentlemen, good den. A word with one of you.  Mer. And but one word with one of us?    Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.  Tyb. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me    occasion.  Mer. Could you not take some occasion without giving  Tyb. Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo.  Mer. Consort? What, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make    minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords. Here's my    fiddlestick; here's that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!  Ben. We talk here in the public haunt of men.    Either withdraw unto some private place    And reason coldly of your grievances,    Or else depart. Here all eyes gaze on us.  Mer. Men's eyes were made to look, and let them gaze.    I will not budge for no man's pleasure,                        Enter Romeo.  Tyb. Well, peace be with you, sir. Here comes my man.  Mer. But I'll be hang'd, sir, if he wear your livery.    Marry, go before to field, he'll be your follower!    Your worship in that sense may call him man.  Tyb. Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford    No better term than this: thou art a villain.  Rom. Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee    Doth much excuse the appertaining rage    To such a greeting. Villain am I none.    Therefore farewell. I see thou knowest me not.  Tyb. Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries    That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.  Rom. I do protest I never injur'd thee,    But love thee better than thou canst devise    Till thou shalt know the reason of my love;    And so good Capulet, which name I tender    As dearly as mine own, be satisfied.  Mer. O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!    Alla stoccata carries it away.                      [Draws. ]    Tybalt, you ratcatcher, will you walk?  Tyb. What wouldst thou have with me?  Mer. Good King of Cats, nothing but one of your nine lives. That I    mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter,    dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out    of his pitcher by the ears? Make haste, lest mine be about your    ears ere it be out.  Tyb. I am for you.                                    [Draws. ]  Rom. Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.  Mer. Come, sir, your passado!                                                   [They fight. ]  Rom. Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.    Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage!    Tybalt, Mercutio, the Prince expressly hath    Forbid this bandying in Verona streets.    Hold, Tybalt! Good Mercutio!         Tybalt under Romeo's arm thrusts Mercutio in, and flies                                           [with his Followers].  Mer. I am hurt.    A plague o' both your houses! I am sped.    Is he gone and hath nothing?  Ben. What, art thou hurt?  Mer. Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch. Marry, 'tis enough.    Where is my page? Go, villain, fetch a surgeon.                                                    [Exit Page. ]  Rom. Courage, man. The hurt cannot be much.  Mer. No, 'tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door;    but 'tis enough, 'twill serve. Ask for me to-morrow, and you    shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this    world. A plague o' both your houses! Zounds, a dog, a rat, a    mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue,a    villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic! Why the devil    came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.  Rom. I thought all for the best.  Mer. Help me into some house, Benvolio,    Or I shall faint. A plague o' both your houses!    They have made worms' meat of me. I have it,    And soundly too. Your houses!                                 [Exit. [supported by Benvolio].  Rom. This gentleman, the Prince's near ally,    My very friend, hath got this mortal hurt    In my behalf- my reputation stain'd    With Tybalt's slander- Tybalt, that an hour    Hath been my kinsman. O sweet Juliet,    Thy beauty hath made me effeminate    And in my temper soft'ned valour's steel                      Enter Benvolio.  Ben. O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio's dead!    That gallant spirit hath aspir'd the clouds,    Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.  Rom. This day's black fate on moe days doth depend;    This but begins the woe others must end.                       Enter Tybalt.  Ben. Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.  Rom. Alive in triumph, and Mercutio slain?    Away to heaven respective lenity,    And fire-ey'd fury be my conduct now!    Now, Tybalt, take the 'villain' back again    That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio's soul    Is but a little way above our heads,    Staying for thine to keep him company.    Either thou or I, or both, must go with him.  Tyb. Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here,    Shalt with him hence.  Rom. This shall determine that.                                       They fight. Tybalt falls.  Ben. Romeo, away, be gone!    The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.    Stand not amaz'd. The Prince will doom thee death    If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!  Rom. O, I am fortune's fool!  Ben. Why dost thou stay?                                                     Exit Romeo.                      Enter Citizens.  Citizen. Which way ran he that kill'd Mercutio?    Tybalt, that murtherer, which way ran he?  Ben. There lies that Tybalt.  Citizen. Up, sir, go with me.    I charge thee in the Prince's name obey.  Enter Prince [attended], Old Montague, Capulet, their Wives,                     and [others].  Prince. Where are the vile beginners of this fray?  Ben. O noble Prince. I can discover all    The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl.    There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,    That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.  Cap. Wife. Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother's child!    O Prince! O husband! O, the blood is spill'd    Of my dear kinsman!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Box 2782               Champaign, IL 61825This "Small Print! " by Charles B. Kramer, AttorneyInternet (72600. 2026@compuserve. com); TEL: (212-254-5093)****   SMALL PRINT! FOR __ COMPLETE SHAKESPEARE ****["Small Print" V. 12. 08. 93]<<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>1606THE TRAGEDY OF KING LEARby William ShakespeareDramatis Personae      Lear, King of Britain.      King of France.      Duke of Burgundy.      Duke of Cornwall.      Duke of Albany.      Earl of Kent.      Earl of Gloucester.      Edgar, son of Gloucester.      Edmund, bastard son to Gloucester.      Curan, a courtier.      Old Man, tenant to Gloucester.      Doctor.      Lear's Fool.      Oswald, steward to Goneril.      A Captain under Edmund's command.      Gentlemen.      A Herald.      Servants to Cornwall.      Goneril, daughter to Lear.      Regan, daughter to Lear.      Cordelia, daughter to Lear.      Knights attending on Lear, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers,        Attendants. <<THIS ELECTRONIC VERSION OF THE COMPLETE WORKS OF WILLIAMSHAKESPEARE IS COPYRIGHT 1990-1993 BY WORLD LIBRARY, INC. , AND ISPROVIDED BY PROJECT GUTENBERG ETEXT OF CARNEGIE MELLON UNIVERSITYWITH PERMISSION.  ELECTRONIC AND MACHINE READABLE COPIES MAY BEDISTRIBUTED SO LONG AS SUCH COPIES (1) ARE FOR YOUR OR OTHERSPERSONAL USE ONLY, AND (2) ARE NOT DISTRIBUTED OR USEDCOMMERCIALLY.  PROHIBITED COMMERCIAL DISTRIBUTION INCLUDES BY ANYSERVICE THAT CHARGES FOR DOWNLOAD TIME OR FOR MEMBERSHIP. >>Scene: - Britain. ACT I. Scene I. [King Lear's Palace. ]Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmund. [Kent and Glouceste converse. Edmund stands back. ]  Kent. I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albanythan     Cornwall.  Glou. It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division ofthe     kingdom, it appears not which of the Dukes he values most,for     equalities are so weigh'd that curiosity in neither can make     choice of either's moiety.  Kent. Is not this your son, my lord?  Glou. His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge. I have sooften     blush'd to acknowledge him that now I am braz'd to't.  Kent. I cannot conceive you.  Glou. Sir, this young fellow's mother could; whereupon she grew     round-womb'd, and had indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ereshe     had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?  Kent. I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so     proper.  Glou. But I have, sir, a son by order of law, some year elderthan     this, who yet is no dearer in my account. Though this knavecame     something saucily into the world before he was sent for, yetwas     his mother fair, there was good sport at his making, and the     whoreson must be acknowledged. - Do you know this noblegentleman,     Edmund?  Edm. [comes forward] No, my lord.  Glou. My Lord of Kent. Remember him hereafter as my honourable     friend.  Edm. My services to your lordship.  Kent. I must love you, and sue to know you better.  Edm. Sir, I shall study deserving.  Glou. He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again.                                                 Sound a sennet.     The King is coming.      Enter one bearing a coronet; then Lear; then the Dukes of      Albany and Cornwall; next, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia, with                              Followers.  Lear. Attend the lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.  Glou. I shall, my liege.                                 Exeunt [Gloucester and Edmund].  Lear. Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.     Give me the map there. Know we have divided     In three our kingdom; and 'tis our fast intent     To shake all cares and business from our age,     Conferring them on younger strengths while we     Unburthen'd crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall,     And you, our no less loving son of Albany,     We have this hour a constant will to publish     Our daughters' several dowers, that future strife     May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,     Great rivals in our youngest daughter's love,     Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn,     And here are to be answer'd. Tell me, my daughters     (Since now we will divest us both of rule,     Interest of territory, cares of state),     Which of you shall we say doth love us most?     That we our largest bounty may extend     Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,     Our eldest-born, speak first.  Gon. Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;     Dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty;     Beyond what can be valued, rich or rare;     No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;     As much as child e'er lov'd, or father found;     A love that makes breath poor, and speech unable.     Beyond all manner of so much I love you.  Cor. [aside] What shall Cordelia speak? Love, and be silent.  Lear. Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,     With shadowy forests and with champains rich'd,     With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,     We make thee lady. To thine and Albany's issue     Be this perpetual. - What says our second daughter,     Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.  Reg. Sir, I am made     Of the selfsame metal that my sister is,     And prize me at her worth. In my true heart     I find she names my very deed of love;     Only she comes too short, that I profess     Myself an enemy to all other joys     Which the most precious square of sense possesses,     And find I am alone felicitate     In your dear Highness' love.  Cor. [aside] Then poor Cordelia!     And yet not so; since I am sure my love's     More richer than my tongue.  Lear. To thee and thine hereditary ever     Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom,     No less in space, validity, and pleasure     Than that conferr'd on Goneril. - Now, our joy,     Although the last, not least; to whose young love     The vines of France and milk of Burgundy     Strive to be interest; what can you say to draw     A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.  Cor. Nothing, my lord.  Lear. Nothing?  Cor. Nothing.  Lear. Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again.  Cor. Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave     My heart into my mouth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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