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            THE SO    ETS

            by William Shakespeare

             From 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,
             Thy self 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.

             When 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 tattered weed of small worth held:

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            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 deserved thy beauty's use,
            If thou couldst answer 'This fair child of mine
            Shall 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.

            Look in thy glass and tell the face thou viewest,
            Now 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 uneared womb
            Disdains 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 thee
            Calls 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 remembered not to be,
             Die single and thine image dies with thee.

            Unthrifty loveliness why dost thou spend,
            Upon thy self 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 abuse,
            The bounteous largess given thee to give?
            Profitless usurer why dost thou use
            So great a sum of sums yet canst not live?
            For having traffic with thy self alone,
            Thou of thy self 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.

            Those hours that with gentle work did frame
            The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell
            Will play the tyrants to the very same,
            And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
            For never-resting time leads summer on
            To hideous winter and confounds him there,
            Sap checked with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
            Beauty o'er-snowed and bareness every where:

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            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 distilled though they with winter meet,
             Leese but their show, their substance still lives sweet.

            Then let not winter's ragged hand deface,
            In thee thy summer ere thou be distilled:
            Make sweet some vial; treasure thou some place,
            With beauty's treasure ere it be self-killed:
            That use is not forbidden usury,
            Which happies those that pay the willing loan;
            That's for thy self to breed another thee,
            Or ten times happier be it ten for one,
            Ten times thy self were happier than thou art,
            If ten of thine ten times refigured thee:
            Then what could death do if thou shouldst depart,
            Leaving thee living in posterity?
              Be not self-willed for thou art much too fair,
              To be death's conquest and make worms thine heir.

            Lo in the orient when the gracious light
            Lifts up his burning head, each under eye
            Doth homage to his new-appearing sight,
            Serving with looks his sacred majesty,
            And having climbed 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 are
            From his low tract and look another way:
             So thou, thy self out-going in thy noon:
             Unlooked on diest unless thou get a son.

            Music 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 confounds
            In 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:

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             Whose speechless song being many, seeming one,
             Sings this to thee, 'Thou single wilt prove none'.

            Is it for fear to wet a widow's eye,
            That thou consum'st thy self 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 weep,
            That thou no form of thee hast left behind,
            When every private widow well may keep,
            By children's eyes, her husband's shape in mind:
            Look what an unthrift in the world doth spend
            Shifts 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.

            For shame deny that thou bear'st love to any
            Who for thy self art so unprovident.
            Grant if thou wilt, thou art beloved of many,
            But that thou none lov'st is most evident:
            For thou art so possessed with murd'rous hate,
            That 'gainst thy self thou stick'st not to conspire,
            Seeking that beauteous roof to ruinate
            Which to repair should be thy chief desire:
            O change thy thought, that I may change my mind,
            Shall hate be fairer lodged than gentle love?
            Be as thy presence is gracious and kind,
            Or to thy self at least kind-hearted prove,
             Make thee another self for love of me,
             That beauty still may live in thine or thee.

            As 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 cease,
            And 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 endowed, she gave thee more;
            Which bounteous gift thou shouldst in bounty cherish:
              She carved thee for her seal, and meant thereby,
              Thou shouldst print more, not let that copy die.


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            When 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 forsake,
            And 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.

            O that you were your self, but love you are
            No longer yours, than you your self 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 lease
            Find no determination, then you were
            Your self again after your self'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 day
            And 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.

            Not 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 well
            By oft predict that I in heaven find.
            But from thine eyes my knowledge I derive,
            And constant stars in them I read such art
            As truth and beauty shall together thrive
            If from thy self, to store thou wouldst convert:
              Or else of thee this I prognosticate,
              Thy end is truth's and beauty's doom and date.

            When I consider every thing that grows
            Holds in perfection but a little moment.
            That this huge stage presenteth nought but shows
            Whereon the stars in secret influence comment.

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            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 stay,
            Sets you most rich in youth before my sight,
            Where wasteful time debateth with decay
            To 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.

            But wherefore do not you a mightier way
            Make war upon this bloody tyrant Time?
            And fortify your self in your decay
            With 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 your self in eyes of men.
             To give away your self, keeps your self still,
             And you must live drawn by your own sweet skill.

            Who will believe my verse in time to come
            If it were filled with your most high deserts?
            Though yet heaven knows it is but as a tomb
            Which 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 touched earthly faces.
            So should my papers (yellowed with their age)
            Be scorned, like old men of less truth than tongue,
            And your true rights be termed a poet's rage,
            And 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.

            Shall 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 dimmed,
            And every fair from fair sometime declines,
            By chance, or nature's changing course untrimmed:

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             But thy eternal summer shall not fade,
             Nor lose possession of that fair thou ow'st,
             Nor shall death brag thou wand'rest 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.

             Devouring 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-lived phoenix, in her blood,
             Make glad and sorry seasons as thou fleet'st,
             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 allow,
             For beauty's pattern to succeeding men.
              Yet do thy worst old Time: despite thy wrong,
              My love shall in my verse ever live young.

             A woman's face with nature's own hand painted,
             Hast thou the master mistress of my passion,
             A woman's gentle heart but not acquainted
             With 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 pricked thee out for women's pleasure,
              Mine be thy love and thy love's use their treasure.

             So is it not with me as with that muse,
             Stirred by a painted beauty to his verse,
             Who heaven it self for ornament doth use,
             And 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 fair,
             As any mother's child, though not so bright
             As those gold candles fixed in heaven's air:

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              Let them say more that like of hearsay well,
              I will not praise that purpose not to sell.

             My 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 wary,
             As I not for my self, but for thee will,
             Bearing thy heart which I will keep so chary
             As 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.

             As 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 say,
             The perfect ceremony of love's rite,
             And in mine own love's strength seem to decay,
             O'ercharged with burthen of mine own love's might:
             O let my looks be then the eloquence,
             And dumb presagers of my speaking breast,
             Who plead for love, and look for recompense,
             More than that tongue that more hath more expressed.
              O learn to read what silent love hath writ,
              To hear with eyes belongs to love's fine wit.

             Mine eye hath played the painter and hath stelled,
             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 pictured 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 me
             Are windows to my breast, where-through the sun
             Delights 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.


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             Let those who are in favour with their stars,
             Of public honour and proud titles boast,
             Whilst I whom fortune of such triumph bars
             Unlooked for joy in that I honour most;
             Great princes' favourites their fair leaves spread,
             But 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 foiled,
             Is from the book of honour razed quite,
             And all the rest forgot for which he toiled:
              Then happy I that love and am beloved
              Where I may not remove nor be removed.

             Lord of my love, to whom in vassalage
             Thy 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 mine
             May make seem bare, in wanting words to show it;
             But that I hope some good conceit of thine
             In 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 tattered 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.

             Weary with toil, I haste me to my bed,
             The dear respose for limbs with travel tired,
             But then begins a journey in my head
             To 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 sight
             Presents 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 my self, no quiet find.

             How can I then return in happy plight
             That am debarred the benefit of rest?
             When day's oppression is not eased by night,
             But day by night and night by day oppressed.

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             And each (though enemies to either's reign)
             Do in consent shake hands to torture me,
             The one by toil, the other to complain
             How 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-complexioned 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

             When in disgrace with Fortune and men's eyes,
             I all alone beweep my outcast state,
             And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries,
             And look upon my self and curse my fate,
             Wishing me like to one more rich in hope,
             Featured like him, like him with friends possessed,
             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 arising
             From sullen earth) sings hymns at heaven's gate,
               For thy sweet love remembered such wealth brings,
               That then I scorn to change my state with kings.

             When to the sessions of sweet silent thought,
             I 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 cancelled woe,
             And moan th' expense of many a vanished sight.
             Then can I grieve at grievances foregone,
             And heavily from woe to woe tell o'er
             The 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 restored, and sorrows end.

             Thy 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 tear
             Hath dear religious love stol'n from mine eye,
             As interest of the dead, which now appear,
             But things removed that hidden in thee lie.

13 of 2260                                                                                                 18-04-2011 17:59

             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 loved, I view in thee,
              And thou (all they) hast all the all of me.

             If thou survive my well-contented day,
             When that churl death my bones with dust shall cover
             And shalt by fortune once more re-survey
             These poor rude lines of thy deceased lover:
             Compare them with the bett'ring of the time,
             And though they be outstripped 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'.

             Full many a glorious morning have I seen,
             Flatter 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 ride,
             With 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 masked him from me now.
              Yet him for this, my love no whit disdaineth,
              Suns of the world may stain, when heaven's sun staineth.

             Why 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 brav'ry 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,
             Th' offender's sorrow lends but weak relief
             To him that bears the strong offence's cross.

14 of 2260                                                                                                18-04-2011 17:59

              Ah but those tears are pearl which thy love sheds,
              And they are rich, and ransom all ill deeds.

             No more be grieved 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,
             My self 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 my self 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.

             Let 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.

             As a decrepit father takes delight,
             To 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 despised,
             Whilst that this shadow doth such substance give,
             That I in thy abundance am sufficed,
             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.


15 of 2260                                                                                          18-04-2011 17:59

             How can my muse want subject to invent
             While thou dost breathe that pour'st into my verse,
             Thine own sweet argument, too excellent,
             For every vulgar paper to rehearse?
             O give thy self the thanks if aught in me,
             Worthy perusal stand against thy sight,
             For who's so dumb that cannot write to thee,
             When thou thy self dost give invention light?
             Be thou the tenth Muse, ten times more in worth
             Than those old nine which rhymers invocate,
             And he that calls on thee, let him bring forth
             Eternal numbers to outlive long date.
              If my slight muse do please these curious days,
              The pain be mine, but thine shall be the praise.

             O 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 give:
             That 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.

             Take 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 blamed, if thou thy self deceivest
             By wilful taste of what thy self refusest.
             I do forgive thy robbery gentle thief
             Although thou steal thee all my poverty:
             And yet love knows it is a greater grief
             To bear greater wrong, than hate's known injury.
               Lascivious grace, in whom all ill well shows,
               Kill me with spites yet we must not be foes.

             Those 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.

16 of 2260                                                                                          18-04-2011 17:59

             Gentle thou art, and therefore to be won,
             Beauteous thou art, therefore to be assailed.
             And when a woman woos, what woman's son,
             Will sourly leave her till he have prevailed?
             Ay me, but yet thou mightst my seat forbear,
             And chide thy beauty, and thy straying youth,
             Who lead thee in their riot even there
             Where thou art forced to break a twofold truth:
              Hers by thy beauty tempting her to thee,
              Thine by thy beauty being false to me.

             That 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,
             Suff'ring 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.

             When 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 show,
             To the clear day with thy much clearer light,
             When to unseeing eyes thy shade shines so!
             How would (I say) mine eyes be blessed made,
             By looking on thee in the living day,
             When in dead night thy fair imperfect shade,
             Through 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.

             If 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 stand
             Upon the farthest earth removed from thee,
             For nimble thought can jump both sea and land,
             As soon as think the place where he would be.

17 of 2260                                                                                           18-04-2011 17:59

             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.

             The other two, slight air, and purging fire,
             Are 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 gone
             In tender embassy of love to thee,
             My life being made of four, with two alone,
             Sinks down to death, oppressed with melancholy.
             Until life's composition be recured,
             By those swift messengers returned from thee,
             Who even but now come back again assured,
             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.

             Mine 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 impanelled
             A quest of thoughts, all tenants to the heart,
             And by their verdict is determined
             The 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.

             Betwixt mine eye and heart a league is took,
             And each doth good turns now unto the other,
             When that mine eye is famished 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,
             Thy self 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.

18 of 2260                                                                                         18-04-2011 17:59

              Or if they sleep, thy picture in my sight
              Awakes my heart, to heart's and eye's delight.

             How careful was I when I took my way,
             Each trifle under truest bars to thrust,
             That to my use it might unused stay
             From 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 locked 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.

             Against 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,
             Called to that audit by advised 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.

             How heavy do I journey on the way,
             When what I seek (my weary travel's end)
             Doth teach that case 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 know
             His rider loved 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.


19 of 2260                                                                                         18-04-2011 17:59

             Thus can my love excuse the slow offence,
             Of 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.

             So 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 imprisoned pride.
              Blessed are you whose worthiness gives scope,
              Being had to triumph, being lacked to hope.

             What 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 counterfeit,
             Is 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.

             O how much more doth beauty beauteous seem,
             By that sweet ornament which truth doth give!
             The rose looks fair, but fairer we it deem
             For that sweet odour, which doth in it live:

20 of 2260                                                                                         18-04-2011 17:59

             The canker blooms have full as deep a dye,
             As the perfumed tincture of the roses,
             Hang on such thorns, and play as wantonly,
             When summer's breath their masked buds discloses:
             But for their virtue only is their show,
             They live unwooed, 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.

             Not marble, nor the gilded monuments
             Of princes shall outlive this powerful rhyme,
             But you shall shine more bright in these contents
             Than unswept stone, besmeared 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 burn:
             The living record of your memory.
             'Gainst death, and all-oblivious enmity
             Shall you pace forth, your praise shall still find room,
             Even in the eyes of all posterity
             That wear this world out to the ending doom.
              So till the judgment that your self arise,
              You live in this, and dwell in lovers' eyes.

             Sweet love renew thy force, be it not said
             Thy edge should blunter be than appetite,
             Which but to-day by feeding is allayed,
             To-morrow sharpened in his former might.
             So love be thou, although to-day thou fill
             Thy hungry eyes, even till they wink with fulness,
             To-morrow see again, and do not kill
             The spirit of love, with a perpetual dulness:
             Let this sad interim like the ocean be
             Which parts the shore, where two contracted new,
             Come daily to the banks, that when they see:
             Return 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.

             Being 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.

21 of 2260                                                                                               18-04-2011 17:59

             Nor dare I question with my jealous thought,
             Where you may be, or your affairs suppose,
             But like a sad slave stay and think of nought
             Save where you are, how happy you make those.
              So true a fool is love, that in your will,
              (Though you do any thing) he thinks no ill.

             That god forbid, that made me first your slave,
             I should in thought control your times of pleasure,
             Or at your hand th' account of hours to crave,
             Being your vassal bound to stay your leisure.
             O let me suffer (being at your beck)
             Th' imprisoned 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 strong,
             That you your self may privilage your time
             To what you will, to you it doth belong,
             Your self to pardon of self-doing crime.
               I am to wait, though waiting so be hell,
               Not blame your pleasure be it ill or well.

             If there be nothing new, but that which is,
             Hath been before, how are our brains beguiled,
             Which labouring for invention bear amis
             The 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 say,
             To this composed wonder of your frame,
             Whether we are mended, or whether better they,
             Or whether revolution be the same.
               O sure I am the wits of former days,
               To subjects worse have given admiring praise.

             Like 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 crowned,
             Crooked eclipses 'gainst his glory fight,
             And Time that gave, doth now his gift confound.
             Time doth transfix the flourish set on youth,
             And delves the parallels in beauty's brow,
             Feeds on the rarities of nature's truth,
             And nothing stands but for his scythe to mow.

22 of 2260                                                                                          18-04-2011 17:59

              And yet to times in hope, my verse shall stand
              Praising thy worth, despite his cruel hand.

             Is it thy will, thy image should keep open
             My 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 thee
             So 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.

             Sin of self-love possesseth all mine eye,
             And 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 my self mine own worth do define,
             As I all other in all worths surmount.
             But when my glass shows me my self indeed
             beated and chopt with tanned antiquity,
             Mine own self-love quite contrary I read:
             Self, so self-loving were iniquity.
               'Tis thee (my self) that for my self I praise,
               Painting my age with beauty of thy days.

             Against my love shall be as I am now
             With Time's injurious hand crushed and o'erworn,
             When hours have drained his blood and filled his brow
             With lines and wrinkles, when his youthful morn
             Hath travelled on to age's steepy night,
             And all those beauties whereof now he's king
             Are vanishing, or vanished out of sight,
             Stealing away the treasure of his spring:
             For such a time do I now fortify
             Against confounding age's cruel knife,
             That he shall never cut from memory
             My 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.


23 of 2260                                                                                            18-04-2011 17:59

             When I have seen by Time's fell hand defaced
             The rich-proud cost of outworn buried age,
             When sometime lofty towers I see down-rased,
             And brass eternal slave to mortal rage.
             When I have seen the hungry ocean gain
             Advantage 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 it self 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.

             Since 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 batt'ring 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.

             Tired with all these for restful death I cry,
             As to behold desert a beggar born,
             And needy nothing trimmed in jollity,
             And purest faith unhappily forsworn,
             And gilded honour shamefully misplaced,
             And maiden virtue rudely strumpeted,
             And right perfection wrongfully disgraced,
             And strength by limping sway disabled
             And art made tongue-tied by authority,
             And folly (doctor-like) controlling skill,
             And simple truth miscalled simplicity,
             And captive good attending captain ill.
              Tired with all these, from these would I be gone,
              Save that to die, I leave my love alone.

             Ah wherefore with infection should he live,
             And with his presence grace impiety,
             That sin by him advantage should achieve,
             And lace it self with his society?

24 of 2260                                                                                            18-04-2011 17:59

             Why should false painting imitate his cheek,
             And steal dead seeming of his living hue?
             Why should poor beauty indirectly seek,
             Roses of shadow, since his rose is true?
             Why should he live, now nature bankrupt is,
             Beggared 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.

             Thus 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, it self 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.

             Those parts of thee that the world's eye doth view,
             Want 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 crowned,
             But those same tongues that give thee so thine own,
             In other accents do this praise confound
             By 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.

             That thou art blamed 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 approve,
             Thy worth the greater being wooed of time,
             For canker vice the sweetest buds doth love,
             And thou present'st a pure unstained prime.

25 of 2260                                                                                                 18-04-2011 17:59

             Thou hast passed by the ambush of young days,
             Either not assailed, or victor being charged,
             Yet this thy praise cannot be so thy praise,
             To tie up envy, evermore enlarged,
              If some suspect of ill masked not thy show,
              Then thou alone kingdoms of hearts shouldst owe.

             No longer mourn for me when I am dead,
             Than you shall hear the surly sullen bell
             Give warning to the world that I am fled
             From this vile world with vilest worms to dwell:
             Nay if you read this line, remember not,
             The 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.

             O lest the world should task you to recite,
             What merit lived in me that you should love
             After 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 I,
             Than niggard truth would willingly impart:
             O lest your true love may seem false in this,
             That 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.

             That time of year thou mayst in me behold,
             When yellow leaves, or none, or few do hang
             Upon those boughs which shake against the cold,
             Bare ruined choirs, where late the sweet birds sang.
             In me thou seest the twilight of such day,
             As 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 seest the glowing of such fire,
             That on the ashes of his youth doth lie,
             As the death-bed, whereon it must expire,
             Consumed with that which it was nourished by.

26 of 2260                                                                                           18-04-2011 17:59

              This thou perceiv'st, which makes thy love more strong,
              To love that well, which thou must leave ere long.

             But be contented when that fell arrest,
             Without 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 review,
             The 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.

             So are you to my thoughts as food to life,
             Or as sweet-seasoned showers are to the ground;
             And for the peace of you I hold such strife
             As 'twixt a miser and his wealth is found.
             Now proud as an enjoyer, and anon
             Doubting the filching age will steal his treasure,
             Now counting best to be with you alone,
             Then bettered 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.

             Why is my verse so barren of new pride?
             So far from variation or quick change?
             Why with the time do I not glance aside
             To 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.


27 of 2260                                                                                               18-04-2011 17:59

             Thy 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 show,
             Of mouthed graves will give thee memory,
             Thou by thy dial's shady stealth mayst know,
             Time's thievish progress to eternity.
             Look what thy memory cannot contain,
             Commit to these waste blanks, and thou shalt find
             Those children nursed, delivered 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.

             So oft have I invoked thee for my muse,
             And found such fair assistance in my verse,
             As every alien pen hath got my use,
             And under thee their poesy disperse.
             Thine eyes, that taught the dumb on high to sing,
             And heavy ignorance aloft to fly,
             Have added feathers to the learned's wing,
             And 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.

             Whilst I alone did call upon thy aid,
             My verse alone had all thy gentle grace,
             But now my gracious numbers are decayed,
             And my sick muse doth give an other place.
             I grant (sweet love) thy lovely argument
             Deserves the travail of a worthier pen,
             Yet what of thee thy poet doth invent,
             He robs thee of, and pays it thee again,
             He lends thee virtue, and he stole that word,
             From thy behaviour, beauty doth he give
             And found it in thy cheek: he can afford
             No 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 thy self dost pay.

             O 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.

28 of 2260                                                                                         18-04-2011 17:59

             But since your worth (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 wrecked) 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.

             Or 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.

             I grant thou wert not married to my muse,
             And therefore mayst without attaint o'erlook
             The dedicated words which writers use
             Of 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 anew,
             Some fresher stamp of the time-bettering days.
             And do so love, yet when they have devised,
             What strained touches rhetoric can lend,
             Thou truly fair, wert truly sympathized,
             In true plain words, by thy true-telling friend.
               And their gross painting might be better used,
               Where cheeks need blood, in thee it is abused.

             I never saw that you did painting need,
             And therefore to your fair no painting set,
             I found (or thought I found) you did exceed,
             That barren tender of a poet's debt:
             And therefore have I slept in your report,
             That you your self being extant well might show,
             How far a modern quill doth come too short,
             Speaking of worth, what worth in you doth grow.

29 of 2260                                                                                              18-04-2011 17:59

             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.

             Who is it that says most, which can say more,
             Than this rich praise, that you alone, are you?
             In whose confine immured is the store,
             Which should example where your equal grew.
             Lean penury within that pen doth dwell,
             That to his subject lends not some small glory,
             But he that writes of you, if he can tell,
             That 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.

             My tongue-tied muse in manners holds her still,
             While comments of your praise richly compiled,
             Reserve their character with golden quill,
             And precious phrase by all the Muses filed.
             I think good thoughts, whilst other write good words,
             And like unlettered clerk still cry Amen,
             To every hymn that able spirit affords,
             In polished 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.

             Was 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 night
             Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
             He nor that affable familiar ghost
             Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
             As victors of my silence cannot boast,
             I was not sick of any fear from thence.

30 of 2260                                                                                             18-04-2011 17:59

              But when your countenance filled up his line,
              Then lacked I matter, that enfeebled mine.

             Farewell! 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.
             Thy self 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.

             When thou shalt be disposed to set me light,
             And place my merit in the eye of scorn,
             Upon thy side, against my self 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 story
             Of faults concealed, 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 my self I do,
             Doing thee vantage, double-vantage me.
              Such is my love, to thee I so belong,
              That for thy right, my self will bear all wrong.

             Say 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 my self disgrace, knowing thy will,
             I will acquaintance strangle and look strange:
             Be absent from thy walks and in my tongue,
             Thy sweet beloved name no more shall dwell,
             Lest I (too much profane) should do it wronk:
             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.


31 of 2260                                                                                            18-04-2011 17:59

             Then 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 'scaped this sorrow,
             Come in the rearward of a conquered woe,
             Give not a windy night a rainy morrow,
             To linger out a purposed 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 taste
             At first the very worst of fortune's might.
               And other strains of woe, which now seem woe,
               Compared with loss of thee, will not seem so.

             Some 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.

             But do thy worst to steal thy self 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 belongs
             Than 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.

             So shall I live, supposing thou art true,
             Like a deceived husband, so love's face,
             May still seem love to me, though altered new:
             Thy looks with me, thy heart in other place.

32 of 2260                                                                                           18-04-2011 17:59

             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 history
             Is writ in moods and frowns and wrinkles strange.
             But heaven in thy creation did decree,
             That 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.

             They 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,
             Tibey 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 it self, 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.

             How sweet and lovely dost thou make the shame,
             Which 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 got,
             Which for their habitation chose out thee,
             Where beauty's veil doth cover every blot,
             And all things turns to fair, that eyes can see!
              Take heed (dear heart) of this large privilege,
              The hardest knife ill-used doth lose his edge.

             Some say thy fault is youth, some wantonness,
             Some say thy grace is youth and gentle sport,
             Both grace and faults are loved of more and less:
             Thou mak'st faults graces, that to thee resort:
             As on the finger of a throned queen,
             The basest jewel will be well esteemed:
             So are those errors that in thee are seen,
             To truths translated, and for true things deemed.

33 of 2260                                                                                           18-04-2011 17:59

             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.

             How like a winter hath my absence been
             From 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 widowed wombs after their lords' decease:
             Yet this abundant issue seemed to me
             But hope of orphans, and unfathered 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.

             From you have I been absent in the spring,
             When proud-pied April (dressed in all his trim)
             Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing:
             That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him.
             Yet nor the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell
             Of 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 seemed it winter still, and you away,
              As with your shadow I with these did play.

             The 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 pride
             Which on thy soft check for complexion dwells,
             In my love's veins thou hast too grossly dyed.
             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 annexed thy breath,
             But for his theft in pride of all his growth

34 of 2260                                                                                                  18-04-2011 17:59

             A 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.

             Where 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 esteem,
             And 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 everywhere.
               Give my love fame faster than Time wastes life,
               So thou prevent'st his scythe, and crooked knife.

             O truant Muse what shall be thy amends,
             For thy neglect of truth in beauty dyed?
             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 fixed,
             Beauty no pencil, beauty's truth to lay:
             But best is best, if never intermixed'?
             Because he needs no praise, wilt thou be dumb?
             Excuse not silence so, for't lies in thee,
             To make him much outlive a gilded tomb:
             And to be praised of ages yet to be.
               Then do thy office Muse, I teach thee how,
               To make him seem long hence, as he shows now.

             My love is strengthened though more weak in seeming,
             I love not less, though less the show appear,
             That love is merchandized, 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 now
             Than 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.

35 of 2260                                                                                           18-04-2011 17:59

             Alack what poverty my muse brings forth,
             That having such a scope to show her pride,
             The argument all bare is of more worth
             Than 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 face,
             That 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 tend,
             Than 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.

             To me fair friend you never can be old,
             For as you were when first your eye I eyed,
             Such seems your beauty still: three winters cold,
             Have from the forests shook three summers' pride,
             Three beauteous springs to yellow autumn turned,
             In process of the seasons have I seen,
             Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned,
             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 perceived,
             So your sweet hue, which methinks still doth stand
             Hath motion, and mine eye may be deceived.
              For fear of which, hear this thou age unbred,
              Ere you were born was beauty's summer dead.

             Let not my love be called idolatry,
             Nor my beloved as an idol show,
             Since all alike my songs and praises be
             To 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 confined,
             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 lived alone.
              Which three till now, never kept seat in one.

             When in the chronicle of wasted time,
             I see descriptions of the fairest wights,
             And beauty making beautiful old rhyme,

36 of 2260                                                                                         18-04-2011 17:59

             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 expressed,
             Even such a beauty as you master now.
             So all their praises are but prophecies
             Of 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.

             Not mine own fears, nor the prophetic soul,
             Of the wide world, dreaming on things to come,
             Can yet the lease of my true love control,
             Supposed as forfeit to a confined doom.
             The mortal moon hath her eclipse endured,
             And the sad augurs mock their own presage,
             Incertainties now crown themselves assured,
             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 rhyme,
             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.

             What's in the brain that ink may character,
             Which hath not figured 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 hallowed 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.

             O never say that I was false of heart,
             Though absence seemed my flame to qualify,
             As easy might I from my self depart,
             As from my soul which in thy breast doth lie:
             That is my home of love, if I have ranged,
             Like him that travels I return again,
             Just to the time, not with the time exchanged,

37 of 2260                                                                                          18-04-2011 17:59

             So that my self bring water for my stain,
             Never believe though in my nature reigned,
             All frailties that besiege all kinds of blood,
             That it could so preposterously be stained,
             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.

             Alas 'tis true, I have gone here and there,
             And made my self a motley to the view,
             Gored mine own thoughts, sold cheap what is most dear,
             Made old offences of affections new.
             Most true it is, that I have looked on truth
             Askance and strangely: but by all above,
             These blenches gave my heart another youth,
             And worse essays proved thee my best of love.
             Now all is done, have what shall have no end,
             Mine appetite I never more will grind
             On newer proof, to try an older friend,
             A god in love, to whom I am confined.
              Then give me welcome, next my heaven the best,
              Even to thy pure and most most loving breast.

             O for my sake do you with Fortune chide,
             The guilty goddess of my harmful deeds,
             That did not better for my life provide,
             Than public means which public manners breeds.
             Thence comes it that my name receives a brand,
             And almost thence my nature is subdued
             To what it works in, like the dyer's hand:
             Pity me then, and wish I were renewed,
             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.

             Your love and pity doth th' impression fill,
             Which vulgar scandal stamped 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 strive,
             To know my shames and praises from your tongue,
             None else to me, nor I to none alive,
             That my steeled sense or changes right or wrong.
             In so profound abysm I throw all care
             Of others' voices, that my adder's sense,
             To critic and to flatterer stopped are:

38 of 2260                                                                                             18-04-2011 17:59

             Mark how with my neglect I do dispense.
              You are so strongly in my purpose bred,
              That all the world besides methinks are dead.

             Since I left you, mine eye is in my mind,
             And that which governs me to go about,
             Doth part his function, and is partly blind,
             Seems seeing, but effectually is out:
             For it no form delivers to the heart
             Of 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.

             Or whether doth my mind being crowned 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 indigest,
             Such 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 poisoned, 'tis the lesser sin,
              That mine eye loves it and doth first begin.

             Those 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 why,
             My most full flame should afterwards burn clearer,
             But reckoning time, whose millioned accidents
             Creep in 'twixt vows, and change decrees of kings,
             Tan sacred beauty, blunt the sharp'st intents,
             Divert strong minds to the course of alt'ring 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.

39 of 2260                                                                                            18-04-2011 17:59

             Let me not to the marriage of true minds
             Admit impediments, love is not love
             Which 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 wand'ring bark,
             Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
             Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
             Within 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 proved,
               I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

             Accuse 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-purchased right,
             That I have hoisted sail to all the winds
             Which 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 wakened hate:
              Since my appeal says I did strive to prove
              The constancy and virtue of your love.

             Like 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 meetness,
             To be diseased ere that there was true needing.
             Thus policy in love t' anticipate
             The ills that were not, grew to faults assured,
             And brought to medicine a healthful state
             Which rank of goodness would by ill be cured.
              But thence I learn and find the lesson true,
              Drugs poison him that so feil sick of you.

             What potions have I drunk of Siren tears
             Distilled from limbecks foul as hell within,
             Applying fears to hopes, and hopes to fears,

40 of 2260                                                                                           18-04-2011 17:59

             Still losing when I saw my self to win!
             What wretched errors hath my heart committed,
             Whilst it hath thought it self 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 true
             That better is, by evil still made better.
             And ruined love when it is built anew
             Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater.
              So I return rebuked to my content,
              And gain by ills thrice more than I have spent.

             That 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 hammered steel.
             For if you were by my unkindness shaken
             As I by yours, y'have passed a hell of time,
             And I a tyrant have no leisure taken
             To weigh how once I suffered in your crime.
             O that our night of woe might have remembered
             My deepest sense, how hard true sorrow hits,
             And soon to you, as you to me then tendered
             The humble salve, which wounded bosoms fits!
              But that your trespass now becomes a fee,
              Mine ransoms yours, and yours must ransom me.

             'Tis better to be vile than vile esteemed,
             When not to be, receives reproach of being,
             And the just pleasure lost, which is so deemed,
             Not by our feeling, but by others' seeing.
             For why should others' false adulterate eyes
             Give 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 level
             At 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.

             Thy gift, thy tables, are within my brain
             Full charactered 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 heart
             Have faculty by nature to subsist,
             Till each to razed oblivion yield his part

41 of 2260                                                                                            18-04-2011 17:59

             Of thee, thy record never can be missed:
             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.

             No! Time, thou shalt not boast that I do change,
             Thy pyramids built up with newer might
             To me are nothing novel, nothing strange,
             They are but dressings Of a former sight:
             Our dates are brief, and therefore we admire,
             What thou dost foist upon us that is old,
             And rather make them born to our desire,
             Than think that we before have heard them told:
             Thy registers and thee I both defy,
             Not wond'ring 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.

             If my dear love were but the child of state,
             It might for Fortune's bastard be unfathered,
             As subject to time's love or to time's hate,
             Weeds among weeds, or flowers with flowers gathered.
             No it was builded far from accident,
             It suffers not in smiling pomp, nor falls
             Under the blow of thralled discontent,
             Whereto th' inviting time our fashion calls:
             It fears not policy that heretic,
             Which works on leases of short-numbered 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.

             Were'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 favour
             Lose all, and more by paying too much rent
             For 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 mixed with seconds, knows no art,

42 of 2260                                                                                            18-04-2011 17:59

             But mutual render, only me for thee.
              Hence, thou suborned informer, a true soul
              When most impeached, stands least in thy control.

             O thou my lovely boy who in thy power,
             Dost hold Time's fickle glass his fickle hour:
             Who hast by waning grown, and therein show'st,
             Thy 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 skill
             May 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.

             In 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 slandered 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 profaned, if not lives in disgrace.
             Therefore my mistress' eyes are raven black,
             Her eyes so suited, and they mourners seem,
             At such who not born fair no beauty lack,
             Slandering creation with a false esteem,
              Yet so they mourn becoming of their woe,
              That every tongue says beauty should look so.

             How oft when thou, my music, music play'st,
             Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
             With thy sweet fingers when thou gently sway'st
             The 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 state
             And situation with those dancing chips,
             O'er whom thy fingers walk with gentle gait,
             Making dead wood more blest than living lips,
              Since saucy jacks so happy are in this,
              Give them thy fingers, me thy lips to kiss.

             Th' expense of spirit in a waste of shame

43 of 2260                                                                                          18-04-2011 17:59

             Is lust in action, and till action, lust
             Is perjured, murd'rous, bloody full of blame,
             Savage, extreme, rude, cruel, not to trust,
             Enjoyed no sooner but despised straight,
             Past reason hunted, and no sooner had
             Past reason hated as a swallowed 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 proposed behind a dream.
              All this the world well knows yet none knows well,
              To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.

             My 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 damasked, red and white,
             But no such roses see I in her cheeks,
             And in some perfumes is there more delight,
             Than in the breath that from my mistress reeks.
             I love to hear her speak, yet well I know,
             That 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.

             Thou art as tyrannous, so as thou art,
             As those whose beauties proudly make them cruel;
             For well thou know'st to my dear doting heart
             Thou 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 my self 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 bear
             Thy 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.

             Thine 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 heaven

44 of 2260                                                                                          18-04-2011 17:59

             Better 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 heart
             To 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.

             Beshrew that heart that makes my heart to groan
             For 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 my self thy cruel eye hath taken,
             And my next self thou harder hast engrossed,
             Of him, my self, and thee I am forsaken,
             A torment thrice three-fold thus to be crossed:
             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 gaol.
              And yet thou wilt, for I being pent in thee,
              Perforce am thine and all that is in me.

             So now I have confessed that he is thine,
             And I my self am mortgaged to thy will,
             My self I'll forfeit, so that other mine,
             Thou 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 learned but surety-like to write for me,
             Under that bond that him as fist doth bind.
             The statute of thy beauty thou wilt take,
             Thou usurer that put'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.

             Whoever hath her wish, thou hast thy will,
             And 'Will' to boot, and 'Will' in over-plus,
             More than enough am I that vex 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,

45 of 2260                                                                                         18-04-2011 17:59

             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.'

             If 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 case we prove,
             Among a number one is reckoned 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 hold,
             That 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.

             Thou 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 anchored 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 erred,
               And to this false plague are they now transferred.

             When my love swears that she is made of truth,
             I do believe her though I know she lies,
             That she might think me some untutored 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,

46 of 2260                                                                                           18-04-2011 17:59

              And in our faults by lies we flattered be.

             O call not me to justify the wrong,
             That 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 might
             Is more than my o'erpressed defence can bide?
             Let me excuse thee, ah my love well knows,
             Her 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.

             Be wise as thou art cruel, do not press
             My tongue-tied patience with too much disdain:
             Lest sorrow lend me words and words express,
             The 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.

             In 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 cars with thy tongue's tune delighted,
             Nor tender feeling to base touches prone,
             Nor taste, nor smell, desire to be invited
             To any sensual feast with thee alone:
             But my five wits, nor my five senses can
             Dissuade one foolish heart from serving thee,
             Who leaves unswayed 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.

             Love is my sin, and thy dear virtue hate,

47 of 2260                                                                                                  18-04-2011 17:59

             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 profaned their scarlet ornaments,
             And sealed false bonds of love as oft as mine,
             Robbed others' beds' revenues of their rents.
             Be it lawful I love thee as thou lov'st those,
             Whom 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.

             Lo as a careful huswife runs to catch,
             One of her feathered creatures broke away,
             Sets down her babe and makes all swift dispatch
             In pursuit of the thing she would have stay:
             Whilst her neglected child holds her in chase,
             Cries to catch her whose busy care is bent,
             To follow that which flies before her face:
             Not prizing her poor infant's discontent;
             So run'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.

             Two 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 coloured 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 turned 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.

             Those lips that Love's own hand did make,
             Breathed forth the sound that said 'I hate',
             To me that languished for her sake:
             But when she saw my woeful state,
             Straight in her heart did mercy come,

48 of 2260                                                                                       18-04-2011 17:59

             Chiding that tongue that ever sweet,
             Was used in giving gentle doom:
             And taught it thus anew to greet:
             'I hate' she altered with an end,
             That followed it as gentle day,
             Doth follow night who like a fiend
             From heaven to hell is flown away.
               'I hate', from hate away she threw,
               And saved my life saying 'not you'.

             Poor 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.

             My love is as a fever longing still,
             For that which longer nurseth the disease,
             Feeding on that which doth preserve the ill,
             Th' 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 approve,
             Desire 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 mad men's are,
             At random from the truth vainly expressed.
              For I have sworn thee fair, and thought thee bright,
              Who art as black as hell, as dark as night.

             O 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 denote,
             Love's eye is not so true as all men's: no,
             How can it? O how can love's eye be true,

49 of 2260                                                                                            18-04-2011 17:59

             That is so vexed with watching and with tears?
             No marvel then though I mistake my view,
             The sun it self sees not, till heaven clears.
              O cunning love, with tears thou keep'st me blind,
              Lest eyes well-seeing thy foul faults should find.

             Canst thou O cruel, say I love thee not,
             When I against my self with thee partake?
             Do I not think on thee when I forgot
             Am 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 spend
             Revenge upon my self 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.

             O 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 deeds,
             There 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 raised love in me,
              More worthy I to be beloved of thee.

             Love 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 betray
             My nobler part to my gross body's treason,
             My soul doth tell my body that he may,
             Triumph 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,

50 of 2260                                                                                          18-04-2011 17:59

              Her love, for whose dear love I rise and fall.

             In 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 perjured 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 be.

             Cupid laid by his brand and fell asleep,
             A maid of Dian's this advantage found,
             And his love-kindling fire did quickly steep
             In a cold valley-fountain of that ground:
             Which borrowed from this holy fire of Love,
             A dateless lively heat still to endure,
             And grew a seeting bath which yet men prove,
             Against 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 distempered guest.
               But found no cure, the bath for my help lies,
               Where Cupid got new fire; my mistress' eyes.

             The little Love-god lying once asleep,
             Laid by his side his heart-inflaming brand,
             Whilst many nymphs that vowed chaste life to keep,
             Came tripping by, but in her maiden hand,
             The fairest votary took up that fire,
             Which many legions of true hearts had warmed,
             And so the general of hot desire,
             Was sleeping by a virgin hand disarmed.
             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 discased, but I my mistress' thrall,
              Came there for cure and this by that I prove,
              Love's fire heats water, water cools not love.

         THE E D

51 of 2260                                                                                         18-04-2011 17:59




         by William Shakespeare

         Dramatis Personae

             KING OF FRANCE
             BERTRAM, Count of Rousillon
             LAFEU, an old lord
             PAROLLES, a follower of Bertram
             TWO FRENCH LORDS, serving with Bertram

             STEWARD, Servant to the Countess of Rousillon
             LAVACHE, a clown and Servant to the Countess of Rousillon
             A PAGE, Servant to the Countess of Rousillon

             COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON, mother to Bertram
             HELENA, a gentlewoman protected by the Countess
             A WIDOW OF FLORENCE.
             DIANA, daughter to the Widow

             VIOLENTA, neighbour and friend to the Widow
             MARIANA, neighbour and friend to the Widow

         Lords, Officers, Soldiers, etc., French and Florentine


52 of 2260                                                                                                18-04-2011 17:59

         SCE E: Rousillon; Paris; Florence; Marseilles

         ACT I. SCE E 1. Rousillon. The COU T'S palace

         Enter BERTRAM, the COUNTESS OF ROUSILLON, HELENA, and LAFEU, all in black

             COUNTESS. In delivering my son from me, I bury a second husband.
             BERTRAM. And I in going, madam, weep o'er my father's death anew;
              but I must attend his Majesty's command, to whom I am now in
              ward, evermore in subjection.
             LAFEU. You shall find of the King a husband, madam; you, sir, a
              father. He that so generally is at all times good must of
              necessity hold his virtue to you, whose worthiness would stir it
              up where it wanted, rather than lack it where there is such
             COUNTESS. What hope is there of his Majesty's amendment?
             LAFEU. He hath abandon'd his physicians, madam; under whose
              practices he hath persecuted time with hope, and finds no other
              advantage in the process but only the losing of hope by time.
             COUNTESS. This young gentlewoman had a father- O, that 'had,' how
              sad a passage 'tis!-whose skill was almost as great as his
              honesty; had it stretch'd so far, would have made nature
              immortal, and death should have play for lack of work. Would, for
              the King's sake, he were living! I think it would be the death of
              the King's disease.
             LAFEU. How call'd you the man you speak of, madam?
             COUNTESS. He was famous, sir, in his profession, and it was his
              great right to be so- Gerard de Narbon.
             LAFEU. He was excellent indeed, madam; the King very lately spoke
              of him admiringly and mourningly; he was skilful enough to have
              liv'd still, if knowledge could be set up against mortality.
             BERTRAM. What is it, my good lord, the King languishes of?
             LAFEU. A fistula, my lord.
             BERTRAM. I heard not of it before.
             LAFEU. I would it were not notorious. Was this gentlewoman the
              daughter of Gerard de Narbon?
             COUNTESS. His sole child, my lord, and bequeathed to my
              overlooking. I have those hopes of her good that her education
              promises; her dispositions she inherits, which makes fair gifts
              fairer; for where an unclean mind carries virtuous qualities,
              there commendations go with pity-they are virtues and traitors
              too. In her they are the better for their simpleness; she derives
              her honesty, and achieves her goodness.
             LAFEU. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears.
             COUNTESS. 'Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in.
              The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the
              tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No
              more of this, Helena; go to, no more, lest it be rather thought
              you affect a sorrow than to have-
             HELENA. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too.
             LAFEU. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead: excessive
              grief the enemy to the living.
             COUNTESS. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it

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              soon mortal.
             BERTRAM. Madam, I desire your holy wishes.
             LAFEU. How understand we that?
             COUNTESS. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father
              In manners, as in shape! Thy blood and virtue
              Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness
              Share with thy birthright! 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 check'd for silence,
              But never tax'd for speech. What heaven more will,
              That thee may furnish, and my prayers pluck down,
              Fall on thy head! Farewell. My lord,
              'Tis an unseason'd courtier; good my lord,
              Advise him.
             LAFEU. He cannot want the best
              That shall attend his love.
             COUNTESS. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram. Exit
             BERTRAM. The best wishes that can be forg'd in your thoughts be
              servants to you! [To HELENA] Be comfortable to my mother, your
              mistress, and make much of her.
             LAFEU. Farewell, pretty lady; you must hold the credit of your
              father. Exeunt BERTRAM and LAFEU
             HELENA. O, were that all! I think not on my father;
              And these great tears grace his remembrance more
              Than those I shed for him. What was he like?
              I have forgot him; my imagination
              Carries no favour in't but Bertram's.
              I am undone; there is no living, none,
              If Bertram be away. 'Twere all one
              That I should love a bright particular star
              And think to wed it, he is so above me.
              In his bright radiance and collateral light
              Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.
              Th' ambition in my love thus plagues itself:
              The hind that would be mated by the lion
              Must die for love. 'Twas pretty, though a plague,
              To see him every hour; to sit and draw
              His arched brows, his hawking eye, his curls,
              In our heart's table-heart too capable
              Of every line and trick of his sweet favour.
              But now he's gone, and my idolatrous fancy
              Must sanctify his relics. Who comes here?

         Enter PAROLLES

              [Aside] One that goes with him. I love him for his sake;
              And yet I know him a notorious liar,
              Think him a great way fool, solely a coward;
              Yet these fix'd evils sit so fit in him
              That they take place when virtue's steely bones
              Looks bleak i' th' cold wind; withal, full oft we see
              Cold wisdom waiting on superfluous folly.
             PAROLLES. Save you, fair queen!
             HELENA. And you, monarch!

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             PAROLLES. No.
             HELENA. And no.
             PAROLLES. Are you meditating on virginity?
             HELENA. Ay. You have some stain of soldier in you; let me ask you a
              question. Man is enemy to virginity; how may we barricado it
              against him?
             PAROLLES. Keep him out.
             HELENA. But he assails; and our virginity, though valiant in the
              defence, yet is weak. Unfold to us some warlike resistance.
             PAROLLES. There is none. Man, setting down before you, will
              undermine you and blow you up.
             HELENA. Bless our poor virginity from underminers and blowers-up!
              Is there no military policy how virgins might blow up men?
             PAROLLES. Virginity being blown down, man will quicklier be blown
              up; marry, in blowing him down again, with the breach yourselves
               made, you lose your city. It is not politic in the commonwealth
              of nature to preserve virginity. Loss of virginity is rational
              increase; and there was never virgin got till virginity was first
              lost. That you were made of is metal to make virgins. Virginity
              by being once lost may be ten times found; by being ever kept, it
              is ever lost. 'Tis too cold a companion; away with't.
             HELENA. I will stand for 't a little, though therefore I die a
             PAROLLES. There's little can be said in 't; 'tis against the rule
              of nature. To speak on the part of virginity is to accuse your
              mothers; which is most infallible disobedience. He that hangs
              himself is a virgin; virginity murders itself, and should be
              buried in highways, out of all sanctified limit, as a desperate
              offendress against nature. Virginity breeds mites, much like a
              cheese; consumes itself to the very paring, and so dies with
              feeding his own stomach. Besides, virginity is peevish, proud,
              idle, made of self-love, which is the most inhibited sin in the
              canon. Keep it not; you cannot choose but lose by't. Out with't.
              Within ten year it will make itself ten, which is a goodly
              increase; and the principal itself not much the worse. Away
             HELENA. How might one do, sir, to lose it to her own liking?
             PAROLLES. Let me see. Marry, ill to like him that ne'er it likes.
              'Tis a commodity will lose the gloss with lying; the longer kept,
              the less worth. Off with't while 'tis vendible; answer the time
              of request. Virginity, like an old courtier, wears her cap out of
              fashion, richly suited but unsuitable; just like the brooch and
              the toothpick, which wear not now. Your date is better in your
              pie and your porridge than in your cheek. And your virginity,
              your old virginity, is like one of our French wither'd pears: it
              looks ill, it eats drily; marry, 'tis a wither'd pear; it was
              formerly better; marry, yet 'tis a wither'd pear. Will you
              anything with it?
             HELENA. Not my virginity yet.
              There shall your master have a thousand loves,
              A mother, and a mistress, and a friend,
              A phoenix, captain, and an enemy,
              A guide, a goddess, and a sovereign,
              A counsellor, a traitress, and a dear;

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              His humble ambition, proud humility,
              His jarring concord, and his discord dulcet,
              His faith, his sweet disaster; with a world
              Of pretty, fond, adoptious christendoms
              That blinking Cupid gossips. Now shall he-
              I know not what he shall. God send him well!
              The court's a learning-place, and he is one-
             PAROLLES. What one, i' faith?
             HELENA. That I wish well. 'Tis pity-
             PAROLLES. What's pity?
             HELENA. That wishing well had not a body in't
              Which might be felt; that we, the poorer born,
              Whose baser stars do shut us up in wishes,
              Might with effects of them follow our friends
              And show what we alone must think, which never
              Returns us thanks.

         Enter PAGE

             PAGE. Monsieur Parolles, my lord calls for you. Exit PAGE
             PAROLLES. Little Helen, farewell; if I can remember thee, I will
              think of thee at court.
             HELENA. Monsieur Parolles, you were born under a charitable star.
             PAROLLES. Under Mars, I.
             HELENA. I especially think, under Mars.
             PAROLLES. Why under Man?
             HELENA. The wars hath so kept you under that you must needs be born
              under Mars.
             PAROLLES. When he was predominant.
             HELENA. When he was retrograde, I think, rather.
             PAROLLES. Why think you so?
             HELENA. You go so much backward when you fight.
             PAROLLES. That's for advantage.
             HELENA. So is running away, when fear proposes the safety: but the
              composition that your valour and fear makes in you is a virtue of
              a good wing, and I like the wear well.
             PAROLLES. I am so full of business I cannot answer thee acutely. I
              will return perfect courtier; in the which my instruction shall
              serve to naturalize thee, so thou wilt be capable of a courtier's
              counsel, and understand what advice shall thrust upon thee; else
              thou diest in thine unthankfulness, and thine ignorance makes
              thee away. Farewell. When thou hast leisure, say thy prayers;
              when thou hast none, remember thy friends. Get thee a good
              husband and use him as he uses thee. So, farewell.
             HELENA. 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.
              What power is it which mounts my love so high,
              That makes me see, and cannot feed mine eye?
              The mightiest space in fortune nature brings
              To join like likes, and kiss like native things.
              Impossible be strange attempts to those
              That weigh their pains in sense, and do suppose

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              What hath been cannot be. Who ever strove
              To show her merit that did miss her love?
              The King's disease-my project may deceive me,
              But my intents are fix'd, and will not leave me. Exit

         ACT I. SCE E 2. Paris. The KI G'S palace
         Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING OF FRANCE, with letters, and divers ATTENDANTS

             KING. The Florentines and Senoys are by th' ears;
              Have fought with equal fortune, and continue
              A braving war.
             FIRST LORD. So 'tis reported, sir.
             KING. Nay, 'tis most credible. We here receive it,
              A certainty, vouch'd from our cousin Austria,
              With caution, that the Florentine will move us
              For speedy aid; wherein our dearest friend
              Prejudicates the business, and would seem
              To have us make denial.
             FIRST LORD. His love and wisdom,
              Approv'd so to your Majesty, may plead
              For amplest credence.
             KING. He hath arm'd our answer,
              And Florence is denied before he comes;
              Yet, for our gentlemen that mean to see
              The Tuscan service, freely have they leave
              To stand on either part.
             SECOND LORD. It well may serve
              A nursery to our gentry, who are sick
              For breathing and exploit.
             KING. What's he comes here?

         Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES

             FIRST LORD. It is the Count Rousillon, my good lord,
              Young Bertram.
             KING. Youth, thou bear'st thy father's face;
              Frank nature, rather curious than in haste,
              Hath well compos'd thee. Thy father's moral parts
              Mayst thou inherit too! Welcome to Paris.
             BERTRAM. My thanks and duty are your Majesty's.
             KING. I would I had that corporal soundness now,
              As when thy father and myself in friendship
              First tried our soldiership. He did look far
              Into the service of the time, and was
              Discipled of the bravest. He lasted long;
              But on us both did haggish age steal on,
              And wore us out of act. It much repairs me
              To talk of your good father. In his youth
              He had the wit which I can well observe

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              To-day in our young lords; but they may jest
              Till their own scorn return to them unnoted
              Ere they can hide their levity in honour.
              So like a courtier, contempt nor bitterness
              Were in his pride or sharpness; if they were,
              His equal had awak'd them; and his honour,
              Clock to itself, knew the true minute when
              Exception bid him speak, and at this time
              His tongue obey'd his hand. Who were below him
              He us'd as creatures of another place;
              And bow'd his eminent top to their low ranks,
              Making them proud of his humility
              In their poor praise he humbled. Such a man
              Might be a copy to these younger times;
              Which, followed well, would demonstrate them now
              But goers backward.
             BERTRAM. His good remembrance, sir,
              Lies richer in your thoughts than on his tomb;
              So in approof lives not his epitaph
              As in your royal speech.
             KING. Would I were with him! He would always say-
              Methinks I hear him now; his plausive words
              He scatter'd not in ears, but grafted them
              To grow there, and to bear- 'Let me not live'-
              This his good melancholy oft began,
              On the catastrophe and heel of pastime,
              When it was out-'Let me not live' quoth he
              'After my flame lacks oil, to be the snuff
              Of younger spirits, whose apprehensive senses
              All but new things disdain; whose judgments are
              Mere fathers of their garments; whose constancies
              Expire before their fashions.' This he wish'd.
              I, after him, do after him wish too,
              Since I nor wax nor honey can bring home,
              I quickly were dissolved from my hive,
              To give some labourers room.
             SECOND LORD. You're loved, sir;
              They that least lend it you shall lack you first.
             KING. I fill a place, I know't. How long is't, Count,
              Since the physician at your father's died?
              He was much fam'd.
             BERTRAM. Some six months since, my lord.
             KING. If he were living, I would try him yet-
              Lend me an arm-the rest have worn me out
              With several applications. Nature and sickness
              Debate it at their leisure. Welcome, Count;
              My son's no dearer.
             BERTRAM. Thank your Majesty. Exeunt [Flourish]

         ACT I. SCE E 3. Rousillon. The COU T'S palace

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         Enter COUNTESS, STEWARD, and CLOWN

             COUNTESS. I will now hear; what say you of this gentlewoman?
             STEWARD. Madam, the care I have had to even your content I wish
              might be found in the calendar of my past endeavours; for then we
              wound our modesty, and make foul the clearness of our deservings,
              when of ourselves we publish them.
             COUNTESS. What does this knave here? Get you gone, sirrah. The
              complaints I have heard of you I do not all believe; 'tis my
              slowness that I do not, for I know you lack not folly to commit
              them and have ability enough to make such knaveries yours.
             CLOWN. 'Tis not unknown to you, madam, I am a poor fellow.
             COUNTESS. Well, sir.
             CLOWN. No, madam, 'tis not so well that I am poor, though many of
              the rich are damn'd; but if I may have your ladyship's good will
              to go to the world, Isbel the woman and I will do as we may.
             COUNTESS. Wilt thou needs be a beggar?
             CLOWN. I do beg your good will in this case.
             COUNTESS. In what case?
             CLOWN. In Isbel's case and mine own. Service is no heritage; and I
              think I shall never have the blessing of God till I have issue o'
              my body; for they say bames are blessings.
             COUNTESS. Tell me thy reason why thou wilt marry.
             CLOWN. My poor body, madam, requires it. I am driven on by the
              flesh; and he must needs go that the devil drives.
             COUNTESS. Is this all your worship's reason?
             CLOWN. Faith, madam, I have other holy reasons, such as they are.
             COUNTESS. May the world know them?
             CLOWN. I have been, madam, a wicked creature, as you and all flesh
              and blood are; and, indeed, I do marry that I may repent.
             COUNTESS. Thy marriage, sooner than thy wickedness.
             CLOWN. I am out o' friends, madam, and I hope to have friends for
              my wife's sake.
             COUNTESS. Such friends are thine enemies, knave.
             CLOWN. Y'are shallow, madam-in great friends; for the knaves come
              to do that for me which I am aweary of. He that ears my land
              spares my team, and gives me leave to in the crop. If I be his
              cuckold, he's my drudge. He that comforts my wife is the
              cherisher of my flesh and blood; he that cherishes my flesh and
              blood loves my flesh and blood; he that loves my flesh and blood
              is my friend; ergo, he that kisses my wife is my friend. If men
              could be contented to be what they are, there were no fear in
              marriage; for young Charbon the puritan and old Poysam the
              papist, howsome'er their hearts are sever'd in religion, their
              heads are both one; they may jowl horns together like any deer
              i' th' herd.
             COUNTESS. Wilt thou ever be a foul-mouth'd and calumnious knave?
             CLOWN. A prophet I, madam; and I speak the truth the next way:

                    For I the ballad will repeat,
                     Which men full true shall find:
                    Your marriage comes by destiny,
                     Your cuckoo sings by kind.

             COUNTESS. Get you gone, sir; I'll talk with you more anon.

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             STEWARD. May it please you, madam, that he bid Helen come to you.
              Of her I am to speak.
             COUNTESS. Sirrah, tell my gentlewoman I would speak with her; Helen
              I mean.
             CLOWN. [Sings]

                    'Was this fair face the cause' quoth she
                     'Why the Grecians sacked Troy?
                    Fond done, done fond,
                     Was this King Priam's joy?'
                    With that she sighed as she stood,
                    With that she sighed as she stood,
                     And gave this sentence then:
                    'Among nine bad if one be good,
                    Among nine bad if one be good,
                     There's yet one good in ten.'

             COUNTESS. What, one good in ten? You corrupt the song, sirrah.
             CLOWN. One good woman in ten, madam, which is a purifying o' th'
              song. Would God would serve the world so all the year! We'd find
              no fault with the tithe-woman, if I were the parson. One in ten,
              quoth 'a! An we might have a good woman born before every blazing
              star, or at an earthquake, 'twould mend the lottery well: a man
              may draw his heart out ere 'a pluck one.
             COUNTESS. You'll be gone, sir knave, and do as I command you.
             CLOWN. That man should be at woman's command, and yet no hurt done!
              Though honesty be no puritan, yet it will do no hurt; it will
              wear the surplice of humility over the black gown of a big heart.
              I am going, forsooth. The business is for Helen to come hither.
             COUNTESS. Well, now.
             STEWARD. I know, madam, you love your gentlewoman entirely.
             COUNTESS. Faith I do. Her father bequeath'd her to me; and she
              herself, without other advantage, may lawfully make title to as
              much love as she finds. There is more owing her than is paid; and
              more shall be paid her than she'll demand.
             STEWARD. Madam, I was very late more near her than I think she
              wish'd me. Alone she was, and did communicate to herself her own
              words to her own ears; she thought, I dare vow for her, they
              touch'd not any stranger sense. Her matter was, she loved your
              son. Fortune, she said, was no goddess, that had put such
              difference betwixt their two estates; Love no god, that would not
              extend his might only where qualities were level; Diana no queen
              of virgins, that would suffer her poor knight surpris'd without
              rescue in the first assault, or ransom afterward. This she
              deliver'd in the most bitter touch of sorrow that e'er I heard
              virgin exclaim in; which I held my duty speedily to acquaint you
              withal; sithence, in the loss that may happen, it concerns you
              something to know it.
             COUNTESS. YOU have discharg'd this honestly; keep it to yourself.
              Many likelihoods inform'd me of this before, which hung so
              tott'ring in the balance that I could neither believe nor
              misdoubt. Pray you leave me. Stall this in your bosom; and I
              thank you for your honest care. I will speak with you further
              anon. Exit STEWARD

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         Enter HELENA

              Even so it was with me when I was young.
              If ever we are nature's, these are ours; this thorn
              Doth to our rose of youth rightly belong;
              Our blood to us, this to our blood is born.
              It is the show and seal of nature's truth,
              Where love's strong passion is impress'd in youth.
              By our remembrances of days foregone,
              Such were our faults, or then we thought them none.
              Her eye is sick on't; I observe her now.
             HELENA. What is your pleasure, madam?
             COUNTESS. You know, Helen,
              I am a mother to you.
             HELENA. Mine honourable mistress.
             COUNTESS. Nay, a mother.
              Why not a mother? When I said 'a mother,'
              Methought you saw a serpent. What's in 'mother'
              That you start at it? I say I am your mother,
              And put you in the catalogue of those
              That were enwombed mine. 'Tis often seen
              Adoption strives with nature, and choice breeds
              A native slip to us from foreign seeds.
              You ne'er oppress'd me with a mother's groan,
              Yet I express to you a mother's care.
              God's mercy, maiden! does it curd thy blood
              To say I am thy mother? What's the matter,
              That this distempered messenger of wet,
              The many-colour'd Iris, rounds thine eye?
              Why, that you are my daughter?
             HELENA. That I am not.
             COUNTESS. I say I am your mother.
             HELENA. Pardon, madam.
              The Count Rousillon cannot be my brother:
              I am from humble, he from honoured name;
              No note upon my parents, his all noble.
              My master, my dear lord he is; and I
              His servant live, and will his vassal die.
              He must not be my brother.
             COUNTESS. Nor I your mother?
             HELENA. You are my mother, madam; would you were-
              So that my lord your son were not my brother-
              Indeed my mother! Or were you both our mothers,
              I care no more for than I do for heaven,
              So I were not his sister. Can't no other,
              But, I your daughter, he must be my brother?
             COUNTESS. Yes, Helen, you might be my daughter-in-law.
              God shield you mean it not! 'daughter' and 'mother'
              So strive upon your pulse. What! pale again?
              My fear hath catch'd your fondness. Now I see
              The myst'ry of your loneliness, and find
              Your salt tears' head. Now to all sense 'tis gross
              You love my son; invention is asham'd,
              Against the proclamation of thy passion,
              To say thou dost not. Therefore tell me true;

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              But tell me then, 'tis so; for, look, thy cheeks
              Confess it, th' one to th' other; and thine eyes
              See it so grossly shown in thy behaviours
              That in their kind they speak it; only sin
              And hellish obstinacy tie thy tongue,
              That truth should be suspected. Speak, is't so?
              If it be so, you have wound a goodly clew;
              If it be not, forswear't; howe'er, I charge thee,
              As heaven shall work in me for thine avail,
              To tell me truly.
             HELENA. Good madam, pardon me.
             COUNTESS. Do you love my son?
             HELENA. Your pardon, noble mistress.
             COUNTESS. Love you my son?
             HELENA. Do not you love him, madam?
             COUNTESS. Go not about; my love hath in't a bond
              Whereof the world takes note. Come, come, disclose
              The state of your affection; for your passions
              Have to the full appeach'd.
             HELENA. Then I confess,
              Here on my knee, before high heaven and you,
              That before you, and next unto high heaven,
              I love your son.
              My friends were poor, but honest; so's my love.
              Be not offended, for it hurts not him
              That he is lov'd of me; I follow him not
              By any token of presumptuous suit,
              Nor would I have him till I do deserve him;
              Yet never know how that desert should be.
              I know I love in vain, strive against hope;
              Yet in this captious and intenible sieve
              I still pour in the waters of my love,
              And lack not to lose still. Thus, Indian-like,
              Religious in mine error, I adore
              The sun that looks upon his worshipper
              But knows of him no more. My dearest madam,
              Let not your hate encounter with my love,
              For loving where you do; but if yourself,
              Whose aged honour cites a virtuous youth,
              Did ever in so true a flame of liking
              Wish chastely and love dearly that your Dian
              Was both herself and Love; O, then, give pity
              To her whose state is such that cannot choose
              But lend and give where she is sure to lose;
              That seeks not to find that her search implies,
              But, riddle-like, lives sweetly where she dies!
             COUNTESS. Had you not lately an intent-speak truly-
              To go to Paris?
             HELENA. Madam, I had.
             COUNTESS. Wherefore? Tell true.
             HELENA. I will tell truth; by grace itself I swear.
              You know my father left me some prescriptions
              Of rare and prov'd effects, such as his reading
              And manifest experience had collected

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              For general sovereignty; and that he will'd me
              In heedfull'st reservation to bestow them,
              As notes whose faculties inclusive were
              More than they were in note. Amongst the rest
              There is a remedy, approv'd, set down,
              To cure the desperate languishings whereof
              The King is render'd lost.
             COUNTESS. This was your motive
              For Paris, was it? Speak.
             HELENA. My lord your son made me to think of this,
              Else Paris, and the medicine, and the King,
              Had from the conversation of my thoughts
              Haply been absent then.
             COUNTESS. But think you, Helen,
              If you should tender your supposed aid,
              He would receive it? He and his physicians
              Are of a mind: he, that they cannot help him;
              They, that they cannot help. How shall they credit
              A poor unlearned virgin, when the schools,
              Embowell'd of their doctrine, have let off
              The danger to itself?
             HELENA. There's something in't
              More than my father's skill, which was the great'st
              Of his profession, that his good receipt
              Shall for my legacy be sanctified
              By th' luckiest stars in heaven; and, would your honour
              But give me leave to try success, I'd venture
              The well-lost life of mine on his Grace's cure.
              By such a day and hour.
             COUNTESS. Dost thou believe't?
             HELENA. Ay, madam, knowingly.
             COUNTESS. Why, Helen, thou shalt have my leave and love,
              Means and attendants, and my loving greetings
              To those of mine in court. I'll stay at home,
              And pray God's blessing into thy attempt.
              Be gone to-morrow; and be sure of this,
              What I can help thee to thou shalt not miss. Exeunt


         ACT II. SCE E 1. Paris. The KI G'S palace

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         Flourish of cornets. Enter the KING with divers young LORDS taking leave for the Florentine war;

             KING. Farewell, young lords; these war-like principles
              Do not throw from you. And you, my lords, farewell;
              Share the advice betwixt you; if both gain all,
              The gift doth stretch itself as 'tis receiv'd,
              And is enough for both.
             FIRST LORD. 'Tis our hope, sir,
              After well-ent'red soldiers, to return
              And find your Grace in health.
             KING. No, no, it cannot be; and yet my heart
              Will not confess he owes the malady
              That doth my life besiege. Farewell, young lords;
              Whether I live or die, be you the sons
              Of worthy Frenchmen; let higher Italy-
              Those bated that inherit but the fall
              Of the last monarchy-see that you come
              Not to woo honour, but to wed it; when
              The bravest questant shrinks, find what you seek,
              That fame may cry you aloud. I say farewell.
             SECOND LORD. Health, at your bidding, serve your Majesty!
             KING. Those girls of Italy, take heed of them;
              They say our French lack language to deny,
              If they demand; beware of being captives
              Before you serve.
              BOTH. Our hearts receive your warnings.
             KING. Farewell. [To ATTENDANTS] Come hither to me.
                                     The KING retires attended
             FIRST LORD. O my sweet lord, that you will stay behind us!
             PAROLLES. 'Tis not his fault, the spark.
              SECOND LORD. O, 'tis brave wars!
             PAROLLES. Most admirable! I have seen those wars.
             BERTRAM. I am commanded here and kept a coil with
              'Too young' and next year' and "Tis too early.'
             PAROLLES. An thy mind stand to 't, boy, steal away bravely.
             BERTRAM. I shall stay here the forehorse to a smock,
              Creaking my shoes on the plain masonry,
              Till honour be bought up, and no sword worn
              But one to dance with. By heaven, I'll steal away.
             FIRST LORD. There's honour in the theft.
             PAROLLES. Commit it, Count.
             SECOND LORD. I am your accessary; and so farewell.
             BERTRAM. I grow to you, and our parting is a tortur'd body.
             FIRST LORD. Farewell, Captain.
             SECOND LORD. Sweet Monsieur Parolles!
             PAROLLES. Noble heroes, my sword and yours are kin. Good sparks and
              lustrous, a word, good metals: you shall find in the regiment of
              the Spinii one Captain Spurio, with his cicatrice, an emblem of
              war, here on his sinister cheek; it was this very sword
              entrench'd it. Say to him I live; and observe his reports for me.
             FIRST LORD. We shall, noble Captain.
             PAROLLES. Mars dote on you for his novices! Exeunt LORDS
              What will ye do?

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         Re-enter the KING

             BERTRAM. Stay; the King!
             PAROLLES. Use a more spacious ceremony to the noble lords; you have
              restrain'd yourself within the list of too cold an adieu. Be more
              expressive to them; for they wear themselves in the cap of the
              time; there do muster true gait; eat, speak, and move, under the
              influence of the most receiv'd star; and though the devil lead
              the measure, such are to be followed. After them, and take a more
              dilated farewell.
             BERTRAM. And I will do so.
             PAROLLES. Worthy fellows; and like to prove most sinewy sword-men.
                                    Exeunt BERTRAM and PAROLLES

         Enter LAFEU

             LAFEU. [Kneeling] Pardon, my lord, for me and for my tidings.
             KING. I'll fee thee to stand up.
             LAFEU. Then here's a man stands that has brought his pardon.
              I would you had kneel'd, my lord, to ask me mercy;
              And that at my bidding you could so stand up.
             KING. I would I had; so I had broke thy pate,
              And ask'd thee mercy for't.
             LAFEU. Good faith, across!
              But, my good lord, 'tis thus: will you be cur'd
              Of your infirmity?
             KING. No.
             LAFEU. O, will you eat
              No grapes, my royal fox? Yes, but you will
              My noble grapes, an if my royal fox
              Could reach them: I have seen a medicine
              That's able to breathe life into a stone,
              Quicken a rock, and make you dance canary
              With spritely fire and motion; whose simple touch
              Is powerful to araise King Pepin, nay,
              To give great Charlemain a pen in's hand
              And write to her a love-line.
             KING. What her is this?
             LAFEU. Why, Doctor She! My lord, there's one arriv'd,
              If you will see her. Now, by my faith and honour,
              If seriously I may convey my thoughts
              In this my light deliverance, I have spoke
              With one that in her sex, her years, profession,
              Wisdom, and constancy, hath amaz'd me more
              Than I dare blame my weakness. Will you see her,
              For that is her demand, and know her business?
              That done, laugh well at me.
             KING. Now, good Lafeu,
              Bring in the admiration, that we with the
              May spend our wonder too, or take off thine
              By wond'ring how thou took'st it.
             LAFEU. Nay, I'll fit you,
              And not be all day neither. Exit LAFEU
             KING. Thus he his special nothing ever prologues.

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         Re-enter LAFEU with HELENA

             LAFEU. Nay, come your ways.
             KING. This haste hath wings indeed.
             LAFEU. Nay, come your ways;
              This is his Majesty; say your mind to him.
              A traitor you do look like; but such traitors
              His Majesty seldom fears. I am Cressid's uncle,
              That dare leave two together. Fare you well. Exit
             KING. Now, fair one, does your business follow us?
             HELENA. Ay, my good lord.
              Gerard de Narbon was my father,
              In what he did profess, well found.
             KING. I knew him.
             HELENA. The rather will I spare my praises towards him;
              Knowing him is enough. On's bed of death
              Many receipts he gave me; chiefly one,
              Which, as the dearest issue of his practice,
              And of his old experience th' only darling,
              He bade me store up as a triple eye,
              Safer than mine own two, more dear. I have so:
              And, hearing your high Majesty is touch'd
              With that malignant cause wherein the honour
              Of my dear father's gift stands chief in power,
              I come to tender it, and my appliance,
              With all bound humbleness.
             KING. We thank you, maiden;
              But may not be so credulous of cure,
              When our most learned doctors leave us, and
              The congregated college have concluded
              That labouring art can never ransom nature
              From her inaidable estate-I say we must not
              So stain our judgment, or corrupt our hope,
              To prostitute our past-cure malady
              To empirics; or to dissever so
              Our great self and our credit to esteem
              A senseless help, when help past sense we deem.
             HELENA. My duty then shall pay me for my pains.
              I will no more enforce mine office on you;
              Humbly entreating from your royal thoughts
              A modest one to bear me back again.
             KING. I cannot give thee less, to be call'd grateful.
              Thou thought'st to help me; and such thanks I give
              As one near death to those that wish him live.
              But what at full I know, thou know'st no part;
              I knowing all my peril, thou no art.
             HELENA. What I can do can do no hurt to try,
              Since you set up your rest 'gainst remedy.
              He that of greatest works is finisher
              Oft does them by the weakest minister.
              So holy writ in babes hath judgment shown,
              When judges have been babes. Great floods have flown
              From simple sources, and great seas have dried
              When miracles have by the greatest been denied.
              Oft expectation fails, and most oft there

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              Where most it promises; and oft it hits
              Where hope is coldest, and despair most fits.
             KING. I must not hear thee. Fare thee well, kind maid;
              Thy pains, not us'd, must by thyself be paid;
              Proffers not took reap thanks for their reward.
             HELENA. Inspired merit so by breath is barr'd.
              It is not so with Him that all things knows,
              As 'tis with us that square our guess by shows;
              But most it is presumption in us when
              The help of heaven we count the act of men.
              Dear sir, to my endeavours give consent;
              Of heaven, not me, make an experiment.
              I am not an impostor, that proclaim
              Myself against the level of mine aim;
              But know I think, and think I know most sure,
              My art is not past power nor you past cure.
             KING. Art thou so confident? Within what space
              Hop'st thou my cure?
             HELENA. The greatest Grace lending grace.
              Ere twice the horses of the sun shall bring
              Their fiery torcher his diurnal ring,
              Ere twice in murk and occidental damp
              Moist Hesperus hath quench'd his sleepy lamp,
              Or four and twenty times the pilot's glass
              Hath told the thievish minutes how they pass,
              What is infirm from your sound parts shall fly,
              Health shall live free, and sickness freely die.
             KING. Upon thy certainty and confidence
              What dar'st thou venture?
             HELENA. Tax of impudence,
              A strumpet's boldness, a divulged shame,
              Traduc'd by odious ballads; my maiden's name
              Sear'd otherwise; ne worse of worst-extended
              With vilest torture let my life be ended.
             KING. Methinks in thee some blessed spirit doth speak
              His powerful sound within an organ weak;
              And what impossibility would slay
              In common sense, sense saves another way.
              Thy life is dear; for all that life can rate
              Worth name of life in thee hath estimate:
              Youth, beauty, wisdom, courage, all
              That happiness and prime can happy call.
              Thou this to hazard needs must intimate
              Skill infinite or monstrous desperate.
              Sweet practiser, thy physic I will try,
              That ministers thine own death if I die.
             HELENA. If I break time, or flinch in property
              Of what I spoke, unpitied let me die;
              And well deserv'd. Not helping, death's my fee;
              But, if I help, what do you promise me?
             KING. Make thy demand.
             HELENA. But will you make it even?
             KING. Ay, by my sceptre and my hopes of heaven.
             HELENA. Then shalt thou give me with thy kingly hand

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              What husband in thy power I will command.
              Exempted be from me the arrogance
              To choose from forth the royal blood of France,
              My low and humble name to propagate
              With any branch or image of thy state;
              But such a one, thy vassal, whom I know
              Is free for me to ask, thee to bestow.
             KING. Here is my hand; the premises observ'd,
              Thy will by my performance shall be serv'd.
              So make the choice of thy own time, for I,
              Thy resolv'd patient, on thee still rely.
              More should I question thee, and more I must,
              Though more to know could not be more to trust,
              From whence thou cam'st, how tended on. But rest
              Unquestion'd welcome and undoubted blest.
              Give me some help here, ho! If thou proceed
              As high as word, my deed shall match thy deed.
                                          [Flourish. Exeunt]

         ACT II. SCE E 2. Rousillon. The COU T'S palace
         Enter COUNTESS and CLOWN

             COUNTESS. Come on, sir; I shall now put you to the height of your
             CLOWN. I will show myself highly fed and lowly taught. I know my
              business is but to the court.
             COUNTESS. To the court! Why, what place make you special, when you
              put off that with such contempt? But to the court!
             CLOWN. Truly, madam, if God have lent a man any manners, he may
              easily put it off at court. He that cannot make a leg, put off's
              cap, kiss his hand, and say nothing, has neither leg, hands, lip,
              nor cap; and indeed such a fellow, to say precisely, were not for
              the court; but for me, I have an answer will serve all men.
             COUNTESS. Marry, that's a bountiful answer that fits all questions.
             CLOWN. It is like a barber's chair, that fits all buttocks-the pin
              buttock, the quatch buttock, the brawn buttock, or any buttock.
             COUNTESS. Will your answer serve fit to all questions?
             CLOWN. As fit as ten groats is for the hand of an attorney, as your
              French crown for your taffety punk, as Tib's rush for Tom's
              forefinger, as a pancake for Shrove Tuesday, a morris for Mayday,
              as the nail to his hole, the cuckold to his horn, as a scolding
              quean to a wrangling knave, as the nun's lip to the friar's
              mouth; nay, as the pudding to his skin.
             COUNTESS. Have you, I, say, an answer of such fitness for all
             CLOWN. From below your duke to beneath your constable, it will fit
              any question.
             COUNTESS. It must be an answer of most monstrous size that must fit
              all demands.

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             CLOWN. But a trifle neither, in good faith, if the learned should
              speak truth of it. Here it is, and all that belongs to't. Ask me
              if I am a courtier: it shall do you no harm to learn.
             COUNTESS. To be young again, if we could, I will be a fool in
              question, hoping to be the wiser by your answer. I pray you, sir,
              are you a courtier?
             CLOWN. O Lord, sir!-There's a simple putting off. More, more, a
              hundred of them.
             COUNTESS. Sir, I am a poor friend of yours, that loves you.
             CLOWN. O Lord, sir!-Thick, thick; spare not me.
             COUNTESS. I think, sir, you can eat none of this homely meat.
             CLOWN. O Lord, sir!-Nay, put me to't, I warrant you.
             COUNTESS. You were lately whipp'd, sir, as I think.
             CLOWN. O Lord, sir!-Spare not me.
             COUNTESS. Do you cry 'O Lord, sir!' at your whipping, and 'spare
              not me'? Indeed your 'O Lord, sir!' is very sequent to your
              whipping. You would answer very well to a whipping, if you were
              but bound to't.
             CLOWN. I ne'er had worse luck in my life in my 'O Lord, sir!' I see
              thing's may serve long, but not serve ever.
             COUNTESS. I play the noble housewife with the time,
              To entertain it so merrily with a fool.
             CLOWN. O Lord, sir!-Why, there't serves well again.
             COUNTESS. An end, sir! To your business: give Helen this,
              And urge her to a present answer back;
              Commend me to my kinsmen and my son. This is not much.
             CLOWN. Not much commendation to them?
             COUNTESS. Not much employment for you. You understand me?
             CLOWN. Most fruitfully; I am there before my legs.
             COUNTESS. Haste you again. Exeunt

         ACT II. SCE E 3. Paris. The KI G'S palace
         Enter BERTRAM, LAFEU, and PAROLLES

             LAFEU. They say miracles are past; and we have our philosophical
              persons to make modern and familiar things supernatural and
              causeless. Hence is it that we make trifles of terrors,
              ensconcing ourselves into seeming knowledge when we should submit
              ourselves to an unknown fear.
             PAROLLES. Why, 'tis the rarest argument of wonder that hath shot
              out in our latter times.
             BERTRAM. And so 'tis.
             LAFEU. To be relinquish'd of the artists-
             PAROLLES. So I say-both of Galen and Paracelsus.
             LAFEU. Of all the learned and authentic fellows-
             PAROLLES. Right; so I say.
             LAFEU. That gave him out incurable-
             PAROLLES. Why, there 'tis; so say I too.
             LAFEU. Not to be help'd-

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             PAROLLES. Right; as 'twere a man assur'd of a-
             LAFEU. Uncertain life and sure death.
             PAROLLES. Just; you say well; so would I have said.
             LAFEU. I may truly say it is a novelty to the world.
             PAROLLES. It is indeed. If you will have it in showing, you shall
              read it in what-do-ye-call't here.
             LAFEU. [Reading the ballad title] 'A Showing of a Heavenly
              Effect in an Earthly Actor.'
             PAROLLES. That's it; I would have said the very same.
             LAFEU. Why, your dolphin is not lustier. 'Fore me, I speak in
             PAROLLES. Nay, 'tis strange, 'tis very strange; that is the brief
              and the tedious of it; and he's of a most facinerious spirit that
              will not acknowledge it to be the-
             LAFEU. Very hand of heaven.
             PAROLLES. Ay; so I say.
             LAFEU. In a most weak-
             PAROLLES. And debile minister, great power, great transcendence;
              which should, indeed, give us a further use to be made than alone
              the recov'ry of the King, as to be-
             LAFEU. Generally thankful.

         Enter KING, HELENA, and ATTENDANTS

             PAROLLES. I would have said it; you say well. Here comes the King.
             LAFEU. Lustig, as the Dutchman says. I'll like a maid the better,
              whilst I have a tooth in my head. Why, he's able to lead her a
             PAROLLES. Mort du vinaigre! Is not this Helen?
             LAFEU. 'Fore God, I think so.
             KING. Go, call before me all the lords in court.
                                         Exit an ATTENDANT
              Sit, my preserver, by thy patient's side;
              And with this healthful hand, whose banish'd sense
              Thou has repeal'd, a second time receive
              The confirmation of my promis'd gift,
              Which but attends thy naming.

         Enter three or four LORDS

              Fair maid, send forth thine eye. This youthful parcel
              Of noble bachelors stand at my bestowing,
              O'er whom both sovereign power and father's voice
              I have to use. Thy frank election make;
              Thou hast power to choose, and they none to forsake.
             HELENA. To each of you one fair and virtuous mistress
              Fall, when love please. Marry, to each but one!
             LAFEU. I'd give bay Curtal and his furniture
              My mouth no more were broken than these boys',
              And writ as little beard.
             KING. Peruse them well.
              Not one of those but had a noble father.
             HELENA. Gentlemen,
              Heaven hath through me restor'd the King to health.
             ALL. We understand it, and thank heaven for you.

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             HELENA. I am a simple maid, and therein wealthiest
              That I protest I simply am a maid.
              Please it your Majesty, I have done already.
              The blushes in my cheeks thus whisper me:
              'We blush that thou shouldst choose; but, be refused,
              Let the white death sit on thy cheek for ever,
              We'll ne'er come there again.'
             KING. Make choice and see:
              Who shuns thy love shuns all his love in me.
             HELENA. Now, Dian, from thy altar do I fly,
              And to imperial Love, that god most high,
              Do my sighs stream. Sir, will you hear my suit?
             FIRST LORD. And grant it.
             HELENA. Thanks, sir; all the rest is mute.
             LAFEU. I had rather be in this choice than throw ames-ace for my
             HELENA. The honour, sir, that flames in your fair eyes,
              Before I speak, too threat'ningly replies.
              Love make your fortunes twenty times above
              Her that so wishes, and her humble love!
             SECOND LORD. No better, if you please.
             HELENA. My wish receive,
              Which great Love grant; and so I take my leave.
             LAFEU. Do all they deny her? An they were sons of mine I'd have
              them whipt; or I would send them to th' Turk to make eunuchs of.
             HELENA. Be not afraid that I your hand should take;
              I'll never do you wrong for your own sake.
              Blessing upon your vows; and in your bed
              Find fairer fortune, if you ever wed!
             LAFEU. These boys are boys of ice; they'll none have her.
              Sure, they are bastards to the English; the French ne'er got 'em.
             HELENA. You are too young, too happy, and too good,
              To make yourself a son out of my blood.
             FOURTH LORD. Fair one, I think not so.
             LAFEU. There's one grape yet; I am sure thy father drunk wine-but
              if thou be'st not an ass, I am a youth of fourteen; I have known
              thee already.
             HELENA. [To BERTRAM] I dare not say I take you; but I give
              Me and my service, ever whilst I live,
              Into your guiding power. This is the man.
             KING. Why, then, young Bertram, take her; she's thy wife.
             BERTRAM. My wife, my liege! I shall beseech your Highness,
              In such a business give me leave to use
              The help of mine own eyes.
             KING. Know'st thou not, Bertram,
              What she has done for me?
             BERTRAM. Yes, my good lord;
              But never hope to know why I should marry her.
             KING. Thou know'st she has rais'd me from my sickly bed.
             BERTRAM. But follows it, my lord, to bring me down
              Must answer for your raising? I know her well:
              She had her breeding at my father's charge.
              A poor physician's daughter my wife! Disdain
              Rather corrupt me ever!

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             KING. 'Tis only title thou disdain'st in her, the which
              I can build up. Strange is it that our bloods,
              Of colour, weight, and heat, pour'd all together,
              Would quite confound distinction, yet stand off
              In differences so mighty. If she be
              All that is virtuous-save what thou dislik'st,
              A poor physician's daughter-thou dislik'st
              Of virtue for the name; but do not so.
              From lowest place when virtuous things proceed,
              The place is dignified by the doer's deed;
              Where great additions swell's, and virtue none,
              It is a dropsied honour. Good alone
              Is good without a name. Vileness is so:
              The property by what it is should go,
              Not by the title. She is young, wise, fair;
              In these to nature she's immediate heir;
              And these breed honour. That is honour's scorn
              Which challenges itself as honour's born
              And is not like the sire. Honours thrive
              When rather from our acts we them derive
              Than our fore-goers. The mere word's a slave,
              Debauch'd on every tomb, on every grave
              A lying trophy; and as oft is dumb
              Where dust and damn'd oblivion is the tomb
              Of honour'd bones indeed. What should be said?
              If thou canst like this creature as a maid,
              I can create the rest. Virtue and she
              Is her own dower; honour and wealth from me.
             BERTRAM. I cannot love her, nor will strive to do 't.
             KING. Thou wrong'st thyself, if thou shouldst strive to choose.
             HELENA. That you are well restor'd, my lord, I'm glad.
              Let the rest go.
             KING. My honour's at the stake; which to defeat,
              I must produce my power. Here, take her hand,
              Proud scornful boy, unworthy this good gift,
              That dost in vile misprision shackle up
              My love and her desert; that canst not dream
              We, poising us in her defective scale,
              Shall weigh thee to the beam; that wilt not know
              It is in us to plant thine honour where
              We please to have it grow. Check thy contempt;
              Obey our will, which travails in thy good;
              Believe not thy disdain, but presently
              Do thine own fortunes that obedient right
              Which both thy duty owes and our power claims;
              Or I will throw thee from my care for ever
              Into the staggers and the careless lapse
              Of youth and ignorance; both my revenge and hate
              Loosing upon thee in the name of justice,
              Without all terms of pity. Speak; thine answer.
             BERTRAM. Pardon, my gracious lord; for I submit
              My fancy to your eyes. When I consider
              What great creation and what dole of honour
              Flies where you bid it, I find that she which late

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              Was in my nobler thoughts most base is now
              The praised of the King; who, so ennobled,
              Is as 'twere born so.
             KING. Take her by the hand,
              And tell her she is thine; to whom I promise
              A counterpoise, if not to thy estate
              A balance more replete.
             BERTRAM. I take her hand.
             KING. Good fortune and the favour of the King
              Smile upon this contract; whose ceremony
              Shall seem expedient on the now-born brief,
              And be perform'd to-night. The solemn feast
              Shall more attend upon the coming space,
              Expecting absent friends. As thou lov'st her,
              Thy love's to me religious; else, does err.
                      Exeunt all but LAFEU and PAROLLES who stay behind,
                                      commenting of this wedding
             LAFEU. Do you hear, monsieur? A word with you.
             PAROLLES. Your pleasure, sir?
             LAFEU. Your lord and master did well to make his recantation.
             PAROLLES. Recantation! My Lord! my master!
             LAFEU. Ay; is it not a language I speak?
             PAROLLES. A most harsh one, and not to be understood without bloody
              succeeding. My master!
             LAFEU. Are you companion to the Count Rousillon?
             PAROLLES. To any count; to all counts; to what is man.
             LAFEU. To what is count's man: count's master is of another style.
             PAROLLES. You are too old, sir; let it satisfy you, you are too
             LAFEU. I must tell thee, sirrah, I write man; to which title age
              cannot bring thee.
             PAROLLES. What I dare too well do, I dare not do.
             LAFEU. I did think thee, for two ordinaries, to be a pretty wise
              fellow; thou didst make tolerable vent of thy travel; it might
              pass. Yet the scarfs and the bannerets about thee did manifoldly
              dissuade me from believing thee a vessel of too great a burden. I
              have now found thee; when I lose thee again I care not; yet art
              thou good for nothing but taking up; and that thou'rt scarce
             PAROLLES. Hadst thou not the privilege of antiquity upon thee-
             LAFEU. Do not plunge thyself too far in anger, lest thou hasten thy
              trial; which if-Lord have mercy on thee for a hen! So, my good
              window of lattice, fare thee well; thy casement I need not open,
              for I look through thee. Give me thy hand.
             PAROLLES. My lord, you give me most egregious indignity.
             LAFEU. Ay, with all my heart; and thou art worthy of it.
             PAROLLES. I have not, my lord, deserv'd it.
             LAFEU. Yes, good faith, ev'ry dram of it; and I will not bate thee
              a scruple.
             PAROLLES. Well, I shall be wiser.
             LAFEU. Ev'n as soon as thou canst, for thou hast to pull at a smack
              o' th' contrary. If ever thou be'st bound in thy scarf and
              beaten, thou shalt find what it is to be proud of thy bondage. I
              have a desire to hold my acquaintance with thee, or rather my

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              knowledge, that I may say in the default 'He is a man I know.'
             PAROLLES. My lord, you do me most insupportable vexation.
             LAFEU. I would it were hell pains for thy sake, and my poor doing
              eternal; for doing I am past, as I will by thee, in what motion
              age will give me leave. Exit
             PAROLLES. Well, thou hast a son shall take this disgrace off me:
              scurvy, old, filthy, scurvy lord! Well, I must be patient; there
              is no fettering of authority. I'll beat him, by my life, if I can
              meet him with any convenience, an he were double and double a
              lord. I'll have no more pity of his age than I would have of-
              I'll beat him, and if I could but meet him again.

         Re-enter LAFEU

             LAFEU. Sirrah, your lord and master's married; there's news for
              you; you have a new mistress.
             PAROLLES. I most unfeignedly beseech your lordship to make some
              reservation of your wrongs. He is my good lord: whom I serve
              above is my master.
             LAFEU. Who? God?
             PAROLLES. Ay, sir.
             LAFEU. The devil it is that's thy master. Why dost thou garter up
              thy arms o' this fashion? Dost make hose of thy sleeves? Do other
              servants so? Thou wert best set thy lower part where thy nose
              stands. By mine honour, if I were but two hours younger, I'd beat
              thee. Methink'st thou art a general offence, and every man should
              beat thee. I think thou wast created for men to breathe
              themselves upon thee.
             PAROLLES. This is hard and undeserved measure, my lord.
             LAFEU. Go to, sir; you were beaten in Italy for picking a kernel
              out of a pomegranate; you are a vagabond, and no true traveller;
              you are more saucy with lords and honourable personages than the
              commission of your birth and virtue gives you heraldry. You are
              not worth another word, else I'd call you knave. I leave you.

         Enter BERTRAM

             PAROLLES. Good, very, good, it is so then. Good, very good; let it
              be conceal'd awhile.
             BERTRAM. Undone, and forfeited to cares for ever!
             PAROLLES. What's the matter, sweetheart?
             BERTRAM. Although before the solemn priest I have sworn,
              I will not bed her.
             PAROLLES. What, what, sweetheart?
             BERTRAM. O my Parolles, they have married me!
              I'll to the Tuscan wars, and never bed her.
             PAROLLES. France is a dog-hole, and it no more merits
              The tread of a man's foot. To th' wars!
             BERTRAM. There's letters from my mother; what th' import is I know
              not yet.
             PAROLLES. Ay, that would be known. To th' wars, my boy, to th'
              He wears his honour in a box unseen
              That hugs his kicky-wicky here at home,

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              Spending his manly marrow in her arms,
              Which should sustain the bound and high curvet
              Of Mars's fiery steed. To other regions!
              France is a stable; we that dwell in't jades;
              Therefore, to th' war!
             BERTRAM. It shall be so; I'll send her to my house,
              Acquaint my mother with my hate to her,
              And wherefore I am fled; write to the King
              That which I durst not speak. His present gift
              Shall furnish me to those Italian fields
              Where noble fellows strike. War is no strife
              To the dark house and the detested wife.
             PAROLLES. Will this capriccio hold in thee, art sure?
             BERTRAM. Go with me to my chamber and advise me.
              I'll send her straight away. To-morrow
              I'll to the wars, she to her single sorrow.
             PAROLLES. Why, these balls bound; there's noise in it. 'Tis hard:
              A young man married is a man that's marr'd.
              Therefore away, and leave her bravely; go.
              The King has done you wrong; but, hush, 'tis so. Exeunt

         ACT II. SCE E 4. Paris. The KI G'S palace
         Enter HELENA and CLOWN

             HELENA. My mother greets me kindly; is she well?
             CLOWN. She is not well, but yet she has her health; she's very
              merry, but yet she is not well. But thanks be given, she's very
              well, and wants nothing i' th' world; but yet she is not well.
             HELENA. If she be very well, what does she ail that she's not very
             CLOWN. Truly, she's very well indeed, but for two things.
             HELENA. What two things?
             CLOWN. One, that she's not in heaven, whither God send her quickly!
              The other, that she's in earth, from whence God send her quickly!

         Enter PAROLLES

             PAROLLES. Bless you, my fortunate lady!
             HELENA. I hope, sir, I have your good will to have mine own good
             PAROLLES. You had my prayers to lead them on; and to keep them on,
              have them still. O, my knave, how does my old lady?
             CLOWN. So that you had her wrinkles and I her money, I would she
              did as you say.
             PAROLLES. Why, I say nothing.
             CLOWN. Marry, you are the wiser man; for many a man's tongue shakes
              out his master's undoing. To say nothing, to do nothing, to know
              nothing, and to have nothing, is to be a great part of your
              title, which is within a very little of nothing.

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             PAROLLES. Away! th'art a knave.
             CLOWN. You should have said, sir, 'Before a knave th'art a knave';
              that's 'Before me th'art a knave.' This had been truth, sir.
             PAROLLES. Go to, thou art a witty fool; I have found thee.
             CLOWN. Did you find me in yourself, sir, or were you taught to find
              me? The search, sir, was profitable; and much fool may you find
              in you, even to the world's pleasure and the increase of
             PAROLLES. A good knave, i' faith, and well fed.
              Madam, my lord will go away to-night:
              A very serious business calls on him.
              The great prerogative and rite of love,
              Which, as your due, time claims, he does acknowledge;
              But puts it off to a compell'd restraint;
              Whose want, and whose delay, is strew'd with sweets,
              Which they distil now in the curbed time,
              To make the coming hour o'erflow with joy
              And pleasure drown the brim.
             HELENA. What's his else?
             PAROLLES. That you will take your instant leave o' th' King,
              And make this haste as your own good proceeding,
              Strength'ned with what apology you think
              May make it probable need.
             HELENA. What more commands he?
             PAROLLES. That, having this obtain'd, you presently
              Attend his further pleasure.
             HELENA. In everything I wait upon his will.
             PAROLLES. I shall report it so.
             HELENA. I pray you. Exit PAROLLES
              Come, sirrah. Exeunt

         ACT II. SCE E 5. Paris. The KI G'S palace
         Enter LAFEU and BERTRAM

             LAFEU. But I hope your lordship thinks not him a soldier.
             BERTRAM. Yes, my lord, and of very valiant approof.
             LAFEU. You have it from his own deliverance.
             BERTRAM. And by other warranted testimony.
             LAFEU. Then my dial goes not true; I took this lark for a bunting.
             BERTRAM. I do assure you, my lord, he is very great in knowledge,
              and accordingly valiant.
             LAFEU. I have then sinn'd against his experience and transgress'd
              against his valour; and my state that way is dangerous, since I
              cannot yet find in my heart to repent. Here he comes; I pray you
              make us friends; I will pursue the amity

         Enter PAROLLES

             PAROLLES. [To BERTRAM] These things shall be done, sir.

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             LAFEU. Pray you, sir, who's his tailor?
             PAROLLES. Sir!
             LAFEU. O, I know him well. Ay, sir; he, sir, 's a good workman, a
              very good tailor.
             BERTRAM. [Aside to PAROLLES] Is she gone to the King?
             PAROLLES. She is.
             BERTRAM. Will she away to-night?
             PAROLLES. As you'll have her.
             BERTRAM. I have writ my letters, casketed my treasure,
              Given order for our horses; and to-night,
              When I should take possession of the bride,
              End ere I do begin.
             LAFEU. A good traveller is something at the latter end of a dinner;
              but one that lies three-thirds and uses a known truth to pass a
              thousand nothings with, should be once heard and thrice beaten.
              God save you, Captain.
             BERTRAM. Is there any unkindness between my lord and you, monsieur?
             PAROLLES. I know not how I have deserved to run into my lord's
             LAFEU. You have made shift to run into 't, boots and spurs and all,
              like him that leapt into the custard; and out of it you'll run
              again, rather than suffer question for your residence.
             BERTRAM. It may be you have mistaken him, my lord.
             LAFEU. And shall do so ever, though I took him at's prayers.
              Fare you well, my lord; and believe this of me: there can be no
              kernal in this light nut; the soul of this man is his clothes;
              trust him not in matter of heavy consequence; I have kept of them
              tame, and know their natures. Farewell, monsieur; I have spoken
              better of you than you have or will to deserve at my hand; but we
              must do good against evil. Exit
             PAROLLES. An idle lord, I swear.
             BERTRAM. I think so.
             PAROLLES. Why, do you not know him?
             BERTRAM. Yes, I do know him well; and common speech
              Gives him a worthy pass. Here comes my clog.

         Enter HELENA

             HELENA. I have, sir, as I was commanded from you,
              Spoke with the King, and have procur'd his leave
              For present parting; only he desires
              Some private speech with you.
             BERTRAM. I shall obey his will.
              You must not marvel, Helen, at my course,
              Which holds not colour with the time, nor does
              The ministration and required office
              On my particular. Prepar'd I was not
              For such a business; therefore am I found
              So much unsettled. This drives me to entreat you
              That presently you take your way for home,
              And rather muse than ask why I entreat you;
              For my respects are better than they seem,
              And my appointments have in them a need
              Greater than shows itself at the first view
              To you that know them not. This to my mother.

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                                          [Giving a letter]
              'Twill be two days ere I shall see you; so
              I leave you to your wisdom.
             HELENA. Sir, I can nothing say
              But that I am your most obedient servant.
             BERTRAM. Come, come, no more of that.
             HELENA. And ever shall
              With true observance seek to eke out that
              Wherein toward me my homely stars have fail'd
              To equal my great fortune.
             BERTRAM. Let that go.
              My haste is very great. Farewell; hie home.
             HELENA. Pray, sir, your pardon.
             BERTRAM. Well, what would you say?
             HELENA. I am not worthy of the wealth I owe,
              Nor dare I say 'tis mine, and yet it is;
              But, like a timorous thief, most fain would steal
              What law does vouch mine own.
             BERTRAM. What would you have?
             HELENA. Something; and scarce so much; nothing, indeed.
              I would not tell you what I would, my lord.
              Faith, yes:
              Strangers and foes do sunder and not kiss.
             BERTRAM. I pray you, stay not, but in haste to horse.
             HELENA. I shall not break your bidding, good my lord.
             BERTRAM. Where are my other men, monsieur?
              Farewell! Exit HELENA
              Go thou toward home, where I will never come
              Whilst I can shake my sword or hear the drum.
              Away, and for our flight.
             PAROLLES. Bravely, coragio! Exeunt


         ACT III. SCE E 1. Florence. The DUKE's palace
                Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, attended; two
                    FRENCH LORDS, with a TROOP OF SOLDIERS

             DUKE. So that, from point to point, now have you hear
              The fundamental reasons of this war;

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              Whose great decision hath much blood let forth
              And more thirsts after.
             FIRST LORD. Holy seems the quarrel
              Upon your Grace's part; black and fearful
              On the opposer.
             DUKE. Therefore we marvel much our cousin France
              Would in so just a business shut his bosom
              Against our borrowing prayers.
             SECOND LORD. Good my lord,
              The reasons of our state I cannot yield,
              But like a common and an outward man
              That the great figure of a council frames
              By self-unable motion; therefore dare not
              Say what I think of it, since I have found
              Myself in my incertain grounds to fail
              As often as I guess'd.
             DUKE. Be it his pleasure.
             FIRST LORD. But I am sure the younger of our nature,
              That surfeit on their ease, will day by day
              Come here for physic.
             DUKE. Welcome shall they be
              And all the honours that can fly from us
              Shall on them settle. You know your places well;
              When better fall, for your avails they fell.
              To-morrow to th' field. Flourish. Exeunt

         ACT III. SCE E 2. Rousillon. The COU T'S palace
         Enter COUNTESS and CLOWN

             COUNTESS. It hath happen'd all as I would have had it, save that he
              comes not along with her.
             CLOWN. By my troth, I take my young lord to be a very melancholy
             COUNTESS. By what observance, I pray you?
             CLOWN. Why, he will look upon his boot and sing; mend the ruff and
              sing; ask questions and sing; pick his teeth and sing. I know a
              man that had this trick of melancholy sold a goodly manor for a
             COUNTESS. Let me see what he writes, and when he means to come.
                                          [Opening a letter]
             CLOWN. I have no mind to Isbel since I was at court. Our old ling
              and our Isbels o' th' country are nothing like your old ling and
              your Isbels o' th' court. The brains of my Cupid's knock'd out;
              and I begin to love, as an old man loves money, with no stomach.
             COUNTESS. What have we here?
             CLOWN. E'en that you have there. Exit
             COUNTESS. [Reads] 'I have sent you a daughter-in-law; she hath
              recovered the King and undone me. I have wedded her, not bedded
              her; and sworn to make the "not" eternal. You shall hear I am run

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              away; know it before the report come. If there be breadth enough
              in the world, I will hold a long distance. My duty to you.
                                        Your unfortunate son,
              This is not well, rash and unbridled boy,
              To fly the favours of so good a king,
              To pluck his indignation on thy head
              By the misprizing of a maid too virtuous
              For the contempt of empire.

         Re-enter CLOWN

             CLOWN. O madam, yonder is heavy news within between two soldiers
              and my young lady.
             COUNTESS. What is the -matter?
             CLOWN. Nay, there is some comfort in the news, some comfort; your
              son will not be kill'd so soon as I thought he would.
             COUNTESS. Why should he be kill'd?
             CLOWN. So say I, madam, if he run away, as I hear he does the
              danger is in standing to 't; that's the loss of men, though it be
              the getting of children. Here they come will tell you more. For my
              part, I only hear your son was run away. Exit

         Enter HELENA and the two FRENCH GENTLEMEN

             SECOND GENTLEMAN. Save you, good madam.
             HELENA. Madam, my lord is gone, for ever gone.
             FIRST GENTLEMAN. Do not say so.
             COUNTESS. Think upon patience. Pray you, gentlemen-
              I have felt so many quirks of joy and grief
              That the first face of neither, on the start,
              Can woman me unto 't. Where is my son, I pray you?
             FIRST GENTLEMAN. Madam, he's gone to serve the Duke of Florence.
              We met him thitherward; for thence we came,
              And, after some dispatch in hand at court,
              Thither we bend again.
             HELENA. Look on this letter, madam; here's my passport.
              [Reads] 'When thou canst get the ring upon my finger, which
              never shall come off, and show me a child begotten of thy body
              that I am father to, then call me husband; but in such a "then" I
              write a "never."
              This is a dreadful sentence.
             COUNTESS. Brought you this letter, gentlemen?
             FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, madam;
              And for the contents' sake are sorry for our pains.
             COUNTESS. I prithee, lady, have a better cheer;
              If thou engrossest all the griefs are thine,
              Thou robb'st me of a moiety. He was my son;
              But I do wash his name out of my blood,
              And thou art all my child. Towards Florence is he?
             FIRST GENTLEMAN. Ay, madam.
             COUNTESS. And to be a soldier?
             FIRST GENTLEMAN. Such is his noble purpose; and, believe 't,
              The Duke will lay upon him all the honour
              That good convenience claims.

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             COUNTESS. Return you thither?
             SECOND GENTLEMAN. Ay, madam, with the swiftest wing of speed.
             HELENA. [Reads] 'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.'
              'Tis bitter.
             COUNTESS. Find you that there?
             HELENA. Ay, madam.
             SECOND GENTLEMAN. 'Tis but the boldness of his hand haply, which
              his heart was not consenting to.
             COUNTESS. Nothing in France until he have no wife!
              There's nothing here that is too good for him
              But only she; and she deserves a lord
              That twenty such rude boys might tend upon,
              And call her hourly mistress. Who was with him?
             SECOND GENTLEMAN. A servant only, and a gentleman
              Which I have sometime known.
             COUNTESS. Parolles, was it not?
             SECOND GENTLEMAN. Ay, my good lady, he.
             COUNTESS. A very tainted fellow, and full of wickedness.
              My son corrupts a well-derived nature
              With his inducement.
             SECOND GENTLEMAN. Indeed, good lady,
              The fellow has a deal of that too much
              Which holds him much to have.
             COUNTESS. Y'are welcome, gentlemen.
              I will entreat you, when you see my son,
              To tell him that his sword can never win
              The honour that he loses. More I'll entreat you
              Written to bear along.
             FIRST GENTLEMAN. We serve you, madam,
              In that and all your worthiest affairs.
             COUNTESS. Not so, but as we change our courtesies.
              Will you draw near? Exeunt COUNTESS and GENTLEMEN
             HELENA. 'Till I have no wife, I have nothing in France.'
              Nothing in France until he has no wife!
              Thou shalt have none, Rousillon, none in France
              Then hast thou all again. Poor lord! is't
              That chase thee from thy country, and expose
              Those tender limbs of thine to the event
              Of the non-sparing war? And is it I
              That drive thee from the sportive court, where thou
              Wast shot at with fair eyes, to be the mark
              Of smoky muskets? O you leaden messengers,
              That ride upon the violent speed of fire,
              Fly with false aim; move the still-piecing air,
              That sings with piercing; do not touch my lord.
              Whoever shoots at him, I set him there;
              Whoever charges on his forward breast,
              I am the caitiff that do hold him to't;
              And though I kill him not, I am the cause
              His death was so effected. Better 'twere
              I met the ravin lion when he roar'd
              With sharp constraint of hunger; better 'twere
              That all the miseries which nature owes
              Were mine at once. No; come thou home, Rousillon,

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              Whence honour but of danger wins a scar,
              As oft it loses all. I will be gone.
              My being here it is that holds thee hence.
              Shall I stay here to do 't? No, no, although
              The air of paradise did fan the house,
              And angels offic'd all. I will be gone,
              That pitiful rumour may report my flight
              To consolate thine ear. Come, night; end, day.
              For with the dark, poor thief, I'll steal away. Exit

         ACT III. SCE E 3. Florence. Before the DUKE's palace
         Flourish. Enter the DUKE OF FLORENCE, BERTRAM, PAROLLES, SOLDIERS, drum and trumpets

             DUKE. The General of our Horse thou art; and we,
              Great in our hope, lay our best love and credence
              Upon thy promising fortune.
             BERTRAM. Sir, it is
              A charge too heavy for my strength; but yet
              We'll strive to bear it for your worthy sake
              To th' extreme edge of hazard.
             DUKE. Then go thou forth;
              And Fortune play upon thy prosperous helm,
              As thy auspicious mistress!
             BERTRAM. This very day,
              Great Mars, I put myself into thy file;
              Make me but like my thoughts, and I shall prove
              A lover of thy drum, hater of love. Exeunt

         ACT III. SCE E 4. Rousillon. The COU T'S palace
         Enter COUNTESS and STEWARD

             COUNTESS. Alas! and would you take the letter of her?
              Might you not know she would do as she has done
              By sending me a letter? Read it again.
             STEWARD. [Reads] 'I am Saint Jaques' pilgrim, thither gone.
              Ambitious love hath so in me offended
              That barefoot plod I the cold ground upon,
              With sainted vow my faults to have amended.
              Write, write, that from the bloody course of war
              My dearest master, your dear son, may hie.
              Bless him at home in peace, whilst I from far
              His name with zealous fervour sanctify.
              His taken labours bid him me forgive;

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              I, his despiteful Juno, sent him forth
              From courtly friends, with camping foes to live,
              Where death and danger dogs the heels of worth.
              He is too good and fair for death and me;
              Whom I myself embrace to set him free.'
             COUNTESS. Ah, what sharp stings are in her mildest words!
              Rinaldo, you did never lack advice so much
              As letting her pass so; had I spoke with her,
              I could have well diverted her intents,
              Which thus she hath prevented.
             STEWARD. Pardon me, madam;
              If I had given you this at over-night,
              She might have been o'er ta'en; and yet she writes
              Pursuit would be but vain.
             COUNTESS. What angel shall
              Bless this unworthy husband? He cannot thrive,
              Unless her prayers, whom heaven delights to hear
              And loves to grant, reprieve him from the wrath
              Of greatest justice. Write, write, Rinaldo,
              To this unworthy husband of his wife;
              Let every word weigh heavy of her worth
              That he does weigh too light. My greatest grief,
              Though little he do feel it, set down sharply.
              Dispatch the most convenient messenger.
              When haply he shall hear that she is gone
              He will return; and hope I may that she,
              Hearing so much, will speed her foot again,
              Led hither by pure love. Which of them both
              Is dearest to me I have no skill in sense
              To make distinction. Provide this messenger.
              My heart is heavy, and mine age is weak;
              Grief would have tears, and sorrow bids me speak. Exeunt

         ACT III. SCE E 5.
         Without the walls of Florence
         A tucket afar off. Enter an old WIDOW OF FLORENCE, her daughter DIANA,
         VIOLENTA, and MARIANA, with other CITIZENS

             WIDOW. Nay, come; for if they do approach the city we shall lose
              all the sight.
             DIANA. They say the French count has done most honourable service.
             WIDOW. It is reported that he has taken their great'st commander;
              and that with his own hand he slew the Duke's brother. [Tucket]
              We have lost our labour; they are gone a contrary way. Hark! you
              may know by their trumpets.
             MARIANA. Come, let's return again, and suffice ourselves with the
              report of it. Well, Diana, take heed of this French earl; the
              honour of a maid is her name, and no legacy is so rich as

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             WIDOW. I have told my neighbour how you have been solicited by a
              gentleman his companion.
             MARIANA. I know that knave, hang him! one Parolles; a filthy
              officer he is in those suggestions for the young earl. Beware of
              them, Diana: their promises, enticements, oaths, tokens, and all
              these engines of lust, are not the things they go under; many a
              maid hath been seduced by them; and the misery is, example, that
              so terrible shows in the wreck of maidenhood, cannot for all that
              dissuade succession, but that they are limed with the twigs that
              threatens them. I hope I need not to advise you further; but I
              hope your own grace will keep you where you are, though there
              were no further danger known but the modesty which is so lost.
             DIANA. You shall not need to fear me.

         Enter HELENA in the dress of a pilgrim

             WIDOW. I hope so. Look, here comes a pilgrim. I know she will lie
              at my house: thither they send one another. I'll question her.
              God save you, pilgrim! Whither are bound?
             HELENA. To Saint Jaques le Grand.
              Where do the palmers lodge, I do beseech you?
             WIDOW. At the Saint Francis here, beside the port.
             HELENA. Is this the way?
                                             [A march afar]
             WIDOW. Ay, marry, is't. Hark you! They come this way.
              If you will tarry, holy pilgrim,
              But till the troops come by,
              I will conduct you where you shall be lodg'd;
              The rather for I think I know your hostess
              As ample as myself.
             HELENA. Is it yourself?
             WIDOW. If you shall please so, pilgrim.
             HELENA. I thank you, and will stay upon your leisure.
             WIDOW. You came, I think, from France?
             HELENA. I did so.
             WIDOW. Here you shall see a countryman of yours
              That has done worthy service.
             HELENA. His name, I pray you.
             DIANA. The Count Rousillon. Know you such a one?
             HELENA. But by the ear, that hears most nobly of him;
              His face I know not.
             DIANA. What some'er he is,
              He's bravely taken here. He stole from France,
              As 'tis reported, for the King had married him
              Against his liking. Think you it is so?
             HELENA. Ay, surely, mere the truth; I know his lady.
             DIANA. There is a gentleman that serves the Count
              Reports but coarsely of her.
             HELENA. What's his name?
             DIANA. Monsieur Parolles.
             HELENA. O, I believe with him,
              In argument of praise, or to the worth
              Of the great Count himself, she is too mean
              To have her name repeated; all her deserving
              Is a reserved honesty, and that

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              I have not heard examin'd.
             DIANA. Alas, poor lady!
              'Tis a hard bondage to become the wife
              Of a detesting lord.
             WIDOW. I sweet, good creature, wheresoe'er she is
              Her heart weighs sadly. This young maid might do her
              A shrewd turn, if she pleas'd.
             HELENA. How do you mean?
              May be the amorous Count solicits her
              In the unlawful purpose.
             WIDOW. He does, indeed;
              And brokes with all that can in such a suit
              Corrupt the tender honour of a maid;
              But she is arm'd for him, and keeps her guard
              In honestest defence.

              Enter, with drum and colours, BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and the
                            whole ARMY

             MARIANA. The gods forbid else!
             WIDOW. So, now they come.
              That is Antonio, the Duke's eldest son;
              That, Escalus.
             HELENA. Which is the Frenchman?
             DIANA. He-
              That with the plume; 'tis a most gallant fellow.
              I would he lov'd his wife; if he were honester
              He were much goodlier. Is't not a handsome gentleman?
             HELENA. I like him well.
             DIANA. 'Tis pity he is not honest. Yond's that same knave
              That leads him to these places; were I his lady
              I would poison that vile rascal.
             HELENA. Which is he?
             DIANA. That jack-an-apes with scarfs. Why is he melancholy?
             HELENA. Perchance he's hurt i' th' battle.
             PAROLLES. Lose our drum! well.
             MARIANA. He's shrewdly vex'd at something.
              Look, he has spied us.
             WIDOW. Marry, hang you!
             MARIANA. And your courtesy, for a ring-carrier!
                               Exeunt BERTRAM, PAROLLES, and ARMY
             WIDOW. The troop is past. Come, pilgrim, I will bring you
              Where you shall host. Of enjoin'd penitents
              There's four or five, to great Saint Jaques bound,
              Already at my house.
             HELENA. I humbly thank you.
              Please it this matron and this gentle maid
              To eat with us to-night; the charge and thanking
              Shall be for me, and, to requite you further,
              I will bestow some precepts of this virgin,
              Worthy the note.
              BOTH. We'll take your offer kindly. Exeunt

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         ACT III. SCE E 6. Camp before Florence
         Enter BERTRAM, and the two FRENCH LORDS

             SECOND LORD. Nay, good my lord, put him to't; let him have his way.
             FIRST LORD. If your lordship find him not a hiding, hold me no more
              in your respect.
             SECOND LORD. On my life, my lord, a bubble.
             BERTRAM. Do you think I am so far deceived in him?
             SECOND LORD. Believe it, my lord, in mine own direct knowledge,
              without any malice, but to speak of him as my kinsman, he's a
              most notable coward, an infinite and endless liar, an hourly
              promise-breaker, the owner of no one good quality worthy your
              lordship's entertainment.
             FIRST LORD. It were fit you knew him; lest, reposing too far in his
              virtue, which he hath not, he might at some great and trusty
              business in a main danger fail you.
             BERTRAM. I would I knew in what particular action to try him.
             FIRST LORD. None better than to let him fetch off his drum, which
              you hear him so confidently undertake to do.
             SECOND LORD. I with a troop of Florentines will suddenly surprise
              him; such I will have whom I am sure he knows not from the enemy.
              We will bind and hoodwink him so that he shall suppose no other
              but that he is carried into the leaguer of the adversaries when
              we bring him to our own tents. Be but your lordship present at
              his examination; if he do not, for the promise of his life and in
              the highest compulsion of base fear, offer to betray you and
              deliver all the intelligence in his power against you, and that
              with the divine forfeit of his soul upon oath, never trust my
              judgment in anything.
             FIRST LORD. O, for the love of laughter, let him fetch his drum; he
              says he has a stratagem for't. When your lordship sees the bottom
              of his success in't, and to what metal this counterfeit lump of
              ore will be melted, if you give him not John Drum's
              entertainment, your inclining cannot be removed. Here he comes.

         Enter PAROLLES

             SECOND LORD. O, for the love of laughter, hinder not the honour of
              his design; let him fetch off his drum in any hand.
             BERTRAM. How now, monsieur! This drum sticks sorely in your
             FIRST LORD. A pox on 't; let it go; 'tis but a drum.
             PAROLLES. But a drum! Is't but a drum? A drum so lost! There was
              excellent command: to charge in with our horse upon our own
              wings, and to rend our own soldiers!
             FIRST LORD. That was not to be blam'd in the command of the
              service; it was a disaster of war that Caesar himself could not
              have prevented, if he had been there to command.
             BERTRAM. Well, we cannot greatly condemn our success.
              Some dishonour we had in the loss of that drum; but it is not to
              be recovered.
             PAROLLES. It might have been recovered.
             BERTRAM. It might, but it is not now.

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             PAROLLES. It is to be recovered. But that the merit of service is
              seldom attributed to the true and exact performer, I would have
              that drum or another, or 'hic jacet.'
             BERTRAM. Why, if you have a stomach, to't, monsieur. If you think
              your mystery in stratagem can bring this instrument of honour
              again into his native quarter, be magnanimous in the enterprise,
              and go on; I will grace the attempt for a worthy exploit. If you
              speed well in it, the Duke shall both speak of it and extend to
              you what further becomes his greatness, even to the utmost
              syllable of our worthiness.
             PAROLLES. By the hand of a soldier, I will undertake it.
             BERTRAM. But you must not now slumber in it.
             PAROLLES. I'll about it this evening; and I will presently pen
              down my dilemmas, encourage myself in my certainty, put myself
              into my mortal preparation; and by midnight look to hear further
              from me.
             BERTRAM. May I be bold to acquaint his Grace you are gone about it?
             PAROLLES. I know not what the success will be, my lord, but the
              attempt I vow.
             BERTRAM. I know th' art valiant; and, to the of thy soldiership,
              will subscribe for thee. Farewell.
             PAROLLES. I love not many words. Exit
             SECOND LORD. No more than a fish loves water. Is not this a strange
              fellow, my lord, that so confidently seems to undertake this
              business, which he knows is not to be done; damns himself to do,
              and dares better be damn'd than to do 't.
             FIRST LORD. You do not know him, my lord, as we do. Certain it is
              that he will steal himself into a man's favour, and for a week
              escape a great deal of discoveries; but when you find him out,
              you have him ever after.
             BERTRAM. Why, do you think he will make no deed at all of this that
              so seriously he does address himself unto?
             SECOND LORD. None in the world; but return with an invention, and
              clap upon you two or three probable lies. But we have almost
              emboss'd him. You shall see his fall to-night; for indeed he is
              not for your lordship's respect.
             FIRST LORD. We'll make you some sport with the fox ere we case him.
              He was first smok'd by the old Lord Lafeu. When his disguise and
              he is parted, tell me what a sprat you shall find him; which you
              shall see this very night.
             SECOND LORD. I must go look my twigs; he shall be caught.
             BERTRAM. Your brother, he shall go along with me.
             SECOND LORD. As't please your lordship. I'll leave you. Exit
             BERTRAM. Now will I lead you to the house, and show you
              The lass I spoke of.
             FIRST LORD. But you say she's honest.
             BERTRAM. That's all the fault. I spoke with her but once,
              And found her wondrous cold; but I sent to her,
              By this same coxcomb that we have i' th' wind,
              Tokens and letters which she did re-send;
              And this is all I have done. She's a fair creature;
              Will you go see her?
             FIRST LORD. With all my heart, my lord. Exeunt

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         ACT III. SCE E 7. Florence. The WIDOW'S house
         Enter HELENA and WIDOW

             HELENA. If you misdoubt me that I am not she,
              I know not how I shall assure you further
              But I shall lose the grounds I work upon.
             WIDOW. Though my estate be fall'n, I was well born,
              Nothing acquainted with these businesses;
              And would not put my reputation now
              In any staining act.
             HELENA. Nor would I wish you.
             FIRST give me trust the Count he is my husband,
              And what to your sworn counsel I have spoken
              Is so from word to word; and then you cannot,
              By the good aid that I of you shall borrow,
              Err in bestowing it.
             WIDOW. I should believe you;
              For you have show'd me that which well approves
              Y'are great in fortune.
             HELENA. Take this purse of gold,
              And let me buy your friendly help thus far,
              Which I will over-pay and pay again
              When I have found it. The Count he woos your daughter
              Lays down his wanton siege before her beauty,
              Resolv'd to carry her. Let her in fine consent,
              As we'll direct her how 'tis best to bear it.
              Now his important blood will nought deny
              That she'll demand. A ring the County wears
              That downward hath succeeded in his house
              From son to son some four or five descents
              Since the first father wore it. This ring he holds
              In most rich choice; yet, in his idle fire,
              To buy his will, it would not seem too dear,
              Howe'er repented after.
             WIDOW. Now I see
              The bottom of your purpose.
             HELENA. You see it lawful then. It is no more
              But that your daughter, ere she seems as won,
              Desires this ring; appoints him an encounter;
              In fine, delivers me to fill the time,
              Herself most chastely absent. After this,
              To marry her, I'll add three thousand crowns
              To what is pass'd already.
             WIDOW. I have yielded.
              Instruct my daughter how she shall persever,
              That time and place with this deceit so lawful
              May prove coherent. Every night he comes
              With musics of all sorts, and songs compos'd
              To her unworthiness. It nothing steads us
              To chide him from our eaves, for he persists
              As if his life lay on 't.
             HELENA. Why then to-night
              Let us assay our plot; which, if it speed,

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              Is wicked meaning in a lawful deed,
              And lawful meaning in a lawful act;
              Where both not sin, and yet a sinful fact.
              But let's about it. Exeunt


         ACT IV. SCE E 1. Without the Florentine camp
         Enter SECOND FRENCH LORD with five or six other SOLDIERS in ambush

             SECOND LORD. He can come no other way but by this hedge-corner.
              When you sally upon him, speak what terrible language you will;
              though you understand it not yourselves, no matter; for we must
              not seem to understand him, unless some one among us, whom we
              must produce for an interpreter.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Good captain, let me be th' interpreter.
             SECOND LORD. Art not acquainted with him? Knows he not thy voice?
             FIRST SOLDIER. No, sir, I warrant you.
             SECOND LORD. But what linsey-woolsey has thou to speak to us again?
             FIRST SOLDIER. E'en such as you speak to me.
             SECOND LORD. He must think us some band of strangers i' th'
              adversary's entertainment. Now he hath a smack of all
              neighbouring languages, therefore we must every one be a man of
              his own fancy; not to know what we speak one to another, so we
              seem to know, is to know straight our purpose: choughs' language,
              gabble enough, and good enough. As for you, interpreter, you must
              seem very politic. But couch, ho! here he comes; to beguile two
              hours in a sleep, and then to return and swear the lies he forges.

         Enter PAROLLES

             PAROLLES. Ten o'clock. Within these three hours 'twill be time
              enough to go home. What shall I say I have done? It must be a
              very plausive invention that carries it. They begin to smoke me;
              and disgraces have of late knock'd to often at my door. I find my
              tongue is too foolhardy; but my heart hath the fear of Mars
              before it, and of his creatures, not daring the reports of my
             SECOND LORD. This is the first truth that e'er thine own tongue was
              guilty of.
             PAROLLES. What the devil should move me to undertake the recovery

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              of this drum, being not ignorant of the impossibility, and
              knowing I had no such purpose? I must give myself some hurts, and
              say I got them in exploit. Yet slight ones will not carry it.
              They will say 'Came you off with so little?' And great ones I
              dare not give. Wherefore, what's the instance? Tongue, I must put
              you into a butterwoman's mouth, and buy myself another of
              Bajazet's mule, if you prattle me into these perils.
             SECOND LORD. Is it possible he should know what he is, and be that
              he is?
             PAROLLES. I would the cutting of my garments would serve the turn,
              or the breaking of my Spanish sword.
             SECOND LORD. We cannot afford you so.
             PAROLLES. Or the baring of my beard; and to say it was in
             SECOND LORD. 'Twould not do.
             PAROLLES. Or to drown my clothes, and say I was stripp'd.
             SECOND LORD. Hardly serve.
             PAROLLES. Though I swore I leap'd from the window of the citadel-
             SECOND LORD. How deep?
             PAROLLES. Thirty fathom.
             SECOND LORD. Three great oaths would scarce make that be believed.
             PAROLLES. I would I had any drum of the enemy's; I would swear I
              recover'd it.
             SECOND LORD. You shall hear one anon. [Alarum within]
             PAROLLES. A drum now of the enemy's!
             SECOND LORD. Throca movousus, cargo, cargo, cargo.
             ALL. Cargo, cargo, cargo, villianda par corbo, cargo.
             PAROLLES. O, ransom, ransom! Do not hide mine eyes.
                                         [They blindfold him]
             FIRST SOLDIER. Boskos thromuldo boskos.
             PAROLLES. I know you are the Muskos' regiment,
              And I shall lose my life for want of language.
              If there be here German, or Dane, Low Dutch,
              Italian, or French, let him speak to me;
              I'll discover that which shall undo the Florentine.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Boskos vauvado. I understand thee, and can speak thy
              tongue. Kerely-bonto, sir, betake thee to thy faith, for
              seventeen poniards are at thy bosom.
             PAROLLES. O!
             FIRST SOLDIER. O, pray, pray, pray! Manka revania dulche.
             SECOND LORD. Oscorbidulchos volivorco.
             FIRST SOLDIER. The General is content to spare thee yet;
              And, hoodwink'd as thou art, will lead thee on
              To gather from thee. Haply thou mayst inform
              Something to save thy life.
             PAROLLES. O, let me live,
              And all the secrets of our camp I'll show,
              Their force, their purposes. Nay, I'll speak that
              Which you will wonder at.
             FIRST SOLDIER. But wilt thou faithfully?
             PAROLLES. If I do not, damn me.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Acordo linta.
              Come on; thou art granted space.
                         Exit, PAROLLES guarded. A short alarum within

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             SECOND LORD. Go, tell the Count Rousillon and my brother
              We have caught the woodcock, and will keep him muffled
              Till we do hear from them.
             SECOND SOLDIER. Captain, I will.
             SECOND LORD. 'A will betray us all unto ourselves-
              Inform on that.
             SECOND SOLDIER. So I will, sir.
             SECOND LORD. Till then I'll keep him dark and safely lock'd.

         ACT IV. SCE E 2. Florence. The WIDOW'S house
         Enter BERTRAM and DIANA

             BERTRAM. They told me that your name was Fontibell.
             DIANA. No, my good lord, Diana.
             BERTRAM. Titled goddess;
              And worth it, with addition! But, fair soul,
              In your fine frame hath love no quality?
              If the quick fire of youth light not your mind,
              You are no maiden, but a monument;
              When you are dead, you should be such a one
              As you are now, for you are cold and stern;
              And now you should be as your mother was
              When your sweet self was got.
             DIANA. She then was honest.
             BERTRAM. So should you be.
             DIANA. No.
              My mother did but duty; such, my lord,
              As you owe to your wife.
             BERTRAM. No more o'that!
              I prithee do not strive against my vows.
              I was compell'd to her; but I love the
              By love's own sweet constraint, and will for ever
              Do thee all rights of service.
             DIANA. Ay, so you serve us
              Till we serve you; but when you have our roses
              You barely leave our thorns to prick ourselves,
              And mock us with our bareness.
             BERTRAM. How have I sworn!
             DIANA. 'Tis not the many oaths that makes the truth,
              But the plain single vow that is vow'd true.
              What is not holy, that we swear not by,
              But take the High'st to witness. Then, pray you, tell me:
              If I should swear by Jove's great attributes
              I lov'd you dearly, would you believe my oaths
              When I did love you ill? This has no holding,
              To swear by him whom I protest to love
              That I will work against him. Therefore your oaths
              Are words and poor conditions, but unseal'd-

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              At least in my opinion.
             BERTRAM. Change it, change it;
              Be not so holy-cruel. Love is holy;
              And my integrity ne'er knew the crafts
              That you do charge men with. Stand no more off,
              But give thyself unto my sick desires,
              Who then recovers. Say thou art mine, and ever
              My love as it begins shall so persever.
             DIANA. I see that men make ropes in such a scarre
              That we'll forsake ourselves. Give me that ring.
             BERTRAM. I'll lend it thee, my dear, but have no power
              To give it from me.
             DIANA. Will you not, my lord?
             BERTRAM. It is an honour 'longing to our house,
              Bequeathed down from many ancestors;
              Which were the greatest obloquy i' th' world
              In me to lose.
             DIANA. Mine honour's such a ring:
              My chastity's the jewel of our house,
              Bequeathed down from many ancestors;
              Which were the greatest obloquy i' th' world
              In me to lose. Thus your own proper wisdom
              Brings in the champion Honour on my part
              Against your vain assault.
             BERTRAM. Here, take my ring;
              My house, mine honour, yea, my life, be thine,
              And I'll be bid by thee.
             DIANA. When midnight comes, knock at my chamber window;
              I'll order take my mother shall not hear.
              Now will I charge you in the band of truth,
              When you have conquer'd my yet maiden bed,
              Remain there but an hour, nor speak to me:
              My reasons are most strong; and you shall know them
              When back again this ring shall be deliver'd.
              And on your finger in the night I'll put
              Another ring, that what in time proceeds
              May token to the future our past deeds.
              Adieu till then; then fail not. You have won
              A wife of me, though there my hope be done.
             BERTRAM. A heaven on earth I have won by wooing thee.
             DIANA. For which live long to thank both heaven and me!
              You may so in the end.
              My mother told me just how he would woo,
              As if she sat in's heart; she says all men
              Have the like oaths. He had sworn to marry me
              When his wife's dead; therefore I'll lie with him
              When I am buried. Since Frenchmen are so braid,
              Marry that will, I live and die a maid.
              Only, in this disguise, I think't no sin
              To cozen him that would unjustly win. Exit

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         ACT IV. SCE E 3. The Florentine camp
         Enter the two FRENCH LORDS, and two or three SOLDIERS

             SECOND LORD. You have not given him his mother's letter?
             FIRST LORD. I have deliv'red it an hour since. There is something
              in't that stings his nature; for on the reading it he chang'd
              almost into another man.
             SECOND LORD. He has much worthy blame laid upon him for shaking off
              so good a wife and so sweet a lady.
             FIRST LORD. Especially he hath incurred the everlasting displeasure
              of the King, who had even tun'd his bounty to sing happiness to
              him. I will tell you a thing, but you shall let it dwell darkly
              with you.
             SECOND LORD. When you have spoken it, 'tis dead, and I am the grave
              of it.
             FIRST LORD. He hath perverted a young gentlewoman here in Florence,
              of a most chaste renown; and this night he fleshes his will in
              the spoil of her honour. He hath given her his monumental ring,
              and thinks himself made in the unchaste composition.
             SECOND LORD. Now, God delay our rebellion! As we are ourselves,
              what things are we!
             FIRST LORD. Merely our own traitors. And as in the common course of
              all treasons we still see them reveal themselves till they attain
              to their abhorr'd ends; so he that in this action contrives
              against his own nobility, in his proper stream, o'erflows
             SECOND LORD. Is it not meant damnable in us to be trumpeters of our
              unlawful intents? We shall not then have his company to-night?
             FIRST LORD. Not till after midnight; for he is dieted to his hour.
             SECOND LORD. That approaches apace. I would gladly have him see his
              company anatomiz'd, that he might take a measure of his own
              judgments, wherein so curiously he had set this counterfeit.
             FIRST LORD. We will not meddle with him till he come; for his
              presence must be the whip of the other.
             SECOND LORD. In the meantime, what hear you of these wars?
             FIRST LORD. I hear there is an overture of peace.
             SECOND LORD. Nay, I assure you, a peace concluded.
             FIRST LORD. What will Count Rousillon do then? Will he travel
              higher, or return again into France?
             SECOND LORD. I perceive, by this demand, you are not altogether
              of his counsel.
             FIRST LORD. Let it be forbid, sir! So should I be a great deal
              of his act.
             SECOND LORD. Sir, his wife, some two months since, fled from his
              house. Her pretence is a pilgrimage to Saint Jaques le Grand;
              which holy undertaking with most austere sanctimony she
              accomplish'd; and, there residing, the tenderness of her nature
              became as a prey to her grief; in fine, made a groan of her last
              breath, and now she sings in heaven.
             FIRST LORD. How is this justified?
             SECOND LORD. The stronger part of it by her own letters, which
              makes her story true even to the point of her death. Her death
              itself, which could not be her office to say is come, was

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              faithfully confirm'd by the rector of the place.
             FIRST LORD. Hath the Count all this intelligence?
             SECOND LORD. Ay, and the particular confirmations, point from
              point, to the full arming of the verity.
             FIRST LORD. I am heartily sorry that he'll be glad of this.
             SECOND LORD. How mightily sometimes we make us comforts of our
             FIRST LORD. And how mightily some other times we drown our gain in
              tears! The great dignity that his valour hath here acquir'd for
              him shall at home be encount'red with a shame as ample.
             SECOND LORD. The web of our life is of a mingled yarn, good and ill
              together. Our virtues would be proud if our faults whipt them
              not; and our crimes would despair if they were not cherish'd by
              our virtues.

         Enter a MESSENGER

              How now? Where's your master?
             SERVANT. He met the Duke in the street, sir; of whom he hath taken
              a solemn leave. His lordship will next morning for France. The
              Duke hath offered him letters of commendations to the King.
             SECOND LORD. They shall be no more than needful there, if they were
              more than they can commend.
             FIRST LORD. They cannot be too sweet for the King's tartness.
              Here's his lordship now.

         Enter BERTRAM

              How now, my lord, is't not after midnight?
             BERTRAM. I have to-night dispatch'd sixteen businesses, a month's
              length apiece; by an abstract of success: I have congied with the
              Duke, done my adieu with his nearest; buried a wife, mourn'd for
              her; writ to my lady mother I am returning; entertain'd my
              convoy; and between these main parcels of dispatch effected many
              nicer needs. The last was the greatest, but that I have not ended
             SECOND LORD. If the business be of any difficulty and this morning
              your departure hence, it requires haste of your lordship.
             BERTRAM. I mean the business is not ended, as fearing to hear of it
              hereafter. But shall we have this dialogue between the Fool and
              the Soldier? Come, bring forth this counterfeit module has
              deceiv'd me like a double-meaning prophesier.
             SECOND LORD. Bring him forth. [Exeunt SOLDIERS] Has sat i' th'
              stocks all night, poor gallant knave.
             BERTRAM. No matter; his heels have deserv'd it, in usurping his
              spurs so long. How does he carry himself?
             SECOND LORD. I have told your lordship already the stocks carry
              him. But to answer you as you would be understood: he weeps like
              a wench that had shed her milk; he hath confess'd himself to
              Morgan, whom he supposes to be a friar, from the time of his
              remembrance to this very instant disaster of his setting i' th'
              stocks. And what think you he hath confess'd?
             BERTRAM. Nothing of me, has 'a?
             SECOND LORD. His confession is taken, and it shall be read to his
              face; if your lordship be in't, as I believe you are, you must

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              have the patience to hear it.

                       Enter PAROLLES guarded, and
                       FIRST SOLDIER as interpreter

             BERTRAM. A plague upon him! muffled! He can say nothing of me.
             SECOND LORD. Hush, hush! Hoodman comes. Portotartarossa.
             FIRST SOLDIER. He calls for the tortures. What will you say without
             PAROLLES. I will confess what I know without constraint; if ye
              pinch me like a pasty, I can say no more.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Bosko chimurcho.
             SECOND LORD. Boblibindo chicurmurco.
             FIRST SOLDIER. YOU are a merciful general. Our General bids you
              answer to what I shall ask you out of a note.
             PAROLLES. And truly, as I hope to live.
             FIRST SOLDIER. 'First demand of him how many horse the Duke is
              strong.' What say you to that?
             PAROLLES. Five or six thousand; but very weak and unserviceable.
              The troops are all scattered, and the commanders very poor
              rogues, upon my reputation and credit, and as I hope to live.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Shall I set down your answer so?
             PAROLLES. Do; I'll take the sacrament on 't, how and which way you
             BERTRAM. All's one to him. What a past-saving slave is this!
             SECOND LORD. Y'are deceiv'd, my lord; this is Monsieur Parolles,
              the gallant militarist-that was his own phrase-that had the whole
              theoric of war in the knot of his scarf, and the practice in the
              chape of his dagger.
             FIRST LORD. I will never trust a man again for keeping his sword
              clean; nor believe he can have everything in him by wearing his
              apparel neatly.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that's set down.
             PAROLLES. 'Five or six thousand horse' I said-I will say true- 'or
              thereabouts' set down, for I'll speak truth.
             SECOND LORD. He's very near the truth in this.
             BERTRAM. But I con him no thanks for't in the nature he delivers it.
             PAROLLES. 'Poor rogues' I pray you say.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that's set down.
             PAROLLES. I humbly thank you, sir. A truth's a truth-the rogues are
              marvellous poor.
             FIRST SOLDIER. 'Demand of him of what strength they are a-foot.'
              What say you to that?
             PAROLLES. By my troth, sir, if I were to live this present hour, I
              will tell true. Let me see: Spurio, a hundred and fifty;
              Sebastian, so many; Corambus, so many; Jaques, so many; Guiltian,
              Cosmo, Lodowick, and Gratii, two hundred fifty each; mine own
              company, Chitopher, Vaumond, Bentii, two hundred fifty each; so
              that the muster-file, rotten and sound, upon my life, amounts not
              to fifteen thousand poll; half of the which dare not shake the
              snow from off their cassocks lest they shake themselves to
             BERTRAM. What shall be done to him?
             SECOND LORD. Nothing, but let him have thanks. Demand of him my
              condition, and what credit I have with the Duke.

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             FIRST SOLDIER. Well, that's set down. 'You shall demand of him
              whether one Captain Dumain be i' th' camp, a Frenchman; what his
              reputation is with the Duke, what his valour, honesty, expertness
              in wars; or whether he thinks it were not possible, with
              well-weighing sums of gold, to corrupt him to a revolt.' What say
              you to this? What do you know of it?
             PAROLLES. I beseech you, let me answer to the particular of the
              inter'gatories. Demand them singly.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Do you know this Captain Dumain?
             PAROLLES. I know him: 'a was a botcher's prentice in Paris, from
              whence he was whipt for getting the shrieve's fool with child-a
              dumb innocent that could not say him nay.
             BERTRAM. Nay, by your leave, hold your hands; though I know his
              brains are forfeit to the next tile that falls.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Well, is this captain in the Duke of Florence's
             PAROLLES. Upon my knowledge, he is, and lousy.
             SECOND LORD. Nay, look not so upon me; we shall hear of your
              lordship anon.
             FIRST SOLDIER. What is his reputation with the Duke?
             PAROLLES. The Duke knows him for no other but a poor officer of
              mine; and writ to me this other day to turn him out o' th' band.
              I think I have his letter in my pocket.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Marry, we'll search.
             PAROLLES. In good sadness, I do not know; either it is there or it
              is upon a file with the Duke's other letters in my tent.
             FIRST SOLDIER. Here 'tis; here's a paper. Shall I read it to you?
             PAROLLES. I do not know if it be it or no.
             BERTRAM. Our interpreter does it well.
             SECOND LORD. Excellently.
             FIRST SOLDIER. [Reads] 'Dian, the Count's a fool, and full of
             PAROLLES. That is not the Duke's letter, sir; that is an
              advertisement to a proper maid in Florence, one Diana, to take
              heed of the allurement of one Count Rousillon, a foolish idle
              boy, but for all that very ruttish. I pray you, sir, put it up
             FIRST SOLDIER. Nay, I'll read it first by your favour.
             PAROLLES. My meaning in't, I protest, was very honest in the behalf
              of the maid; for I knew the young Count to be a dangerous and
              lascivious boy, who is a whale to virginity, and devours up all
              the fry it finds.
             BERTRAM. Damnable both-sides rogue!
             FIRST SOLDIER. [Reads]
              'When he swears oaths, bid him drop gold, and take it;
              After he scores, he never pays the score.
              Half won is match well made; match, and well make it;
              He ne'er pays after-debts, take it before.
              And say a soldier, Dian, told thee this:
              Men are to mell with, boys are not to kiss;
              For count of this, the Count's a fool, I know it,
              Who pays before, but not when he does owe it.
              Thine, as he vow'd to thee in thine ear,

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             BERTRAM. He shall be whipt through the army with this rhyme in's
             FIRST LORD. This is your devoted friend, sir, the manifold
              linguist, and the amnipotent soldier.
             BERTRAM. I could endure anything before but a cat, and now he's a
              cat to me.
             FIRST SOLDIER. I perceive, sir, by our General's looks we shall be
              fain to hang you.
             PAROLLES. My life, sir, in any case! Not that I am afraid to die,
              but that, my offences being many, I would repent out the
              remainder of nature. Let me live, sir, in a dungeon, i' th'
              stocks, or anywhere, so I may live.
             FIRST SOLDIER. We'll see what may be done, so you confess freely;
              therefore, once more to this Captain Dumain: you have answer'd to
              his reputation with the Duke, and to his valour; what is his
             PAROLLES. He will steal, sir, an egg out of a cloister; for rapes
              and ravishments he parallels Nessus. He professes not keeping of
              oaths; in breaking 'em he is stronger than Hercules. He will lie,
              sir, with such volubility that you would think truth were a fool.
              Drunkenness is his best virtue, for he will be swine-drunk; and
              in his sleep he does little harm, save to his bedclothes about
              him; but they know his conditions and lay him in straw. I have
              but little more to say, sir, of his honesty. He has everything
              that an honest man should not have; what an honest man should
              have he has nothing.
             SECOND LORD. I begin to love him for this.
             BERTRAM. For this description of thine honesty? A pox upon him! For
              me, he's more and more a cat.
             FIRST SOLDIER. What say you to his expertness in war?
             PAROLLES. Faith, sir, has led the drum before the English
              tragedians-to belie him I will not-and more of his soldier-ship
              I know not, except in that country he had the honour to be the
              officer at a place there called Mile-end to instruct for the
              doubling of files-I would do the man what honour I can-but of
              this I am not certain.
             SECOND LORD. He hath out-villain'd villainy so far that the rarity
              redeems him.
             BERTRAM. A pox on him! he's a cat still.
             FIRST SOLDIER. His qualities being at this poor price, I need not
              to ask you if gold will corrupt him to revolt.
             PAROLLES. Sir, for a cardecue he will sell the fee-simple of his
              salvation, the inheritance of it; and cut th' entail from all
              remainders and a perpetual succession for it perpetually.
             FIRST SOLDIER. What's his brother, the other Captain Dumain?
             FIRST LORD. Why does he ask him of me?
             FIRST SOLDIER. What's he?
             PAROLLES. E'en a crow o' th' same nest; not altogether so great as
              the first in goodness, but greater a great deal in evil. He
              excels his brother for a coward; yet his brother is reputed one
              of the best that is. In a retreat he outruns any lackey: marry,
              in coming on he has the cramp.
             FIRST SOLDIER. If your life be saved, will you undertake to betray
              the Florentine?

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             PAROLLES. Ay, and the Captain of his Horse, Count Rousillon.
             FIRST SOLDIER. I'll whisper with the General, and know his
             PAROLLES. [Aside] I'll no more drumming. A plague of all drums!
              Only to seem to deserve well, and to beguile the supposition of
              that lascivious young boy the Count, have I run into this danger.
              Yet who would have suspected an ambush where I was taken?
             FIRST SOLDIER. There is no remedy, sir, but you must die.
              The General says you that have so traitorously discover'd the
              secrets of your army, and made such pestiferous reports of men
              very nobly held, can serve the world for no honest use; therefore
              you must die. Come, headsman, of with his head.
             PAROLLES. O Lord, sir, let me live, or let me see my death!
             FIRST SOLDIER. That shall you, and take your leave of all your
              friends. [Unmuffling him] So look about you; know you any here?
             BERTRAM. Good morrow, noble Captain.
             FIRST LORD. God bless you, Captain Parolles.
             SECOND LORD. God save you, noble Captain.
             FIRST LORD. Captain, what greeting will you to my Lord Lafeu? I am
              for France.
             SECOND LORD. Good Captain, will you give me a copy of the sonnet
              you writ to Diana in behalf of the Count Rousillon? An I were not
              a very coward I'd compel it of you; but fare you well.
                                       Exeunt BERTRAM and LORDS
             FIRST SOLDIER. You are undone, Captain, all but your scarf; that
              has a knot on 't yet.
             PAROLLES. Who cannot be crush'd with a plot?
             FIRST SOLDIER. If you could find out a country where but women were
              that had received so much shame, you might begin an impudent
              nation. Fare ye well, sir; I am for France too; we shall speak of
              you there. Exit with SOLDIERS
             PAROLLES. Yet am I thankful. If my heart were great,
              'Twould burst at this. Captain I'll be no more;
              But I will eat, and drink, and sleep as soft
              As captain shall. Simply the thing I am
              Shall make me live. Who knows himself a braggart,
              Let him fear this; for it will come to pass
              That every braggart shall be found an ass.
              Rust, sword; cool, blushes; and, Parolles, live
              Safest in shame. Being fool'd, by fool'ry thrive.
              There's place and means for every man alive.
              I'll after them. Exit

         ACT IV SCE E 4. The WIDOW'S house
         Enter HELENA, WIDOW, and DIANA

             HELENA. That you may well perceive I have not wrong'd you!
              One of the greatest in the Christian world
              Shall be my surety; fore whose throne 'tis needful,

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              Ere I can perfect mine intents, to kneel.
              Time was I did him a desired office,
              Dear almost as his life; which gratitude
              Through flinty Tartar's bosom would peep forth,
              And answer 'Thanks.' I duly am inform'd
              His Grace is at Marseilles, to which place
              We have convenient convoy. You must know
              I am supposed dead. The army breaking,
              My husband hies him home; where, heaven aiding,
              And by the leave of my good lord the King,
              We'll be before our welcome.
             WIDOW. Gentle madam,
              You never had a servant to whose trust
              Your business was more welcome.
             HELENA. Nor you, mistress,
              Ever a friend whose thoughts more truly labour
              To recompense your love. Doubt not but heaven
              Hath brought me up to be your daughter's dower,
              As it hath fated her to be my motive
              And helper to a husband. But, O strange men!
              That can such sweet use make of what they hate,
              When saucy trusting of the cozen'd thoughts
              Defiles the pitchy night. So lust doth play
              With what it loathes, for that which is away.
              But more of this hereafter. You, Diana,
              Under my poor instructions yet must suffer
              Something in my behalf.
             DIANA. Let death and honesty
              Go with your impositions, I am yours
              Upon your will to suffer.
             HELENA. Yet, I pray you:
              But with the word the time will bring on summer,
              When briers shall have leaves as well as thorns
              And be as sweet as sharp. We must away;
              Our waggon is prepar'd, and time revives us.
              All's Well that Ends Well. Still the fine's the crown.
              Whate'er the course, the end is the renown. Exeunt

         ACT IV SCE E 5. Rousillon. The COU T'S palace
         Enter COUNTESS, LAFEU, and CLOWN

             LAFEU. No, no, no, son was misled with a snipt-taffeta fellow
              there, whose villainous saffron would have made all the unbak'd
              and doughy youth of a nation in his colour. Your daughter-in-law
              had been alive at this hour, and your son here at home, more
              advanc'd by the King than by that red-tail'd humble-bee I speak
             COUNTESS. I would I had not known him. It was the death of the most
              virtuous gentlewoman that ever nature had praise for creating. If

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           she had partaken of my flesh, and cost me the dearest groans of a
           mother. I could not have owed her a more rooted love.
          LAFEU. 'Twas a good lady, 'twas a good lady. We may pick a thousand
           sallets ere we light on such another herb.
          CLOWN. Indeed, sir, she was the sweet-marjoram of the sallet, or,
           rather, the herb of grace.
          LAFEU. They are not sallet-herbs, you knave; they are nose-herbs.
          CLOWN. I am no great Nebuchadnezzar, sir; I have not much skill in
          LAFEU. Whether dost thou profess thyself-a knave or a fool?
          CLOWN. A fool, sir, at a woman's service, and a knave at a man's.
          LAFEU. Your distinction?
          CLOWN. I would cozen the man of his wife, and do his service.
          LAFEU. So you were a knave at his service, indeed.
          CLOWN. And I would give his wife my bauble, sir, to do her service.
          LAFEU. I will subscribe for thee; thou art both knave and fool.
          CLOWN. At your service.
          LAFEU. No, no, no.
          CLOWN. Why, sir, if I cannot serve you, I can serve as great a
           prince as you are.
          LAFEU. Who's that? A Frenchman?
          CLOWN. Faith, sir, 'a has an English name; but his fisnomy is more
           hotter in France than there.
          LAFEU. What prince is that?
          CLOWN. The Black Prince, sir; alias, the Prince of Darkness; alias,
           the devil.
          LAFEU. Hold thee, there's my purse. I give thee not this to suggest
           thee from thy master thou talk'st of; serve him still.
          CLOWN. I am a woodland fellow, sir, that always loved a great fire;
           and the master I speak of ever keeps a good fire. But, sure, he
           is the prince of the world; let his nobility remain in's court. I
           am for the house with the narrow gate, which I take to be too
           little for pomp to enter. Some that humble themselves may; but
           the many will be too chill and tender: and they'll be for the
           flow'ry way that leads to the broad gate and the great fire.
          LAFEU. Go thy ways, I begin to be aweary of thee; and I tell thee
           so before, because I would not fall out with thee. Go thy ways;
           let my horses be well look'd to, without any tricks.
          CLOWN. If I put any tricks upon 'em, sir, they shall be jades'
           tricks, which are their own right by the law of nature.
          LAFEU. A shrewd knave, and an unhappy.
          COUNTESS. So 'a is. My lord that's gone made himself much sport
           out of him. By his authority he remains here, which he thinks is
           a patent for his sauciness; and indeed he has no pace, but runs
           where he will.
          LAFEU. I like him well; 'tis not amiss. And I was about to tell
           you, since I heard of the good lady's death, and that my lord
           your son was upon his return home, I moved the King my master to
           speak in the behalf of my daughter; which, in the minority of
           them both, his Majesty out of a self-gracious remembrance did
           first propose. His Highness hath promis'd me to do it; and, to
           stop up the displeasure he hath conceived against your son, there
           is no fitter matter. How does your ladyship like it?

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              COUNTESS. With very much content, my lord; and I wish it happily
              LAFEU. His Highness comes post from Marseilles, of as able body as
               when he number'd thirty; 'a will be here to-morrow, or I am
               deceiv'd by him that in such intelligence hath seldom fail'd.
              COUNTESS. It rejoices me that I hope I shall see him ere I die.
               I have letters that my son will be here to-night. I shall beseech
               your lordship to remain with me tal they meet together.
              LAFEU. Madam, I was thinking with what manners I might safely be
              COUNTESS. You need but plead your honourable privilege.
              LAFEU. Lady, of that I have made a bold charter; but, I thank my
               God, it holds yet.

         Re-enter CLOWN

              CLOWN. O madam, yonder's my lord your son with a patch of velvet
               on's face; whether there be a scar under 't or no, the velvet
               knows; but 'tis a goodly patch of velvet. His left cheek is a
               cheek of two pile and a half, but his right cheek is worn bare.
              LAFEU. A scar nobly got, or a noble scar, is a good liv'ry of
               honour; so belike is that.
              CLOWN. But it is your carbonado'd face.
              LAFEU. Let us go see your son, I pray you;
               I long to talk with the young noble soldier.
              CLOWN. Faith, there's a dozen of 'em, with delicate fine hats, and
               most courteous feathers, which bow the head and nod at every man.


         ACT V. SCE E 1. Marseilles. A street
         Enter HELENA, WIDOW, and DIANA, with two ATTENDANTS

              HELENA. But this exceeding posting day and night
               Must wear your spirits low; we cannot help it.
               But since you have made the days and nights as one,
               To wear your gentle limbs in my affairs,
               Be bold you do so grow in my requital
               As nothing can unroot you.

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         Enter a GENTLEMAN

               In happy time!
               This man may help me to his Majesty's ear,
               If he would spend his power. God save you, sir.
              GENTLEMAN. And you.
              HELENA. Sir, I have seen you in the court of France.
              GENTLEMAN. I have been sometimes there.
              HELENA. I do presume, sir, that you are not fall'n
               From the report that goes upon your goodness;
               And therefore, goaded with most sharp occasions,
               Which lay nice manners by, I put you to
               The use of your own virtues, for the which
               I shall continue thankful.
              GENTLEMAN. What's your will?
              HELENA. That it will please you
               To give this poor petition to the King;
               And aid me with that store of power you have
               To come into his presence.
              GENTLEMAN. The King's not here.
              HELENA. Not here, sir?
              GENTLEMAN. Not indeed.
               He hence remov'd last night, and with more haste
               Than is his use.
              WIDOW. Lord, how we lose our pains!
              HELENA. All's Well That Ends Well yet,
               Though time seem so adverse and means unfit.
               I do beseech you, whither is he gone?
              GENTLEMAN. Marry, as I take it, to Rousillon;
               Whither I am going.
              HELENA. I do beseech you, sir,
               Since you are like to see the King before me,
               Commend the paper to his gracious hand;
               Which I presume shall render you no blame,
               But rather make you thank your pains for it.
               I will come after you with what good speed
               Our means will make us means.
              GENTLEMAN. This I'll do for you.
              HELENA. And you shall find yourself to be well thank'd,
               Whate'er falls more. We must to horse again;
               Go, go, provide. Exeunt

         ACT V SCE E 2. Rousillon. The inner court of the COU T'S
         Enter CLOWN and PAROLLES

              PAROLLES. Good Monsieur Lavache, give my Lord Lafeu this letter. I
               have ere now, sir, been better known to you, when I have held

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               familiarity with fresher clothes; but I am now, sir, muddied in
               Fortune's mood, and smell somewhat strong of her strong
              CLOWN. Truly, Fortune's displeasure is but sluttish, if it smell
               so strongly as thou speak'st of. I will henceforth eat no fish
               of Fortune's butt'ring. Prithee, allow the wind.
              PAROLLES. Nay, you need not to stop your nose, sir; I spake but by
               a metaphor.
              CLOWN. Indeed, sir, if your metaphor stink, I will stop my nose; or
               against any man's metaphor. Prithee, get thee further.
              PAROLLES. Pray you, sir, deliver me this paper.
              CLOWN. Foh! prithee stand away. A paper from Fortune's close-stool
               to give to a nobleman! Look here he comes himself.

         Enter LAFEU

           Here is a pur of Fortune's, sir, or of Fortune's cat, but not
           a musk-cat, that has fall'n into the unclean fishpond of her
           displeasure, and, as he says, is muddied withal. Pray you, sir,
           use the carp as you may; for he looks like a poor, decayed,
           ingenious, foolish, rascally knave. I do pity his distress
           in my similes of comfort, and leave him to your lordship.
          PAROLLES. My lord, I am a man whom Fortune hath cruelly scratch'd.
          LAFEU. And what would you have me to do? 'Tis too late to pare her
           nails now. Wherein have you played the knave with Fortune, that
           she should scratch you, who of herself is a good lady and would
           not have knaves thrive long under her? There's a cardecue for
           you. Let the justices make you and Fortune friends; I am for
           other business.
          PAROLLES. I beseech your honour to hear me one single word.
          LAFEU. You beg a single penny more; come, you shall ha't; save your
          PAROLLES. My name, my good lord, is Parolles.
          LAFEU. You beg more than word then. Cox my passion! give me your
           hand. How does your drum?
          PAROLLES. O my good lord, you were the first that found me.
          LAFEU. Was I, in sooth? And I was the first that lost thee.
          PAROLLES. It lies in you, my lord, to bring me in some grace, for
           you did bring me out.
          LAFEU. Out upon thee, knave! Dost thou put upon me at once both the
           office of God and the devil? One brings the in grace, and the
           other brings thee out. [Trumpets sound] The King's coming; I
           know by his trumpets. Sirrah, inquire further after me; I had
           talk of you last night. Though you are a fool and a knave, you
           shall eat. Go to; follow.
          PAROLLES. I praise God for you. Exeunt

         ACT V SCE E 3. Rousillon. The COU T'S palace

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         Flourish. Enter KING, COUNTESS, LAFEU, the two FRENCH LORDS, with ATTENDANTS

              KING. We lost a jewel of her, and our esteem
               Was made much poorer by it; but your son,
               As mad in folly, lack'd the sense to know
               Her estimation home.
              COUNTESS. 'Tis past, my liege;
               And I beseech your Majesty to make it
               Natural rebellion, done i' th' blaze of youth,
               When oil and fire, too strong for reason's force,
               O'erbears it and burns on.
              KING. My honour'd lady,
               I have forgiven and forgotten all;
               Though my revenges were high bent upon him
               And watch'd the time to shoot.
              LAFEU. This I must say-
               But first, I beg my pardon: the young lord
               Did to his Majesty, his mother, and his lady,
               Offence of mighty note; but to himself
               The greatest wrong of all. He lost a wife
               Whose beauty did astonish the survey
               Of richest eyes; whose words all ears took captive;
               Whose dear perfection hearts that scorn'd to serve
               Humbly call'd mistress.
              KING. Praising what is lost
               Makes the remembrance dear. Well, call him hither;
               We are reconcil'd, and the first view shall kill
               All repetition. Let him not ask our pardon;
               The nature of his great offence is dead,
               And deeper than oblivion do we bury
               Th' incensing relics of it; let him approach,
               A stranger, no offender; and inform him
               So 'tis our will he should.
              GENTLEMAN. I shall, my liege. Exit GENTLEMAN
              KING. What says he to your daughter? Have you spoke?
              LAFEU. All that he is hath reference to your Highness.
              KING. Then shall we have a match. I have letters sent me
               That sets him high in fame.

         Enter BERTRAM

              LAFEU. He looks well on 't.
              KING. I am not a day of season,
               For thou mayst see a sunshine and a hail
               In me at once. But to the brightest beams
               Distracted clouds give way; so stand thou forth;
               The time is fair again.
              BERTRAM. My high-repented blames,
               Dear sovereign, pardon to me.
              KING. All is whole;
               Not one word more of the consumed time.
               Let's take the instant by the forward top;
               For we are old, and on our quick'st decrees
               Th' inaudible and noiseless foot of Time
               Steals ere we can effect them. You remember

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               The daughter of this lord?
              BERTRAM. Admiringly, my liege. At first
               I stuck my choice upon her, ere my heart
               Durst make too bold herald of my tongue;
               Where the impression of mine eye infixing,
               Contempt his scornful perspective did lend me,
               Which warp'd the line of every other favour,
               Scorn'd a fair colour or express'd it stol'n,
               Extended or contracted all proportions
               To a most hideous object. Thence it came
               That she whom all men prais'd, and whom myself,
               Since I have lost, have lov'd, was in mine eye
               The dust that did offend it.
              KING. Well excus'd.
               That thou didst love her, strikes some scores away
               From the great compt; but love that comes too late,
               Like a remorseful pardon slowly carried,
               To the great sender turns a sour offence,
               Crying 'That's good that's gone.' Our rash faults
               Make trivial price of serious things we have,
               Not knowing them until we know their grave.
               Oft our displeasures, to ourselves unjust,
               Destroy our friends, and after weep their dust;
               Our own love waking cries to see what's done,
               While shameful hate sleeps out the afternoon.
               Be this sweet Helen's knell. And now forget her.
               Send forth your amorous token for fair Maudlin.
               The main consents are had; and here we'll stay
               To see our widower's second marriage-day.
              COUNTESS. Which better than the first, O dear heaven, bless!
               Or, ere they meet, in me, O nature, cesse!
              LAFEU. Come on, my son, in whom my house's name
               Must be digested; give a favour from you,
               To sparkle in the spirits of my daughter,
               That she may quickly come.
                                         [BERTRAM gives a ring]
               By my old beard,
               And ev'ry hair that's on 't, Helen, that's dead,
               Was a sweet creature; such a ring as this,
               The last that e'er I took her leave at court,
               I saw upon her finger.
              BERTRAM. Hers it was not.
              KING. Now, pray you, let me see it; for mine eye,
               While I was speaking, oft was fasten'd to't.
               This ring was mine; and when I gave it Helen
               I bade her, if her fortunes ever stood
               Necessitied to help, that by this token
               I would relieve her. Had you that craft to reave her
               Of what should stead her most?
              BERTRAM. My gracious sovereign,
               Howe'er it pleases you to take it so,
               The ring was never hers.
              COUNTESS. Son, on my life,
               I have seen her wear it; and she reckon'd it

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               At her life's rate.
              LAFEU. I am sure I saw her wear it.
              BERTRAM. You are deceiv'd, my lord; she never saw it.
               In Florence was it from a casement thrown me,
               Wrapp'd in a paper, which contain'd the name
               Of her that threw it. Noble she was, and thought
               I stood engag'd; but when I had subscrib'd
               To mine own fortune, and inform'd her fully
               I could not answer in that course of honour
               As she had made the overture, she ceas'd,
               In heavy satisfaction, and would never
               Receive the ring again.
              KING. Plutus himself,
               That knows the tinct and multiplying med'cine,
               Hath not in nature's mystery more science
               Than I have in this ring. 'Twas mine, 'twas Helen's,
               Whoever gave it you. Then, if you know
               That you are well acquainted with yourself,
               Confess 'twas hers, and by what rough enforcement
               You got it from her. She call'd the saints to surety
               That she would never put it from her finger
               Unless she gave it to yourself in bed-
               Where you have never come- or sent it us
               Upon her great disaster.
              BERTRAM. She never saw it.
              KING. Thou speak'st it falsely, as I love mine honour;
               And mak'st conjectural fears to come into me
               Which I would fain shut out. If it should prove
               That thou art so inhuman- 'twill not prove so.
               And yet I know not- thou didst hate her deadly,
               And she is dead; which nothing, but to close
               Her eyes myself, could win me to believe
               More than to see this ring. Take him away.
                                         [GUARDS seize BERTRAM]
               My fore-past proofs, howe'er the matter fall,
               Shall tax my fears of little vanity,
               Having vainly fear'd too little. Away with him.
               We'll sift this matter further.
              BERTRAM. If you shall prove
               This ring was ever hers, you shall as easy
               Prove that I husbanded her bed in Florence,
               Where she yet never was. Exit, guarded
              KING. I am wrapp'd in dismal thinkings.

         Enter a GENTLEMAN

              GENTLEMAN. Gracious sovereign,
               Whether I have been to blame or no, I know not:
               Here's a petition from a Florentine,
               Who hath, for four or five removes, come short
               To tender it herself. I undertook it,
               Vanquish'd thereto by the fair grace and speech
               Of the poor suppliant, who by this, I know,
               Is here attending; her business looks in her
               With an importing visage; and she told me

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               In a sweet verbal brief it did concern
               Your Highness with herself.
              KING. [Reads the letter] 'Upon his many protestations to marry me
               when his wife was dead, I blush to say it, he won me. Now is the
               Count Rousillon a widower; his vows are forfeited to me, and my
               honour's paid to him. He stole from Florence, taking no leave,
               and I follow him to his country for justice. Grant it me, O King!
               in you it best lies; otherwise a seducer flourishes, and a poor
               maid is undone.
                                             DIANA CAPILET.'
              LAFEU. I will buy me a son-in-law in a fair, and toll for this.
               I'll none of him.
              KING. The heavens have thought well on thee, Lafeu,
               To bring forth this discov'ry. Seek these suitors.
               Go speedily, and bring again the Count.
                                            Exeunt ATTENDANTS
               I am afeard the life of Helen, lady,
               Was foully snatch'd.
              COUNTESS. Now, justice on the doers!

         Enter BERTRAM, guarded

              KING. I wonder, sir, sith wives are monsters to you.
               And that you fly them as you swear them lordship,
               Yet you desire to marry.
                                        Enter WIDOW and DIANA
               What woman's that?
              DIANA. I am, my lord, a wretched Florentine,
               Derived from the ancient Capilet.
               My suit, as I do understand, you know,
               And therefore know how far I may be pitied.
              WIDOW. I am her mother, sir, whose age and honour
               Both suffer under this complaint we bring,
               And both shall cease, without your remedy.
              KING. Come hither, Count; do you know these women?
              BERTRAM. My lord, I neither can nor will deny
               But that I know them. Do they charge me further?
              DIANA. Why do you look so strange upon your wife?
              BERTRAM. She's none of mine, my lord.
              DIANA. If you shall marry,
               You give away this hand, and that is mine;
               You give away heaven's vows, and those are mine;
               You give away myself, which is known mine;
               For I by vow am so embodied yours
               That she which marries you must marry me,
               Either both or none.
              LAFEU. [To BERTRAM] Your reputation comes too short for
               my daughter; you are no husband for her.
              BERTRAM. My lord, this is a fond and desp'rate creature
               Whom sometime I have laugh'd with. Let your Highness
               Lay a more noble thought upon mine honour
               Than for to think that I would sink it here.
              KING. Sir, for my thoughts, you have them ill to friend
               Till your deeds gain them. Fairer prove your honour
               Than in my thought it lies!

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              DIANA. Good my lord,
               Ask him upon his oath if he does think
               He had not my virginity.
              KING. What say'st thou to her?
              BERTRAM. She's impudent, my lord,
               And was a common gamester to the camp.
              DIANA. He does me wrong, my lord; if I were so
               He might have bought me at a common price.
               Do not believe him. o, behold this ring,
               Whose high respect and rich validity
               Did lack a parallel; yet, for all that,
               He gave it to a commoner o' th' camp,
               If I be one.
              COUNTESS. He blushes, and 'tis it.
               Of six preceding ancestors, that gem
               Conferr'd by testament to th' sequent issue,
               Hath it been ow'd and worn. This is his wife:
               That ring's a thousand proofs.
              KING. Methought you said
               You saw one here in court could witness it.
              DIANA. I did, my lord, but loath am to produce
               So bad an instrument; his name's Parolles.
              LAFEU. I saw the man to-day, if man he be.
              KING. Find him, and bring him hither. Exit an ATTENDANT
              BERTRAM. What of him?
               He's quoted for a most perfidious slave,
               With all the spots o' th' world tax'd and debauch'd,
               Whose nature sickens but to speak a truth.
               Am I or that or this for what he'll utter
               That will speak anything?
              KING. She hath that ring of yours.
              BERTRAM. I think she has. Certain it is I lik'd her,
               And boarded her i' th' wanton way of youth.
               She knew her distance, and did angle for me,
               Madding my eagerness with her restraint,
               As all impediments in fancy's course
               Are motives of more fancy; and, in fine,
               Her infinite cunning with her modern grace
               Subdu'd me to her rate. She got the ring;
               And I had that which any inferior might
               At market-price have bought.
              DIANA. I must be patient.
               You that have turn'd off a first so noble wife
               May justly diet me. I pray you yet-
               Since you lack virtue, I will lose a husband-
               Send for your ring, I will return it home,
               And give me mine again.
              BERTRAM. I have it not.
              KING. What ring was yours, I pray you?
              DIANA. Sir, much like
               The same upon your finger.
              KING. Know you this ring? This ring was his of late.
              DIANA. And this was it I gave him, being abed.
              KING. The story, then, goes false you threw it him

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               Out of a casement.
              DIANA. I have spoke the truth.

         Enter PAROLLES

              BERTRAM. My lord, I do confess the ring was hers.
              KING. You boggle shrewdly; every feather starts you.
               Is this the man you speak of?
              DIANA. Ay, my lord.
              KING. Tell me, sirrah-but tell me true I charge you,
               Not fearing the displeasure of your master,
               Which, on your just proceeding, I'll keep off-
               By him and by this woman here what know you?
              PAROLLES. So please your Majesty, my master hath been an honourable
               gentleman; tricks he hath had in him, which gentlemen have.
              KING. Come, come, to th' purpose. Did he love this woman?
              PAROLLES. Faith, sir, he did love her; but how?
              KING. How, I pray you?
              PAROLLES. He did love her, sir, as a gentleman loves a woman.
              KING. How is that?
              PAROLLES. He lov'd her, sir, and lov'd her not.
              KING. As thou art a knave and no knave.
               What an equivocal companion is this!
              PAROLLES. I am a poor man, and at your Majesty's command.
              LAFEU. He's a good drum, my lord, but a naughty orator.
              DIANA. Do you know he promis'd me marriage?
              PAROLLES. Faith, I know more than I'll speak.
              KING. But wilt thou not speak all thou know'st?
              PAROLLES. Yes, so please your Majesty. I did go between them, as I
               said; but more than that, he loved her-for indeed he was mad for
               her, and talk'd of Satan, and of Limbo, and of Furies, and I know
               not what. Yet I was in that credit with them at that time that I
               knew of their going to bed; and of other motions, as promising
               her marriage, and things which would derive me ill will to speak
               of; therefore I will not speak what I know.
              KING. Thou hast spoken all already, unless thou canst say they are
               married; but thou art too fine in thy evidence; therefore stand
               This ring, you say, was yours?
              DIANA. Ay, my good lord.
              KING. Where did you buy it? Or who gave it you?
              DIANA. It was not given me, nor I did not buy it.
              KING. Who lent it you?
              DIANA. It was not lent me neither.
              KING. Where did you find it then?
              DIANA. I found it not.
              KING. If it were yours by none of all these ways,
               How could you give it him?
              DIANA. I never gave it him.
              LAFEU. This woman's an easy glove, my lord; she goes of and on at
              KING. This ring was mine, I gave it his first wife.
              DIANA. It might be yours or hers, for aught I know.
              KING. Take her away, I do not like her now;
               To prison with her. And away with him.

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               Unless thou tell'st me where thou hadst this ring,
               Thou diest within this hour.
              DIANA. I'll never tell you.
              KING. Take her away.
              DIANA. I'll put in bail, my liege.
              KING. I think thee now some common customer.
              DIANA. By Jove, if ever I knew man, 'twas you.
              KING. Wherefore hast thou accus'd him all this while?
              DIANA. Because he's guilty, and he is not guilty.
               He knows I am no maid, and he'll swear to't:
               I'll swear I am a maid, and he knows not.
               Great King, I am no strumpet, by my life;
               I am either maid, or else this old man's wife.
                                          [Pointing to LAFEU]
              KING. She does abuse our ears; to prison with her.
              DIANA. Good mother, fetch my bail. Stay, royal sir;
                                                Exit WIDOW
               The jeweller that owes the ring is sent for,
               And he shall surety me. But for this lord
               Who hath abus'd me as he knows himself,
               Though yet he never harm'd me, here I quit him.
               He knows himself my bed he hath defil'd;
               And at that time he got his wife with child.
               Dead though she be, she feels her young one kick;
               So there's my riddle: one that's dead is quick-
               And now behold the meaning.

         Re-enter WIDOW with HELENA

              KING. Is there no exorcist
               Beguiles the truer office of mine eyes?
               Is't real that I see?
              HELENA. No, my good lord;
               'Tis but the shadow of a wife you see,
               The name and not the thing.
              BERTRAM. Both, both; o, pardon!
              HELENA. O, my good lord, when I was like this maid,
               I found you wondrous kind. There is your ring,
               And, look you, here's your letter. This it says:
               'When from my finger you can get this ring,
               And are by me with child,' etc. This is done.
               Will you be mine now you are doubly won?
              BERTRAM. If she, my liege, can make me know this clearly,
               I'll love her dearly, ever, ever dearly.
              HELENA. If it appear not plain, and prove untrue,
               Deadly divorce step between me and you!
               O my dear mother, do I see you living?
              LAFEU. Mine eyes smell onions; I shall weep anon. [To PAROLLES]
               Good Tom Drum, lend me a handkercher. So, I
               thank thee. Wait on me home, I'll make sport with thee;
               let thy curtsies alone, they are scurvy ones.
              KING. Let us from point to point this story know,
               To make the even truth in pleasure flow.
               [To DIANA] If thou beest yet a fresh uncropped flower,
               Choose thou thy husband, and I'll pay thy dower;

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               For I can guess that by thy honest aid
               Thou kept'st a wife herself, thyself a maid.-
               Of that and all the progress, more and less,
               Resolvedly more leisure shall express.
               All yet seems well; and if it end so meet,
               The bitter past, more welcome is the sweet. [Flourish]


              KING. The King's a beggar, now the play is done.
               All is well ended if this suit be won,
               That you express content; which we will pay
               With strife to please you, day exceeding day.
               Ours be your patience then, and yours our parts;
               Your gentle hands lend us, and take our hearts.
                                                Exeunt omnes

         THE E D




         by William Shakespeare

              MARK ANTONY, Triumvirs
              OCTAVIUS CAESAR, "
              M. AEMILIUS LEPIDUS, "
              SEXTUS POMPEIUS, "
              DOMITIUS ENOBARBUS, friend to Antony
              VENTIDIUS, " " "
              EROS, " " "
              SCARUS, " " "
              DERCETAS, " " "
              DEMETRIUS, " " "

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              PHILO, " " "
              MAECENAS, friend to Caesar
              AGRIPPA, " " "
              DOLABELLA, " " "
              PROCULEIUS, " " "
              THYREUS, " " "
              GALLUS, " " "
              MENAS, friend to Pompey
              MENECRATES, " " "
              VARRIUS, " " "
              TAURUS, Lieutenant-General to Caesar
              CANIDIUS, Lieutenant-General to Antony
              SILIUS, an Officer in Ventidius's army
              EUPHRONIUS, an Ambassador from Antony to Caesar
              ALEXAS, attendant on Cleopatra
              MARDIAN, " " "
              SELEUCUS, " " "
              DIOMEDES, " " "
              A SOOTHSAYER
              A CLOWN

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

         Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and Attendants


         SCE E: The Roman Empire
         ACT I. SCE E I. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

         Enter DEMETRIUS and PHILO

              PHILO. Nay, but this dotage of our general's
               O'erflows the measure. Those his goodly eyes,
               That o'er the files and musters of the war
               Have glow'd like plated Mars, now bend, now turn,

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               The office and devotion of their view
               Upon a tawny front. His captain's heart,
               Which in the scuffles of great fights hath burst
               The buckles on his breast, reneges all temper,
               And is become the bellows and the fan
               To cool a gipsy's lust.

               Flourish. Enter ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, her LADIES, the train,
                         with eunuchs fanning her

               Look where they come!
               Take but good note, and you shall see in him
               The triple pillar of the world transform'd
               Into a strumpet's fool. Behold and see.
              CLEOPATRA. If it be love indeed, tell me how much.
              ANTONY. There's beggary in the love that can be reckon'd.
              CLEOPATRA. I'll set a bourn how far to be belov'd.
              ANTONY. Then must thou needs find out new heaven, new earth.

         Enter a MESSENGER

              MESSENGER. News, my good lord, from Rome.
              ANTONY. Grates me the sum.
              CLEOPATRA. Nay, hear them, Antony.
               Fulvia perchance is angry; or who knows
               If the scarce-bearded Caesar have not sent
               His pow'rful mandate to you: 'Do this or this;
               Take in that kingdom and enfranchise that;
               Perform't, or else we damn thee.'
              ANTONY. How, my love?
              CLEOPATRA. Perchance? Nay, and most like,
               You must not stay here longer; your dismission
               Is come from Caesar; therefore hear it, Antony.
               Where's Fulvia's process? Caesar's I would say? Both?
               Call in the messengers. As I am Egypt's Queen,
               Thou blushest, Antony, and that blood of thine
               Is Caesar's homager. Else so thy cheek pays shame
               When shrill-tongu'd Fulvia scolds. The messengers!
              ANTONY. Let Rome in Tiber melt, and the wide arch
               Of the rang'd 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 [emhracing], when such a mutual pair
               And such a twain can do't, in which I bind,
               On pain of punishment, the world to weet
               We stand up peerless.
              CLEOPATRA. Excellent falsehood!
               Why did he marry Fulvia, and not love her?
               I'll seem the fool I am not. Antony
               Will be himself.
              ANTONY. But stirr'd by Cleopatra.
               Now for the love of Love and her soft hours,
               Let's not confound the time with conference harsh;
               There's not a minute of our lives should stretch
               Without some pleasure now. What sport to-night?

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              CLEOPATRA. Hear the ambassadors.
              ANTONY. Fie, wrangling queen!
               Whom everything becomes- to chide, to laugh,
               To weep; whose every passion fully strives
               To make itself in thee fair and admir'd.
               No messenger but thine, and all alone
               To-night we'll wander through the streets and note
               The qualities of people. Come, my queen;
               Last night you did desire it. Speak not to us.
                          Exeunt ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, with the train
              DEMETRIUS. Is Caesar with Antonius priz'd so slight?
              PHILO. Sir, sometimes when he is not Antony,
               He comes too short of that great property
               Which still should go with Antony.
              DEMETRIUS. I am full sorry
               That he approves the common liar, who
               Thus speaks of him at Rome; but I will hope
               Of better deeds to-morrow. Rest you happy! Exeunt

         SCE E II. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

              CHARMIAN. Lord Alexas, sweet Alexas, most anything Alexas, almost
               most absolute Alexas, where's the soothsayer that you prais'd so
               to th' Queen? O that I knew this husband, which you say must
               charge his horns with garlands!
              ALEXAS. Soothsayer!
              SOOTHSAYER. Your will?
              CHARMIAN. Is this the man? Is't you, sir, that know things?
              SOOTHSAYER. In nature's infinite book of secrecy
               A little I can read.
              ALEXAS. Show him your hand.

         Enter ENOBARBUS

              ENOBARBUS. Bring in the banquet quickly; wine enough
               Cleopatra's health to drink.
              CHARMIAN. Good, sir, give me good fortune.
              SOOTHSAYER. I make not, but foresee.
              CHARMIAN. Pray, then, foresee me one.
              SOOTHSAYER. You shall be yet far fairer than you are.
              CHARMIAN. He means in flesh.
              IRAS. No, you shall paint when you are old.
              CHARMIAN. Wrinkles forbid!
              ALEXAS. Vex not his prescience; be attentive.
              CHARMIAN. Hush!
              SOOTHSAYER. You shall be more beloving than beloved.
              CHARMIAN. I had rather heat my liver with drinking.
              ALEXAS. Nay, hear him.

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              CHARMIAN. Good now, some excellent fortune! Let me be married to
               three kings in a forenoon, and widow them all. Let me have a
               child at fifty, to whom Herod of Jewry may do homage. Find me to
               marry me with Octavius Caesar, and companion me with my mistress.
              SOOTHSAYER. You shall outlive the lady whom you serve.
              CHARMIAN. O, excellent! I love long life better than figs.
              SOOTHSAYER. You have seen and prov'd a fairer former fortune
               Than that which is to approach.
              CHARMIAN. Then belike my children shall have no names.
               Prithee, how many boys and wenches must I have?
              SOOTHSAYER. If every of your wishes had a womb,
               And fertile every wish, a million.
              CHARMIAN. Out, fool! I forgive thee for a witch.
              ALEXAS. You think none but your sheets are privy to your wishes.
              CHARMIAN. Nay, come, tell Iras hers.
              ALEXAS. We'll know all our fortunes.
              ENOBARBUS. Mine, and most of our fortunes, to-night, shall be-
               drunk to bed.
              IRAS. There's a palm presages chastity, if nothing else.
              CHARMIAN. E'en as the o'erflowing Nilus presageth famine.
              IRAS. Go, you wild bedfellow, you cannot soothsay.
              CHARMIAN. Nay, if an oily palm be not a fruitful prognostication, I
               cannot scratch mine ear. Prithee, tell her but worky-day fortune.
              SOOTHSAYER. Your fortunes are alike.
              IRAS. But how, but how? Give me particulars.
              SOOTHSAYER. I have said.
              IRAS. Am I not an inch of fortune better than she?
              CHARMIAN. Well, if you were but an inch of fortune better than I,
               where would you choose it?
              IRAS. Not in my husband's nose.
              CHARMIAN. Our worser thoughts heavens mend! Alexas- come, his
               fortune, his fortune! O, let him marry a woman that cannot go,
               sweet Isis, I beseech thee! And let her die too, and give him a
               worse! And let worse follow worse, till the worst of all follow
               him laughing to his grave, fiftyfold a cuckold! Good Isis, hear
               me this prayer, though thou deny me a matter of more weight; good
               Isis, I beseech thee!
              IRAS. Amen. Dear goddess, hear that prayer of the people! For, as
               it is a heartbreaking to see a handsome man loose-wiv'd, so it is
               a deadly sorrow to behold a foul knave uncuckolded. Therefore,
               dear Isis, keep decorum, and fortune him accordingly!
              CHARMIAN. Amen.
              ALEXAS. Lo now, if it lay in their hands to make me a cuckold, they
               would make themselves whores but they'ld do't!

         Enter CLEOPATRA

              ENOBARBUS. Hush! Here comes Antony.
              CHARMIAN. Not he; the Queen.
              CLEOPATRA. Saw you my lord?
              ENOBARBUS. No, lady.
              CLEOPATRA. Was he not here?
              CHARMIAN. No, madam.
              CLEOPATRA. He was dispos'd to mirth; but on the sudden
               A Roman thought hath struck him. Enobarbus!

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              ENOBARBUS. Madam?
              CLEOPATRA. Seek him, and bring him hither. Where's Alexas?
              ALEXAS. Here, at your service. My lord approaches.

         Enter ANTONY, with a MESSENGER and attendants

              CLEOPATRA. We will not look upon him. Go with us.
                             Exeunt CLEOPATRA, ENOBARBUS, and the rest
              MESSENGER. Fulvia thy wife first came into the field.
              ANTONY. Against my brother Lucius?
              MESSENGER. Ay.
               But soon that war had end, and the time's state
               Made friends of them, jointing their force 'gainst Caesar,
               Whose better issue in the war from Italy
               Upon the first encounter drave them.
              ANTONY. Well, what worst?
              MESSENGER. The nature of bad news infects the teller.
              ANTONY. When it concerns the fool or coward. On!
               Things that are past are done with me. 'Tis thus:
               Who tells me true, though in his tale lie death,
               I hear him as he flatter'd.
              MESSENGER. Labienus-
               This is stiff news- hath with his Parthian force
               Extended Asia from Euphrates,
               His conquering banner shook from Syria
               To Lydia and to Ionia,
              ANTONY. Antony, thou wouldst say.
              MESSENGER. O, my lord!
              ANTONY. Speak to me home; mince not the general tongue;
               Name Cleopatra as she is call'd in Rome.
               Rail thou in Fulvia's phrase, and taunt my faults
               With such full licence as both truth and malice
               Have power to utter. O, then we bring forth weeds
               When our quick minds lie still, and our ills told us
               Is as our earing. Fare thee well awhile.
              MESSENGER. At your noble pleasure. Exit
              ANTONY. From Sicyon, ho, the news! Speak there!
              FIRST ATTENDANT. The man from Sicyon- is there such an one?
              SECOND ATTENDANT. He stays upon your will.
              ANTONY. Let him appear.
               These strong Egyptian fetters I must break,
               Or lose myself in dotage.

         Enter another MESSENGER with a letter

               What are you?
              SECOND MESSENGER. Fulvia thy wife is dead.
              ANTONY. Where died she?
              SECOND MESSENGER. In Sicyon.
               Her length of sickness, with what else more serious
               Importeth thee to know, this bears. [Gives the letter]
              ANTONY. Forbear me. Exit MESSENGER
               There's a great spirit gone! Thus did I desire it.
               What our contempts doth often hurl from us

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               We wish it ours again; the present pleasure,
               By revolution low'ring, does become
               The opposite of itself. She's good, being gone;
               The hand could pluck her back that shov'd her on.
               I must from this enchanting queen break off.
               Ten thousand harms, more than the ills I know,
               My idleness doth hatch. How now, Enobarbus!

         Re-enter ENOBARBUS

              ENOBARBUS. What's your pleasure, sir?
              ANTONY. I must with haste from hence.
              ENOBARBUS. Why, then we kill all our women. We see how mortal an
               unkindness is to them; if they suffer our departure, death's the
              ANTONY. I must be gone.
              ENOBARBUS. Under a compelling occasion, let women die. It were pity
               to cast them away for nothing, though between them and a great
               cause they should be esteemed nothing. Cleopatra, catching but
               the least noise of this, dies instantly; I have seen her die
               twenty times upon far poorer moment. I do think there is mettle
               in death, which commits some loving act upon her, she hath such a
               celerity in dying.
              ANTONY. She is cunning past man's thought.
              ENOBARBUS. Alack, sir, no! Her passions are made of nothing but the
               finest part of pure love. We cannot call her winds and waters
               sighs and tears; they are greater storms and tempests than
               almanacs can report. This cannot be cunning in her; if it be, she
               makes a show'r of rain as well as Jove.
              ANTONY. Would I had never seen her!
              ENOBARBUS. O Sir, you had then left unseen a wonderful piece of
               work, which not to have been blest withal would have discredited
               your travel.
              ANTONY. Fulvia is dead.
              ENOBARBUS. Sir?
              ANTONY. Fulvia is dead.
              ENOBARBUS. Fulvia?
              ANTONY. Dead.
              ENOBARBUS. Why, sir, give the gods a thankful sacrifice. When it
               pleaseth their deities to take the wife of a man from him, it
               shows to man the tailors of the earth; comforting therein that
               when old robes are worn out there are members to make new. If
               there were no more women but Fulvia, then had you indeed a cut,
               and the case to be lamented. This grief is crown'd with
               consolation: your old smock brings forth a new petticoat; and
               indeed the tears live in an onion that should water this sorrow.
              ANTONY. The business she hath broached in the state
               Cannot endure my absence.
              ENOBARBUS. And the business you have broach'd here cannot be
               without you; especially that of Cleopatra's, which wholly depends
               on your abode.
              ANTONY. No more light answers. Let our officers
               Have notice what we purpose. I shall break
               The cause of our expedience to the Queen,
               And get her leave to part. For not alone

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               The death of Fulvia, with more urgent touches,
               Do strongly speak to us; but the letters to
               Of many our contriving friends in Rome
               Petition us at home. Sextus Pompeius
               Hath given the dare to Caesar, and commands
               The empire of the sea; our slippery people,
               Whose love is never link'd to the deserver
               Till his deserts are past, begin to throw
               Pompey the Great and all his dignities
               Upon his son; who, high in name and power,
               Higher than both in blood and life, stands up
               For the main soldier; whose quality, going on,
               The sides o' th' world may danger. Much is breeding
               Which, like the courser's hair, hath yet but life
               And not a serpent's poison. Say our pleasure,
               To such whose place is under us, requires
               Our quick remove from hence.
              ENOBARBUS. I shall do't. Exeunt

         SCE E III. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

              CLEOPATRA. Where is he?
              CHARMIAN. I did not see him since.
              CLEOPATRA. See where he is, who's with him, what he does.
               I did not send you. If you find him sad,
               Say I am dancing; if in mirth, report
               That I am sudden sick. Quick, and return. Exit ALEXAS
              CHARMIAN. Madam, methinks, if you did love him dearly,
               You do not hold the method to enforce
               The like from him.
              CLEOPATRA. What should I do I do not?
              CHARMIAN. In each thing give him way; cross him in nothing.
              CLEOPATRA. Thou teachest like a fool- the way to lose him.
              CHARMIAN. Tempt him not so too far; I wish, forbear;
               In time we hate that which we often fear.

         Enter ANTONY

               But here comes Antony.
              CLEOPATRA. I am sick and sullen.
              ANTONY. I am sorry to give breathing to my purpose-
              CLEOPATRA. Help me away, dear Charmian; I shall fall.
               It cannot be thus long; the sides of nature
               Will not sustain it.
              ANTONY. Now, my dearest queen-
              CLEOPATRA. Pray you, stand farther from me.
              ANTONY. What's the matter?
              CLEOPATRA. I know by that same eye there's some good news.

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               What says the married woman? You may go.
               Would she had never given you leave to come!
               Let her not say 'tis I that keep you here-
               I have no power upon you; hers you are.
              ANTONY. The gods best know-
              CLEOPATRA. O, never was there queen
               So mightily betray'd! Yet at the first
               I saw the treasons planted.
              ANTONY. Cleopatra-
              CLEOPATRA. Why should I think you can be mine and true,
               Though you in swearing shake the throned gods,
               Who have been false to Fulvia? Riotous madness,
               To be entangled with those mouth-made vows,
               Which break themselves in swearing!
              ANTONY. Most sweet queen-
              CLEOPATRA. Nay, pray you seek no colour for your going,
               But bid farewell, and go. When you sued staying,
               Then was the time for words. No going then!
               Eternity was in our lips and eyes,
               Bliss in our brows' bent, none our parts so poor
               But was a race of heaven. They are so still,
               Or thou, the greatest soldier of the world,
               Art turn'd the greatest liar.
              ANTONY. How now, lady!
              CLEOPATRA. I would I had thy inches. Thou shouldst know
               There were a heart in Egypt.
              ANTONY. Hear me, queen:
               The strong necessity of time commands
               Our services awhile; but my full heart
               Remains in use with you. Our Italy
               Shines o'er with civil swords: Sextus Pompeius
               Makes his approaches to the port of Rome;
               Equality of two domestic powers
               Breed scrupulous faction; the hated, grown to strength,
               Are newly grown to love. The condemn'd Pompey,
               Rich in his father's honour, creeps apace
               Into the hearts of such as have not thrived
               Upon the present state, whose numbers threaten;
               And quietness, grown sick of rest, would purge
               By any desperate change. My more particular,
               And that which most with you should safe my going,
               Is Fulvia's death.
              CLEOPATRA. Though age from folly could not give me freedom,
                It does from childishness. Can Fulvia die?
              ANTONY. She's dead, my Queen.
               Look here, and at thy sovereign leisure read
               The garboils she awak'd. At the last, best.
               See when and where she died.
              CLEOPATRA. 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 receiv'd shall be.
              ANTONY. Quarrel no more, but be prepar'd to know
               The purposes I bear; which are, or cease,

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               As you shall give th' advice. By the fire
               That quickens Nilus' slime, I go from hence
               Thy soldier, servant, making peace or war
               As thou affects.
              CLEOPATRA. Cut my lace, Charmian, come!
               But let it be; I am quickly ill and well-
               So Antony loves.
              ANTONY. My precious queen, forbear,
               And give true evidence to his love, which stands
               An honourable trial.
              CLEOPATRA. So Fulvia told me.
               I prithee turn aside and weep for her;
               Then bid adieu to me, and say the tears
               Belong to Egypt. Good now, play one scene
               Of excellent dissembling, and let it look
               Like perfect honour.
              ANTONY. You'll heat my blood; no more.
              CLEOPATRA. You can do better yet; but this is meetly.
              ANTONY. Now, by my sword-
              CLEOPATRA. 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.
              ANTONY. I'll leave you, lady.
              CLEOPATRA. Courteous lord, one word.
               Sir, you and I must part- but that's not it.
               Sir, you and I have lov'd- 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!
              ANTONY. But that your royalty
               Holds idleness your subject, I should take you
               For idleness itself.
              CLEOPATRA. 'Tis sweating labour
               To bear such idleness so near the heart
               As Cleopatra this. But, sir, forgive me;
               Since my becomings kill me when they do not
               Eye well to you. Your honour calls you hence;
               Therefore be deaf to my unpitied folly,
               And all the gods go with you! Upon your sword
               Sit laurel victory, and smooth success
               Be strew'd before your feet!
              ANTONY. Let us go. Come.
               Our separation so abides and flies
               That thou, residing here, goes yet with me,
               And I, hence fleeting, here remain with thee.
               Away! Exeunt

         SCE E IV. Rome. CAESAR'S house

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         Enter OCTAVIUS CAESAR, reading a letter; LEPIDUS, and their train

              CAESAR. You may see, Lepidus, and henceforth know,
               It is not Caesar's natural vice to hate
               Our great competitor. From Alexandria
               This is the news: he fishes, drinks, and wastes
               The lamps of night in revel; is not more manlike
               Than Cleopatra, nor the queen of Ptolemy
               More womanly than he; hardly gave audience, or
               Vouchsaf'd to think he had partners. You shall find there
               A man who is the abstract of all faults
               That all men follow.
              LEPIDUS. 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; hereditary
               Rather than purchas'd; what he cannot change
               Than what he chooses.
              CAESAR. You are too indulgent. Let's grant it is not
               Amiss to tumble on the bed of Ptolemy,
               To give a kingdom for a mirth, to sit
               And keep the turn of tippling with a slave,
               To reel the streets at noon, and stand the buffet
               With knaves that smell of sweat. Say this becomes him-
               As his composure must be rare indeed
               Whom these things cannot blemish- yet must Antony
               No way excuse his foils when we do bear
               So great weight in his lightness. If he fill'd
               His vacancy with his voluptuousness,
               Full surfeits and the dryness of his bones
               Call on him for't! But to confound such time
               That drums him from his sport and speaks as loud
               As his own state and ours- 'tis to be chid
               As we rate boys who, being mature in knowledge,
               Pawn their experience to their present pleasure,
               And so rebel to judgment.

         Enter a MESSENGER

              LEPIDUS. Here's more news.
              MESSENGER. Thy biddings have been done; and every hour,
               Most noble Caesar, shalt thou have report
               How 'tis abroad. Pompey is strong at sea,
               And it appears he is belov'd of those
               That only have fear'd Caesar. To the ports
               The discontents repair, and men's reports
               Give him much wrong'd.
              CAESAR. I should have known no less.
               It hath been taught us from the primal state
               That he which is was wish'd until he were;
               And the ebb'd man, ne'er lov'd till ne'er worth love,
               Comes dear'd by being lack'd. This common body,
               Like to a vagabond flag upon the stream,
               Goes to and back, lackeying the varying tide,
               To rot itself with motion.

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              MESSENGER. Caesar, I bring thee word
               Menecrates and Menas, famous pirates,
               Make the sea serve them, which they ear and wound
               With keels of every kind. Many hot inroads
               They make in Italy; the borders maritime
               Lack blood to think on't, and flush youth revolt.
               No vessel can peep forth but 'tis as soon
               Taken as seen; for Pompey's name strikes more
               Than could his war resisted.
              CAESAR. Antony,
               Leave thy lascivious wassails. When thou once
               Was beaten from Modena, where thou slew'st
               Hirtius and Pansa, consuls, at thy heel
               Did famine follow; whom thou fought'st against,
               Though daintily brought up, with patience more
               Than savages could suffer. Thou didst drink
               The stale of horses and the gilded puddle
               Which beasts would cough at. Thy palate then did deign
               The roughest berry on the rudest hedge;
               Yea, like the stag when snow the pasture sheets,
               The barks of trees thou brows'd. 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.
              LEPIDUS. 'Tis pity of him.
              CAESAR. Let his shames quickly
               Drive him to Rome. 'Tis time we twain
               Did show ourselves i' th' field; and to that end
               Assemble we immediate council. Pompey
               Thrives in our idleness.
              LEPIDUS. To-morrow, Caesar,
               I shall be furnish'd to inform you rightly
               Both what by sea and land I can be able
               To front this present time.
              CAESAR. Till which encounter
               It is my business too. Farewell.
              LEPIDUS. Farewell, my lord. What you shall know meantime
               Of stirs abroad, I shall beseech you, sir,
               To let me be partaker.
              CAESAR. Doubt not, sir;
               I knew it for my bond. Exeunt

         SCE E V. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

              CLEOPATRA. Charmian!
              CHARMIAN. Madam?

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              CLEOPATRA. Ha, ha!
               Give me to drink mandragora.
              CHARMIAN. Why, madam?
              CLEOPATRA. That I might sleep out this great gap of time
               My Antony is away.
              CHARMIAN. You think of him too much.
              CLEOPATRA. O, 'tis treason!
              CHARMIAN. Madam, I trust, not so.
              CLEOPATRA. Thou, eunuch Mardian!
              MARDIAN. What's your Highness' pleasure?
              CLEOPATRA. Not now to hear thee sing; I take no pleasure
               In aught an eunuch has. 'Tis well for thee
               That, being unseminar'd, thy freer thoughts
               May not fly forth of Egypt. Hast thou affections?
              MARDIAN. Yes, gracious madam.
              CLEOPATRA. Indeed?
              MARDIAN. Not in deed, madam; for I can do nothing
               But what indeed is honest to be done.
               Yet have I fierce affections, and think
               What Venus did with Mars.
              CLEOPATRA. O Charmian,
               Where think'st thou he is now? Stands he or sits he?
               Or does he walk? or is he on his horse?
               O happy horse, to bear the weight of Antony!
               Do bravely, horse; for wot'st thou whom thou mov'st?
               The demi-Atlas of this earth, the arm
               And burgonet of men. He's speaking now,
               Or murmuring 'Where's my serpent of old Nile?'
               For so he calls me. Now I feed myself
               With most delicious poison. Think on me,
               That am with Phoebus' amorous pinches black,
               And wrinkled deep in time? Broad-fronted Caesar,
               When thou wast here above the ground, I was
               A morsel for a monarch; and great Pompey
               Would stand and make his eyes grow in my brow;
               There would he anchor his aspect and die
               With looking on his life.

         Enter ALEXAS

              ALEXAS. Sovereign of Egypt, hail!
              CLEOPATRA. How much unlike art thou Mark Antony!
               Yet, coming from him, that great med'cine hath
               With his tinct gilded thee.
               How goes it with my brave Mark Antony?
              ALEXAS. Last thing he did, dear Queen,
               He kiss'd- the last of many doubled kisses-
               This orient pearl. His speech sticks in my heart.
              CLEOPATRA. Mine ear must pluck it thence.
              ALEXAS. 'Good friend,' quoth he
               'Say the firm Roman to great Egypt sends
               This treasure of an oyster; at whose foot,
               To mend the petty present, I will piece
               Her opulent throne with kingdoms. All the East,
               Say thou, shall call her mistress.' So he nodded,

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               And soberly did mount an arm-gaunt steed,
               Who neigh'd so high that what I would have spoke
               Was beastly dumb'd by him.
              CLEOPATRA. What, was he sad or merry?
              ALEXAS. Like to the time o' th' year between the extremes
               Of hot and cold; he was nor sad nor merry.
              CLEOPATRA. O well-divided disposition! Note him,
               Note him, good Charmian; 'tis the man; but note him!
               He was not sad, for he would shine on those
               That make their looks by his; he was not merry,
               Which seem'd to tell them his remembrance lay
               In Egypt with his joy; but between both.
               O heavenly mingle! Be'st thou sad or merry,
               The violence of either thee becomes,
               So does it no man else. Met'st thou my posts?
              ALEXAS. Ay, madam, twenty several messengers.
               Why do you send so thick?
              CLEOPATRA. Who's born that day
               When I forget to send to Antony
               Shall die a beggar. Ink and paper, Charmian.
               Welcome, my good Alexas. Did I, Charmian,
               Ever love Caesar so?
              CHARMIAN. O that brave Caesar!
              CLEOPATRA. Be chok'd with such another emphasis!
               Say 'the brave Antony.'
              CHARMIAN. The valiant Caesar!
              CLEOPATRA. By Isis, I will give thee bloody teeth
               If thou with Caesar paragon again
               My man of men.
              CHARMIAN. By your most gracious pardon,
               I sing but after you.
              CLEOPATRA. My salad days,
               When I was green in judgment, cold in blood,
               To say as I said then. But come, away!
               Get me ink and paper.
               He shall have every day a several greeting,
               Or I'll unpeople Egypt. Exeunt


         ACT II. SCE E I. Messina. POMPEY'S house

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         Enter POMPEY, MENECRATES, and MENAS, in warlike manner

              POMPEY. If the great gods be just, they shall assist
               The deeds of justest men.
              MENECRATES. Know, worthy Pompey,
               That what they do delay they not deny.
              POMPEY. Whiles we are suitors to their throne, decays
               The thing we sue for.
              MENECRATES. We, ignorant of ourselves,
               Beg often our own harms, which the wise pow'rs
               Deny us for our good; so find we profit
               By losing of our prayers.
              POMPEY. I shall do well.
               The people love me, and the sea is mine;
               My powers are crescent, and my auguring hope
               Says it will come to th' full. Mark Antony
               In Egypt sits at dinner, and will make
               No wars without doors. Caesar gets money where
               He loses hearts. Lepidus flatters both,
               Of both is flatter'd; but he neither loves,
               Nor either cares for him.
              MENAS. Caesar and Lepidus
               Are in the field. A mighty strength they carry.
              POMPEY. Where have you this? 'Tis false.
              MENAS. From Silvius, sir.
              POMPEY. He dreams. I know they are in Rome together,
               Looking for Antony. But all the charms of love,
               Salt Cleopatra, soften thy wan'd lip!
               Let witchcraft join with beauty, lust with both;
               Tie up the libertine in a field of feasts,
               Keep his brain fuming. Epicurean cooks
               Sharpen with cloyless sauce his appetite,
               That sleep and feeding may prorogue his honour
               Even till a Lethe'd dullness-

         Enter VARRIUS

               How now, Varrius!
              VARRIUS. This is most certain that I shall deliver:
               Mark Antony is every hour in Rome
               Expected. Since he went from Egypt 'tis
               A space for farther travel.
              POMPEY. I could have given less matter
               A better ear. Menas, I did not think
               This amorous surfeiter would have donn'd his helm
               For such a petty war; his soldiership
               Is twice the other twain. But let us rear
               The higher our opinion, that our stirring
               Can from the lap of Egypt's widow pluck
               The ne'er-lust-wearied Antony.
              MENAS. I cannot hope
               Caesar and Antony shall well greet together.
               His wife that's dead did trespasses to Caesar;
               His brother warr'd upon him; although, I think,
               Not mov'd by Antony.

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

         SCE E II. Rome. The house of LEPIDUS
         Enter ENOBARBUS and LEPIDUS

              LEPIDUS. Good Enobarbus, 'tis a worthy deed,
               And shall become you well, to entreat your captain
               To soft and gentle speech.
              ENOBARBUS. 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.
              LEPIDUS. 'Tis not a time
               For private stomaching.
              ENOBARBUS. Every time
               Serves for the matter that is then born in't.
              LEPIDUS. But small to greater matters must give way.
              ENOBARBUS. Not if the small come first.
              LEPIDUS. Your speech is passion;
               But pray you stir no embers up. Here comes
               The noble Antony.

         Enter ANTONY and VENTIDIUS

         ENOBARBUS. And yonder, Caesar.

         Enter CAESAR, MAECENAS, and AGRIPPA

              ANTONY. If we compose well here, to Parthia.
               Hark, Ventidius.
              CAESAR. I do not know, Maecenas. Ask Agrippa.
              LEPIDUS. Noble friends,
               That which combin'd 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,

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               The rather for I earnestly beseech,
               Touch you the sourest points with sweetest terms,
               Nor curstness grow to th' matter.
              ANTONY. 'Tis spoken well.
               Were we before our arinies, and to fight,
               I should do thus. [Flourish]
              CAESAR. Welcome to Rome.
              ANTONY. Thank you.
              CAESAR. Sit.
              ANTONY. Sit, sir.
              CAESAR. Nay, then. [They sit]
              ANTONY. I learn you take things ill which are not so,
               Or being, concern you not.
              CAESAR. I must be laugh'd at
               If, or for nothing or a little,
               Should say myself offended, and with you
               Chiefly i' the world; more laugh'd at that I should
               Once name you derogately when to sound your name
               It not concern'd me.
              ANTONY. My being in Egypt, Caesar,
               What was't to you?
              CAESAR. No more than my residing here at Rome
               Might be to you in Egypt. Yet, if you there
               Did practise on my state, your being in Egypt
               Might be my question.
              ANTONY. How intend you- practis'd?
              CAESAR. You may be pleas'd to catch at mine intent
               By what did here befall me. Your wife and brother
               Made wars upon me, and their contestation
               Was theme for you; you were the word of war.
              ANTONY. You do mistake your business; my brother never
               Did urge me in his act. I did inquire it,
               And have my learning from some true reports
               That drew their swords with you. Did he not rather
               Discredit my authority with yours,
               And make the wars alike against my stomach,
               Having alike your cause? Of this my letters
               Before did satisfy you. If you'll patch a quarrel,
               As matter whole you have not to make it with,
               It must not be with this.
              CAESAR. You praise yourself
               By laying defects of judgment to me; but
               You patch'd up your excuses.
              ANTONY. Not so, not so;
               I know you could not lack, I am certain on't,
               Very necessity of this thought, that I,
               Your partner in the cause 'gainst which he fought,
               Could not with graceful eyes attend those wars
               Which fronted mine own peace. As for my wife,
               I would you had her spirit in such another!
               The third o' th' world is yours, which with a snaffle
               You may pace easy, but not such a wife.
              ENOBARBUS. Would we had all such wives, that the men might go to
               wars with the women!

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              ANTONY. So much uncurbable, her garboils, Caesar,
               Made out of her impatience- which not wanted
               Shrewdness of policy too- I grieving grant
               Did you too much disquiet. For that you must
               But say I could not help it.
              CAESAR. I wrote to you
               When rioting in Alexandria; you
               Did pocket up my letters, and with taunts
               Did gibe my missive out of audience.
              ANTONY. Sir,
               He fell upon me ere admitted. Then
               Three kings I had newly feasted, and did want
               Of what I was i' th' morning; but next day
               I told him of myself, which was as much
               As to have ask'd him pardon. Let this fellow
               Be nothing of our strife; if we contend,
               Out of our question wipe him.
              CAESAR. You have broken
               The article of your oath, which you shall never
               Have tongue to charge me with.
              LEPIDUS. Soft, Caesar!
              ANTONY. No;
               Lepidus, let him speak.
               The honour is sacred which he talks on now,
               Supposing that I lack'd it. But on, Caesar:
               The article of my oath-
              CAESAR. To lend me arms and aid when I requir'd them,
               The which you both denied.
              ANTONY. Neglected, rather;
               And then when poisoned hours had bound me up
               From mine own knowledge. As nearly as I may,
               I'll play the penitent to you; but mine honesty
               Shall not make poor my greatness, nor my power
               Work without it. Truth is, that Fulvia,
               To have me out of Egypt, made wars here;
               For which myself, the ignorant motive, do
               So far ask pardon as befits mine honour
               To stoop in such a case.
              LEPIDUS. 'Tis noble spoken.
              MAECENAS. If it might please you to enforce no further
               The griefs between ye- to forget them quite
               Were to remember that the present need
               Speaks to atone you.
              LEPIDUS. Worthily spoken, Maecenas.
              ENOBARBUS. Or, if you borrow one another's love for the instant,
               you may, when you hear no more words of Pompey, return it again.
               You shall have time to wrangle in when you have nothing else to
              ANTONY. Thou art a soldier only. Speak no more.
              ENOBARBUS. That truth should be silent I had almost forgot.
              ANTONY. You wrong this presence; therefore speak no more.
              ENOBARBUS. Go to, then- your considerate stone!
              CAESAR. I do not much dislike the matter, but
               The manner of his speech; for't cannot be

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               We shall remain in friendship, our conditions
               So diff'ring in their acts. Yet if I knew
               What hoop should hold us stanch, from edge to edge
               O' th' world, I would pursue it.
              AGRIPPA. Give me leave, Caesar.
              CAESAR. Speak, Agrippa.
              AGRIPPA. Thou hast a sister by the mother's side,
               Admir'd Octavia. Great Mark Antony
               Is now a widower.
              CAESAR. Say not so, Agrippa.
               If Cleopatra heard you, your reproof
               Were well deserv'd of rashness.
              ANTONY. I am not married, Caesar. Let me hear
               Agrippa further speak.
              AGRIPPA. To hold you in perpetual amity,
               To make you brothers, and to knit your hearts
               With an unslipping knot, take Antony
               Octavia to his wife; whose beauty claims
               No worse a husband than the best of men;
               Whose virtue and whose general graces speak
               That which none else can utter. By this marriage
               All little jealousies, which now seem great,
               And all great fears, which now import their dangers,
               Would then be nothing. Truths would be tales,
               Where now half tales be truths. Her love to both
               Would each to other, and all loves to both,
               Draw after her. Pardon what I have spoke;
               For 'tis a studied, not a present thought,
               By duty ruminated.
              ANTONY. Will Caesar speak?
              CAESAR. Not till he hears how Antony is touch'd
               With what is spoke already.
              ANTONY. What power is in Agrippa,
               If I would say 'Agrippa, be it so,'
               To make this good?
              CAESAR. The power of Caesar, and
               His power unto Octavia.
              ANTONY. 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!
              CAESAR. There is my hand.
               A sister I bequeath you, whom no brother
               Did ever love so dearly. Let her live
               To join our kingdoms and our hearts; and never
               Fly off our loves again!
              LEPIDUS. Happily, amen!
              ANTONY. I did not think to draw my sword 'gainst Pompey;
               For he hath laid strange courtesies and great
               Of late upon me. I must thank him only,
               Lest my remembrance suffer ill report;
               At heel of that, defy him.

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              LEPIDUS. Time calls upon's.
               Of us must Pompey presently be sought,
               Or else he seeks out us.
              ANTONY. Where lies he?
              CAESAR. About the Mount Misenum.
              ANTONY. What is his strength by land?
              CAESAR. Great and increasing; but by sea
               He is an absolute master.
              ANTONY. So is the fame.
               Would we had spoke together! Haste we for it.
               Yet, ere we put ourselves in arms, dispatch we
               The business we have talk'd of.
              CAESAR. With most gladness;
               And do invite you to my sister's view,
               Whither straight I'll lead you.
              ANTONY. Let us, Lepidus,
               Not lack your company.
              LEPIDUS. Noble Antony,
               Not sickness should detain me. [Flourish]
                           Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS, AGRIPPA, MAECENAS
              MAECENAS. Welcome from Egypt, sir.
              ENOBARBUS. Half the heart of Caesar, worthy Maecenas! My honourable
               friend, Agrippa!
              AGRIPPA. Good Enobarbus!
              MAECENAS. We have cause to be glad that matters are so well
               digested. You stay'd well by't in Egypt.
              ENOBARBUS. Ay, sir; we did sleep day out of countenance and made
               the night light with drinking.
              MAECENAS. 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.
              MAECENAS. She's a most triumphant lady, if report be square to her.
              ENOBARBUS. When she first met Mark Antony she purs'd up his heart,
               upon the river of Cydnus.
              AGRIPPA. There she appear'd indeed! Or my reporter devis'd well for
              ENOBARBUS. I will tell you.
               The barge she sat in, like a burnish'd 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'erpicturing that Venus where we see
               The fancy out-work 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.
              AGRIPPA. O, rare for Antony!

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              ENOBARBUS. Her gentlewomen, like the Nereides,
               So many mermaids, tended her i' th' eyes,
               And made their bends adornings. At the helm
               A seeming mermaid steers. The silken tackle
               Swell with the touches of those flower-soft hands
               That yarely frame the office. From the barge
               A strange invisible perfume hits the sense
               Of the adjacent wharfs. The city cast
               Her people out upon her; and Antony,
               Enthron'd i' th' market-place, did sit alone,
               Whistling to th' air; which, but for vacancy,
               Had gone to gaze on Cleopatra too,
               And made a gap in nature.
              AGRIPPA. Rare Egyptian!
              ENOBARBUS. 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.
              AGRIPPA. Royal wench!
               She made great Caesar lay his sword to bed.
               He ploughed her, and she cropp'd.
              ENOBARBUS. 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, pow'r breathe forth.
              MAECENAS. Now Antony must leave her utterly.
              ENOBARBUS. Never! He will not.
               Age cannot wither her, nor custom stale
               Her infinite variety. Other women cloy
               The appetites they feed, but she makes hungry
               Where most she satisfies; for vilest things
               Become themselves in her, that the holy priests
               Bless her when she is riggish.
              MAECENAS. If beauty, wisdom, modesty, can settle
               The heart of Antony, Octavia is
               A blessed lottery to him.
              AGRIPPA. Let us go.
               Good Enobarbus, make yourself my guest
               Whilst you abide here.
              ENOBARBUS. Humbly, sir, I thank you. Exeunt

         SCE E III. Rome. CAESAR'S house
         Enter ANTONY, CAESAR, OCTAVIA between them

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              ANTONY. The world and my great office will sometimes
               Divide me from your bosom.
              OCTAVIA. All which time
               Before the gods my knee shall bow my prayers
               To them for you.
              ANTONY. Good night, sir. My Octavia,
               Read not my blemishes in the world's report.
               I have not kept my square; but that to come
               Shall all be done by th' rule. Good night, dear lady.
              OCTAVIA. Good night, sir.
              CAESAR. Good night. Exeunt CAESAR and OCTAVIA

         Enter SOOTHSAYER

              ANTONY. Now, sirrah, you do wish yourself in Egypt?
              SOOTHSAYER. Would I had never come from thence, nor you thither!
              ANTONY. If you can- your reason.
              SOOTHSAYER. I see it in my motion, have it not in my tongue; but
               yet hie you to Egypt again.
              ANTONY. Say to me,
               Whose fortunes shall rise higher, Caesar's or mine?
              SOOTHSAYER. Caesar's.
               Therefore, O Antony, stay not by his side.
               Thy daemon, that 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'erpow'r'd. Therefore
               Make space enough between you.
              ANTONY. Speak this no more.
              SOOTHSAYER. To none but thee; no more but when to thee.
               If thou dost play with him at any game,
               Thou art sure to lose; and of that natural luck
               He beats thee 'gainst the odds. Thy lustre thickens
               When he shines by. I say again, thy spirit
               Is all afraid to govern thee near him;
               But, he away, 'tis noble.
              ANTONY. Get thee gone.
               Say to Ventidius I would speak with him.
                                             Exit SOOTHSAYER
               He shall to Parthia.- Be it art or hap,
               He hath spoken true. The very dice obey him;
               And in our sports my better cunning faints
               Under his chance. If we draw lots, he speeds;
               His cocks do win the battle still of mine,
               When it is all to nought, and his quails ever
               Beat mine, inhoop'd, at odds. I will to Egypt;
               And though I make this marriage for my peace,
               I' th' East my pleasure lies.

         Enter VENTIDIUS

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

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         SCE E IV. Rome. A street

              LEPIDUS. Trouble yourselves no further. Pray you hasten
               Your generals after.
              AGRIPPA. Sir, Mark Antony
               Will e'en but kiss Octavia, and we'll follow.
              LEPIDUS. Till I shall see you in your soldier's dress,
               Which will become you both, farewell.
              MAECENAS. We shall,
               As I conceive the journey, be at th' Mount
               Before you, Lepidus.
              LEPIDUS. Your way is shorter;
               My purposes do draw me much about.
               You'll win two days upon me.
              BOTH. Sir, good success!
              LEPIDUS. Farewell. Exeunt

         SCE E V. Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

              CLEOPATRA. Give me some music- music, moody food
               Of us that trade in love.
              ALL. The music, ho!

         Enter MARDIAN the eunuch

              CLEOPATRA. Let it alone! Let's to billiards. Come, Charmian.
              CHARMIAN. My arm is sore; best play with Mardian.
              CLEOPATRA. As well a woman with an eunuch play'd
               As with a woman. Come, you'll play with me, sir?
              MARDIAN. As well as I can, madam.
              CLEOPATRA. And when good will is show'd, though't come too short,
               The actor may plead pardon. I'll none now.
               Give me mine angle- we'll to th' 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! Y'are caught.'
              CHARMIAN. 'Twas merry when
               You wager'd on your angling; when your diver
               Did hang a salt fish on his hook, which he
               With fervency drew up.
              CLEOPATRA. That time? O times
               I laughed 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,

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               Then put my tires and mantles on him, whilst
               I wore his sword Philippan.

         Enter a MESSENGER

               O! from Italy?
               Ram thou thy fruitful tidings in mine ears,
               That long time have been barren.
              MESSENGER. Madam, madam-
              CLEOPATRA. Antony's dead! If thou say so, villain,
               Thou kill'st thy mistress; but well and free,
               If thou so yield him, there is gold, and here
               My bluest veins to kiss- a hand that kings
               Have lipp'd, and trembled kissing.
              MESSENGER. First, madam, he is well.
              CLEOPATRA. Why, there's more gold.
               But, sirrah, mark, we use
               To say the dead are well. Bring it to that,
               The gold I give thee will I melt and pour
               Down thy ill-uttering throat.
              MESSENGER. Good madam, hear me.
              CLEOPATRA. Well, go to, I will.
               But there's no goodness in thy face. If Antony
               Be free and healthful- why so tart a favour
               To trumpet such good tidings? If not well,
               Thou shouldst come like a Fury crown'd with snakes,
               Not like a formal man.
              MESSENGER. Will't please you hear me?
              CLEOPATRA. I have a mind to strike thee ere thou speak'st.
               Yet, if thou say Antony lives, is well,
               Or friends with Caesar, or not captive to him,
               I'll set thee in a shower of gold, and hail
               Rich pearls upon thee.
              MESSENGER. Madam, he's well.
              CLEOPATRA. Well said.
              MESSENGER. And friends with Caesar.
              CLEOPATRA. Th'art an honest man.
              MESSENGER. Caesar and he are greater friends than ever.
              CLEOPATRA. Make thee a fortune from me.
              MESSENGER. But yet, madam-
              CLEOPATRA. I do not like 'but yet.' It does allay
               The good precedence; fie upon 'but yet'!
               'But yet' is as a gaoler to bring forth
               Some monstrous malefactor. Prithee, friend,
               Pour out the pack of matter to mine ear,
               The good and bad together. He's friends with Caesar;
               In state of health, thou say'st; and, thou say'st, free.
              MESSENGER. Free, madam! No; I made no such report.
               He's bound unto Octavia.
              CLEOPATRA. For what good turn?
              MESSENGER. For the best turn i' th' bed.
              CLEOPATRA. I am pale, Charmian.
              MESSENGER. Madam, he's married to Octavia.
              CLEOPATRA. The most infectious pestilence upon thee!
                                            [Strikes him down]

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              MESSENGER. Good madam, patience.
              CLEOPATRA. What say you? Hence, [Strikes him]
               Horrible villain! or I'll spurn thine eyes
               Like balls before me; I'll unhair thy head;
                                      [She hales him up and down]
               Thou shalt be whipp'd with wire and stew'd in brine,
               Smarting in ling'ring pickle.
              MESSENGER. Gracious madam,
               I that do bring the news made not the match.
              CLEOPATRA. Say 'tis not so, a province I will give thee,
               And make thy fortunes proud. The blow thou hadst
               Shall make thy peace for moving me to rage;
               And I will boot thee with what gift beside
               Thy modesty can beg.
              MESSENGER. He's married, madam.
              CLEOPATRA. Rogue, thou hast liv'd too long. [Draws a knife]
              MESSENGER. Nay, then I'll run.
               What mean you, madam? I have made no fault. Exit
              CHARMIAN. Good madam, keep yourself within yourself:
               The man is innocent.
              CLEOPATRA. Some innocents scape not the thunderbolt.
               Melt Egypt into Nile! and kindly creatures
               Turn all to serpents! Call the slave again.
               Though I am mad, I will not bite him. Call!
              CHARMIAN. He is afear'd to come.
              CLEOPATRA. I will not hurt him.
               These hands do lack nobility, that they strike
               A meaner than myself; since I myself
               Have given myself the cause.

         Enter the MESSENGER again

               Come hither, sir.
               Though it be honest, it is never good
               To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message
               An host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell
               Themselves when they be felt.
              MESSENGER. I have done my duty.
              CLEOPATRA. Is he married?
               I cannot hate thee worser than I do
               If thou again say 'Yes.'
              MESSENGER. He's married, madam.
              CLEOPATRA. The gods confound thee! Dost thou hold there still?
              MESSENGER. Should I lie, madam?
              CLEOPATRA. O, I would thou didst,
               So half my Egypt were submerg'd and made
               A cistern for scal'd snakes! Go, get thee hence.
               Hadst thou Narcissus in thy face, to me
               Thou wouldst appear most ugly. He is married?
              MESSENGER. I crave your Highness' pardon.
              CLEOPATRA. He is married?
              MESSENGER. Take no offence that I would not offend you;
               To punish me for what you make me do
               Seems much unequal. He's married to Octavia.
              CLEOPATRA. O, that his fault should make a knave of thee

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               That art not what th'art sure of! Get thee hence.
               The merchandise which thou hast brought from Rome
               Are all too dear for me. Lie they upon thy hand,
               And be undone by 'em! Exit MESSENGER
              CHARMIAN. Good your Highness, patience.
              CLEOPATRA. In praising Antony I have disprais'd Caesar.
              CHARMIAN. Many times, madam.
              CLEOPATRA. I am paid for't now. Lead me from hence,
               I faint. O Iras, Charmian! 'Tis no matter.
               Go to the fellow, good Alexas; bid him
               Report the feature of Octavia, her years,
               Her inclination; let him not leave out
               The colour of her hair. Bring me word quickly.
                                               Exit ALEXAS
               Let him for ever go- let him not, Charmian-
               Though he be painted one way like a Gorgon,
               The other way's a Mars. [To MARDIAN]
               Bid you Alexas
               Bring me word how tall she is.- Pity me, Charmian,
               But do not speak to me. Lead me to my chamber. Exeunt

         SCE E VI. ear Misenum
         Flourish. Enter POMPEY and MENAS at one door, with drum and trumpet; at another, CAESAR,
         ANTONY, LEPIDUS, ENOBARBUS, MAECENAS, AGRIPPA, with soldiers marching

              POMPEY. Your hostages I have, so have you mine;
               And we shall talk before we fight.
              CAESAR. Most meet
               That first we come to words; and therefore have we
               Our written purposes before us sent;
               Which if thou hast considered, let us know
               If 'twill tie up thy discontented sword
               And carry back to Sicily much tall youth
               That else must perish here.
              POMPEY. To you all three,
               The senators alone of this great world,
               Chief factors for the gods: I do not know
               Wherefore my father should revengers want,
               Having a son and friends, since Julius Caesar,
               Who at Philippi the good Brutus ghosted,
               There saw you labouring for him. What was't
               That mov'd 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 a man? And that is it
               Hath made me rig my navy, at whose burden
               The anger'd ocean foams; with which I meant
               To scourge th' ingratitude that despiteful Rome

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               Cast on my noble father.
              CAESAR. Take your time.
              ANTONY. Thou canst not fear us, Pompey, with thy sails;
               We'll speak with thee at sea; at land thou know'st
               How much we do o'er-count thee.
              POMPEY. At land, indeed,
               Thou dost o'er-count me of my father's house.
               But since the cuckoo builds not for himself,
               Remain in't as thou mayst.
              LEPIDUS. Be pleas'd to tell us-
               For this is from the present- how you take
               The offers we have sent you.
              CAESAR. There's the point.
              ANTONY. Which do not be entreated to, but weigh
               What it is worth embrac'd.
              CAESAR. And what may follow,
               To try a larger fortune.
              POMPEY. You have made me offer
               Of Sicily, Sardinia; and I must
               Rid all the sea of pirates; then to send
               Measures of wheat to Rome; this 'greed upon,
               To part with unhack'd edges and bear back
               Our targes undinted.
              ALL. That's our offer.
              POMPEY. Know, then,
               I came before you here a man prepar'd
               To take this offer; but Mark Antony
               Put me to some impatience. Though I lose
               The praise of it by telling, you must know,
               When Caesar and your brother were at blows,
               Your mother came to Sicily and did find
               Her welcome friendly.
              ANTONY. I have heard it, Pompey,
               And am well studied for a liberal thanks
               Which I do owe you.
              POMPEY. Let me have your hand.
               I did not think, sir, to have met you here.
              ANTONY. The beds i' th' East are soft; and thanks to you,
               That call'd me timelier than my purpose hither;
               For I have gained by't.
              CAESAR. Since I saw you last
               There is a change upon you.
              POMPEY. 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.
              LEPIDUS. Well met here.
              POMPEY. I hope so, Lepidus. Thus we are agreed.
               I crave our composition may be written,
               And seal'd between us.
              CAESAR. That's the next to do.
              POMPEY. We'll feast each other ere we part, and let's
               Draw lots who shall begin.
              ANTONY. That will I, Pompey.

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              POMPEY. No, Antony, take the lot;
               But, first or last, your fine Egyptian cookery
               Shall have the fame. I have heard that Julius Caesar
               Grew fat with feasting there.
              ANTONY. You have heard much.
              POMPEY. I have fair meanings, sir.
              ANTONY. And fair words to them.
              POMPEY. Then so much have I heard;
               And I have heard Apollodorus carried-
              ENOBARBUS. No more of that! He did so.
              POMPEY. What, I pray you?
              ENOBARBUS. A certain queen to Caesar in a mattress.
              POMPEY. I know thee now. How far'st thou, soldier?
              ENOBARBUS. Well;
               And well am like to do, for I perceive
               Four feasts are toward.
              POMPEY. Let me shake thy hand.
               I never hated thee; I have seen thee fight,
               When I have envied thy behaviour.
              ENOBARBUS. Sir,
               I never lov'd you much; but I ha' prais'd ye
               When you have well deserv'd ten times as much
               As I have said you did.
              POMPEY. Enjoy thy plainness;
               It nothing ill becomes thee.
               Aboard my galley I invite you all.
               Will you lead, lords?
              ALL. Show's the way, sir.
              POMPEY. Come. Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS
              MENAS. [Aside] Thy father, Pompey, would ne'er have made this
               treaty.- You and I have known, sir.
              ENOBARBUS. At sea, I think.
              MENAS. We have, sir.
              ENOBARBUS. You have done well by water.
              MENAS. And you by land.
              ENOBARBUS. I Will praise any man that will praise me; though it
               cannot be denied what I have done by land.
              MENAS. Nor what I have done by water.
              ENOBARBUS. Yes, something you can deny for your own safety: you
               have been a great thief by sea.
              MENAS. And you by land.
              ENOBARBUS. There I deny my land service. But give me your hand,
               Menas; if our eyes had authority, here they might take two
               thieves kissing.
              MENAS. All men's faces are true, whatsome'er their hands are.
              ENOBARBUS. But there is never a fair woman has a true face.
              MENAS. No slander: they steal hearts.
              ENOBARBUS. We came hither to fight with you.
              MENAS. For my part, I am sorry it is turn'd to a drinking.
               Pompey doth this day laugh away his fortune.
              ENOBARBUS. If he do, sure he cannot weep't back again.
              MENAS. Y'have said, sir. We look'd not for Mark Antony here. Pray
               you, is he married to Cleopatra?
              ENOBARBUS. Caesar' sister is call'd Octavia.

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              MENAS. True, sir; she was the wife of Caius Marcellus.
              ENOBARBUS. But she is now the wife of Marcus Antonius.
              MENAS. Pray ye, sir?
              ENOBARBUS. 'Tis true.
              MENAS. Then is Caesar and he for ever knit together.
              ENOBARBUS. If I were bound to divine of this unity, I would not
               prophesy so.
              MENAS. I think the policy of that purpose made more in the marriage
               than the love of the parties.
              ENOBARBUS. I think so too. But you shall find the band that seems
               to tie their friendship together will be the very strangler of
               their amity: Octavia is of a holy, cold, and still conversation.
              MENAS. Who would not have his wife so?
              ENOBARBUS. Not he that himself is not so; which is Mark Antony. He
               will to his Egyptian dish again; then shall the sighs of Octavia
               blow the fire up in Caesar, and, as I said before, that which is
               the strength of their amity shall prove the immediate author of
               their variance. Antony will use his affection where it is; he
               married but his occasion here.
              MENAS. And thus it may be. Come, sir, will you aboard? I have a
               health for you.
              ENOBARBUS. I shall take it, sir. We have us'd our throats in Egypt.
              MENAS. Come, let's away. Exeunt

                            SCENE VII.
                    On board POMPEY'S galley, off Misenum

         Music plays. Enter two or three SERVANTS with a banquet

              FIRST SERVANT. Here they'll be, man. Some o' their plants are
               ill-rooted already; the least wind i' th' world will blow them
              SECOND SERVANT. Lepidus is high-colour'd.
              FIRST SERVANT. They have made him drink alms-drink.
              SECOND SERVANT. As they pinch one another by the disposition, he
               cries out 'No more!'; reconciles them to his entreaty and himself
               to th' drink.
              FIRST SERVANT. But it raises the greater war between him and his
              SECOND SERVANT. Why, this it is to have a name in great men's
               fellowship. I had as lief have a reed that will do me no service
               as a partizan I could not heave.
              FIRST SERVANT. To be call'd into a huge sphere, and not to be seen
               to move in't, are the holes where eyes should be, which pitifully
               disaster the cheeks.

                   A sennet sounded. Enter CAESAR, ANTONY, LEPIDUS,
                           with other CAPTAINS

              ANTONY. [To CAESAR] Thus do they, sir: they take the flow o' th'
               By certain scales i' th' pyramid; they know
               By th' height, the lowness, or the mean, if dearth

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               Or foison follow. The higher Nilus swells
               The more it promises; as it ebbs, the seedsman
               Upon the slime and ooze scatters his grain,
               And shortly comes to harvest.
              LEPIDUS. Y'have strange serpents there.
              ANTONY. Ay, Lepidus.
              LEPIDUS. Your serpent of Egypt is bred now of your mud by the
               operation of your sun; so is your crocodile.
              ANTONY. They are so.
              POMPEY. Sit- and some wine! A health to Lepidus!
              LEPIDUS. I am not so well as I should be, but I'll ne'er out.
              ENOBARBUS. Not till you have slept. I fear me you'll be in till
              LEPIDUS. Nay, certainly, I have heard the Ptolemies' pyramises are
               very goodly things. Without contradiction I have heard that.
              MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] Pompey, a word.
              POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] Say in mine ear; what is't?
              MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] Forsake thy seat, I do beseech thee,
               And hear me speak a word.
              POMPEY. [ Whispers in's ear ] Forbear me till anon-
               This wine for Lepidus!
              LEPIDUS. What manner o' thing is your crocodile?
              ANTONY. It is shap'd, sir, like itself, and it is as broad as it
               hath breadth; it is just so high as it is, and moves with it own
               organs. It lives by that which nourisheth it, and the elements
               once out of it, it transmigrates.
              LEPIDUS. What colour is it of?
              ANTONY. Of it own colour too.
              LEPIDUS. 'Tis a strange serpent.
              ANTONY. 'Tis so. And the tears of it are wet.
              CAESAR. Will this description satisfy him?
              ANTONY. With the health that Pompey gives him, else he is a very
              POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] Go, hang, sir, hang! Tell me of that!
               Do as I bid you.- Where's this cup I call'd for?
              MENAS. [Aside to POMPEY] If for the sake of merit thou wilt hear
               Rise from thy stool.
              POMPEY. [Aside to MENAS] I think th'art mad. [Rises and walks
               aside] The matter?
              MENAS. I have ever held my cap off to thy fortunes.
              POMPEY. Thou hast serv'd me with much faith. What's else to say?-
               Be jolly, lords.
              ANTONY. These quicksands, Lepidus,
               Keep off them, for you sink.
              MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of all the world?
              POMPEY. What say'st thou?
              MENAS. Wilt thou be lord of the whole world? That's twice.
              POMPEY. How should that be?
              MENAS. But entertain it,
               And though you think me poor, I am the man
               Will give thee all the world.

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              POMPEY. Hast thou drunk well?
              MENAS. No, Pompey, I have kept me from the cup.
               Thou art, if thou dar'st be, the earthly Jove;
               Whate'er the ocean pales or sky inclips
               Is thine, if thou wilt ha't.
              POMPEY. Show me which way.
              MENAS. These three world-sharers, these competitors,
               Are in thy vessel. Let me cut the cable;
               And when we are put off, fall to their throats.
               All there is thine.
              POMPEY. Ah, this thou shouldst have done,
               And not have spoke on't. In me 'tis villainy:
               In thee't had been good service. Thou must know
               'Tis not my profit that does lead mine honour:
               Mine honour, it. Repent that e'er thy tongue
               Hath so betray'd thine act. Being done unknown,
               I should have found it afterwards well done,
               But must condemn it now. Desist, and drink.
              MENAS. [Aside] For this,
               I'll never follow thy pall'd fortunes more.
               Who seeks, and will not take when once 'tis offer'd,
               Shall never find it more.
              POMPEY. This health to Lepidus!
              ANTONY. Bear him ashore. I'll pledge it for him, Pompey.
              ENOBARBUS. Here's to thee, Menas!
              MENAS. Enobarbus, welcome!
              POMPEY. Fill till the cup be hid.
              ENOBARBUS. There's a strong fellow, Menas.
                       [Pointing to the servant who carries off LEPIDUS]
              MENAS. Why?
              ENOBARBUS. 'A bears the third part of the world, man; see'st not?
              MENAS. The third part, then, is drunk. Would it were all,
               That it might go on wheels!
              ENOBARBUS. Drink thou; increase the reels.
              MENAS. Come.
              POMPEY. This is not yet an Alexandrian feast.
              ANTONY. It ripens towards it. Strike the vessels, ho!
               Here's to Caesar!
              CAESAR. I could well forbear't.
               It's monstrous labour when I wash my brain
               And it grows fouler.
              ANTONY. Be a child o' th' time.
              CAESAR. Possess it, I'll make answer.
               But I had rather fast from all four days
               Than drink so much in one.
              ENOBARBUS. [To ANTONY] Ha, my brave emperor!
               Shall we dance now the Egyptian Bacchanals
               And celebrate our drink?
              POMPEY. Let's ha't, good soldier.
              ANTONY. Come, let's all take hands,
               Till that the conquering wine hath steep'd our sense
               In soft and delicate Lethe.
              ENOBARBUS. All take hands.
               Make battery to our ears with the loud music,

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               The while I'll place you; then the boy shall sing;
               The holding every man shall bear as loud
               As his strong sides can volley.
                      [Music plays. ENOBARBUS places them hand in hand]

                           THE SONG
                   Come, thou monarch of the vine,
                   Plumpy Bacchus with pink eyne!
                   In thy fats our cares be drown'd,
                   With thy grapes our hairs be crown'd.
                   Cup us till the world go round,
                   Cup us till the world go round!

          CAESAR. What would you more? Pompey, good night. Good brother,
           Let me request you off; our graver business
           Frowns at this levity. Gentle lords, let's part;
           You see we have burnt our cheeks. Strong Enobarb
           Is weaker than the wine, and mine own tongue
           Splits what it speaks. The wild disguise hath almost
           Antick'd us all. What needs more words? Good night.
           Good Antony, your hand.
          POMPEY. I'll try you on the shore.
          ANTONY. And shall, sir. Give's your hand.
          POMPEY. O Antony,
           You have my father's house- but what? We are friends.
           Come, down into the boat.
          ENOBARBUS. Take heed you fall not.
                            Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS and MENAS
           Menas, I'll not on shore.
          MENAS. No, to my cabin.
           These drums! these trumpets, flutes! what!
           Let Neptune hear we bid a loud farewell
           To these great fellows. Sound and be hang'd, sound out!
                               [Sound a flourish, with drums]
          ENOBARBUS. Hoo! says 'a. There's my cap.
          MENAS. Hoo! Noble Captain, come. Exeunt
                      ACT III. SCENE I.
                      A plain in Syria

                 Enter VENTIDIUS, as it were in triumph, with SILIUS
                and other Romans, OFFICERS and soldiers; the dead body
                      of PACORUS borne before him

              VENTIDIUS. Now, darting Parthia, art thou struck, and now
               Pleas'd fortune does of Marcus Crassus' death
               Make me revenger. Bear the King's son's body
               Before our army. Thy Pacorus, Orodes,
               Pays this for Marcus Crassus.
              SILIUS. Noble Ventidius,
               Whilst yet with Parthian blood thy sword is warm
               The fugitive Parthians follow; spur through Media,
               Mesopotamia, and the shelters whither
               The routed fly. So thy grand captain, Antony,
               Shall set thee on triumphant chariots and

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               Put garlands on thy head.
              VENTIDIUS. O Silius, Silius,
               I have done enough. A lower place, note well,
               May make too great an act; for learn this, Silius:
               Better to leave undone than by our deed
               Acquire too high a fame when him we serve's away.
               Caesar and Antony have ever won
               More in their officer, than person. Sossius,
               One of my place in Syria, his lieutenant,
               For quick accumulation of renown,
               Which he achiev'd by th' minute, lost his favour.
               Who does i' th' wars more than his captain can
               Becomes his captain's captain; and ambition,
               The soldier's virtue, rather makes choice of loss
               Than gain which darkens him.
               I could do more to do Antonius good,
               But 'twould offend him; and in his offence
               Should my performance perish.
              SILIUS. Thou hast, Ventidius, that
               Without the which a soldier and his sword
               Grants scarce distinction. Thou wilt write to Antony?
              VENTIDIUS. I'll humbly signify what in his name,
               That magical word of war, we have effected;
               How, with his banners, and his well-paid ranks,
               The ne'er-yet-beaten horse of Parthia
               We have jaded out o' th' field.
              SILIUS. Where is he now?
              VENTIDIUS. He purposeth to Athens; whither, with what haste
               The weight we must convey with's will permit,
               We shall appear before him.- On, there; pass along.

                             SCENE II. Rome. CAESAR'S house

         Enter AGRIPPA at one door, ENOBARBUS at another

              AGRIPPA. What, are the brothers parted?
              ENOBARBUS. They have dispatch'd with Pompey; he is gone;
               The other three are sealing. Octavia weeps
               To part from Rome; Caesar is sad; and Lepidus,
               Since Pompey's feast, as Menas says, is troubled
               With the green sickness.
              AGRIPPA. 'Tis a noble Lepidus.
              ENOBARBUS. A very fine one. O, how he loves Caesar!
              AGRIPPA. Nay, but how dearly he adores Mark Antony!
              ENOBARBUS. Caesar? Why he's the Jupiter of men.
              AGRIPPA. What's Antony? The god of Jupiter.
              ENOBARBUS. Spake you of Caesar? How! the nonpareil!
              AGRIPPA. O, Antony! O thou Arabian bird!
              ENOBARBUS. Would you praise Caesar, say 'Caesar'- go no further.
              AGRIPPA. Indeed, he plied them both with excellent praises.
              ENOBARBUS. But he loves Caesar best. Yet he loves Antony.
               Hoo! hearts, tongues, figures, scribes, bards, poets, cannot
               Think, speak, cast, write, sing, number- hoo!-

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               His love to Antony. But as for Caesar,
               Kneel down, kneel down, and wonder.
              AGRIPPA. Both he loves.
              ENOBARBUS. They are his shards, and he their beetle. [Trumpets
                within] So-
               This is to horse. Adieu, noble Agrippa.
              AGRIPPA. Good fortune, worthy soldier, and farewell.


              ANTONY. No further, sir.
              CAESAR. You take from me a great part of myself;
               Use me well in't. Sister, prove such a wife
               As my thoughts make thee, and as my farthest band
               Shall pass on thy approof. Most noble Antony,
               Let not the piece of virtue which is set
               Betwixt us as the cement of our love
               To keep it builded be the ram to batter
               The fortress of it; for better might we
               Have lov'd without this mean, if on both parts
               This be not cherish'd.
              ANTONY. Make me not offended
               In your distrust.
              CAESAR. I have said.
              ANTONY. You shall not find,
               Though you be therein curious, the least cause
               For what you seem to fear. So the gods keep you,
               And make the hearts of Romans serve your ends!
               We will here part.
              CAESAR. Farewell, my dearest sister, fare thee well.
               The elements be kind to thee and make
               Thy spirits all of comfort! Fare thee well.
              OCTAVIA. My noble brother!
              ANTONY. The April's in her eyes. It is love's spring,
               And these the showers to bring it on. Be cheerful.
              OCTAVIA. Sir, look well to my husband's house; and-
              CAESAR. What, Octavia?
              OCTAVIA. I'll tell you in your ear.
              ANTONY. Her tongue will not obey her heart, nor can
               Her heart inform her tongue- the swan's down feather,
               That stands upon the swell at the full of tide,
               And neither way inclines.
              ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] Will Caesar weep?
              AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] He has a cloud in's face.
              ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] He were the worse for that, were he a
               So is he, being a man.
              AGRIPPA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] Why, Enobarbus,
               When Antony found Julius Caesar dead,
               He cried almost to roaring; and he wept
               When at Philippi he found Brutus slain.
              ENOBARBUS. [Aside to AGRIPPA] That year, indeed, he was troubled
                with a rheum;
               What willingly he did confound he wail'd,
               Believe't- till I weep too.

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              CAESAR. No, sweet Octavia,
               You shall hear from me still; the time shall not
               Out-go my thinking on you.
              ANTONY. Come, sir, come;
               I'll wrestle with you in my strength of love.
               Look, here I have you; thus I let you go,
               And give you to the gods.
              CAESAR. Adieu; be happy!
              LEPIDUS. Let all the number of the stars give light
               To thy fair way!
              CAESAR. Farewell, farewell! [Kisses OCTAVIA]
              ANTONY. Farewell! Trumpets sound. Exeunt

                           SCENE III.
                     Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace


              CLEOPATRA. Where is the fellow?
              ALEXAS. Half afeard to come.
              CLEOPATRA. Go to, go to.

         Enter the MESSENGER as before

               Come hither, sir.
              ALEXAS. Good Majesty,
               Herod of Jewry dare not look upon you
               But when you are well pleas'd.
              CLEOPATRA. That Herod's head
               I'll have. But how, when Antony is gone,
               Through whom I might command it? Come thou near.
              MESSENGER. Most gracious Majesty!
              CLEOPATRA. Didst thou behold Octavia?
              MESSENGER. Ay, dread Queen.
              CLEOPATRA. Where?
              MESSENGER. Madam, in Rome
               I look'd her in the face, and saw her led
               Between her brother and Mark Antony.
              CLEOPATRA. Is she as tall as me?
              MESSENGER. She is not, madam.
              CLEOPATRA. Didst hear her speak? Is she shrill-tongu'd or low?
              MESSENGER. Madam, I heard her speak: she is low-voic'd.
              CLEOPATRA. That's not so good. He cannot like her long.
              CHARMIAN. Like her? O Isis! 'tis impossible.
              CLEOPATRA. I think so, Charmian. Dull of tongue and dwarfish!
               What majesty is in her gait? Remember,
               If e'er thou look'dst on majesty.
              MESSENGER. She creeps.
               Her motion and her station are as one;
               She shows a body rather than a life,
               A statue than a breather.
              CLEOPATRA. Is this certain?
              MESSENGER. Or I have no observance.
              CHARMIAN. Three in Egypt

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               Cannot make better note.
              CLEOPATRA. He's very knowing;
               I do perceive't. There's nothing in her yet.
               The fellow has good judgment.
              CHARMIAN. Excellent.
              CLEOPATRA. Guess at her years, I prithee.
              MESSENGER. Madam,
               She was a widow.
              CLEOPATRA. Widow? Charmian, hark!
              MESSENGER. And I do think she's thirty.
              CLEOPATRA. Bear'st thou her face in mind? Is't long or round?
              MESSENGER. Round even to faultiness.
              CLEOPATRA. For the most part, too, they are foolish that are so.
               Her hair, what colour?
              MESSENGER. Brown, madam; and her forehead
               As low as she would wish it.
              CLEOPATRA. There's gold for thee.
               Thou must not take my former sharpness ill.
               I will employ thee back again; I find thee
               Most fit for business. Go make thee ready;
               Our letters are prepar'd. Exeunt MESSENGER
              CHARMIAN. A proper man.
              CLEOPATRA. Indeed, he is so. I repent me much
               That so I harried him. Why, methinks, by him,
               This creature's no such thing.
              CHARMIAN. Nothing, madam.
              CLEOPATRA. The man hath seen some majesty, and should know.
              CHARMIAN. Hath he seen majesty? Isis else defend,
               And serving you so long!
              CLEOPATRA. I have one thing more to ask him yet, good Charmian.
               But 'tis no matter; thou shalt bring him to me
               Where I will write. All may be well enough.
              CHARMIAN. I warrant you, madam. Exeunt

                           SCENE IV.
                       Athens. ANTONY'S house

         Enter ANTONY and OCTAVIA

              ANTONY. Nay, nay, Octavia, not only that-
               That were excusable, that and thousands more
               Of semblable import- but he hath wag'd
               New wars 'gainst Pompey; made his will, and read it
               To public ear;
               Spoke scandy of me; when perforce he could not
               But pay me terms of honour, cold and sickly
               He vented them, most narrow measure lent me;
               When the best hint was given him, he not took't,
               Or did it from his teeth.
              OCTAVIA. O my good lord,
               Believe not all; or if you must believe,
               Stomach not all. A more unhappy lady,
               If this division chance, ne'er stood between,
               Praying for both parts.

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               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 mid-way
               'Twixt these extremes at all.
              ANTONY. Gentle Octavia,
               Let your best love draw to that point which seeks
               Best to preserve it. If I lose mine honour,
               I lose myself; better I were not yours
               Than yours so branchless. But, as you requested,
               Yourself shall go between's. The meantime, lady,
               I'll raise the preparation of a war
               Shall stain your brother. Make your soonest haste;
               So your desires are yours.
              OCTAVIA. Thanks to my lord.
               The Jove of power make me, most weak, most weak,
               Your reconciler! Wars 'twixt you twain would be
               As if the world should cleave, and that slain men
               Should solder up the rift.
              ANTONY. When it appears to you where this begins,
               Turn your displeasure that way, for our faults
               Can never be so equal that your love
               Can equally move with them. Provide your going;
               Choose your own company, and command what cost
               Your heart has mind to. Exeunt

                            SCENE V.
                        Athens. ANTONY'S house

         Enter ENOBARBUS and EROS, meeting

              ENOBARBUS. How now, friend Eros!
              EROS. There's strange news come, sir.
              ENOBARBUS. What, man?
              EROS. Caesar and Lepidus have made wars upon Pompey.
              ENOBARBUS. This is old. What is the success?
              EROS. 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.
              ENOBARBUS. Then, world, thou hast a pair of chaps- no more;
               And throw between them all the food thou hast,
               They'll grind the one the other. Where's Antony?
              EROS. He's walking in the garden- thus, and spurns
               The rush that lies before him; cries 'Fool Lepidus!'
               And threats the throat of that his officer
               That murd'red Pompey.
              ENOBARBUS. 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.
              ENOBARBUS. 'Twill be naught;

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               But let it be. Bring me to Antony.
              EROS. Come, sir. Exeunt

                           SCENE VI.
                        Rome. CAESAR'S house

         Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, and MAECENAS

              CAESAR. Contemning Rome, he has done all this and more
               In Alexandria. Here's the manner of't:
               I' th' market-place, on a tribunal silver'd,
               Cleopatra and himself in chairs of gold
               Were publicly enthron'd; at the feet sat
               Caesarion, whom they call my father's son,
               And all the unlawful issue that their lust
               Since then hath made between them. Unto her
               He gave the stablishment of Egypt; made her
               Of lower Syria, Cyprus, Lydia,
               Absolute queen.
              MAECENAS. This in the public eye?
              CAESAR. I' th' common show-place, where they exercise.
               His sons he there proclaim'd the kings of kings:
               Great Media, Parthia, and Armenia,
               He gave to Alexander; to Ptolemy he assign'd
               Syria, Cilicia, and Phoenicia. She
               In th' habiliments of the goddess Isis
               That day appear'd; and oft before gave audience,
               As 'tis reported, so.
              MAECENAS. Let Rome be thus
              AGRIPPA. Who, queasy with his insolence
               Already, will their good thoughts call from him.
              CAESAR. The people knows it, and have now receiv'd
               His accusations.
              AGRIPPA. Who does he accuse?
              CAESAR. Caesar; and that, having in Sicily
               Sextus Pompeius spoil'd, we had not rated him
               His part o' th' isle. Then does he say he lent me
               Some shipping, unrestor'd. Lastly, he frets
               That Lepidus of the triumvirate
               Should be depos'd; and, being, that we detain
               All his revenue.
              AGRIPPA. Sir, this should be answer'd.
              CAESAR. 'Tis done already, and messenger gone.
               I have told him Lepidus was grown too cruel,
               That he his high authority abus'd,
               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,
               Demand the like.
              MAECENAS. He'll never yield to that.
              CAESAR. Nor must not then be yielded to in this.

         Enter OCTAVIA, with her train

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              OCTAVIA. Hail, Caesar, and my lord! hail, most dear Caesar!
              CAESAR. That ever I should call thee cast-away!
              OCTAVIA. You have not call'd me so, nor have you cause.
              CAESAR. Why have you stol'n upon us thus? You come not
               Like Caesar's sister. The wife of Antony
               Should have an army for an usher, and
               The neighs of horse to tell of her approach
               Long ere she did appear. The trees by th' way
               Should have borne men, and expectation fainted,
               Longing for what it had not. Nay, the dust
               Should have ascended to the roof of heaven,
               Rais'd by your populous troops. But you are come
               A market-maid to Rome, and have prevented
               The ostentation of our love, which left unshown
               Is often left unlov'd. We should have met you
               By sea and land, supplying every stage
               With an augmented greeting.
              OCTAVIA. Good my lord,
               To come thus was I not constrain'd, but did it
               On my free will. My lord, Mark Antony,
               Hearing that you prepar'd for war, acquainted
               My grieved ear withal; whereon I begg'd
               His pardon for return.
              CAESAR. Which soon he granted,
               Being an obstruct 'tween his lust and him.
              OCTAVIA. Do not say so, my lord.
              CAESAR. I have eyes upon him,
               And his affairs come to me on the wind.
               Where is he now?
              OCTAVIA. My lord, in Athens.
              CAESAR. No, my most wronged sister: Cleopatra
               Hath nodded him to her. He hath given his empire
               Up to a whore, who now are levying
               The kings o' th' earth for war. He hath assembled
               Bocchus, the king of Libya; Archelaus
               Of Cappadocia; Philadelphos, king
               Of Paphlagonia; the Thracian king, Adallas;
               King Manchus of Arabia; King of Pont;
               Herod of Jewry; Mithridates, king
               Of Comagene; Polemon and Amyntas,
               The kings of Mede and Lycaonia, with
               More larger list of sceptres.
              OCTAVIA. Ay me most wretched,
               That have my heart parted betwixt two friends,
               That does afflict each other!
              CAESAR. Welcome hither.
               Your letters did withhold our breaking forth,
               Till we perceiv'd both how you were wrong led
               And we in negligent danger. Cheer your heart;
               Be you not troubled with the time, which drives
               O'er your content these strong necessities,
               But let determin'd things to destiny
               Hold unbewail'd their way. Welcome to Rome;
               Nothing more dear to me. You are abus'd

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               Beyond the mark of thought, and the high gods,
               To do you justice, make their ministers
               Of us and those that love you. Best of comfort,
               And ever welcome to us.
              AGRIPPA. Welcome, lady.
              MAECENAS. Welcome, dear madam.
               Each heart in Rome does love and pity you;
               Only th' adulterous Antony, most large
               In his abominations, turns you off,
               And gives his potent regiment to a trull
               That noises it against us.
              OCTAVIA. Is it so, sir?
              CAESAR. Most certain. Sister, welcome. Pray you
               Be ever known to patience. My dear'st sister! Exeunt

                          SCENE VII.
                       ANTONY'S camp near Actium

         Enter CLEOPATRA and ENOBARBUS

              CLEOPATRA. I will be even with thee, doubt it not.
              ENOBARBUS. But why, why,
              CLEOPATRA. Thou hast forspoke my being in these wars,
               And say'st it is not fit.
              ENOBARBUS. Well, is it, is it?
              CLEOPATRA. Is't not denounc'd against us? Why should not we
               Be there in person?
              ENOBARBUS. [Aside] Well, I could reply:
               If we should serve with horse and mares together
               The horse were merely lost; the mares would bear
               A soldier and his horse.
              CLEOPATRA. What is't you say?
              ENOBARBUS. Your presence needs must puzzle Antony;
               Take from his heart, take from his brain, from's time,
               What should not then be spar'd. He is already
               Traduc'd for levity; and 'tis said in Rome
               That Photinus an eunuch and your maids
               Manage this war.
              CLEOPATRA. Sink Rome, and their tongues rot
               That speak against us! A charge we bear i' th' war,
               And, as the president of my kingdom, will
               Appear there for a man. Speak not against it;
               I will not stay behind.

         Enter ANTONY and CANIDIUS

              ENOBARBUS. Nay, I have done.
               Here comes the Emperor.
              ANTONY. Is it not strange, Canidius,
               That from Tarentum and Brundusium
               He could so quickly cut the Ionian sea,
               And take in Toryne?- You have heard on't, sweet?
              CLEOPATRA. Celerity is never more admir'd
               Than by the negligent.

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              ANTONY. A good rebuke,
               Which might have well becom'd the best of men
               To taunt at slackness. Canidius, we
               Will fight with him by sea.
              CLEOPATRA. By sea! What else?
              CANIDIUS. Why will my lord do so?
              ANTONY. For that he dares us to't.
              ENOBARBUS. So hath my lord dar'd him to single fight.
              CANIDIUS. 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.
              ENOBARBUS. Your ships are not well mann'd;
               Your mariners are muleteers, reapers, people
               Ingross'd by swift impress. In Caesar's fleet
               Are those that often have 'gainst Pompey fought;
               Their ships are yare; yours heavy. No disgrace
               Shall fall you for refusing him at sea,
               Being prepar'd for land.
              ANTONY. By sea, by sea.
              ENOBARBUS. Most worthy sir, you therein throw away
               The absolute soldiership you have by land;
               Distract your army, which doth most consist
               Of war-mark'd footmen; leave unexecuted
               Your own renowned knowledge; quite forgo
               The way which promises assurance; and
               Give up yourself merely to chance and hazard
               From firm security.
              ANTONY. I'll fight at sea.
              CLEOPATRA. I have sixty sails, Caesar none better.
              ANTONY. Our overplus of shipping will we burn,
               And, with the rest full-mann'd, from th' head of Actium
               Beat th' approaching Caesar. But if we fail,
               We then can do't at land.

         Enter a MESSENGER

               Thy business?
              MESSENGER. The news is true, my lord: he is descried;
               Caesar has taken Toryne.
              ANTONY. Can he be there in person? 'Tis impossible-
               Strange that his power should be. Canidius,
               Our nineteen legions thou shalt hold by land,
               And our twelve thousand horse. We'll to our ship.
               Away, my Thetis!

         Enter a SOLDIER

               How now, worthy soldier?
              SOLDIER. O noble Emperor, do not fight by sea;
               Trust not to rotten planks. Do you misdoubt
               This sword and these my wounds? Let th' Egyptians
               And the Phoenicians go a-ducking; we
               Have us'd to conquer standing on the earth
               And fighting foot to foot.

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              ANTONY. Well, well- away.
                             Exeunt ANTONY, CLEOPATRA, and ENOBARBUS
              SOLDIER. By Hercules, I think I am i' th' right.
              CANIDIUS. Soldier, thou art; but his whole action grows
               Not in the power on't. So our leader's led,
               And we are women's men.
              SOLDIER. You keep by land
               The legions and the horse whole, do you not?
              CANIDIUS. Marcus Octavius, Marcus Justeius,
               Publicola, and Caelius are for sea;
               But we keep whole by land. This speed of Caesar's
               Carries beyond belief.
              SOLDIER. While he was yet in Rome,
               His power went out in such distractions as
               Beguil'd all spies.
              CANIDIUS. Who's his lieutenant, hear you?
              SOLDIER. They say one Taurus.
              CANIDIUS. Well I know the man.

         Enter a MESSENGER

              MESSENGER. The Emperor calls Canidius.
              CANIDIUS. With news the time's with labour and throes forth
               Each minute some. Exeunt

                            SCENE VIII.
                          A plain near Actium

         Enter CAESAR, with his army, marching

              CAESAR. Taurus!
              TAURUS. My lord?
              CAESAR. Strike not by land; keep whole; provoke not battle
               Till we have done at sea. Do not exceed
               The prescript of this scroll. Our fortune lies
               Upon this jump. Exeunt

                            SCENE IX.
                       Another part of the plain

         Enter ANTONY and ENOBARBUS

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

                            SCENE X.
                       Another part of the plain

                 CANIDIUS marcheth with his land army one way
                 over the stage, and TAURUS, the Lieutenant of
                CAESAR, the other way. After their going in is heard

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                        the noise of a sea-fight

         Alarum. Enter ENOBARBUS

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

         Enter SCARUS

              SCARUS. Gods and goddesses,
               All the whole synod of them!
              ENOBARBUS. What's thy passion?
              SCARUS. The greater cantle of the world is lost
               With very ignorance; we have kiss'd away
               Kingdoms and provinces.
              ENOBARBUS. How appears the fight?
              SCARUS. On our side like the token'd pestilence,
               Where death is sure. Yon ribaudred nag of Egypt-
               Whom leprosy o'ertake!- i' th' midst o' th' fight,
               When vantage like a pair of twins appear'd,
               Both as the same, or rather ours the elder-
               The breese upon her, like a cow in June-
               Hoists sails and flies.
              ENOBARBUS. That I beheld;
               Mine eyes did sicken at the sight and could not
               Endure a further view.
              SCARUS. She once being loof'd,
               The noble ruin of her magic, Antony,
               Claps on his sea-wing, and, like a doting mallard,
               Leaving the fight in height, flies after her.
               I never saw an action of such shame;
               Experience, manhood, honour, ne'er before
               Did violate so itself.
              ENOBARBUS. Alack, alack!

         Enter CANIDIUS

              CANIDIUS. Our fortune on the sea is out of breath,
               And sinks most lamentably. Had our general
               Been what he knew himself, it had gone well.
               O, he has given example for our flight
               Most grossly by his own!
              ENOBARBUS. Ay, are you thereabouts?
               Why then, good night indeed.
              CANIDIUS. Toward Peloponnesus are they fled.
              SCARUS. 'Tis easy to't; and there I will attend
               What further comes.
              CANIDIUS. To Caesar will I render
               My legions and my horse; six kings already
               Show me the way of yielding.
              ENOBARBUS. I'll yet follow
               The wounded chance of Antony, though my reason
               Sits in the wind against me. Exeunt

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                           SCENE XI.
                     Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace

         Enter ANTONY With attendants

              ANTONY. Hark! the land bids me tread no more upon't;
               It is asham'd to bear me. Friends, come hither.
               I am so lated in the world that I
               Have lost my way for ever. I have a ship
               Laden with gold; take that; divide it. Fly,
               And make your peace with Caesar.
              ALL. Fly? Not we!
              ANTONY. I have fled myself, and have instructed cowards
               To run and show their shoulders. Friends, be gone;
               I have myself resolv'd upon a course
               Which has no need of you; be gone.
               My treasure's in the harbour, take it. O,
               I follow'd that I blush to look upon.
               My very hairs do mutiny; for the white
               Reprove the brown for rashness, and they them
               For fear and doting. Friends, be gone; you shall
               Have letters from me to some friends that will
               Sweep your way for you. Pray you look not sad,
               Nor make replies of loathness; take the hint
               Which my despair proclaims. Let that be left
               Which leaves itself. To the sea-side straight way.
               I will possess you of that ship and treasure.
               Leave me, I pray, a little; pray you now;
               Nay, do so, for indeed I have lost command;
               Therefore I pray you. I'll see you by and by. [Sits down]

                    Enter CLEOPATRA, led by CHARMIAN and IRAS,
                           EROS following

              EROS. Nay, gentle madam, to him! Comfort him.
              IRAS. Do, most dear Queen.
              CHARMIAN. Do? Why, what else?
              CLEOPATRA. Let me sit down. O Juno!
              ANTONY. No, no, no, no, no.
              EROS. See you here, sir?
              ANTONY. O, fie, fie, fie!
              CHARMIAN. Madam!
              IRAS. Madam, O good Empress!
              EROS. Sir, sir!
              ANTONY. Yes, my lord, yes. He at Philippi kept
               His sword e'en like a dancer, while I struck
               The lean and wrinkled Cassius; and 'twas I
               That the mad Brutus ended; he alone
               Dealt on lieutenantry, and no practice had
               In the brave squares of war. Yet now- no matter.
              CLEOPATRA. Ah, stand by!
              EROS. The Queen, my lord, the Queen!
              IRAS. Go to him, madam, speak to him.
               He is unqualitied with very shame.

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          CLEOPATRA. Well then, sustain me. O!
          EROS. Most noble sir, arise; the Queen approaches.
           Her head's declin'd, and death will seize her but
           Your comfort makes the rescue.
          ANTONY. I have offended reputation-
           A most unnoble swerving.
          EROS. Sir, the Queen.
          ANTONY. O, whither hast thou led me, Egypt? See
           How I convey my shame out of thine eyes
           By looking back what I have left behind
           'Stroy'd in dishonour.
          CLEOPATRA. O my lord, my lord,
           Forgive my fearful sails! I little thought
           You would have followed.
          ANTONY. Egypt, thou knew'st too well
           My heart was to thy rudder tied by th' strings,
           And thou shouldst tow me after. O'er my spirit
           Thy full supremacy thou knew'st, and that
           Thy beck might from the bidding of the gods
           Command me.
          CLEOPATRA. O, my pardon!
          ANTONY. Now I must
           To the young man send humble treaties, dodge
           And palter in the shifts of lowness, who
           With half the bulk o' th' world play'd as I pleas'd,
           Making and marring fortunes. You did know
           How much you were my conqueror, and that
           My sword, made weak by my affection, would
           Obey it on all cause.
          CLEOPATRA. Pardon, pardon!
          ANTONY. Fall not a tear, I say; one of them rates
           All that is won and lost. Give me a kiss;
           Even this repays me.
           We sent our schoolmaster; is 'a come back?
           Love, I am full of lead. Some wine,
           Within there, and our viands! Fortune knows
           We scorn her most when most she offers blows. Exeunt

                         SCENE XII.
                       CAESAR'S camp in Egypt

         Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, DOLABELLA, THYREUS, with others

              CAESAR. Let him appear that's come from Antony.
               Know you him?
              DOLABELLA. Caesar, 'tis his schoolmaster:
               An argument that he is pluck'd, when hither
               He sends so poor a pinion of his wing,
               Which had superfluous kings for messengers
               Not many moons gone by.

         Enter EUPHRONIUS, Ambassador from ANTONY

              CAESAR. Approach, and speak.

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              EUPHRONIUS. Such as I am, I come from Antony.
               I was of late as petty to his ends
               As is the morn-dew on the myrtle leaf
               To his grand sea.
              CAESAR. Be't so. Declare thine office.
              EUPHRONIUS. Lord of his fortunes he salutes thee, and
               Requires to live in Egypt; which not granted,
               He lessens his requests and to thee sues
               To let him breathe between the heavens and earth,
               A private man in Athens. This for him.
               Next, Cleopatra does confess thy greatness,
               Submits her to thy might, and of thee craves
               The circle of the Ptolemies for her heirs,
               Now hazarded to thy grace.
              CAESAR. For Antony,
               I have no ears to his request. The Queen
               Of audience nor desire shall fail, so she
               From Egypt drive her all-disgraced friend,
               Or take his life there. This if she perform,
               She shall not sue unheard. So to them both.
              EUPHRONIUS. Fortune pursue thee!
              CAESAR. Bring him through the bands. Exit EUPHRONIUS
               [To THYREUS] To try thy eloquence, now 'tis time. Dispatch;
               From Antony win Cleopatra. Promise,
               And in our name, what she requires; add more,
               From thine invention, offers. Women are not
               In their best fortunes strong; but want will perjure
               The ne'er-touch'd vestal. Try thy cunning, Thyreus;
               Make thine own edict for thy pains, which we
               Will answer as a law.
              THYREUS. Caesar, I go.
              CAESAR. Observe how Antony becomes his flaw,
               And what thou think'st his very action speaks
               In every power that moves.
              THYREUS. Caesar, I shall. Exeunt

                           SCENE XIII.
                     Alexandria. CLEOPATRA'S palace


              CLEOPATRA. What shall we do, Enobarbus?
              ENOBARBUS. Think, and die.
              CLEOPATRA. Is Antony or we in fault for this?
              ENOBARBUS. Antony only, that would make his will
               Lord of his reason. What though you fled
               From that great face of war, whose several ranges
               Frighted each other? Why should he follow?
               The itch of his affection should not then
               Have nick'd his captainship, at such a point,
               When half to half the world oppos'd, he being
               The mered question. 'Twas a shame no less
               Than was his loss, to course your flying flags
               And leave his navy gazing.

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              CLEOPATRA. Prithee, peace.

         Enter EUPHRONIUS, the Ambassador; with ANTONY

              ANTONY. Is that his answer?
              EUPHRONIUS. Ay, my lord.
              ANTONY. The Queen shall then have courtesy, so she
               Will yield us up.
              EUPHRONIUS. He says so.
              ANTONY. Let her know't.
               To the boy Caesar send this grizzled head,
               And he will fill thy wishes to the brim
               With principalities.
              CLEOPATRA. That head, my lord?
              ANTONY. To him again. Tell him he wears the rose
               Of youth upon him; from which the world should note
               Something particular. His coin, ships, legions,
               May be a coward's whose ministers would prevail
               Under the service of a child as soon
               As i' th' command of Caesar. I dare him therefore
               To lay his gay comparisons apart,
               And answer me declin'd, sword against sword,
               Ourselves alone. I'll write it. Follow me.
                                     Exeunt ANTONY and EUPHRONIUS
              EUPHRONIUS. [Aside] Yes, like enough high-battled Caesar will
               Unstate his happiness, and be stag'd to th' show
               Against a sworder! I see men's judgments are
               A parcel of their fortunes, and things outward
               Do draw the inward quality after them,
               To suffer all alike. That he should dream,
               Knowing all measures, the full Caesar will
               Answer his emptiness! Caesar, thou hast subdu'd
               His judgment too.

         Enter a SERVANT

              SERVANT. A messenger from Caesar.
              CLEOPATRA. What, no more ceremony? See, my women!
               Against the blown rose may they stop their nose
               That kneel'd unto the buds. Admit him, sir. Exit SERVANT
              ENOBARBUS. [Aside] Mine honesty and I begin to square.
               The loyalty well held to fools does make
               Our faith mere folly. Yet he that can endure
               To follow with allegiance a fall'n lord
               Does conquer him that did his master conquer,
               And earns a place i' th' story.

         Enter THYREUS

              CLEOPATRA. Caesar's will?
              THYREUS. Hear it apart.
              CLEOPATRA. None but friends: say boldly.
              THYREUS. So, haply, are they friends to Antony.
              ENOBARBUS. He needs as many, sir, as Caesar has,
               Or needs not us. If Caesar please, our master

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               Will leap to be his friend. For us, you know
               Whose he is we are, and that is Caesar's.
              THYREUS. So.
               Thus then, thou most renown'd: Caesar entreats
               Not to consider in what case thou stand'st
               Further than he is Caesar.
              CLEOPATRA. Go on. Right royal!
              THYREUS. He knows that you embrace not Antony
               As you did love, but as you fear'd him.
              CLEOPATRA. O!
              THYREUS. The scars upon your honour, therefore, he
               Does pity, as constrained blemishes,
               Not as deserv'd.
              CLEOPATRA. He is a god, and knows
               What is most right. Mine honour was not yielded,
               But conquer'd merely.
              ENOBARBUS. [Aside] To be sure of that,
               I will ask Antony. Sir, sir, thou art so leaky
               That we must leave thee to thy sinking, for
               Thy dearest quit thee. Exit
              THYREUS. Shall I say to Caesar
               What you require of him? For he partly begs
               To be desir'd to give. It much would please him
               That of his fortunes you should make a staff
               To lean upon. But it would warm his spirits
               To hear from me you had left Antony,
               And put yourself under his shroud,
               The universal landlord.
              CLEOPATRA. What's your name?
              THYREUS. My name is Thyreus.
              CLEOPATRA. Most kind messenger,
               Say to great Caesar this: in deputation
               I kiss his conquring hand. Tell him I am prompt
               To lay my crown at 's feet, and there to kneel.
               Tell him from his all-obeying breath I hear
               The doom of Egypt.
              THYREUS. 'Tis your noblest course.
               Wisdom and fortune combating together,
               If that the former dare but what it can,
               No chance may shake it. Give me grace to lay
               My duty on your hand.
              CLEOPATRA. Your Caesar's father oft,
               When he hath mus'd of taking kingdoms in,
               Bestow'd his lips on that unworthy place,
               As it rain'd kisses.

         Re-enter ANTONY and ENOBARBUS

              ANTONY. Favours, by Jove that thunders!
               What art thou, fellow?
              THYREUS. One that but performs
               The bidding of the fullest man, and worthiest
               To have command obey'd.
              ENOBARBUS. [Aside] You will be whipt.
              ANTONY. Approach there.- Ah, you kite!- Now, gods and devils!

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               Authority melts from me. Of late, when I cried 'Ho!'
               Like boys unto a muss, kings would start forth
               And cry 'Your will?' Have you no ears? I am
               Antony yet.

         Enter servants

               Take hence this Jack and whip him.
              ENOBARBUS. 'Tis better playing with a lion's whelp
               Than with an old one dying.
              ANTONY. Moon and stars!
               Whip him. Were't twenty of the greatest tributaries
               That do acknowledge Caesar, should I find them
               So saucy with the hand of she here- what's her name
               Since she was Cleopatra? Whip him, fellows,
               Till like a boy you see him cringe his face,
               And whine aloud for mercy. Take him hence.
              THYMUS. Mark Antony-
              ANTONY. Tug him away. Being whipt,
               Bring him again: the Jack of Caesar's shall
               Bear us an errand to him. Exeunt servants with THYREUS
               You were half blasted ere I knew you. Ha!
               Have I my pillow left unpress'd in Rome,
               Forborne the getting of a lawful race,
               And by a gem of women, to be abus'd
               By one that looks on feeders?
              CLEOPATRA. Good my lord-
              ANTONY. You have been a boggler ever.
               But when we in our viciousness grow hard-
               O misery on't!- the wise gods seel our eyes,
               In our own filth drop our clear judgments, make us
               Adore our errors, laugh at's while we strut
               To our confusion.
              CLEOPATRA. O, is't come to this?
              ANTONY. I found you as a morsel cold upon
               Dead Caesar's trencher. Nay, you were a fragment
               Of Cneius Pompey's, besides what hotter hours,
               Unregist'red in vulgar fame, you have
               Luxuriously pick'd out; for I am sure,
               Though you can guess what temperance should be,
               You know not what it is.
              CLEOPATRA. Wherefore is this?
              ANTONY. To let a fellow that will take rewards,
               And say 'God quit you!' be familiar with
               My playfellow, your hand, this kingly seal
               And plighter of high hearts! O that I were
               Upon the hill of Basan to outroar
               The horned herd! For I have savage cause,
               And to proclaim it civilly were like
               A halter'd neck which does the hangman thank
               For being yare about him.

         Re-enter a SERVANT with THYREUS

               Is he whipt?

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              SERVANT. Soundly, my lord.
              ANTONY. Cried he? and begg'd 'a pardon?
              SERVANT. He did ask favour.
              ANTONY. If that thy father live, let him repent
               Thou wast not made his daughter; and be thou sorry
               To follow Caesar in his triumph, since
               Thou hast been whipt for following him. Henceforth
               The white hand of a lady fever thee!
               Shake thou to look on't. Get thee back to Caesar;
               Tell him thy entertainment; look thou say
               He makes me angry with him; for he seems
               Proud and disdainful, harping on what I am,
               Not what he knew I was. He makes me angry;
               And at this time most easy 'tis to do't,
               When my good stars, that were my former guides,
               Have empty left their orbs and shot their fires
               Into th' abysm of hell. If he mislike
               My speech and what is done, tell him he has
               Hipparchus, my enfranched bondman, whom
               He may at pleasure whip or hang or torture,
               As he shall like, to quit me. Urge it thou.
               Hence with thy stripes, be gone. Exit THYREUS
              CLEOPATRA. Have you done yet?
              ANTONY. Alack, our terrene moon
               Is now eclips'd, and it portends alone
               The fall of Antony.
              CLEOPATRA. I must stay his time.
              ANTONY. To flatter Caesar, would you mingle eyes
               With one that ties his points?
              CLEOPATRA. Not know me yet?
              ANTONY. Cold-hearted toward me?
              CLEOPATRA. Ah, dear, if I be so,
               From my cold heart let heaven engender hail,
               And poison it in the source, and the first stone
               Drop in my neck; as it determines, so
               Dissolve my life! The next Caesarion smite!
               Till by degrees the memory of my womb,
               Together with my brave Egyptians all,
               By the discandying of this pelleted storm,
               Lie graveless, till the flies and gnats of Nile
               Have buried them for prey.
              ANTONY. I am satisfied.
               Caesar sits down in Alexandria, where
               I will oppose his fate. Our force by land
               Hath nobly held; our sever'd navy to
               Have knit again, and fleet, threat'ning most sea-like.
               Where hast thou been, my heart? Dost thou hear, lady?
               If from the field I shall return once more
               To kiss these lips, I will appear in blood.
               I and my sword will earn our chronicle.
               There's hope in't yet.
              CLEOPATRA. That's my brave lord!
              ANTONY. I will be treble-sinew'd, hearted, breath'd,
               And fight maliciously. For when mine hours

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               Were nice and lucky, men did ransom lives
               Of me for jests; but now I'll set my teeth,
               And send to darkness all that stop me. Come,
               Let's have one other gaudy night. Call to me
               All my sad captains; fill our bowls once more;
               Let's mock the midnight bell.
              CLEOPATRA. It is my birthday.
               I had thought t'have held it poor; but since my lord
               Is Antony again, I will be Cleopatra.
              ANTONY. We will yet do well.
              CLEOPATRA. Call all his noble captains to my lord.
              ANTONY. Do so, we'll speak to them; and to-night I'll force
               The wine peep through their scars. Come on, my queen,
               There's sap in't yet. The next time I do fight
               I'll make death love me; for I will contend
               Even with his pestilent scythe. Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS
              ENOBARBUS. Now he'll outstare the lightning. To be furious
               Is to be frighted out of fear, and in that mood
               The dove will peck the estridge; and I see still
               A diminution in our captain's brain
               Restores his heart. When valour preys on reason,
               It eats the sword it fights with. I will seek
               Some way to leave him. Exit

                        ACT IV. SCENE I.
                     CAESAR'S camp before Alexandria

                Enter CAESAR, AGRIPPA, and MAECENAS, with his army;
                      CAESAR reading a letter

              CAESAR. He calls me boy, and chides as he had power
               To beat me out of Egypt. My messenger
               He hath whipt with rods; dares me to personal combat,
               Caesar to Antony. Let the old ruffian know
               I have many other ways to die, meantime
               Laugh at his challenge.
              MAECENAS. Caesar must think
               When one so great begins to rage, he's hunted
               Even to falling. Give him no breath, but now
               Make boot of his distraction. Never anger
               Made good guard for itself.
              CAESAR. Let our best heads
               Know that to-morrow the last of many battles
               We mean to fight. Within our files there are
               Of those that serv'd Mark Antony but late
               Enough to fetch him in. See it done;
               And feast the army; we have store to do't,
               And they have earn'd the waste. Poor Antony! Exeunt

                           SCENE II.
                     Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace


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                         ALEXAS, with others

              ANTONY. He will not fight with me, Domitius?
              ENOBARBUS. No.
              ANTONY. Why should he not?
              ENOBARBUS. He thinks, being twenty times of better fortune,
               He is twenty men to one.
              ANTONY. To-morrow, soldier,
               By sea and land I'll fight. Or I will live,
               Or bathe my dying honour in the blood
               Shall make it live again. Woo't thou fight well?
              ENOBARBUS. I'll strike, and cry 'Take all.'
              ANTONY. Well said; come on.
               Call forth my household servants; let's to-night
               Be bounteous at our meal.

         Enter three or four servitors

               Give me thy hand,
               Thou has been rightly honest. So hast thou;
               Thou, and thou, and thou. You have serv'd me well,
               And kings have been your fellows.
              CLEOPATRA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] What means this?
              ENOBARBUS. [Aside to CLEOPATRA] 'Tis one of those odd tricks which
                 sorrow shoots
               Out of the mind.
              ANTONY. And thou art honest too.
               I wish I could be made so many men,
               And all of you clapp'd up together in
               An Antony, that I might do you service
               So good as you have done.
              SERVANT. The gods forbid!
              ANTONY. Well, my good fellows, wait on me to-night.
               Scant not my cups, and make as much of me
               As when mine empire was your fellow too,
               And suffer'd my command.
              CLEOPATRA. [Aside to ENOBARBUS] What does he mean?
               ENOBARBUS. [Aside to CLEOPATRA] To make his followers weep.
              ANTONY. Tend me to-night;
               May be it is the period of your duty.
               Haply you shall not see me more; or if,
               A mangled shadow. Perchance to-morrow
               You'll serve another master. I look on you
               As one that takes his leave. Mine honest friends,
               I turn you not away; but, like a master
               Married to your good service, stay till death.
               Tend me to-night two hours, I ask no more,
               And the gods yield you for't!
              ENOBARBUS. What mean you, sir,
               To give them this discomfort? Look, they weep;
               And I, an ass, am onion-ey'd. For shame!
               Transform us not to women.
              ANTONY. Ho, ho, ho!
               Now the witch take me if I meant it thus!
               Grace grow where those drops fall! My hearty friends,

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               You take me in too dolorous a sense;
               For I spake to you for your comfort, did desire you
               To burn this night with torches. Know, my hearts,
               I hope well of to-morrow, and will lead you
               Where rather I'll expect victorious life
               Than death and honour. Let's to supper, come,
               And drown consideration. Exeunt

                           SCENE III.
                    Alexandria. Before CLEOPATRA's palace

         Enter a company of soldiers

              FIRST SOLDIER. Brother, good night. To-morrow is the day.
              SECOND SOLDIER. It will determine one way. Fare you well.
               Heard you of nothing strange about the streets?
              FIRST SOLDIER. Nothing. What news?
              SECOND SOLDIER. Belike 'tis but a rumour. Good night to you.
              FIRST SOLDIER. Well, sir, good night.
                                      [They meet other soldiers]
              SECOND SOLDIER. Soldiers, have careful watch.
              FIRST SOLDIER. And you. Good night, good night.
                       [The two companies separate and place themselves
                                   in every corner of the stage]
              SECOND SOLDIER. Here we. And if to-morrow
               Our navy thrive, I have an absolute hope
               Our landmen will stand up.
              THIRD SOLDIER. 'Tis a brave army,
               And full of purpose.
                           [Music of the hautboys is under the stage]
              SECOND SOLDIER. Peace, what noise?
              THIRD SOLDIER. List, list!
              SECOND SOLDIER. Hark!
              THIRD SOLDIER. Music i' th' air.
              FOURTH SOLDIER. Under the earth.
              THIRD SOLDIER. It signs well, does it not?
              FOURTH SOLDIER. No.
              THIRD SOLDIER. Peace, I say!
               What should this mean?
              SECOND SOLDIER. 'Tis the god Hercules, whom Antony lov'd,
               Now leaves him.
              THIRD SOLDIER. Walk; let's see if other watchmen
               Do hear what we do.
              SECOND SOLDIER. How now, masters!
              SOLDIERS. [Speaking together] How now!
               How now! Do you hear this?
              FIRST SOLDIER. Ay; is't not strange?
              THIRD SOLDIER. Do you hear, masters? Do you hear?
              FIRST SOLDIER. Follow the noise so far as we have quarter;
               Let's see how it will give off.
              SOLDIERS. Content. 'Tis strange. Exeunt

                             SCENE IV.

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                      Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace

                  Enter ANTONY and CLEOPATRA, CHARMIAN, IRAS,
                           with others

              ANTONY. Eros! mine armour, Eros!
              CLEOPATRA. Sleep a little.
              ANTONY. No, my chuck. Eros! Come, mine armour, Eros!

         Enter EROS with armour

               Come, good fellow, put mine iron on.
               If fortune be not ours to-day, it is
               Because we brave her. Come.
              CLEOPATRA. Nay, I'll help too.
               What's this for?
              ANTONY. Ah, let be, let be! Thou art
               The armourer of my heart. False, false; this, this.
              CLEOPATRA. Sooth, la, I'll help. Thus it must be.
              ANTONY. Well, well;
               We shall thrive now. Seest thou, my good fellow?
               Go put on thy defences.
              EROS. Briefly, sir.
              CLEOPATRA. Is not this buckled well?
              ANTONY. Rarely, rarely!
               He that unbuckles this, till we do please
               To daff't for our repose, shall hear a storm.
               Thou fumblest, Eros, and my queen's a squire
               More tight at this than thou. Dispatch. O love,
               That thou couldst see my wars to-day, and knew'st
               The royal occupation! Thou shouldst see
               A workman in't.

         Enter an armed SOLDIER

               Good-morrow to thee. Welcome.
               Thou look'st like him that knows a warlike charge.
               To business that we love we rise betime,
               And go to't with delight.
              SOLDIER. A thousand, sir,
               Early though't be, have on their riveted trim,
               And at the port expect you.
                               [Shout. Flourish of trumpets within]

         Enter CAPTAINS and soldiers

              CAPTAIN. The morn is fair. Good morrow, General.
              ALL. Good morrow, General.
              ANTONY. 'Tis well blown, lads.
               This morning, like the spirit of a youth
               That means to be of note, begins betimes.
               So, so. Come, give me that. This way. Well said.
               Fare thee well, dame, whate'er becomes of me.
               This is a soldier's kiss. Rebukeable,
               And worthy shameful check it were, to stand
               On more mechanic compliment; I'll leave thee

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               Now like a man of steel. You that will fight,
               Follow me close; I'll bring you to't. Adieu.
                          Exeunt ANTONY, EROS, CAPTAINS and soldiers
              CHARMIAN. Please you retire to your chamber?
              CLEOPATRA. Lead me.
               He goes forth gallantly. That he and Caesar might
               Determine this great war in single fight!
               Then, Antony- but now. Well, on. Exeunt

                           SCENE V.
                       Alexandria. ANTONY'S camp

                 Trumpets sound. Enter ANTONY and EROS, a SOLDIER
                         meeting them

              SOLDIER. The gods make this a happy day to Antony!
              ANTONY. Would thou and those thy scars had once prevail'd
               To make me fight at land!
              SOLDIER. Hadst thou done so,
               The kings that have revolted, and the soldier
               That has this morning left thee, would have still
               Followed thy heels.
              ANTONY. Who's gone this morning?
              SOLDIER. Who?
               One ever near thee. Call for Enobarbus,
               He shall not hear thee; or from Caesar's camp
               Say 'I am none of thine.'
              ANTONY. What say'st thou?
              SOLDIER. Sir,
               He is with Caesar.
              EROS. Sir, his chests and treasure
               He has not with him.
              ANTONY. Is he gone?
              SOLDIER. Most certain.
              ANTONY. Go, Eros, send his treasure after; do it;
               Detain no jot, I charge thee. Write to him-
               I will subscribe- gentle adieus and greetings;
               Say that I wish he never find more cause
               To change a master. O, my fortunes have
               Corrupted honest men! Dispatch. Enobarbus! Exeunt

                           SCENE VI.
                       Alexandria. CAESAR'S camp

                 Flourish. Enter AGRIPPA, CAESAR, With DOLABELLA
                           and ENOBARBUS

              CAESAR. Go forth, Agrippa, and begin the fight.
               Our will is Antony be took alive;
               Make it so known.
              AGRIPPA. Caesar, I shall. Exit
              CAESAR. The time of universal peace is near.
               Prove this a prosp'rous day, the three-nook'd world

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               Shall bear the olive freely.

         Enter A MESSENGER

              MESSENGER. Antony
               Is come into the field.
              CAESAR. Go charge Agrippa
               Plant those that have revolted in the vant,
               That Antony may seem to spend his fury
               Upon himself. Exeunt all but ENOBARBUS
              ENOBARBUS. Alexas did revolt and went to Jewry on
               Affairs of Antony; there did dissuade
               Great Herod to incline himself to Caesar
               And leave his master Antony. For this pains
               Casaer 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.

         Enter a SOLDIER of CAESAR'S

              SOLDIER. Enobarbus, Antony
               Hath after thee sent all thy treasure, with
               His bounty overplus. The messenger
               Came on my guard, and at thy tent is now
               Unloading of his mules.
              ENOBARBUS. I give it you.
              SOLDIER. Mock not, Enobarbus.
               I tell you true. Best you saf'd the bringer
               Out of the host. I must attend mine office,
               Or would have done't myself. Your emperor
               Continues still a Jove. Exit
              ENOBARBUS. I am alone the villain of the earth,
               And feel I am so most. O Antony,
               Thou mine of bounty, how wouldst thou have paid
               My better service, when my turpitude
               Thou dost so crown with gold! This blows my heart.
               If swift thought break it not, a swifter mean
               Shall outstrike thought; but thought will do't, I feel.
               I fight against thee? No! I will go seek
               Some ditch wherein to die; the foul'st best fits
               My latter part of life. Exit

                              SCENE VII.
                     Field of battle between the camps

                  Alarum. Drums and trumpets. Enter AGRIPPA
                          and others

              AGRIPPA. Retire. We have engag'd ourselves too far.
               Caesar himself has work, and our oppression
               Exceeds what we expected. Exeunt

         Alarums. Enter ANTONY, and SCARUS wounded

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              SCARUS. O my brave Emperor, this is fought indeed!
               Had we done so at first, we had droven them home
               With clouts about their heads.
              ANTONY. Thou bleed'st apace.
              SCARUS. I had a wound here that was like a T,
               But now 'tis made an H.
              ANTONY. They do retire.
              SCARUS. We'll beat'em into bench-holes. I have yet
               Room for six scotches more.

         Enter EROS

              EROS. They are beaten, sir, and our advantage serves
               For a fair victory.
              SCARUS. Let us score their backs
               And snatch 'em up, as we take hares, behind.
               'Tis sport to maul a runner.
              ANTONY. I will reward thee
               Once for thy sprightly comfort, and tenfold
               For thy good valour. Come thee on.
               SCARUS. I'll halt after. Exeunt

                          SCENE VIII.
                     Under the walls of Alexandria

                 Alarum. Enter ANTONY, again in a march; SCARUS
                          with others

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

         Enter CLEOPATRA, attended

               [To SCARUS] Give me thy hand-
               To this great fairy I'll commend thy acts,
               Make her thanks bless thee. O thou day o' th' world,
               Chain mine arm'd neck. Leap thou, attire and all,
               Through proof of harness to my heart, and there
               Ride on the pants triumphing.
              CLEOPATRA. Lord of lords!
               O infinite virtue, com'st thou smiling from
               The world's great snare uncaught?
              ANTONY. Mine nightingale,
               We have beat them to their beds. What, girl! though grey
               Do something mingle with our younger brown, yet ha' we

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               A brain that nourishes our nerves, and can
               Get goal for goal of youth. Behold this man;
               Commend unto his lips thy favouring hand-
               Kiss it, my warrior- he hath fought to-day
               As if a god in hate of mankind had
               Destroyed in such a shape.
              CLEOPATRA. I'll give thee, friend,
               An armour all of gold; it was a king's.
              ANTONY. He has deserv'd it, were it carbuncled
               Like holy Phoebus' car. Give me thy hand.
               Through Alexandria make a jolly march;
               Bear our hack'd targets like the men that owe them.
               Had our great palace the capacity
               To camp this host, we all would sup together,
               And drink carouses to the next day's fate,
               Which promises royal peril. Trumpeters,
               With brazen din blast you the city's ear;
               Make mingle with our rattling tabourines,
               That heaven and earth may strike their sounds together
               Applauding our approach. Exeunt

                           SCENE IX.
                          CAESAR'S camp

         Enter a CENTURION and his company; ENOBARBUS follows

              CENTURION. If we be not reliev'd within this hour,
               We must return to th' court of guard. The night
               Is shiny, and they say we shall embattle
               By th' second hour i' th' morn.
              FIRST WATCH. This last day was
               A shrewd one to's.
              ENOBARBUS. O, bear me witness, night-
              SECOND WATCH. What man is this?
              FIRST WATCH. Stand close and list him.
              ENOBARBUS. Be witness to me, O thou blessed moon,
               When men revolted shall upon record
               Bear hateful memory, poor Enobarbus did
               Before thy face repent!
              CENTURION. Enobarbus?
              SECOND WATCH. Peace!
               Hark further.
              ENOBARBUS. O sovereign mistress of true melancholy,
               The poisonous damp of night disponge upon me,
               That life, a very rebel to my will,
               May hang no longer on me. Throw my heart
               Against the flint and hardness of my fault,
               Which, being dried with grief, will break to powder,
               And finish all foul thoughts. O Antony,
               Nobler than my revolt is infamous,
               Forgive me in thine own particular,
               But let the world rank me in register
               A master-leaver and a fugitive!
               O Antony! O Antony! [Dies]

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              FIRST WATCH. Let's speak to him.
              CENTURION. Let's hear him, for the things he speaks
               May concern Caesar.
              SECOND WATCH. Let's do so. But he sleeps.
              CENTURION. Swoons rather; for so bad a prayer as his
               Was never yet for sleep.
              FIRST WATCH. Go we to him.
              SECOND WATCH. Awake, sir, awake; speak to us.
              FIRST WATCH. Hear you, sir?
              CENTURION. The hand of death hath raught him.
               [Drums afar off ] Hark! the drums
               Demurely wake the sleepers. Let us bear him
               To th' court of guard; he is of note. Our hour
               Is fully out.
              SECOND WATCH. Come on, then;
               He may recover yet. Exeunt with the body

                             SCENE X.
                          Between the two camps

         Enter ANTONY and SCARUS, with their army

              ANTONY. Their preparation is to-day by sea;
               We please them not by land.
              SCARUS. For both, my lord.
              ANTONY. I would they'd fight i' th' fire or i' th' air;
               We'd fight there too. But this it is, our foot
               Upon the hills adjoining to the city
               Shall stay with us- Order for sea is given;
               They have put forth the haven-
               Where their appointment we may best discover
               And look on their endeavour. Exeunt

                            SCENE XI.
                          Between the camps

         Enter CAESAR and his army

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

                            SCENE XII.
                        A hill near Alexandria

         Enter ANTONY and SCARUS

              ANTONY. Yet they are not join'd. Where yond pine does stand
               I shall discover all. I'll bring thee word
               Straight how 'tis like to go. Exit
              SCARUS. Swallows have built
               In Cleopatra's sails their nests. The augurers

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               Say they know not, they cannot tell; look grimly,
               And dare not speak their knowledge. Antony
               Is valiant and dejected; and by starts
               His fretted fortunes give him hope and fear
               Of what he has and has not.
                               [Alarum afar off, as at a sea-fight]

         Re-enter ANTONY

              ANTONY. All is lost!
               This foul Egyptian hath betrayed me.
               My fleet hath yielded to the foe, and yonder
               They cast their caps up and carouse together
               Like friends long lost. Triple-turn'd whore! 'tis thou
               Hast sold me to this novice; and my heart
               Makes only wars on thee. Bid them all fly;
               For when I am reveng'd upon my charm,
               I have done all. Bid them all fly; begone. Exit SCARUS
               O sun, thy uprise shall I see no more!
               Fortune and Antony part here; even here
               Do we shake hands. All come to this? The hearts
               That spaniel'd me at heels, to whom I gave
               Their wishes, do discandy, melt their sweets
               On blossoming Caesar; and this pine is bark'd
               That overtopp'd them all. 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 gypsy hath at fast and loose
               Beguil'd me to the very heart of loss.
               What, Eros, Eros!

         Enter CLEOPATRA

               Ah, thou spell! Avaunt!
              CLEOPATRA. Why is my lord enrag'd against his love?
              ANTONY. 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. Exit CLEOPATRA
               'Tis well th'art gone,
               If it be well to live; but better 'twere
               Thou fell'st into my fury, for one death
               Might have prevented many. Eros, ho!
               The shirt of Nessus is upon me; teach me,
               Alcides, thou mine ancestor, thy rage;
               Let me lodge Lichas on the horns o' th' moon,
               And with those hands that grasp'd the heaviest club
               Subdue my worthiest self. The witch shall die.
               To the young Roman boy she hath sold me, and I fall
               Under this plot. She dies for't. Eros, ho! Exit

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                            SCENE XIII.
                      Alexandria. CLEOPATRA's palace


              CLEOPATRA. Help me, my women. O, he is more mad
               Than Telamon for his shield; the boar of Thessaly
               Was never so emboss'd.
              CHARMIAN. To th'monument!
               There lock yourself, and send him word you are dead.
               The soul and body rive not more in parting
               Than greatness going off.
              CLEOPATRA. To th' monument!
               Mardian, go tell him I have slain myself;
               Say that the last I spoke was 'Antony'
               And word it, prithee, piteously. Hence, Mardian,
               And bring me how he takes my death. To th' monument!

                            SCENE XIV.
                          CLEOPATRA'S palace

         Enter ANTONY and EROS

              ANTONY. Eros, thou yet behold'st me?
              EROS. Ay, noble lord.
              ANTONY. Sometime we see a cloud that's dragonish;
               A vapour sometime like a bear or lion,
               A tower'd citadel, a pendent rock,
               A forked mountain, or blue promontory
               With trees upon't that nod unto the world
               And mock our eyes with air. Thou hast seen these signs;
               They are black vesper's pageants.
              EROS. Ay, my lord.
              ANTONY. That which is now a horse, even with a thought
               The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct,
               As water is in water.
              EROS. It does, my lord.
              ANTONY. My good knave Eros, now thy captain is
               Even such a body. Here I am Antony;
               Yet cannot hold this visible shape, my knave.
               I made these wars for Egypt; and the Queen-
               Whose heart I thought I had, for she had mine,
               Which, whilst it was mine, had annex'd unto't
               A million moe, now lost- she, Eros, has
               Pack'd cards with Caesar, and false-play'd my glory
               Unto an enemy's triumph.
               Nay, weep not, gentle Eros; there is left us
               Ourselves to end ourselves.

         Enter MARDIAN

               O, thy vile lady!

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               She has robb'd me of my sword.
              MARDIAN. No, Antony;
               My mistress lov'd thee, and her fortunes mingled
               With thine entirely.
              ANTONY. Hence, saucy eunuch; peace!
               She hath betray'd me, and shall die the death.
              MARDIAN. Death of one person can be paid but once,
               And that she has discharg'd. What thou wouldst do
               Is done unto thy hand. The last she spake
               Was 'Antony! most noble Antony!'
               Then in the midst a tearing groan did break
               The name of Antony; it was divided
               Between her heart and lips. She rend'red life,
               Thy name so buried in her.
              ANTONY. Dead then?
              MARDIAN. Dead.
              ANTONY. Unarm, Eros; the long day's task is done,
               And we must sleep. That thou depart'st hence safe
               Does pay thy labour richly. Go. Exit MARDIAN
               Off, pluck off!
               The sevenfold shield of Ajax cannot keep
               The battery from my heart. O, cleave, my sides!
               Heart, once be stronger than thy continent,
               Crack thy frail case. Apace, Eros, apace.-
               No more a soldier. Bruised pieces, go;
               You have been nobly borne.- From me awhile. Exit EROS
               I will o'ertake thee, Cleopatra, and
               Weep for my pardon. So it must be, for now
               All length is torture. Since the torch is out,
               Lie down, and stray no farther. Now all labour
               Mars what it does; yea, very force entangles
               Itself with strength. Seal then, and all is done.
               Eros!- I come, my queen.- Eros!- Stay for me;
               Where souls do couch on flowers, we'll hand in hand,
               And with our sprightly port make the ghosts gaze.
               Dido and her Aeneas shall want troops,
               And all the haunt be ours.- Come, Eros, Eros!

         Re-enter EROS

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

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               Put colour in thy cheek.
              EROS. The gods withhold me!
               Shall I do that which all the Parthian darts,
               Though enemy, lost aim and could not?
              ANTONY. Eros,
               Wouldst thou be window'd in great Rome and see
               Thy master thus with pleach'd arms, bending down
               His corrigible neck, his face subdu'd
               To penetrative shame, whilst the wheel'd seat
               Of fortunate Caesar, drawn before him, branded
               His baseness that ensued?
              EROS. I would not see't.
              ANTONY. Come, then; for with a wound I must be cur'd.
               Draw that thy honest sword, which thou hast worn
               Most useful for thy country.
              EROS. O, sir, pardon me!
              ANTONY. When I did make thee free, swor'st thou not then
               To do this when I bade thee? Do it at once,
               Or thy precedent services are all
               But accidents unpurpos'd. Draw, and come.
              EROS. Turn from me then that noble countenance,
               Wherein the worship of the whole world lies.
              ANTONY. Lo thee! [Turning from him]
              EROS. My sword is drawn.
              ANTONY. Then let it do at once
               The thing why thou hast drawn it.
              EROS. My dear master,
               My captain and my emperor, let me say,
               Before I strike this bloody stroke, farewell.
              ANTONY. 'Tis said, man; and farewell.
              EROS. Farewell, great chief. Shall I strike now?
              ANTONY. Now, Eros.
              EROS. Why, there then! Thus do I escape the sorrow
               Of Antony's death. [Kills himself
              ANTONY. Thrice nobler than myself!
               Thou teachest me, O valiant Eros, what
               I should, and thou couldst not. My queen and Eros
               Have, by their brave instruction, got upon me
               A nobleness in record. But I will be
               A bridegroom in my death, and run into't
               As to a lover's bed. Come, then; and, Eros,
               Thy master dies thy scholar. To do thus
                                        [Falling on his sword]
               I learn'd of thee. How? not dead? not dead?-
               The guard, ho! O, dispatch me!

         Enter DERCETAS and a guard

              FIRST GUARD. What's the noise?
              ANTONY. I have done my work ill, friends. O, make an end
               Of what I have begun.
              SECOND GUARD. The star is fall'n.
              FIRST GUARD. And time is at his period.
              ALL. Alas, and woe!
              ANTONY. Let him that loves me, strike me dead.

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              FIRST GUARD. Not I.
              SECOND GUARD. Nor I.
              THIRD GUARD. Nor any one. Exeunt guard
              DERCETAS. Thy death and fortunes bid thy followers fly.
               This sword but shown to Caesar, with this tidings,
               Shall enter me with him.

         Enter DIOMEDES

              DIOMEDES. Where's Antony?
              DERCETAS. There, Diomed, there.
              DIOMEDES. Lives he?
               Wilt thou not answer, man? Exit DERCETAS
              ANTONY. Art thou there, Diomed? Draw thy sword and give me
               Sufficing strokes for death.
              DIOMEDES. Most absolute lord,
               My mistress Cleopatra sent me to thee.
              ANTONY. When did she send thee?
              DIOMEDES. Now, my lord.
              ANTONY. Where is she?
              DIOMEDES. Lock'd in her monument. She had a prophesying fear
               Of what hath come to pass; for when she saw-
               Which never shall be found- you did suspect
               She had dispos'd with Caesar, and that your rage
               Would not be purg'd, she sent you word she was dead;
               But fearing since how it might work, hath sent
               Me to proclaim the truth; and I am come,
               I dread, too late.
              ANTONY. Too late, good Diomed. Call my guard, I prithee.
              DIOMEDES. What, ho! the Emperor's guard! The guard, what ho!
               Come, your lord calls!

         Enter four or five of the guard of ANTONY

          ANTONY. Bear me, good friends, where Cleopatra bides;
           'Tis the last service that I shall command you.
          FIRST GUARD. Woe, woe are we, sir, you may not live to wear
           All your true followers out.
          ALL. Most heavy day!
          ANTONY. Nay, good my fellows, do not please sharp fate
           To grace it with your sorrows. Bid that welcome
           Which comes to punish us, and we punish it,
           Seeming to bear it lightly. Take me up.
           I have led you oft; carry me now, good friends,
           And have my thanks for all. Exeunt, hearing ANTONY
                          SCENE XV.
                      Alexandria. A monument

                Enter CLEOPATRA and her maids aloft, with CHARMIAN
                          and IRAS

              CLEOPATRA. O Charmian, I will never go from hence!
              CHARMIAN. Be comforted, dear madam.
              CLEOPATRA. No, I will not.

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               All strange and terrible events are welcome,
               But comforts we despise; our size of sorrow,
               Proportion'd to our cause, must be as great
               As that which makes it.

         Enter DIOMEDES, below

               How now! Is he dead?
              DIOMEDES. His death's upon him, but not dead.
               Look out o' th' other side your monument;
               His guard have brought him thither.

         Enter, below, ANTONY, borne by the guard

              CLEOPATRA. O sun,
               Burn the great sphere thou mov'st in! Darkling stand
               The varying shore o' th' world. O Antony,
               Antony, Antony! Help, Charmian; help, Iras, help;
               Help, friends below! Let's draw him hither.
              ANTONY. Peace!
               Not Caesar's valour hath o'erthrown Antony,
               But Antony's hath triumph'd on itself.
              CLEOPATRA. So it should be, that none but Antony
               Should conquer Antony; but woe 'tis so!
              ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying; only
               I here importune death awhile, until
               Of many thousand kisses the poor last
               I lay upon thy lips.
              CLEOPATRA. I dare not, dear.
               Dear my lord, pardon! I dare not,
               Lest I be taken. Not th' imperious show
               Of the full-fortun'd 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. But come, come, Antony-
               Help me, my women- we must draw thee up;
               Assist, good friends.
              ANTONY. O, quick, or I am gone.
              CLEOPATRA. Here's sport indeed! How heavy weighs my lord!
               Our strength is all gone into heaviness;
               That makes the weight. Had I great Juno's power,
               The strong-wing'd Mercury should fetch thee up,
               And set thee by Jove's side. Yet come a little.
               Wishers were ever fools. O come, come,
                              [They heave ANTONY aloft to CLEOPATRA]
               And welcome, welcome! Die where thou hast liv'd.
               Quicken with kissing. Had my lips that power,
               Thus would I wear them out.
              ALL. A heavy sight!
              ANTONY. I am dying, Egypt, dying.
               Give me some wine, and let me speak a little.
              CLEOPATRA. No, let me speak; and let me rail so high
               That the false huswife Fortune break her wheel,

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               Provok'd by my offence.
              ANTONY. One word, sweet queen:
               Of Caesar seek your honour, with your safety. O!
              CLEOPATRA. They do not go together.
              ANTONY. Gentle, hear me:
               None about Caesar trust but Proculeius.
              CLEOPATRA. My resolution and my hands I'll trust;
               None about Caesar
              ANTONY. 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 liv'd the greatest prince o' th' world,
               The noblest; and do now not basely die,
               Not cowardly put off my helmet to
               My countryman- a Roman by a Roman
               Valiantly vanquish'd. Now my spirit is going
               I can no more.
              CLEOPATRA. Noblest of men, woo't die?
               Hast thou no care of me? Shall I abide
               In this dull world, which in thy absence is
               No better than a sty? O, see, my women, [Antony dies]
               The crown o' th' earth doth melt. My lord!
               O, 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. [Swoons]
              CHARMIAN. O, quietness, lady!
              IRAS. She's dead too, our sovereign.
              CHARMIAN. Lady!
              IRAS. Madam!
              CHARMIAN. O madam, madam, madam!
              IRAS. Royal Egypt, Empress!
              CHARMIAN. Peace, peace, Iras!
              CLEOPATRA. No more but e'en a woman, and commanded
               By such poor passion as the maid that milks
               And does the meanest chares. It were for me
               To throw my sceptre at the injurious gods;
               To tell them that this world did equal theirs
               Till they had stol'n our jewel. All's but nought;
               Patience is sottish, and impatience does
               Become a dog that's mad. Then is it sin
               To rush into the secret house of death
               Ere death dare come to us? How do you, women?
               What, what! good cheer! Why, how now, Charmian!
               My noble girls! Ah, women, women, look,
               Our lamp is spent, it's out! Good sirs, take heart.
               We'll bury him; and then, what's brave, what's noble,
               Let's do it after the high Roman fashion,
               And make death proud to take us. Come, away;
               This case of that huge spirit now is cold.
               Ah, women, women! Come; we have no friend
               But resolution and the briefest end.
                         Exeunt; those above hearing off ANTONY'S body

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                          ACT V. SCENE I.
                       Alexandria. CAESAR'S camp

                  PROCULEIUS, and others, his Council of War

              CAESAR. Go to him, Dolabella, bid him yield;
               Being so frustrate, tell him he mocks
               The pauses that he makes.
              DOLABELLA. Caesar, I shall. Exit

         Enter DERCETAS With the sword of ANTONY

              CAESAR. Wherefore is that? And what art thou that dar'st
               Appear thus to us?
              DERCETAS. I am call'd Dercetas;
               Mark Antony I serv'd, who best was worthy
               Best to be serv'd. Whilst he stood up and spoke,
               He was my master, and I wore my life
               To spend upon his haters. If thou please
               To take me to thee, as I was to him
               I'll be to Caesar; if thou pleasest not,
               I yield thee up my life.
              CAESAR. What is't thou say'st?
              DERCETAS. I say, O Caesar, Antony is dead.
              CAESAR. The breaking of so great a thing should make
               A greater crack. The round world
               Should have shook lions into civil streets,
               And citizens to their dens. The death of Antony
               Is not a single doom; in the name lay
               A moiety of the world.
              DERCETAS. He is dead, Caesar,
               Not by a public minister of justice,
               Nor by a hired knife; but that self hand
               Which writ his honour in the acts it did
               Hath, with the courage which the heart did lend it,
               Splitted the heart. This is his sword;
               I robb'd his wound of it; behold it stain'd
               With his most noble blood.
              CAESAR. Look you sad, friends?
               The gods rebuke me, but it is tidings
               To wash the eyes of kings.
              AGRIPPA. And strange it is
               That nature must compel us to lament
               Our most persisted deeds.
              MAECENAS. His taints and honours
               Wag'd equal with him.
              AGRIPPA. A rarer spirit never
               Did steer humanity. But you gods will give us
               Some faults to make us men. Caesar is touch'd.
              MAECENAS. When such a spacious mirror's set before him,
               He needs must see himself.
              CAESAR. O Antony,
               I have follow'd thee to this! But we do lance

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

         Enter an EGYPTIAN

               But I will tell you at some meeter season.
               The business of this man looks out of him;
               We'll hear him what he says. Whence are you?
              EGYPTIAN. A poor Egyptian, yet the Queen, my mistress,
               Confin'd in all she has, her monument,
               Of thy intents desires instruction,
               That she preparedly may frame herself
               To th' way she's forc'd to.
              CAESAR. Bid her have good heart.
               She soon shall know of us, by some of ours,
               How honourable and how kindly we
               Determine for her; for Caesar cannot learn
               To be ungentle.
              EGYPTIAN. So the gods preserve thee! Exit
              CAESAR. Come hither, Proculeius. Go and say
               We purpose her no shame. Give her what comforts
               The quality of her passion shall require,
               Lest, in her greatness, by some mortal stroke
               She do defeat us; for her life in Rome
               Would be eternal in our triumph. Go,
               And with your speediest bring us what she says,
               And how you find her.
              PROCULEIUS. Caesar, I shall. Exit
              CAESAR. Gallus, go you along. Exit GALLUS
               Where's Dolabella, to second Proculeius?
              ALL. Dolabella!
              CAESAR. Let him alone, for I remember now
               How he's employ'd; he shall in time be ready.
               Go with me to my tent, where you shall see
               How hardly I was drawn into this war,
               How calm and gentle I proceeded still
               In all my writings. Go with me, and see
               What I can show in this. Exeunt

                           SCENE II.
                      Alexandria. The monument


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

                Enter, to the gates of the monument, PROCULEIUS, GALLUS,
                            and soldiers

              PROCULEIUS. Caesar sends greetings to the Queen of Egypt,
               And bids thee study on what fair demands
               Thou mean'st to have him grant thee.
              CLEOPATRA. What's thy name?
              PROCULEIUS. My name is Proculeius.
              CLEOPATRA. Antony
               Did tell me of you, bade me trust you; but
               I do not greatly care to be deceiv'd,
               That have no use for trusting. If your master
               Would have a queen his beggar, you must tell him
               That majesty, to keep decorum, must
               No less beg than a kingdom. If he please
               To give me conquer'd Egypt for my son,
               He gives me so much of mine own as I
               Will kneel to him with thanks.
              PROCULEIUS. Be of good cheer;
               Y'are fall'n into a princely hand; fear nothing.
               Make your full reference freely to my lord,
               Who is so full of grace that it flows over
               On all that need. Let me report to him
               Your sweet dependency, and you shall find
               A conqueror that will pray in aid for kindness
               Where he for grace is kneel'd to.
              CLEOPATRA. Pray you tell him
               I am his fortune's vassal and I send him
               The greatness he has got. I hourly learn
               A doctrine of obedience, and would gladly
               Look him i' th' face.
              PROCULEIUS. This I'll report, dear lady.
               Have comfort, for I know your plight is pitied
               Of him that caus'd it.
              GALLUS. You see how easily she may be surpris'd.

                Here PROCULEIUS and two of the guard ascend the
                monument by a ladder placed against a window,
                and come behind CLEOPATRA. Some of the guard
                     unbar and open the gates

               Guard her till Caesar come. Exit
              IRAS. Royal Queen!
              CHARMIAN. O Cleopatra! thou art taken, Queen!
              CLEOPATRA. Quick, quick, good hands. [Drawing a dagger]
              PROCULEIUS. Hold, worthy lady, hold, [Disarms her]

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               Do not yourself such wrong, who are in this
               Reliev'd, but not betray'd.
              CLEOPATRA. What, of death too,
               That rids our dogs of languish?
              PROCULEIUS. Cleopatra,
               Do not abuse my master's bounty by
               Th' undoing of yourself. Let the world see
               His nobleness well acted, which your death
               Will never let come forth.
              CLEOPATRA. Where art thou, death?
               Come hither, come! Come, come, and take a queen
               Worth many babes and beggars!
              PROCULEIUS. O, temperance, lady!
              CLEOPATRA. Sir, I will eat no meat; I'll not drink, sir;
               If idle talk will once be necessary,
               I'll not sleep neither. This mortal house I'll ruin,
               Do Caesar what he can. Know, sir, that I
               Will not wait pinion'd at your master's court,
               Nor once be chastis'd 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-nak'd, and let the water-flies
               Blow me into abhorring! Rather make
               My country's high pyramides my gibbet,
               And hang me up in chains!
              PROCULEIUS. You do extend
               These thoughts of horror further than you shall
               Find cause in Caesar.

         Enter DOLABELLA

              DOLABELLA. Proculeius,
               What thou hast done thy master Caesar knows,
               And he hath sent for thee. For the Queen,
               I'll take her to my guard.
              PROCULEIUS. So, Dolabella,
               It shall content me best. Be gentle to her.
               [To CLEOPATRA] To Caesar I will speak what you shall please,
               If you'll employ me to him.
              CLEOPATRA. Say I would die.
                                    Exeunt PROCULEIUS and soldiers
              DOLABELLA. Most noble Empress, you have heard of me?
              CLEOPATRA. I cannot tell.
              DOLABELLA. Assuredly you know me.
              CLEOPATRA. No matter, sir, what I have heard or known.
               You laugh when boys or women tell their dreams;
               Is't not your trick?
              DOLABELLA. I understand not, madam.
              CLEOPATRA. I dreamt there was an Emperor Antony-
               O, such another sleep, that I might see
               But such another man!
              DOLABELLA. If it might please ye-
              CLEOPATRA. His face was as the heav'ns, and therein stuck

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               A sun and moon, which kept their course and lighted
               The little O, the earth.
              DOLABELLA. Most sovereign creature-
              CLEOPATRA. His legs bestrid the ocean; his rear'd arm
               Crested the world. His voice was propertied
               As all the tuned spheres, and that to friends;
               But when he meant to quail and shake the orb,
               He was as rattling thunder. For his bounty,
               There was no winter in't; an autumn 'twas
               That grew the more by reaping. His delights
               Were dolphin-like: they show'd his back above
               The element they liv'd in. In his livery
               Walk'd crowns and crownets; realms and islands were
               As plates dropp'd from his pocket.
              DOLABELLA. Cleopatra-
              CLEOPATRA. Think you there was or might be such a man
               As this I dreamt of?
              DOLABELLA. Gentle madam, no.
              CLEOPATRA. You lie, up to the hearing of the gods.
               But if there be nor ever were one such,
               It's past the size of drearning. Nature wants stuff
               To vie strange forms with fancy; yet t' imagine
               An Antony were nature's piece 'gainst fancy,
               Condemning shadows quite.
              DOLABELLA. Hear me, good madam.
               Your loss is, as yourself, great; and you bear it
               As answering to the weight. Would I might never
               O'ertake pursu'd success, but I do feel,
               By the rebound of yours, a grief that smites
               My very heart at root.
              CLEOPATRA. I thank you, sir.
               Know you what Caesar means to do with me?
              DOLABELLA. I am loath to tell you what I would you knew.
              CLEOPATRA. Nay, pray you, sir.
              DOLABELLA. Though he be honourable-
              CLEOPATRA. He'll lead me, then, in triumph?
              DOLABELLA. Madam, he will. I know't. [Flourish]
                                  [Within: 'Make way there-Caesar!']

                        and others of his train

              CAESAR. Which is the Queen of Egypt?
              DOLABELLA. It is the Emperor, madam. [CLEOPATPA kneels]
              CAESAR. Arise, you shall not kneel.
               I pray you, rise; rise, Egypt.
              CLEOPATRA. Sir, the gods
               Will have it thus; my master and my lord
               I must obey.
              CAESAR. Take to you no hard thoughts.
               The record of what injuries you did us,
               Though written in our flesh, we shall remember
               As things but done by chance.
              CLEOPATRA. Sole sir o' th' world,
               I cannot project mine own cause so well

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               To make it clear, but do confess I have
               Been laden with like frailties which before
               Have often sham'd our sex.
              CAESAR. Cleopatra, know
               We will extenuate rather than enforce.
               If you apply yourself to our intents-
               Which towards you are most gentle- you shall find
               A benefit in this change; but if you seek
               To lay on me a cruelty by taking
               Antony's course, you shall bereave yourself
               Of my good purposes, and put your children
               To that destruction which I'll guard them from,
               If thereon you rely. I'll take my leave.
              CLEOPATRA. And may, through all the world. 'Tis yours, and we,
               Your scutcheons and your signs of conquest, shall
               Hang in what place you please. Here, my good lord.
              CAESAR. You shall advise me in all for Cleopatra.
              CLEOPATRA. This is the brief of money, plate, and jewels,
               I am possess'd of. 'Tis exactly valued,
               Not petty things admitted. Where's Seleucus?
              SELEUCUS. Here, madam.
              CLEOPATRA. This is my treasurer; let him speak, my lord,
               Upon his peril, that I have reserv'd
               To myself nothing. Speak the truth, Seleucus.
              SELEUCUS. Madam,
               I had rather seal my lips than to my peril
               Speak that which is not.
              CLEOPATRA. What have I kept back?
              SELEUCUS. Enough to purchase what you have made known.
              CAESAR. Nay, blush not, Cleopatra; I approve
               Your wisdom in the deed.
              CLEOPATRA. See, Caesar! O, behold,
               How pomp is followed! Mine will now be yours;
               And, should we shift estates, yours would be mine.
               The ingratitude of this Seleucus does
               Even make me wild. O slave, of no more trust
               Than love that's hir'd! What, goest thou back? Thou shalt
               Go back, I warrant thee; but I'll catch thine eyes
               Though they had wings. Slave, soulless villain, dog!
               O rarely base!
              CAESAR. Good Queen, let us entreat you.
              CLEOPATRA. O Caesar, what a wounding shame is this,
               That thou vouchsafing here to visit me,
               Doing the honour of thy lordliness
               To one so meek, that mine own servant should
               Parcel the sum of my disgraces by
               Addition of his envy! Say, good Caesar,
               That I some lady trifles have reserv'd,
               Immoment toys, things of such dignity
               As we greet modern friends withal; and say
               Some nobler token I have kept apart
               For Livia and Octavia, to induce
               Their mediation- must I be unfolded
               With one that I have bred? The gods! It smites me

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               Beneath the fall I have. [To SELEUCUS] Prithee go hence;
               Or I shall show the cinders of my spirits
               Through th' ashes of my chance. Wert thou a man,
               Thou wouldst have mercy on me.
              CAESAR. Forbear, Seleucus. Exit SELEUCUS
              CLEOPATRA. Be it known that we, the greatest, are misthought
               For things that others do; and when we fall
               We answer others' merits in our name,
               Are therefore to be pitied.
              CAESAR. Cleopatra,
               Not what you have reserv'd, nor what acknowledg'd,
               Put we i' th' roll of conquest. Still be't yours,
               Bestow it at your pleasure; and believe
               Caesar's no merchant, to make prize with you
               Of things that merchants sold. Therefore be cheer'd;
               Make not your thoughts your prisons. No, dear Queen;
               For we intend so to dispose you as
               Yourself shall give us counsel. Feed and sleep.
               Our care and pity is so much upon you
               That we remain your friend; and so, adieu.
              CLEOPATRA. My master and my lord!
              CAESAR. Not so. Adieu.
                               Flourish. Exeunt CAESAR and his train
              CLEOPATRA. He words me, girls, he words me, that I should not
               Be noble to myself. But hark thee, Charmian!
                                          [Whispers CHARMIAN]
              IRAS. Finish, good lady; the bright day is done,
               And we are for the dark.
              CLEOPATRA. Hie thee again.
               I have spoke already, and it is provided;
               Go put it to the haste.
              CHARMIAN. Madam, I will.

         Re-enter DOLABELLA

              DOLABELLA. Where's the Queen?
              CHARMIAN. Behold, sir. Exit
              CLEOPATRA. Dolabella!
              DOLABELLA. Madam, as thereto sworn by your command,
               Which my love makes religion to obey,
               I tell you this: Caesar through Syria
               Intends his journey, and within three days
               You with your children will he send before.
               Make your best use of this; I have perform'd
               Your pleasure and my promise.
              CLEOPATRA. Dolabella,
               I shall remain your debtor.
              DOLABELLA. I your servant.
               Adieu, good Queen; I must attend on Caesar.
              CLEOPATRA. Farewell, and thanks. Exit DOLABELLA
               Now, Iras, what think'st thou?
               Thou an Egyptian puppet shall be shown
               In Rome as well as I. Mechanic slaves,
               With greasy aprons, rules, and hammers, shall
               Uplift us to the view; in their thick breaths,

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               Rank of gross diet, shall we be enclouded,
               And forc'd to drink their vapour.
              IRAS. The gods forbid!
              CLEOPATRA. Nay, 'tis most certain, Iras. Saucy lictors
               Will catch at us like strumpets, and scald rhymers
               Ballad us out o' tune; the quick comedians
               Extemporally will stage us, and present
               Our Alexandrian revels; Antony
               Shall be brought drunken forth, and I shall see
               Some squeaking Cleopatra boy my greatness
               I' th' posture of a whore.
              IRAS. O the good gods!
              CLEOPATRA. Nay, that's certain.
              IRAS. I'll never see't, for I am sure mine nails
               Are stronger than mine eyes.
              CLEOPATRA. Why, that's the way
               To fool their preparation and to conquer
               Their most absurd intents.

         Enter CHARMIAN

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

         Enter a GUARDSMAN

              GUARDSMAN. Here is a rural fellow
               That will not be denied your Highness' presence.
               He brings you figs.
              CLEOPATRA. Let him come in. Exit GUARDSMAN
               What poor an instrument
               May do a noble deed! He brings me liberty.
               My resolution's plac'd, 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.

         Re-enter GUARDSMAN and CLOWN, with a basket

              GUARDSMAN. This is the man.
              CLEOPATRA. Avoid, and leave him. Exit GUARDSMAN
               Hast thou the pretty worm of Nilus there
               That kills and pains not?
              CLOWN. Truly, I have him. But I would not be the party that should
               desire you to touch him, for his biting is immortal; those that
               do die of it do seldom or never recover.
              CLEOPATRA. Remember'st thou any that have died on't?
              CLOWN. Very many, men and women too. I heard of one of them no

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               longer than yesterday: a very honest woman, but something given
               to lie, as a woman should not do but in the way of honesty; how
               she died of the biting of it, what pain she felt- truly she makes
               a very good report o' th' worm. But he that will believe all that
               they say shall never be saved by half that they do. But this is
               most falliable, the worm's an odd worm.
              CLEOPATRA. Get thee hence; farewell.
              CLOWN. I wish you all joy of the worm.
                                         [Sets down the basket]
              CLEOPATRA. Farewell.
              CLOWN. You must think this, look you, that the worm will do his
              CLEOPATRA. Ay, ay; farewell.
              CLOWN. Look you, the worm is not to be trusted but in the keeping
               of wise people; for indeed there is no goodness in the worm.
              CLEOPATRA. Take thou no care; it shall be heeded.
              CLOWN. Very good. Give it nothing, I pray you, for it is not worth
               the feeding.
              CLEOPATRA. Will it eat me?
              CLOWN. You must not think I am so simple but I know the devil
               himself will not eat a woman. I know that a woman is a dish for
               the gods, if the devil dress her not. But truly, these same
               whoreson devils do the gods great harm in their women, for in
               every ten that they make the devils mar five.
              CLEOPATRA. Well, get thee gone; farewell.
              CLOWN. Yes, forsooth. I wish you joy o' th' worm. Exit

         Re-enter IRAS, with a robe, crown, &c.

              CLEOPATRA. Give me my robe, put on my crown; I have
               Immortal longings in me. Now no more
               The juice of Egypt's grape shall moist this lip.
               Yare, yare, good Iras; quick. Methinks I hear
               Antony call. I see him rouse himself
               To praise my noble act. I hear him mock
               The luck of Caesar, which the gods give men
               To excuse their after wrath. Husband, I come.
               Now to that name my courage prove my title!
               I am fire and air; my other elements
               I give to baser life. So, have you done?
               Come then, and take the last warmth of my lips.
               Farewell, kind Charmian. Iras, long farewell.
                                 [Kisses them. IRAS falls and dies]
               Have I the aspic in my lips? Dost fall?
               If thus thou and nature can so gently part,
               The stroke of death is as a lover's pinch,
               Which hurts and is desir'd. Dost thou lie still?
               If thou vanishest, thou tell'st the world
               It is not worth leave-taking.
              CHARMIAN. Dissolve, thick cloud, and rain, that I may say
               The gods themselves do weep.
              CLEOPATRA. This proves me base.
               If she first meet the curled Antony,
               He'll make demand of her, and spend that kiss
               Which is my heaven to have. Come, thou mortal wretch,

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                          [To an asp, which she applies to her breast]
               With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate
               Of life at once untie. Poor venomous fool,
               Be angry and dispatch. O couldst thou speak,
               That I might hear thee call great Caesar ass
              CHARMIAN. O Eastern star!
              CLEOPATRA. Peace, peace!
               Dost thou not see my baby at my breast
               That sucks the nurse asleep?
              CHARMIAN. O, break! O, break!
              CLEOPATRA. As sweet as balm, as soft as air, as gentle-
               O Antony! Nay, I will take thee too:
                                 [Applying another asp to her arm]
               What should I stay- [Dies]
              CHARMIAN. In this vile world? So, fare thee well.
               Now boast thee, death, in thy possession lies
               A lass unparallel'd. 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-

         Enter the guard, rushing in

              FIRST GUARD. Where's the Queen?
              CHARMIAN. Speak softly, wake her not.
              FIRST GUARD. Caesar hath sent-
              CHARMIAN. Too slow a messenger. [Applies an asp]
               O, come apace, dispatch. I partly feel thee.
              FIRST GUARD. Approach, ho! All's not well: Caesar's beguil'd.
              SECOND GUARD. There's Dolabella sent from Caesar; call him.
              FIRST GUARD. What work is here! Charmian, is this well done?
              CHARMIAN. It is well done, and fitting for a princes
               Descended of so many royal kings.
               Ah, soldier! [CHARMIAN dies]

         Re-enter DOLABELLA

              DOLABELLA. How goes it here?
              SECOND GUARD. All dead.
              DOLABELLA. Caesar, thy thoughts
               Touch their effects in this. Thyself art coming
               To see perform'd the dreaded act which thou
               So sought'st to hinder.
                          [Within: 'A way there, a way for Caesar!']

         Re-enter CAESAR and all his train

              DOLABELLA. O sir, you are too sure an augurer:
               That you did fear is done.
              CAESAR. Bravest at the last,
               She levell'd at our purposes, and being royal,
               Took her own way. The manner of their deaths?
               I do not see them bleed.
              DOLABELLA. Who was last with them?

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              FIRST GUARD. A simple countryman that brought her figs.
               This was his basket.
              CAESAR. Poison'd then.
              FIRST GUARD. O Caesar,
               This Charmian liv'd but now; she stood and spake.
               I found her trimming up the diadem
               On her dead mistress. Tremblingly she stood,
               And on the sudden dropp'd.
              CAESAR. O noble weakness!
               If they had swallow'd poison 'twould appear
               By external swelling; but she looks like sleep,
               As she would catch another Antony
               In her strong toil of grace.
              DOLABELLA. Here on her breast
               There is a vent of blood, and something blown;
               The like is on her arm.
              FIRST GUARD. This is an aspic's trail; and these fig-leaves
               Have slime upon them, such as th' aspic leaves
               Upon the caves of Nile.
              CAESAR. Most probable
               That so she died; for her physician tells me
               She hath pursu'd conclusions infinite
               Of easy ways to die. Take up her bed,
               And bear her women from the monument.
               She shall be buried by her Antony;
               No grave upon the earth shall clip in it
               A pair so famous. High events as these
               Strike those that make them; and their story is
               No less in pity than his glory which
               Brought them to be lamented. Our army shall
               In solemn show attend this funeral,
               And then to Rome. Come, Dolabella, see
               High order in this great solemnity. Exeunt

         THE E D



         AS YOU LIKE IT

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         by William Shakespeare


              DUKE, living in exile
              FREDERICK, his brother, and usurper of his dominions
              AMIENS, lord attending on the banished Duke
              JAQUES, " " " " " "
              LE BEAU, a courtier attending upon Frederick
              CHARLES, wrestler to Frederick
              OLIVER, son of Sir Rowland de Boys
              JAQUES, " " " " " "
              ORLANDO, " " " " " "
              ADAM, servant to Oliver
              DENNIS, " " "
              TOUCHSTONE, the court jester
              SIR OLIVER MARTEXT, a vicar
              CORIN, shepherd
              SILVIUS, "
              WILLIAM, a country fellow, in love with Audrey
              A person representing HYMEN

              ROSALIND, daughter to the banished Duke
              CELIA, daughter to Frederick
              PHEBE, a shepherdes
              AUDREY, a country wench

         Lords, Pages, Foresters, and Attendants


         SCE E: OLIVER'S house; FREDERICK'S court; and the Forest of Arden

         ACT I. SCE E I. Orchard of OLIVER'S house

         Enter ORLANDO and ADAM

              ORLANDO. As I remember, Adam, it was upon this fashion bequeathed me by will but poor a
              thousand crowns, and, as thou say'st, charged my brother, on his blessing, to breed me well; and there
              begins my sadness. My brother Jaques he keeps at school, and report speaks goldenly of his profit. For
              my part, he keeps me rustically at home, or, to speak more properly, stays me here at home unkept;

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              for call you that keeping for a gentleman of my birth that differs not from the stalling of an ox? His
              horses are bred better; for, besides that they are fair with their feeding, they are taught their manage,
              and to that end riders dearly hir'd; but I, his brother, gain nothing under him but growth; for the which
              his animals on his dunghills are as much bound to him as I. Besides this nothing that he so plentifully
              gives me, the something that nature gave me his countenance seems to take from me. He lets me feed
              with his hinds, bars me the place of a brother, and as much as in him lies, mines my gentility with my
              education. This is it, Adam, that grieves me; and the spirit of my father, which I think is within me,
              begins to mutiny against this servitude. I will no longer endure it, though yet I know no wise remedy
              how to avoid it.

         Enter OLIVER

              ADAM. Yonder comes my master, your brother.
              ORLANDO. Go apart, Adam, and thou shalt hear how he will shake me
               up. [ADAM retires]
              OLIVER. Now, sir! what make you here?
              ORLANDO. Nothing; I am not taught to make any thing.
              OLIVER. What mar you then, sir?
              ORLANDO. Marry, sir, I am helping you to mar that which God made, a
               poor unworthy brother of yours, with idleness.
              OLIVER. Marry, sir, be better employed, and be nought awhile.
              ORLANDO. Shall I keep your hogs, and eat husks with them? What
               prodigal 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 are
               my eldest brother; and in the gentle condition of blood, you
               should so know me. The courtesy of nations allows you my better
               in that you are the first-born; but the same tradition takes not
               away my blood, were there twenty brothers betwixt us. I have as
               much of my father in me as you, albeit I confess your coming
               before me is nearer to his reverence.
              OLIVER. What, boy! [Strikes him]
              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 de
               Boys. He was my father; and he is thrice a villain that says such
               a father begot villains. Wert thou not my brother, I would not
               take this hand from thy throat till this other had pull'd out thy
               tongue for saying so. Thou has rail'd on thyself.
              ADAM. [Coming forward] Sweet masters, be patient; for your father's
               remembrance, be at accord.
              OLIVER. Let me go, I say.
              ORLANDO. I will not, till I please; you shall hear me. My father
               charg'd you in his will to give me good education: you have
               train'd me like a peasant, obscuring and hiding from me all
               gentleman-like qualities. The spirit of my father grows strong in
               me, and I will no longer endure it; therefore allow me such
               exercises as may become a gentleman, or give me the poor
               allottery my father left me by testament; with that I will go buy
               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 shall have
               some part of your will. I pray you leave me.

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              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 in
               your service. God be with my old master! He would not have spoke
               such a word.
                                      Exeunt ORLANDO and ADAM
              OLIVER. Is it even so? Begin you to grow upon me? I will physic
               your rankness, and yet give no thousand crowns neither. Holla,

         Enter DENNIS

              DENNIS. Calls your worship?
              OLIVER. not Charles, the Duke's wrestler, here to speak with me?
              DENNIS. So please you, he is here at the door and importunes access
               to you.
              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
              CHARLES. There's no news at the court, sir, but the old news; that
               is, the old Duke is banished by his younger brother the new Duke;
               and three or four loving lords have put themselves into voluntary
               exile 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 banished
               with her father?
              CHARLES. O, no; for the Duke's daughter, her cousin, so loves her,
               being ever from their cradles bred together, that she would have
               followed her exile, or have died to stay behind her. She is at
               the court, and no less beloved of her uncle than his own
               daughter; 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 many
               merry men with him; and there they live like the old Robin Hood
               of 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 am given, sir, secretly to understand that your younger
               brother, Orlando, hath a disposition to come in disguis'd against
               me to try a fall. To-morrow, sir, I wrestle for my credit; and he
               that escapes me without some broken limb shall acquit him well.
               Your brother is but young and tender; and, for your love, I would
               be loath to foil him, as I must, for my own honour, if he come
               in; therefore, out of my love to you, I came hither to acquaint
               you withal, that either you might stay him from his intendment,
               or brook such disgrace well as he shall run into, in that it is
               thing of his own search and altogether against my will.
              OLIVER. Charles, I thank thee for thy love to me, which thou shalt
               find I will most kindly requite. I had myself notice of my

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           brother's purpose herein, and have by underhand means laboured to
           dissuade him from it; but he is resolute. I'll tell thee,
           Charles, it is the stubbornest young fellow of France; full of
           ambition, an envious emulator of every man's good parts, a secret
           and villainous contriver against me his natural brother.
           Therefore use thy discretion: I had as lief thou didst break his
           neck as his finger. And thou wert best look to't; for if thou
           dost him any slight disgrace, or if he do not mightily grace
           himself on thee, he will practise against thee by poison, entrap
           thee by some treacherous device, and never leave thee till he
           hath ta'en thy life by some indirect means or other; for, I
           assure thee, and almost with tears I speak it, there is not one
           so young and so villainous this day living. I speak but brotherly
           of him; but should I anatomize him to thee as he is, I must blush
           and weep, and thou must look pale and wonder.
          CHARLES. I am heartily glad I came hither to you. If he come
           to-morrow I'll give him his payment. If ever he go alone again,
           I'll never wrestle for prize more. And so, God keep your worship!
          OLIVER. Farewell, good Charles. Now will I stir this gamester. I
           hope I shall see an end of him; for my soul, yet I know not why,
           hates nothing more than he. Yet he's gentle; never school'd and
           yet learned; full of noble device; of all sorts enchantingly
           beloved; and, indeed, so much in the heart of the world, and
           especially of my own people, who best know him, that I am
           altogether misprised. But it shall not be so long; this wrestler
           shall clear all. Nothing remains but that I kindle the boy
           thither, which now I'll go about. Exit


         SCE E 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
               would you yet I were merrier? Unless you could teach me to forget
               a banished father, you must not learn me how to remember any
               extraordinary pleasure.
              CELIA. Herein I see thou lov'st me not with the full weight that I

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               love thee. If my uncle, thy banished father, had banished thy
               uncle, the Duke my father, so thou hadst been still with me, I
               could have taught my love to take thy father for mine; so wouldst
               thou, if the truth of thy love to me were so righteously temper'd
               as mine is to thee.
              ROSALIND. Well, I will forget the condition of my estate, to
               rejoice in yours.
              CELIA. You know my father hath no child but I, nor none is like to
               have; and, truly, when he dies thou shalt be his heir; for what
               he hath taken away from thy father perforce, I will render thee
               again in affection. By mine honour, I will; and when I break that
               oath, let me turn monster; therefore, my sweet Rose, my dear
               Rose, be merry.
              ROSALIND. From henceforth I will, coz, and devise sports.
               Let me see; what think you of falling in love?
              CELIA. Marry, I prithee, do, to make sport withal; but love no man
               in good earnest, nor no further in sport neither than with safety
               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 her
               wheel, that her gifts may henceforth be bestowed equally.
              ROSALIND. I would we could do so; for her benefits are mightily
               misplaced; and the bountiful blind woman doth most mistake in her
               gifts to women.
              CELIA. 'Tis true; for those that she makes fair she scarce makes
               honest; and those that she makes honest she makes very
              ROSALIND. Nay; now thou goest from Fortune's office to Nature's:
               Fortune reigns in gifts of the world, not in the lineaments of

         Enter TOUCHSTONE

              CELIA. No; when Nature hath made a fair creature, may she not by
               Fortune fall into the fire? Though Nature hath given us wit to
               flout at Fortune, hath not Fortune sent in this fool to cut off
               the argument?
              ROSALIND. Indeed, there is Fortune too hard for Nature, when
               Fortune makes Nature's natural the cutter-off of Nature's wit.
              CELIA. Peradventure this is not Fortune's work neither, but
               Nature's, who perceiveth our natural wits too dull to reason of
               such goddesses, and hath sent this natural for our whetstone; for
               always 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 were
               good pancakes, and swore by his honour the mustard was naught.
               Now I'll stand to it, the pancakes were naught and the mustard
               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 swear

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               by 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 that that not, you are not forsworn; no more was this
               knight, swearing by his honour, for he never had any; or if he
               had, he had sworn it away before ever he saw those pancackes or
               that mustard.
              CELIA. Prithee, 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, speak no
               more of him; you'll be whipt for taxation one of these days.
              TOUCHSTONE. The more pity that fools may not speak wisely what wise
               men do foolishly.
              CELIA. By my troth, thou sayest true; for since the little wit that
               fools have was silenced, the little foolery that wise men have
               makes a great show. Here comes Monsieur Le Beau.

         Enter 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-cramm'd.
              CELIA. All the better; we shall be the more marketable. 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 good
               wrestling, 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 your
               ladyships, 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.
              ROSALIND. With bills on their necks: 'Be it known unto all men by
               these presents'-
              LE BEAU. The eldest of the three wrestled with Charles, the Duke's
               wrestler; which Charles in a moment threw him, and broke three of
               his ribs, that there is little hope of life in him. So he serv'd
               the second, and so the third. Yonder they lie; the poor old man,
               their father, making such pitiful dole over them that all the
               beholders take his part with weeping.
              ROSALIND. Alas!
              TOUCHSTONE. But what is the sport, monsieur, that the ladies have
              LE BEAU. Why, this that I speak of.
              TOUCHSTONE. Thus men may grow wiser every day. It is the first time

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               that 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 music in
               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 place
               appointed 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, and ATTENDANTS

              FREDERICK. Come on; since the youth will not be entreated, his own
               peril on his forwardness.
              ROSALIND. Is yonder the man?
              LE BEAU. Even he, madam.
              CELIA. Alas, he is too young; yet he looks successfully.
              FREDERICK. How now, daughter and cousin! Are you crept hither to
               see the wrestling?
              ROSALIND. Ay, my liege; so please you give us leave.
              FREDERICK. You will take little delight in it, I can tell you,
               there is such odds in the man. In pity of the challenger's youth
               I 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.
              FREDERICK. Do so; I'll not be by.
                                      [DUKE FREDERICK goes apart]
              LE BEAU. Monsieur the Challenger, the Princess calls for you.
              ORLANDO. I attend them with all respect and duty.
              ROSALIND. Young man, have you challeng'd Charles the wrestler?
              ORLANDO. No, fair Princess; he is the general challenger. I come
               but 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 saw
               yourself with your eyes, or knew yourself with your judgment, the
               fear of your adventure would counsel you to a more equal
               enterprise. We pray you, for your own sake, to embrace your own
               safety and give over this attempt.
              ROSALIND. Do, young sir; your reputation shall not therefore be
               misprised: we will make it our suit to the Duke that the
               wrestling might not go forward.
              ORLANDO. I beseech you, punish me not with your hard thoughts,
               wherein I confess me much guilty to deny so fair and excellent
               ladies any thing. But let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go
               with me to my trial; wherein if I be foil'd there is but one
               sham'd that was never gracious; if kill'd, but one dead that is
               willing to be so. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none
               to lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; only
               in the world I fill up a place, which may be better supplied when
               I have made it empty.
              ROSALIND. The little strength that I have, I would it were with
              CELIA. And mine to eke out hers.
              ROSALIND. Fare you well. Pray heaven I be deceiv'd in you!
              CELIA. Your heart's desires be with you!

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              CHARLES. Come, where is this young gallant that is so desirous to
               lie with his mother earth?
              ORLANDO. Ready, sir; but his will hath in it a more modest working.
              FREDERICK. You shall try but one fall.
              CHARLES. No, I warrant your Grace, you shall not entreat him to a
               second, that have so mightily persuaded him from a first.
              ORLANDO. You mean to mock me after; you should not have mock'd 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. [They wrestle]
              ROSALIND. O excellent young man!
              CELIA. If I had a thunderbolt in mine eye, I can tell who should
                                      [CHARLES is thrown. Shout]
              FREDERICK. No more, no more.
              ORLANDO. Yes, I beseech your Grace; I am not yet well breath'd.
              FREDERICK. How dost thou, Charles?
              LE BEAU. He cannot speak, my lord.
              FREDERICK. Bear him away. What is thy name, young man?
              ORLANDO. Orlando, my liege; the youngest son of Sir Rowland de
              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 deed,
               Hadst 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, 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 calling
               To be adopted heir to Frederick.
              ROSALIND. My father lov'd 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 entreaties
               Ere he should thus have ventur'd.
              CELIA. Gentle cousin,
               Let us go thank him, and encourage him;
               My father's rough and envious disposition
               Sticks me at heart. Sir, you have well deserv'd;
               If you do keep your promises in love
               But justly as you have exceeded all 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 parts
               Are all thrown down; and that which here stands up
               Is but a quintain, a mere lifeless block.

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              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 overthrown
               More 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 you
               To leave this place. Albeit you have deserv'd
               High 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 Duke
               That 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 loves
               Are dearer than the natural bond of sisters.
               But I can tell you that of late this Duke
               Hath ta'en displeasure 'gainst his gentle niece,
               Grounded upon no other argument
               But that the people praise her for her virtues
               And pity her for her good father's sake;
               And, on my life, his malice 'gainst the lady
               Will 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

         SCE E III. The DUKE's palace
         Enter CELIA and ROSALIND

              CELIA. Why, cousin! why, Rosalind! Cupid have mercy!

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               Not a word?
              ROSALIND. Not one to throw at a dog.
              CELIA. No, thy words are too precious to be cast away upon curs;
               throw some of them at me; come, lame me with reasons.
              ROSALIND. Then there were two cousins laid up, when the one should
               be lam'd 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 full of
               briers is this working-day world!
              CELIA. They are but burs, cousin, thrown upon thee in holiday
               foolery; if we walk not in the trodden paths, our very petticoats
               will catch them.
              ROSALIND. I could shake them off my coat: these burs are in my
              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 of
               a fall. But, turning these jests out of service, let us talk in
               good earnest. Is it possible, on such a sudden, you should fall
               into so strong a liking with old Sir Rowland's youngest son?
              ROSALIND. The Duke my father lov'd 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 hated his
               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?

         Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

              ROSALIND. Let me love him for that; and do you love him because I
               do. Look, here comes the Duke.
              CELIA. With his eyes full of anger.
              FREDERICK. Mistress, dispatch you with your safest haste,
               And get you from our court.
              ROSALIND. Me, uncle?
              FREDERICK. You, cousin.
               Within these ten days if that thou beest found
               So 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 unborn
               Did I offend your Highness.
              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.

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              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 much
               To think my poverty is treacherous.
              CELIA. Dear sovereign, hear me speak.
              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.
              FREDERICK. She is too subtle for thee; and her smoothness,
               Her very silence and her patience,
               Speak 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 virtuous
               When she is gone. Then open not thy lips.
               Firm and irrevocable is my doom
               Which 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.
              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 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.
               Prithee be cheerful. Know'st thou not the Duke
               Hath banish'd me, his daughter?
              ROSALIND. That he hath not.
              CELIA. No, hath not? Rosalind lacks, then, the love
               Which 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,

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               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 heart
               Lie there what hidden woman's fear there will-
               We'll have a swashing and a martial outside,
               As many other mannish cowards have
               That 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 steal
               The 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 way
               To hide us from pursuit that will be made
               After my flight. Now go we in content
               To liberty, and not to banishment. Exeunt


         ACT II. SCE E I. The Forest of Arden

         Enter DUKE SENIOR, AMIENS, and two or three LORDS, like foresters

              DUKE SENIOR. Now, my co-mates and brothers in exile,
               Hath not old custom made this life more sweet
               Than that of painted pomp? Are not these woods
               More free from peril than the envious court?
               Here feel we not the penalty of Adam,

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               The seasons' difference; as the icy fang
               And 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 counsellors
               That 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 fortune
               Into 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 heads
               Have their round haunches gor'd.
              FIRST LORD. Indeed, my lord,
               The melancholy Jaques grieves at that;
               And, in that kind, swears you do more usurp
               Than doth your brother that hath banish'd you.
               To-day my Lord of Amiens and myself
               Did steal behind him as he lay along
               Under an oak whose antique root peeps out
               Upon the brook that brawls along this wood!
               To the which place a poor sequest'red 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 coat
               Almost to bursting; and the big round tears
               Cours'd one another down his innocent nose
               In piteous chase; and thus the hairy fool,
               Much marked of the melancholy Jaques,
               Stood on th' 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 testament
               As worldlings do, giving thy sum of more
               To that which had too much.' Then, being there alone,
               Left and abandoned of his velvet friends:
               ''Tis right'; quoth he 'thus misery doth part
               The flux of company.' Anon, a careless herd,
               Full of the pasture, jumps along by him
               And never stays to greet him. 'Ay,' quoth Jaques
               'Sweep on, you fat and greasy citizens;
               'Tis just the fashion. Wherefore do you look

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               Upon that poor and broken bankrupt there?'
               Thus most invectively he pierceth through
               The body of the country, city, court,
               Yea, and of this our life; swearing that we
               Are mere usurpers, tyrants, and what's worse,
               To fright the animals, and to kill them up
               In 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 commenting
               Upon 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

         SCE E II. The DUKE'S palace
         Enter DUKE FREDERICK, with LORDS

              FREDERICK. Can it be possible that no man saw them?
               It cannot be; some villains of my court
               Are 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 abed, and in the morning early
               They found the bed untreasur'd of their mistress.
              SECOND LORD. My lord, the roynish clown, at whom so oft
               Your Grace was wont to laugh, is also missing.
               Hisperia, the Princess' gentlewoman,
               Confesses that she secretly o'erheard
               Your daughter and her cousin much commend
               The parts and graces of the wrestler
               That did but lately foil the sinewy Charles;
               And she believes, wherever they are gone,
               That youth is surely in their company.
              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 quail
               To bring again these foolish runaways. Exeunt

         SCE E III. Before OLIVER'S house
         Enter ORLANDO and ADAM, meeting

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              ORLANDO. Who's there?
              ADAM. What, my young master? O my gentle master!
               O my sweet master! O you memory
               Of 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 overcome
               The bonny prizer of the humorous Duke?
               Your praise is come too swiftly home before you.
               Know you not, master, to some kind of men
               Their 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 comely
               Envenoms him that bears it!
              ORLANDO. Why, what's the matter?
              ADAM. O unhappy youth!
               Come not within these doors; within this roof
               The 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 means
               To 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 boist'rous sword enforce
               A 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 malice
               Of 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 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. Let me go with you;

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               I'll do the service of a younger man
               In all your business and necessities.
              ORLANDO. O good old man, how well in thee appears
               The 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 up
               Even 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 yield
               In lieu of all thy pains and husbandry.
               But come thy ways, we'll go along together,
               And ere we have thy youthful wages spent
               We'll light upon some settled low content.
              ADAM. Master, go on; and I will follow the
               To the last gasp, with truth and loyalty.
               From seventeen years till now almost four-score
               Here 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 better
               Than to die well and not my master's debtor. Exeunt

         SCE E IV. The Forest of Arden

              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, as
               doublet and hose ought to show itself courageous to petticoat;
               therefore, courage, good Aliena.
              CELIA. I pray you bear with me; I cannot 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 you
               have 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 at
               home I was in a better place; but travellers must be content.

         Enter CORIN and SILVIUS

              ROSALIND. Ay, be so, good Touchstone. Look you, who comes here, a
               young man and an old in solemn talk.
              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,

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               Though in thy youth thou wast as true a lover
               As 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 ridiculous
               Hast 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 rememb'rest not the slightest folly
               That 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 company
               Abruptly, 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 my
               sword upon a stone, and bid him take that for coming a-night to
               Jane Smile; and I remember the kissing of her batler, and the
               cow's dugs that her pretty chopt hands had milk'd; and I remember
               the wooing of peascod instead of her; from whom I took two cods,
               and giving her them again, said with weeping tears 'Wear these
               for my sake.' We that are true lovers run into strange capers;
               but as all is mortal in nature, so is all nature in 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 shins against it.
              ROSALIND. Jove, Jove! this shepherd's passion
               Is much upon my fashion.
              TOUCHSTONE. And mine; but it grows something stale with me.
              CELIA. I pray you, one of you question yond man
               If he for gold will give us any food;
               I faint almost to death.
              TOUCHSTONE. Holla, you clown!
              ROSALIND. Peace, fool; he's not thy Ensman.
              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 prithee, shepherd, if that love or gold
               Can 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,

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               And do not shear the fleeces that I graze.
               My master is of churlish disposition,
               And little recks to find the way to heaven
               By 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 nothing
               That 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 any thing.
              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

         SCE E V. Another part of the forest
         Enter AMIENS, JAQUES, and OTHERS

              AMIENS. 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 prithee, more.
              AMIENS. It will make you melancholy, Monsieur Jaques.
              JAQUES. I thank it. More, I prithee, more. I can suck melancholy
               out of a song, as a weasel sucks eggs. More, I prithee, 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 stanzo. Call you 'em stanzos?
              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; but
               that they call compliment is like th' encounter of two dog-apes;

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               and when a man thanks me heartily, methinks have given him a
               penny, and he renders me the beggarly thanks. Come, sing; and you
               that will not, hold your tongues.
              AMIENS. Well, I'll end the song. Sirs, cover the while; the Duke
               will drink under this tree. He hath been all this day to look
              JAQUES. And I have been all this day to avoid him. He is to
               disputable for my company. I think of as many matters as he; but
               I give heaven thanks, and make no boast of them. Come, warble,