_Pros._ Now does my project gather to a head:
My charms crack not; my spirits obey; and time
Goes upright with his carriage. How’s the day?
_Ari._ On the sixth hour; at which time, my lord,
You said our work should cease.
_Pros._ I did say so, 5
When first I raised the tempest. Say, my spirit,
How fares the king and’s followers?
_Ari._ Confined together
In the same fashion as you gave in charge,
Just as you left them; all prisoners, sir,
In the line-grove which weather-fends your cell; 10
They cannot budge till your release. The king,
His brother, and yours, abide all three distracted,
And the remainder mourning over them,
Brimful of sorrow and dismay; but chiefly
Him that you term’d, sir, “The good old lord, Gonzalo;” 15
His tears run down his beard, like winter’s drops
From eaves of reeds. Your charm so strongly works ’em,
That if you now beheld them, your affections
Would become tender.
_Pros._ Dost thou think so, spirit?
_Ari._ Mine would, sir, were I human.
_Pros._ And mine shall. 20
Hast thou, which art but air, a touch, a feeling
Of their afflictions, and shall not myself,
One of their kind, that relish all as sharply,
Passion as they, be kindlier moved than thou art?
Though with their high wrongs I am struck to the quick, 25
Yet with my nobler reason ’gainst my fury
Do I take part: the rarer action is
In virtue than in vengeance: they being penitent,
The sole drift of my purpose doth extend
Not a frown further. Go release them, Ariel: 30
My charms I’ll break, their senses I’ll restore,
And they shall be themselves.
_Ari._ I’ll fetch them, sir. [_Exit._
_Pros._ Ye elves of hills, brooks, standing lakes, and groves;
And ye that on the sands with printless foot
Do chase the ebbing Neptune, and do fly him 35
When he comes back; you demi-puppets that
By moonshine do the green sour ringlets make,
Whereof the ewe not bites; and you whose pastime
Is to make midnight mushrooms, that rejoice
To hear the solemn curfew; by whose aid– 40
Weak masters though ye be–I have bedimm’d
The noontide sun, call’d forth the mutinous winds.
And ’twixt the green sea and the azured vault
Set roaring war: to the dread rattling thunder
Have I given fire, and rifted Jove’s stout oak 45
With his own bolt; the strong-based promontory
Have I made shake, and by the spurs pluck’d up
The pine and cedar: graves at my command
Have waked their sleepers, oped, and let ’em forth
By my so potent art. But this rough magic 50
I here abjure; and, when I have required
Some heavenly music,–which even now I do,–
To work mine end upon their senses, that
This airy charm is for, I’ll break my staff,
Bury it certain fathoms in the earth, 55
And deeper than did ever plummet sound
I’ll drown my book. [_Solemn music._
_Re-enter ARIEL before: then ALONSO, with a frantic gesture,
attended by GONZALO; SEBASTIAN and ANTONIO in like manner,
attended by ADRIAN and FRANCISCO: they all enter the circle
which PROSPERO had made, and there stand charmed; which PROSPERO
A solemn air, and the best comforter
To an unsettled fancy, cure thy brains,
Now useless, boil’d within thy skull! There stand, 60
For you are spell-stopp’d.
Holy Gonzalo, honourable man,
Mine eyes, even sociable to the show of thine,
Fall fellowly drops. The charm dissolves apace;
And as the morning steals upon the night, 65
Melting the darkness, so their rising senses
Begin to chase the ignorant fumes that mantle
Their clearer reason. O good Gonzalo,
My true preserver, and a loyal sir
To him thou follow’st! I will pay thy graces 70
Home both in word and deed. Most cruelly
Didst thou, Alonso, use me and my daughter:
Thy brother was a furtherer in the act.
Thou art pinch’d for’t now, Sebastian. Flesh and blood,
You, brother mine, that entertain’d ambition, 75
Expell’d remorse and nature; who, with Sebastian,–
Whose inward pinches therefore are most strong,–
Would here have kill’d your king; I do forgive thee,
Unnatural though thou art. Their understanding
Begins to swell; and the approaching tide 80
Will shortly fill the reasonable shore,
That now lies foul and muddy. Not one of them
That yet looks on me, or would know me: Ariel,
Fetch me the hat and rapier in my cell:
I will discase me, and myself present 85
As I was sometime Milan: quickly, spirit;
Thou shalt ere long be free.
_ARIEL sings and helps to attire him._
Where the bee sucks, there suck I:
In a cowslip’s bell I lie;
There I couch when owls do cry. 90
On the bat’s back I do fly
After summer merrily.
Merrily, merrily shall I live now
Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.
_Pros._ Why, that’s my dainty Ariel! I shall miss thee; 95
But yet thou shalt have freedom: so, so, so.
To the king’s ship, invisible as thou art:
There shalt thou find the mariners asleep
Under the hatches; the master and the boatswain
Being awake, enforce them to this place, 100
And presently, I prithee.
_Ari._ I drink the air before me, and return
Or ere your pulse twice beat. [_Exit._
_Gon._ All torment, trouble, wonder and amazement
Inhabits here: some heavenly power guide us 105
Out of this fearful country!
_Pros._ Behold, sir king,
The wronged Duke of Milan, Prospero:
For more assurance that a living prince
Does now speak to thee, I embrace thy body;
And to thee and thy company I bid 110
A hearty welcome.
_Alon._ Whether thou be’st he or no,
Or some enchanted trifle to abuse me,
As late I have been, I not know: thy pulse
Beats, as of flesh and blood; and, since I saw thee,
The affliction of my mind amends, with which, 115
I fear, a madness held me: this must crave–
An if this be at all–a most strange story.
Thy dukedom I resign, and do entreat
Thou pardon me my wrongs. –But how should Prospero
Be living and be here?
_Pros._ First, noble friend, 120
Let me embrace thine age, whose honour cannot
Be measured or confined.
_Gon._ Whether this be
Or be not, I’ll not swear.
_Pros._ You do yet taste
Some subtilties o’ the isle, that will not let you
Believe things certain. Welcome, my friends all! 125
[_Aside to Seb. and Ant._]
But you, my brace of lords, were I so minded,
I here could pluck his Highness’ frown upon you,
And justify you traitors: at this time
I will tell no tales.
_Seb._ [_Aside_] The devil speaks in him.
For you, most wicked sir, whom to call brother 130
Would even infect my mouth, I do forgive
Thy rankest fault,–all of them; and require
My dukedom of thee, which perforce, I know,
Thou must restore.
_Alon._ If thou be’st Prospero,
Give us particulars of thy preservation; 135
How thou hast met us here, who three hours since
Were wreck’d upon this shore; where I have lost–
How sharp the point of this remembrance is!–
My dear son Ferdinand.
_Pros._ I am woe for’t, sir.
_Alon._ Irreparable is the loss; and patience 140
Says it is past her cure.
_Pros._ I rather think
You have not sought her help, of whose soft grace
For the like loss I have her sovereign aid,
And rest myself content.
_Alon._ You the like loss!
_Pros._ As great to me as late; and, supportable 145
To make the dear loss, have I means much weaker
Than you may call to comfort you, for I
Have lost my daughter.
_Alon._ A daughter?
O heavens, that they were living both in Naples,
The king and queen there! that they were, I wish 150
Myself were mudded in that oozy bed
Where my son lies. When did you lose you daughter?
_Pros._ In this last tempest. I perceive, these lords
At this encounter do so much admire,
That they devour their reason, and scarce think 155
Their eyes do offices of truth, their words
Are natural breath: but, howsoe’er you have
Been justled from your senses, know for certain
That I am Prospero, and that very duke
Which was thrust forth of Milan; who most strangely 160
Upon this shore, where you were wreck’d, was landed,
To be the Lord on’t. No more yet of this;
For ’tis a chronicle of day by day,
Not a relation for a breakfast, nor
Befitting this first meeting. Welcome, sir; 165
This cell’s my court: here have I few attendants,
And subjects none abroad: pray you, look in.
My dukedom since you have given me again,
I will requite you with as good a thing;
At least bring forth a wonder, to content ye 170
As much as me my dukedom.
_Here Prospero discovers FERDINAND and MIRANDA playing at chess._
_Mir._ Sweet lord, you play me false.
_Fer._ No, my dear’st love,
I would not for the world.
_Mir._ Yes, for a score of kingdoms you should wrangle,
And I would call it fair play.
_Alon._ If this prove 175
A vision of the island, one dear son
Shall I twice lose.
_Seb._ A most high miracle!
_Fer._ Though the seas threaten, they are merciful;
I have cursed them without cause. [_Kneels._
_Alon._ Now all the blessings
Of a glad father compass thee about! 180
Arise, and say how thou camest here.
_Mir._ O, wonder!
How many goodly creatures are there here!
How beauteous mankind is! O brave new world,
That has such people in’t!
_Pros._ ’Tis new to thee.
_Alon._ What is this maid with whom thou wast at play? 185
Your eld’st acquaintance cannot be three hours:
Is she the goddess that hath sever’d us,
And brought us thus together?
_Fer._ Sir, she is mortal;
But by immortal Providence she’s mine:
I chose her when I could not ask my father 190
For his advice, nor thought I had one. She
Is daughter to this famous Duke of Milan,
Of whom so often I have heard renown,
But never saw before; of whom I have
Received a second life; and second father 195
This lady makes him to me.
_Alon._ I am hers:
But, O, how oddly will it sound that I
Must ask my child forgiveness!
_Pros._ There, sir, stop:
Let us not burthen our remembrances with
A heaviness that’s gone.
_Gon._ I have inly wept, 200
Or should have spoke ere this. Look down, you gods,
And on this couple drop a blessed crown!
For it is you that have chalk’d forth the way
Which brought us hither.
_Alon._ I say, Amen, Gonzalo!
_Gon._ Was Milan thrust from Milan, that his issue 205
Should become kings of Naples? O, rejoice
Beyond a common joy! and set it down
With gold on lasting pillars: In one voyage
Did Claribel her husband find at Tunis,
And Ferdinand, her brother, found a wife 210
Where he himself was lost, Prospero his dukedom
In a poor isle, and all of us ourselves
When no man was his own.
_Alon._ [_to Fer. and Mir._] Give me your hands:
Let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart
That doth not wish you joy!
_Gon._ Be it so! Amen! 215
_Re-enter ARIEL, with the _Master_ and _Boatswain_ amazedly
O, look, sir, look, sir! here is more of us:
I prophesied, if a gallows were on land,
This fellow could not drown. Now, blasphemy,
That swear’st grace o’erboard, not an oath on shore?
Hast thou no mouth by land? What is the news? 220
_Boats._ The best news is, that we have safely found
Our king and company; the next, our ship–
Which, but three glasses since, we gave out split–
Is tight and yare and bravely rigg’d, as when
We first put out to sea.
_Ari._ [_Aside to Pros._] Sir, all this service 225
Have I done since I went.
_Pros._ [_Aside to Ari._] My tricksy spirit!
_Alon._ These are not natural events; they strengthen
From strange to stranger. Say, how came you hither?
_Boats._ If I did think, sir, I were well awake,
I’ld strive to tell you. We were dead of sleep, 230
And–how we know not–all clapp’d under hatches;
Where, but even now, with strange and several noises
Of roaring, shrieking, howling, jingling chains,
And more diversity of sounds, all horrible,
We were awaked; straightway, at liberty; 235
Where we, in all her trim, freshly beheld
Our royal, good, and gallant ship; our master
Capering to eye her:–on a trice, so please you,
Even in a dream, were we divided from them,
And were brought moping hither.
_Ari._ [_Aside to Pros._] Was’t well done? 240
_Pros._ [_Aside to Ari._] Bravely, my diligence. Thou shalt be free.
_Alon._ This is as strange a maze as e’er men trod;
And there is in this business more than nature
Was ever conduct of: some oracle
Must rectify our knowledge.
_Pros._ Sir, my liege, 245
Do not infest your mind with beating on
The strangeness of this business; at pick’d leisure
Which shall be shortly, single I’ll resolve you,
Which to you shall seem probable, of every
These happen’d accidents; till when, be cheerful, 250
And think of each thing well.
[_Aside to Ari._] Come hither, spirit:
Set Caliban and his companions free;
Untie the spell. [_Exit Ariel._] How fares my gracious sir?
There are yet missing of your company
Some few odd lads that you remember not. 255
_Re-enter ARIEL, driving in CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO,
in their stolen apparel._
_Ste._ Every man shift for all the rest, and let no man
take care for himself; for all is but fortune. –Coragio,
_Trin._ If these be true spies which I wear in my head,
here’s a goodly sight. 260
_Cal._ O Setebos, these be brave spirits indeed!
How fine my master is! I am afraid
He will chastise me.
_Seb._ Ha, ha!
What things are these, my lord Antonio?
Will money buy ’em?
_Ant._ Very like; one of them 265
Is a plain fish, and, no doubt, marketable.
_Pros._ Mark but the badges of these men, my lords,
Then say if they be true. This mis-shapen knave,
His mother was a witch; and one so strong
That could control the moon, make flows and ebbs, 270
And deal in her command, without her power.
These three have robb’d me; and this demi-devil–
For he’s a bastard one–had plotted with them
To take my life. Two of these fellows you
Must know and own; this thing of darkness I 275
_Cal._ I shall be pinch’d to death.
_Alon._ Is not this Stephano, my drunken butler?
_Seb._ He is drunk now: where had he wine?
_Alon._ And Trinculo is reeling ripe: where should they
Find this grand liquor that hath gilded ’em?– 280
How camest thou in this pickle?
_Trin._ I have been in such a pickle, since I saw you
last, that, I fear me, will never out of my bones: I shall not
_Seb._ Why, how now, Stephano! 285
_Ste._ O, touch me not;–I am not Stephano, but a cramp.
_Pros._ You’ld be king o’ the isle, sirrah?
_Ste._ I should have been a sore one, then.
_Alon._ This is a strange thing as e’er I look’d on.
[_Pointing to Caliban._
_Pros._ He is as disproportion’d in his manners 290
As in his shape. Go, sirrah, to my cell;
Take with you your companions; as you look
To have my pardon, trim it handsomely.
_Cal._ Ay, that I will; and I’ll be wise hereafter,
And seek for grace. What a thrice-double ass 295
Was I, to take this drunkard for a god,
And worship this dull fool!
_Pros._ Go to; away!
_Alon._ Hence, and bestow your luggage where you found it.
_Seb._ Or stole it, rather. [_Exeunt Cal., Ste., and Trin._
_Pros._ Sir, I invite your Highness and your train 300
To my poor cell, where you shall take your rest
For this one night; which, part of it, I’ll waste
With such discourse as, I not doubt, shall make it
Go quick away: the story of my life,
And the particular accidents gone by 305
Since I came to this isle: and in the morn
I’ll bring you to your ship, and so to Naples,
Where I have hope to see the nuptial
Of these our dear-beloved solemnized;
And thence retire me to my Milan, where 310
Every third thought shall be my grave.
_Alon._ I long
To hear the story of your life, which must
Take the ear strangely.
_Pros._ I’ll deliver all;
And promise you calm seas, auspicious gales,
And sail so expeditious, that shall catch
Your royal fleet far off. [_Aside to Ari._] My Ariel, chick, 315
That is thy charge: then to the elements
Be free, and fare thou well! Please you, draw near.
SPOKEN BY PROSPERO.
Now my charms are all o’erthrown,
And what strength I have’s mine own,
Which is most faint: now, ’tis true,
I must be here confined by you,
Or sent to Naples. Let me not, 5
Since I have my dukedom got,
And pardon’d the deceiver, dwell
In this bare island by your spell;
But release me from my bands
With the help of your good hands: 10
Gentle breath of yours my sails
Must fill, or else my project fails,
Which was to please. Now I want
Spirits to enforce, art to enchant;
And my ending is despair, 15
Unless I be relieved by prayer,
Which pierces so, that it assaults
Mercy itself, and frees all faults.
As you from crimes would pardon’d be,
Let your indulgence set me free. 20
_Pros._ If I have too austerely punish’d you,
Your compensation makes amends; for I
Have given you here a third of mine own life,
Or that for which I live; who once again
I tender to thy hand: all thy vexations 5
Were but my trials of thy love, and thou
Hast strangely stood the test: here, afore Heaven,
I ratify this my rich gift. O Ferdinand,
Do not smile at me that I boast her off,
For thou shalt find she will outstrip all praise, 10
And make it halt behind her.
_Fer._ I do believe it
Against an oracle.
_Pros._ Then, as my gift, and thine own acquisition
Worthily purchased, take my daughter: but
If thou dost break her virgin-knot before 15
All sanctimonious ceremonies may
With full and holy rite be minister’d,
No sweet aspersion shall the heavens let fall
To make this contract grow; but barren hate,
Sour-eyed disdain and discord shall bestrew 20
The union of your bed with weeds so loathly
That you shall hate it both: therefore take heed,
As Hymen’s lamps shall light you.
_Fer._ As I hope
For quiet days, fair issue and long life,
With such love as ’tis now, the murkiest den, 25
The most opportune place, the strong’st suggestion
Our worser Genius can, shall never melt
Mine honour into lust, to take away
The edge of that day’s celebration
When I shall think, or Phœbus’ steeds are founder’d, 30
Or Night kept chain’d below.
_Pros._ Fairly spoke.
Sit, then, and talk with her; she is thine own.
What, Ariel! my industrious servant, Ariel!
_Ari._ What would my potent master? here I am.
_Pros._ Thou and thy meaner fellows your last service 35
Did worthily perform; and I must use you
In such another trick. Go bring the rabble,
O’er whom I give thee power, here to this place:
Incite them to quick motion; for I must
Bestow upon the eyes of this young couple 40
Some vanity of mine art: it is my promise,
And they expect it from me.
_Pros._ Ay, with a twink.
_Ari._ Before you can say, ‘come,’ and ‘go,’
And breathe twice, and cry, ‘so, so,’ 45
Each one, tripping on his toe,
Will be here with mop and mow.
Do you love me, master? no?
_Pros._ Dearly, my delicate Ariel. Do not approach
Till thou dost hear me call.
_Ari._ Well, I conceive. [_Exit._ 50
_Pros._ Look thou be true; do not give dalliance
Too much the rein: the strongest oaths are straw
To the fire i’ the blood: be more abstemious,
Or else, good night your vow!
_Fer._ I warrant you, sir;
The white cold virgin snow upon my heart 55
Abates the ardour of my liver.
Now come, my Ariel! bring a corollary,
Rather than want a spirit: appear, and pertly!
No tongue! all eyes! be silent. [_Soft music._
_Iris._ Ceres, most bounteous lady, thy rich leas 60
Of wheat, rye, barley, vetches, oats, and pease;
Thy turfy mountains, where live nibbling sheep,
And flat meads thatch’d with stover, them to keep;
Thy banks with pioned and twilled brims,
Which spongy April at thy best betrims, 65
To make cold nymphs chaste crowns; and thy broom-groves,
Whose shadow the dismissed bachelor loves,
Being lass-lorn; thy pole-clipt vineyard;
And thy sea-marge, sterile and rocky-hard,
Where thou thyself dost air;–the queen o’ the sky, 70
Whose watery arch and messenger am I,
Bids thee leave these; and with her sovereign grace,
Here on this grass-plot, in this very place,
To come and sport:–her peacocks fly amain:
Approach, rich Ceres, her to entertain. 75
_Cer._ Hail, many-colour’d messenger, that ne’er
Dost disobey the wife of Jupiter;
Who, with thy saffron wings, upon my flowers
Diffusest honey-drops, refreshing showers;
And with each end of thy blue bow dost crown 80
My bosky acres and my unshrubb’d down,
Rich scarf to my proud earth;–why hath thy queen
Summon’d me hither, to this short-grass’d green?
_Iris._ A contract of true love to celebrate;
And some donation freely to estate 85
On the blest lovers.
_Cer._ Tell me, heavenly bow,
If Venus or her son, as thou dost know,
Do now attend the queen? Since they did plot
The means that dusky Dis my daughter got,
Her and her blind boy’s scandal’d company 90
I have forsworn.
_Iris._ Of her society
Be not afraid: I met her Deity
Cutting the clouds towards Paphos, and her son
Dove-drawn with her. Here thought they to have done
Some wanton charm upon this man and maid, 95
Whose vows are, that no bed-right shall be paid
Till Hymen’s torch be lighted: but in vain;
Mars’s hot minion is returned again;
Her waspish-headed son has broke his arrows,
Swears he will shoot no more, but play with sparrows, 100
And be a boy right out.
_Cer._ High’st queen of state,
Great Juno, comes; I know her by her gait.
_Juno._ How does my bounteous sister? Go with me
To bless this twain, that they may prosperous be,
And honour’d in their issue. [_They sing:_ 105
_Juno._ Honour, riches, marriage-blessing,
Long continuance, and increasing,
Hourly joys be still upon you!
Juno sings her blessings on you.
_Cer._ Earth’s increase, foison plenty, 110
Barns and garners never empty;
Vines with clustering bunches growing;
Plants with goodly burthen bowing;
Spring come to you at the farthest
In the very end of harvest! 115
Scarcity and want shall shun you;
Ceres’ blessing so is on you.
_Fer._ This is a most majestic vision, and
Harmonious charmingly. May I be bold
To think these spirits?
_Pros._ Spirits, which by mine art 120
I have from their confines call’d to enact
My present fancies.
_Fer._ Let me live here ever;
So rare a wonder’d father and a wife
Makes this place Paradise.
[_Juno and Ceres whisper, and send Iris on employment._
_Pros._ Sweet, now, silence!
Juno and Ceres whisper seriously; 125
There’s something else to do: hush, and be mute,
Or else our spell is marr’d.
_Iris._ You nymphs, call’d Naiads, of the windring brooks,
With your sedged crowns and ever-harmless looks,
Leave your crisp channels, and on this green land 130
Answer your summons; Juno does command:
Come, temperate nymphs, and help to celebrate
A contract of true love; be not too late.
_Enter certain Nymphs._
You sunburnt sicklemen, of August weary,
Come hither from the furrow, and be merry: 135
Make holiday; your rye-straw hats put on,
And these fresh nymphs encounter every one
In country footing.
_Enter certain Reapers, properly habited: they join with the
Nymphs in a graceful dance; towards the end whereof PROSPERO
starts suddenly, and speaks; after which, to a strange, hollow,
and confused noise, they heavily vanish._
_Pros._ [_Aside_] I had forgot that foul conspiracy
Of the beast Caliban and his confederates 140
Against my life: the minute of their plot
Is almost come. [_To the Spirits._] Well done! avoid; no more!
_Fer._ This is strange: your father’s in some passion
That works him strongly.
_Mir._ Never till this day
Saw I him touch’d with anger so distemper’d. 145
_Pros._ You do look, my son, in a moved sort,
As if you were dismay’d: be cheerful, sir.
Our revels now are ended. These our actors,
As I foretold you, were all spirits, and
Are melted into air, into thin air: 150
And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve,
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded, 155
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on; and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep. Sir, I am vex’d;
Bear with my weakness; my old brain is troubled:
Be not disturb’d with my infirmity: 160
If you be pleased, retire into my cell,
And there repose: a turn or two I’ll walk,
To still my beating mind.
_Fer._ _Mir._ We wish your peace. [_Exeunt._
_Pros._ Come with a thought. I thank thee, Ariel: come.
_Ari._ Thy thoughts I cleave to. What’s thy pleasure? 165
We must prepare to meet with Caliban.
_Ari._ Ay, my commander: when I presented Ceres,
I thought to have told thee of it; but I fear’d
Lest I might anger thee.
_Pros._ Say again, where didst thou leave these varlets? 170
_Ari._ I told you, sir, they were red-hot with drinking;
So full of valour that they smote the air
For breathing in their faces; beat the ground
For kissing of their feet; yet always bending
Towards their project. Then I beat my tabor; 175
At which, like unback’d colts, they prick’d their ears,
Advanced their eyelids, lifted up their noses
As they smelt music: so I charm’d their ears,
That, calf-like, they my lowing follow’d through
Tooth’d briers, sharp furzes, pricking goss, and thorns, 180
Which enter’d their frail shins: at last I left them
I’ the filthy-mantled pool beyond your cell,
There dancing up to the chins, that the foul lake
O’erstunk their feet.
_Pros._ This was well done, my bird.
Thy shape invisible retain thou still: 185
The trumpery in my house, go bring it hither,
For stale to catch these thieves.
_Ari._ I go, I go. [_Exit._
_Pros._ A devil, a born devil, on whose nature
Nurture can never stick; on whom my pains,
Humanely taken, all, all lost, quite lost; 190
And as with age his body uglier grows,
So his mind cankers. I will plague them all,
Even to roaring.
_Re-enter ARIEL, loaden with glistering apparel, &c._
Come, hang them on this line.
_PROSPERO and ARIEL remain, invisible. Enter CALIBAN, STEPHANO,
and TRINCULO, all wet._
_Cal._ Pray you, tread softly, that the blind mole may not
Hear a foot fall: we now are near his cell. 195
_Ste._ Monster, your fairy, which you say is a harmless
fairy, has done little better than played the Jack with us.
_Trin._ Monster, I do smell all horse-piss; at which my
nose is in great indignation.
_Ste._ So is mine. Do you hear, monster? If I should 200
take a displeasure against you, look you,–
_Trin._ Thou wert but a lost monster.
_Cal._ Good my lord, give me thy favour still.
Be patient, for the prize I’ll bring thee to
Shall hoodwink this mischance: therefore speak softly. 205
All’s hush’d as midnight yet.
_Trin._ Ay, but to lose our bottles in the pool,–
_Ste._ There is not only disgrace and dishonour in that,
monster, but an infinite loss.
_Trin._ That’s more to me than my wetting: yet this is 210
your harmless fairy, monster.
_Ste._ I will fetch off my bottle, though I be o’er ears for
_Cal._ Prithee, my king, be quiet. See’st thou here,
This is the mouth o’ the cell: no noise, and enter. 215
Do that good mischief which may make this island
Thine own for ever, and I, thy Caliban,
For aye thy foot-licker.
_Ste._ Give me thy hand. I do begin to have bloody
_Trin._ O King Stephano! O peer! O worthy Stephano!
look what a wardrobe here is for thee!
_Cal._ Let it alone, thou fool; it is but trash.
_Trin._ O, ho, monster! we know what belongs to a frippery.
O King Stephano! 225
_Ste._ Put off that gown, Trinculo; by this hand, I’ll
have that gown.
_Trin._ Thy Grace shall have it.
_Cal._ The dropsy drown this fool! what do you mean
To dote thus on such luggage? Let’s alone, 230
And do the murder first: if he awake,
From toe to crown he’ll fill our skins with pinches,
Make us strange stuff.
_Ste._ Be you quiet, monster. Mistress line, is not this
my jerkin? Now is the jerkin under the line: now, jerkin, 235
you are like to lose your hair, and prove a bald jerkin.
_Trin._ Do, do: we steal by line and level, an’t like your
_Ste._ I thank thee for that jest; here’s a garment for’t:
wit shall not go unrewarded while I am king of this country. 240
‘Steal by line and level’ is an excellent pass of pate;
there’s another garment for’t.
_Trin._ Monster, come, put some lime upon your fingers,
and away with the rest.
_Cal._ I will have none on’t: we shall lose our time, 245
And all be turn’d to barnacles, or to apes
With foreheads villanous low.
_Ste._ Monster, lay-to your fingers: help to bear this
away where my hogshead of wine is, or I’ll turn you out
of my kingdom: go to, carry this. 250
_Trin._ And this.
_Ste._ Ay, and this.
_A noise of hunters heard. Enter divers Spirits, in shape of
dogs and hounds, and hunt them about, PROSPERO and ARIEL setting
_Pros._ Hey, Mountain, hey!
_Ari._ Silver! there it goes, Silver!
_Pros._ Fury, fury! there, Tyrant, there! hark, hark! 255
[_Cal., Ste., and Trin. are driven out._
Go charge my goblins that they grind their joints
With dry convulsions; shorten up their sinews
With aged cramps; and more pinch-spotted make them
Then pard or cat o’ mountain.
_Ari._ Hark, they roar!
_Pros._ Let them be hunted soundly. At this hour 260
Lie at my mercy all mine enemies:
Shortly shall all my labours end, and thou
Shalt have the air at freedom: for a little
Follow, and do me service. [_Exeunt._
Notes: IV, 1.
3: _a third_] _a thread_ Theobald. _the thread_ Williams conj.
4: _who_] _whom_ Pope.
7: _test_] F1. _rest_ F2 F3 F4.
9: _off_] F2 F3 F4. _of_ F1.
11: _do_] om. Pope.
13: _gift_] Rowe. _guest_ Ff.
14: _but_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
25: _’tis_] _is_ Capell.
30: _Phœbus’_] _Phœbus_ F1. _Phœdus_ F2 F3. _Phœduus_ F4.
34: SCENE II. Pope.
41: _vanity_] _rarity_ S. Walker conj.
48: _no_?] _no_. Rowe.
53: _abstemious_] _abstenious_ F1.
60: SCENE III. A MASQUE. Pope.]
_thy_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.
64: _pioned_] _pionied_ Warburton. _peonied_ Steevens.
_twilled_] _tulip’d_ Rowe. _tilled_ Capell (Holt conj.). _lilied_
66: _broom-groves_] _brown groves_ Hanmer.
68: _pole-clipt_] _pale-clipt_ Hanmer.
72: After this line Ff. have the stage direction, ’_Juno descends._’
74: _her_] Rowe. _here_ Ff.
83: _short-grass’d_] F3 F4. _short gras’d_ F1 F2. _short-grass_ Pope.
96: _bed-right_] _bed-rite_ Singer.
101: _High’st_] _High_ Pope.
102: Enter JUNO] om. Ff.
110: Cer.] Theobald. om. Ff.
_foison_] F1 _and foison_ F2 F3 F4.
114: _Spring_] _Rain_ Collier MS.
119: _charmingly_] _charming lay_ Hanmer. _charming lays_ Warburton.
_Harmoniously charming_ Steevens conj.
121: _from their_] F1. _from all their_ F2 F3 F4.
123: _wife_] F1 (var.). Rowe. _wise_ F1 (var.) F2 F3 F4.
124: _Makes_] _make_ Pope.
_sweet, now, silence_] _now, silence, sweet_ Hanmer.
124: In Ff. the stage direction [Juno, &c. follows line 127.
Capell made the change.
128: _windring_] _winding_ Rowe. _wand’ring_ Steevens.
129: _sedged_] _sedge_ Collier MS.
136: _holiday_] _holly day_ F1 F2 F3. _holy-day_ F4.
139: SCENE IV. Pope.
143: _This is_] _This’_ (for This ’s) S. Walker conj.]
_strange_] _most strange_ Hanmer.
145: Ff put a comma after _anger_. Warburton omitted it.
146: _do_] om. Pope. See note (XVI).
151: _this_] F1. _their_ F2 F3 F4. _th’ air visions_ Warburton.
156: _rack_] F3 F4. _racke_ F1 F2. _track_ Hanmer. _wreck_ Dyce
163: _your_] F1 F2 F3. _you_ F4.
164: _I thank thee, Ariel: come._] _I thank you:–Ariel, come._
169: _Lest_] F4. _Least_ F1 F2 F3.
170: _Say again_] _Well, say again_ Capell.
180: _furzes_] Rowe. _firzes_ Ff.
181: _shins_] _skins_ Warburton conj. (note, V. 1. p. 87).
182: _filthy-mantled_] _filthy mantled_ Ff. _filth-ymantled_
184: _feet_] _fear_ Spedding conj.
190: _all, all_] _are all_ Malone conj.
193: _them on_ Rowe. _on them_ Ff.
Prospero … invisible. Theobald, Capell. om. Ff.
194: SCENE V. Pope.
230: _Let’s alone_] _Let’s along_ Theobald. _Let it alone_ Hanmer.
_Let ’t alone_ Collier. See note (XVII).
246: _to apes_] om. _to_ Pope.
255: Stage direction added by Theobald.
256: _they_] F1 F3 F4. _thou_ F2.
261: _Lie_] Rowe. _lies_ Ff.
_Fer._ There be some sports are painful, and their labour
Delight in them sets off: some kinds of baseness
Are nobly undergone, and most poor matters
Point to rich ends. This my mean task
Would be as heavy to me as odious, but 5
The mistress which I serve quickens what’s dead,
And makes my labours pleasures: O, she is
Ten times more gentle than her father’s crabbed.
And he’s composed of harshness. I must remove
Some thousands of these logs, and pile them up, 10
Upon a sore injunction: my sweet mistress
Weeps when she sees me work, and says, such baseness
Had never like executor. I forget:
But these sweet thoughts do even refresh my labours,
Most busy lest, when I do it.
_Enter MIRANDA; and PROSPERO at a distance, unseen._
_Mir._ Alas, now, pray you, 15
Work not so hard: I would the lightning had
Burnt up those logs that you are enjoin’d to pile!
Pray, set it down, and rest you: when this burns,
’Twill weep for having wearied you. My father
Is hard at study; pray, now, rest yourself; 20
He’s safe for these three hours.
_Fer._ O most dear mistress,
The sun will set before I shall discharge
What I must strive to do.
_Mir._ If you’ll sit down,
I’ll bear your logs the while: pray, give me that;
I’ll carry it to the pile.
_Fer._ No, precious creature; 25
I had rather crack my sinews, break my back,
Than you should such dishonour undergo,
While I sit lazy by.
_Mir._ It would become me
As well as it does you: and I should do it
With much more ease; for my good will is to it, 30
And yours it is against.
_Pros._ Poor worm, thou art infected!
This visitation shows it.
_Mir._ You look wearily.
_Fer._ No, noble mistress; ’tis fresh morning with me
When you are by at night. I do beseech you,–
Chiefly that I might set it in my prayers,– 35
What is your name?
_Mir._ Miranda. –O my father,
I have broke your hest to say so!
_Fer._ Admired Miranda!
Indeed the top of admiration! worth
What’s dearest to the world! Full many a lady
I have eyed with best regard, and many a time 40
The harmony of their tongues hath into bondage
Brought my too diligent ear: for several virtues
Have I liked several women; never any
With so full soul, but some defect in her
Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owed, 45
And put it to the foil: but you, O you,
So perfect and so peerless, are created
Of every creature’s best!
_Mir._ I do not know
One of my sex; no woman’s face remember,
Save, from my glass, mine own; nor have I seen 50
More that I may call men than you, good friend,
And my dear father: how features are abroad,
I am skilless of; but, by my modesty,
The jewel in my dower, I would not wish
Any companion in the world but you; 55
Nor can imagination form a shape,
Besides yourself, to like of. But I prattle
Something too wildly, and my father’s precepts
I therein do forget.
_Fer._ I am, in my condition,
A prince, Miranda; I do think, a king; 60
I would, not so!–and would no more endure
This wooden slavery than to suffer
The flesh-fly blow my mouth. Hear my soul speak:
The very instant that I saw you, did
My heart fly to your service; there resides, 65
To make me slave to it; and for your sake
Am I this patient log-man.
_Mir._ Do you love me?
_Fer._ O heaven, O earth, bear witness to this sound,
And crown what I profess with kind event,
If I speak true! if hollowly, invert 70
What best is boded me to mischief! I,
Beyond all limit of what else i’ the world,
Do love, prize, honour you.
_Mir._ I am a fool
To weep at what I am glad of.
_Pros._ Fair encounter
Of two most rare affections! Heavens rain grace 75
On that which breeds between ’em!
_Fer._ Wherefore weep you?
_Mir._ At mine unworthiness, that dare not offer
What I desire to give; and much less take
What I shall die to want. But this is trifling;
And all the more it seeks to hide itself, 80
The bigger bulk it shows. Hence, bashful cunning!
And prompt me, plain and holy innocence!
I am your wife, if you will marry me;
If not, I’ll die your maid: to be your fellow
You may deny me; but I’ll be your servant, 85
Whether you will or no.
_Fer._ My mistress, dearest;
And I thus humble ever.
_Mir._ My husband, then?
_Fer._ Ay, with a heart as willing
As bondage e’er of freedom: here’s my hand.
_Mir._ And mine, with my heart in’t: and now farewell 90
Till half an hour hence.
_Fer._ A thousand thousand!
[_Exeunt Fer. and Mir. severally._
_Pros._ So glad of this as they I cannot be,
Who are surprised withal; but my rejoicing
At nothing can be more. I’ll to my book;
For yet, ere supper-time, must I perform 95
Much business appertaining. [_Exit._
Notes: III, 1.
1: _and_] _but_ Pope.
2: _sets_] Rowe. _set_ Ff.
4, 5: _my … odious_] _my mean task would be As heavy to me as
’tis odious_ Pope.
9: _remove_] _move_ Pope.
14: _labours_] _labour_ Hanmer.
15: _Most busy lest_] F1. _Most busy least_ F2 F3 F4. _Least busy_
Pope. _Most busie-less_ Theobald._ Most busiest_ Holt White conj.
_Most busy felt_ Staunton. _Most busy still_ Staunton conj.
_Most busy-blest_ Collier MS. _Most busiliest_ Bullock conj.
_Most busy lest, when I do_ (_doe_ F1 F2 F3) _it_] _Most busy when
least I do it_ Brae conj. _Most busiest when idlest_ Spedding
conj. _Most busy left when idlest_ Edd. conj. See note (XIII).
at a distance, unseen] Rowe.
17: _you are_] F1. _thou art_ F2 F3 F4.
31: _it is_] _is it_ Steevens conj. (ed. 1, 2, and 3). om. Steevens
(ed. 4) (Farmer conj.).
34, 35: _I do beseech you,–Chiefly_] _I do beseech you Chiefly_ Ff.
59: _I therein do_] _I do_ Pope. _Therein_ Steevens.
62: _wooden_] _wodden_ F1.
_than to_] _than I would_ Pope.
72: _what else_] _aught else_ Malone conj. (withdrawn).
80: _seeks_] _seekd_ F3 F4.
88: _as_] F1. _so_ F2 F3 F4.
91: _severally_] Capell.
93: _withal_] Theobald. _with all_ Ff.
SCENE II. _Another part of the island._
_Enter CALIBAN, STEPHANO, and TRINCULO._
_Ste._ Tell not me;–when the butt is out, we will drink
water; not a drop before: therefore bear up, and board ’em.
Servant-monster, drink to me.
_Trin._ Servant-monster! the folly of this island! They
say there’s but five upon this isle: we are three of them; if 5
th’ other two be brained like us, the state totters.
_Ste._ Drink, servant-monster, when I bid thee: thy eyes
are almost set in thy head.
_Trin._ Where should they be set else? he were a brave
monster indeed, if they were set in his tail. 10
_Ste._ My man-monster hath drowned his tongue in sack:
for my part, the sea cannot drown me; I swam, ere I could
recover the shore, five-and-thirty leagues off and on. By
this light, thou shalt be my lieutenant, monster, or my
_Trin._ Your lieutenant, if you list; he’s no standard.
_Ste._ We’ll not run, Monsieur Monster.
_Trin._ Nor go neither; but you’ll lie, like dogs, and
yet say nothing neither.
_Ste._ Moon-calf, speak once in thy life, if thou beest a 20
_Cal._ How does thy honour? Let me lick thy shoe.
I’ll not serve him, he is not valiant.
_Trin._ Thou liest, most ignorant monster: I am in case
to justle a constable. Why, thou debauched fish, thou, was 25
there ever man a coward that hath drunk so much sack as
I to-day? Wilt thou tell a monstrous lie, being but half a
fish and half a monster?
_Cal._ Lo, how he mocks me! wilt thou let him, my lord?
_Trin._ ‘Lord,’ quoth he! That a monster should be 30
such a natural!
_Cal._ Lo, lo, again! bite him to death, I prithee.
_Ste._ Trinculo, keep a good tongue in your head: if you
prove a mutineer,–the next tree! The poor monster’s my
subject, and he shall not suffer indignity. 35
_Cal._ I thank my noble lord. Wilt thou be pleased to
hearken once again to the suit I made to thee?
_Ste._ Marry, will I: kneel and repeat it; I will stand,
and so shall Trinculo.
_Enter ARIEL, invisible._
_Cal._ As I told thee before, I am subject to a tyrant, a 40
sorcerer, that by his cunning hath cheated me of the island.
_Ari._ Thou liest.
_Cal._ Thou liest, thou jesting monkey, thou:
I would my valiant master would destroy thee!
I do not lie.
_Ste._ Trinculo, if you trouble him any more in’s tale, by 45
this hand, I will supplant some of your teeth.
_Trin._ Why, I said nothing.
_Ste._ Mum, then, and no more. Proceed.
_Cal._ I say, by sorcery he got this isle;
From me he got it. If thy greatness will 50
Revenge it on him,–for I know thou darest,
But this thing dare not,–
_Ste._ That’s most certain.
_Cal._ Thou shalt be lord of it, and I’ll serve thee.
_Ste._ How now shall this be compassed? Canst thou 55
bring me to the party?
_Cal._ Yea, yea, my lord: I’ll yield him thee asleep,
Where thou mayst knock a nail into his head.
_Ari._ Thou liest; thou canst not.
_Cal._ What a pied ninny’s this! Thou scurvy patch! 60
I do beseech thy Greatness, give him blows,
And take his bottle from him: when that’s gone,
He shall drink nought but brine; for I’ll not show him
Where the quick freshes are.
_Ste._ Trinculo, run into no further danger: interrupt the 65
monster one word further, and, by this hand, I’ll turn my
mercy out o’ doors, and make a stock-fish of thee.
_Trin._ Why, what did I? I did nothing. I’ll go farther
_Ste._ Didst thou not say he lied? 70
_Ari._ Thou liest.
_Ste._ Do I so? take thou that. [_Beats him._] As you
like this, give me the lie another time.
_Trin._ I did not give the lie. Out o’ your wits, and
hearing too? A pox o’ your bottle! this can sack and 75
drinking do. A murrain on your monster, and the devil
take your fingers!
_Cal._ Ha, ha, ha!
_Ste._ Now, forward with your tale. –Prithee, stand farther
_Cal._ Beat him enough: after a little time,
I’ll beat him too.
_Ste._ Stand farther. Come, proceed.
_Cal._ Why, as I told thee, ’tis a custom with him
I’ th’ afternoon to sleep: there thou mayst brain him,
Having first seized his books; or with a log 85
Batter his skull, or paunch him with a stake,
Or cut his wezand with thy knife. Remember
First to possess his books; for without them
He’s but a sot, as I am, nor hath not
One spirit to command: they all do hate him 90
As rootedly as I. Burn but his books.
He has brave utensils,–for so he calls them,–
Which, when he has a house, he’ll deck withal.
And that most deeply to consider is
The beauty of his daughter; he himself 95
Calls her a nonpareil: I never saw a woman,
But only Sycorax my dam and she;
But she as far surpasseth Sycorax
As great’st does least.
_Ste._ Is it so brave a lass?
_Cal._ Ay, lord; she will become thy bed, I warrant, 100
And bring thee forth brave brood.
_Ste._ Monster, I will kill this man: his daughter and I
will be king and queen,–save our Graces!–and Trinculo
and thyself shall be viceroys. Dost thou like the plot,
_Ste._ Give me thy hand: I am sorry I beat thee; but,
while thou livest, keep a good tongue in thy head.
_Cal._ Within this half hour will he be asleep:
Wilt thou destroy him then?
_Ste._ Ay, on mine honour. 110
_Ari._ This will I tell my master.
_Cal._ Thou makest me merry; I am full of pleasure:
Let us be jocund: will you troll the catch
You taught me but while-ere?
_Ste._ At thy request, monster, I will do reason, any 115
reason. –Come on. Trinculo, let us sing. [_Sings._
Flout ’em and scout ’em, and scout ’em and flout ’em;
Thought is free.
_Cal._ That’s not the tune.
[_Ariel plays the tune on a tabor and pipe._
_Ste._ What is this same? 120
_Trin._ This is the tune of our catch, played by the picture
_Ste._ If thou beest a man, show thyself in thy likeness:
if thou beest a devil, take’t as thou list.
_Trin._ O, forgive me my sins! 125
_Ste._ He that dies pays all debts: I defy thee. Mercy
_Cal._ Art thou afeard?
_Ste._ No, monster, not I.
_Cal._ Be not afeard; the isle is full of noises, 130
Sounds and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not.
Sometimes a thousand twangling instruments
Will hum about mine ears; and sometime voices,
That, if I then had waked after long sleep,
Will make me sleep again: and then, in dreaming, 135
The clouds methought would open, and show riches
Ready to drop upon me; that, when I waked,
I cried to dream again.
_Ste._ This will prove a brave kingdom to me, where I
shall have my music for nothing. 140
_Cal._ When Prospero is destroyed.
_Ste._ That shall be by and by: I remember the story.
_Trin._ The sound is going away; let’s follow it, and
after do our work.
_Ste._ Lead, monster; we’ll follow. I would I could see 145
this taborer; he lays it on.
SCENE II. Another…] Theobald. The other… Pope.
Enter …] Enter S. and T. reeling, Caliban following with a bottle.
Capell. Enter C. S. and T. with a bottle. Johnson.]
8: _head_] F1. _heart_ F2 F3 F4.
13, 14: _on. By this light, thou_] _on, by this light thou_ Ff.
_on, by this light. –Thou_ Capell.
25: _debauched_] _debosh’d_ Ff.
37: _to the suit I made to thee_] _the suit I made thee_ Steevens,
who prints all Caliban’s speeches as verse.
60: Johnson conjectured that this line was spoken by Stephano.
68: _farther_] F1 _no further_ F2 F3 F4.
72: [Beats him.] Rowe.
84: _there_] _then_ Collier MS.
89: _nor_] _and_ Pope.
93: _deck_] _deck’t_ Hanmer.
96: _I never saw a woman_] _I ne’er saw woman_ Pope.
99: _great’st does least_] _greatest does the least_ Rowe.
115, 116:] Printed as verse in Ff.
115: _any_] F1. _and_ F2 F3 F4.
117: _scout ’em, and scout ’em_] Pope. _cout ’em and skowt ’em_ Ff.
125: _sins_] _sin_ F4.
132: _twangling_] _twanging_ Pope.
133: _sometime_] F1. _sometimes_ F2 F3 F4.
137: _that_] om. Pope.
147: Trin. _Will come? I’ll follow, Stephano_] Trin. _Wilt come?_
Ste. _I’ll follow._ Capell. Ste. _… Wilt come?_
Trin. _I’ll follow, Stephano._ Ritson conj.
SCENE III. _Another part of the island._
_Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO,
_Gon._ By’r lakin, I can go no further, sir;
My old bones ache: here’s a maze trod, indeed,
Through forth-rights and meanders! By your patience,
I needs must rest me.
_Alon._ Old lord, I cannot blame thee,
Who am myself attach’d with weariness, 5
To the dulling of my spirits: sit down, and rest.
Even here I will put off my hope, and keep it
No longer for my flatterer: he is drown’d
Whom thus we stray to find; and the sea mocks
Our frustrate search on land. Well, let him go. 10
_Ant._ [_Aside to Seb._] I am right glad that he’s so out of hope.
Do not, for one repulse, forego the purpose
That you resolved to effect.
_Seb._ [_Aside to Ant._] The next advantage
Will we take throughly.
_Ant._ [_Aside to Seb._] Let it be to-night;
For, now they are oppress’d with travel, they 15
Will not, nor cannot, use such vigilance
As when they are fresh.
_Seb._ [_Aside to Ant._] I say, to-night: no more.
[_Solemn and strange music._
_Alon._ What harmony is this?–My good friends, hark!
_Gon._ Marvellous sweet music!
_Enter PROSPERO above, invisible. Enter several strange Shapes,
bringing in a banquet: they dance about it with gentle actions of
salutation; and, inviting the King, &c. to eat, they depart._
_Alon._ Give us kind keepers, heavens!–What were these? 20
_Seb._ A living drollery. Now I will believe
That there are unicorns; that in Arabia
There is one tree, the phœnix’ throne; one phœnix
At this hour reigning there.
_Ant._ I’ll believe both;
And what does else want credit, come to me, 25
And I’ll be sworn ’tis true: travellers ne’er did lie,
Though fools at home condemn ’em.
_Gon._ If in Naples
I should report this now, would they believe me?
If I should say, I saw such islanders,–
For, certes, these are people of the island,– 30
Who, though they are of monstrous shape, yet, note,
Their manners are more gentle-kind than of
Our human generation you shall find
Many, nay, almost any.
_Pros._ [_Aside_] Honest lord,
Thou hast said well; for some of you there present 35
Are worse than devils.
_Alon._ I cannot too much muse
Such shapes, such gesture, and such sound, expressing–
Although they want the use of tongue–a kind
Of excellent dumb discourse.
_Pros._ [_Aside_] Praise in departing.
_Fran._ They vanish’d strangely.
_Seb._ No matter, since 40
They have left their viands behind; for we have stomachs.–
Will’t please you taste of what is here?
_Alon._ Not I.
_Gon._ Faith, sir, you need not fear. When we were boys,
Who would believe that there were mountaineers
Dew-lapp’d like bulls, whose throats had hanging at ’em 45
Wallets of flesh? or that there were such men
Whose heads stood in their breasts? which now we find
Each putter-out of five for one will bring us
Good warrant of.
_Alon._ I will stand to, and feed,
Although my last: no matter, since I feel 50
The best is past. Brother, my lord the duke,
Stand to, and do as we.
_Thunder and lightning. Enter ARIEL, like a harpy; claps his
wings upon the table; and, with a quaint device, the banquet
_Ari._ You are three men of sin, whom Destiny,–
That hath to instrument this lower world
And what is in’t,–the never-surfeited sea 55
Hath caused to belch up you; and on this island,
Where man doth not inhabit,–you ’mongst men
Being most unfit to live. I have made you mad;
And even with such-like valour men hang and drown
Their proper selves. [_Alon., Seb. &c. draw their swords._
You fools! I and my fellows 60
Are ministers of Fate: the elements,
Of whom your swords are temper’d, may as well
Wound the loud winds, or with bemock’d-at stabs
Kill the still-closing waters, as diminish
One dowle that’s in my plume: my fellow-ministers 65
Are like invulnerable. If you could hurt,
Your swords are now too massy for your strengths,
And will not be uplifted. But remember,–
For that’s my business to you,–that you three
From Milan did supplant good Prospero; 70
Exposed unto the sea, which hath requit it,
Him and his innocent child: for which foul deed
The powers, delaying, not forgetting, have
Incensed the seas and shores, yea, all the creatures,
Against your peace. Thee of thy son, Alonso, 75
They have bereft; and do pronounce by me:
Lingering perdition–worse than any death
Can be at once–shall step by step attend
You and your ways; whose wraths to guard you from,–
Which here, in this most desolate isle, else falls 80
Upon your heads,–is nothing but heart-sorrow
And a clear life ensuing.
_He vanishes in thunder; then, to soft music, enter the Shapes
again, and dance, with mocks and mows, and carrying out the
_Pros._ Bravely the figure of this harpy hast thou
Perform’d, my Ariel; a grace it had, devouring:
Of my instruction hast thou nothing bated 85
In what thou hadst to say: so, with good life
And observation strange, my meaner ministers
Their several kinds have done. My high charms work,
And these mine enemies are all knit up
In their distractions: they now are in my power; 90
And in these fits I leave them, while I visit
Young Ferdinand,–whom they suppose is drown’d,–
And his and mine loved darling. [_Exit above._
_Gon._ I’ the name of something holy, sir, why stand you
In this strange stare?
_Alon._ O, it is monstrous, monstrous! 95
Methought the billows spoke, and told me of it;
The winds did sing it to me; and the thunder,
That deep and dreadful organ-pipe, pronounced
The name of Prosper: it did bass my trespass.
Therefore my son i’ th’ ooze is bedded; and 100
I’ll seek him deeper than e’er plummet sounded,
And with him there lie mudded. [_Exit._
_Seb._ But one fiend at a time,
I’ll fight their legions o’er.
_Ant._ I’ll be thy second.
[_Exeunt Seb. and Ant._
_Gon._ All three of them are desperate: their great guilt,
Like poison given to work a great time after, 105
Now ’gins to bite the spirits. I do beseech you,
That are of suppler joints, follow them swiftly,
And hinder them from what this ecstasy
May now provoke them to.
_Adr._ Follow, I pray you. [_Exeunt._
Notes: III, 3.
2: _ache_] _ake_ F2 F3 F4. _akes_ F1.
3: _forth-rights_] F2 F3 F4. _fourth rights_ F1.
8: _flatterer_] F1. _flatterers_ F2 F3 F4.
17: Prospero above] Malone. Prosper on the top Ff. See note (XIV).
20: _were_] F1 F2 F3. _are_ F4.
26: _’tis true_] _to ’t_ Steevens conj.
_did lie_] _lied_ Hanmer.
29: _islanders_] F2 F3 F4. _islands_ F1.
32: _gentle-kind_] Theobald. _gentle, kind_ Ff. _gentle kind_ Rowe.
36: _muse_] F1 F2 F3. _muse_, F4. _muse_; Capell.
48: _of five for one_] Ff. _on five for one_ Theobald.
_of one for five_ Malone, (Thirlby conj.) See note (XV).
49-51: _I will … past_] Mason conjectured that these lines formed
a rhyming couplet.
53: SCENE IV. Pope.
54: _instrument_] _instruments_ F4.
56: _belch up you_] F1 F2 F3. _belch you up_ F4. _belch up_ Theobald.
60: [… draw their swords] Hanmer.
65: _dowle_] _down_ Pope.]
_plume_] Rowe. _plumbe_ F1 F2 F3. _plumb_ F4.
67: _strengths_] _strength_ F4.
79: _wraths_] _wrath_ Theobald.
81: _heart-sorrow_] Edd. _hearts-sorrow_ Ff. _heart’s-sorrow_ Rowe.
_heart’s sorrow_ Pope.
82: mocks] mopps Theobald.
86: _life_] _list_ Johnson conj.
90: _now_] om. Pope.
92: _whom_] _who_ Hanmer.
93: _mine_] _my_ Rowe.
[Exit above] Theobald.]
94: _something holy, sir_,] _something, holy Sir_, F4.
99: _bass_] Johnson. _base_ Ff.
106: _do_] om. Pope.
_Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, GONZALO, ADRIAN, FRANCISCO,
_Gon._ Beseech you, sir, be merry; you have cause,
So have we all, of joy; for our escape
Is much beyond our loss. Our hint of woe
Is common; every day, some sailor’s wife,
The masters of some merchant, and the merchant, 5
Have just our theme of woe; but for the miracle,
I mean our preservation, few in millions
Can speak like us: then wisely, good sir, weigh
Our sorrow with our comfort.
_Alon._ Prithee, peace.
_Seb._ He receives comfort like cold porridge. 10
_Ant._ The visitor will not give him o’er so.
_Seb._ Look, he’s winding up the watch of his wit; by
and by it will strike.
_Seb._ One: tell. 15
_Gon._ When every grief is entertain’d that’s offer’d,
Comes to the entertainer–
_Seb._ A dollar.
_Gon._ Dolour comes to him, indeed: you have spoken
truer than you purposed. 20
_Seb._ You have taken it wiselier than I meant you should.
_Gon._ Therefore, my lord,–
_Ant._ Fie, what a spendthrift is he of his tongue!
_Alon._ I prithee, spare.
_Gon._ Well, I have done: but yet,– 25
_Seb._ He will be talking.
_Ant._ Which, of he or Adrian, for a good wager, first
begins to crow?
_Seb._ The old cock.
_Ant._ The cockerel. 30
_Seb._ Done. The wager?
_Ant._ A laughter.
_Seb._ A match!
_Adr._ Though this island seem to be desert,–
_Seb._ Ha, ha, ha!–So, you’re paid. 35
_Adr._ Uninhabitable, and almost inaccessible,–
_Ant._ He could not miss’t.
_Adr._ It must needs be of subtle, tender and delicate 40
_Ant._ Temperance was a delicate wench.
_Seb._ Ay, and a subtle; as he most learnedly delivered.
_Adr._ The air breathes upon us here most sweetly.
_Seb._ As if it had lungs, and rotten ones. 45
_Ant._ Or as ’twere perfumed by a fen.
_Gon._ Here is every thing advantageous to life.
_Ant._ True; save means to live.
_Seb._ Of that there’s none, or little.
_Gon._ How lush and lusty the grass looks! how green! 50
_Ant._ The ground, indeed, is tawny.
_Seb._ With an eye of green in’t.
_Ant._ He misses not much.
_Seb._ No; he doth but mistake the truth totally.
_Gon._ But the rarity of it is,–which is indeed almost 55
_Seb._ As many vouched rarities are.
_Gon._ That our garments, being, as they were, drenched
in the sea, hold, notwithstanding, their freshness and glosses,
being rather new-dyed than stained with salt water. 60
_Ant._ If but one of his pockets could speak, would it
not say he lies?
_Seb._ Ay, or very falsely pocket up his report.
_Gon._ Methinks our garments are now as fresh as when
we put them on first in Afric, at the marriage of the king’s 65
fair daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis.
_Seb._ ’Twas a sweet marriage, and we prosper well in
_Adr._ Tunis was never graced before with such a paragon
to their queen. 70
_Gon._ Not since widow Dido’s time.
_Ant._ Widow! a pox o’ that! How came that widow
in? widow Dido!
_Seb._ What if he had said ‘widower Æneas’ too? Good
Lord, how you take it! 75
_Adr._ ‘Widow Dido’ said you? you make me study of
that: she was of Carthage, not of Tunis.
_Gon._ This Tunis, sir, was Carthage.
_Gon._ I assure you, Carthage. 80
_Seb._ His word is more than the miraculous harp; he
hath raised the wall, and houses too.
_Ant._ What impossible matter will he make easy next?
_Seb._ I think he will carry this island home in his
pocket, and give it his son for an apple. 85
_Ant._ And, sowing the kernels of it in the sea, bring
forth more islands.
_Ant._ Why, in good time.
_Gon._ Sir, we were talking that our garments seem now 90
as fresh as when we were at Tunis at the marriage of your
daughter, who is now queen.
_Ant._ And the rarest that e’er came there.
_Seb._ Bate, I beseech you, widow Dido.
_Ant._ O, widow Dido! ay, widow Dido. 95
_Gon._ Is not, sir, my doublet as fresh as the first day I
wore it? I mean, in a sort.
_Ant._ That sort was well fished for.
_Gon._ When I wore it at your daughter’s marriage?
_Alon._ You cram these words into mine ears against 100
The stomach of my sense. Would I had never
Married my daughter there! for, coming thence,
My son is lost, and, in my rate, she too.
Who is so far from Italy removed
I ne’er again shall see her. O thou mine heir 105
Of Naples and of Milan, what strange fish
Hath made his meal on thee?
_Fran._ Sir, he may live:
I saw him beat the surges under him,
And ride upon their backs; he trod the water.
Whose enmity he flung aside, and breasted 110
The surge most swoln that met him; his bold head
’Bove the contentious waves he kept, and oar’d
Himself with his good arms in lusty stroke
To the shore, that o’er his wave-worn basis bow’d,
As stooping to relieve him: I not doubt 115
He came alive to land.
_Alon._ No, no, he’s gone.
_Seb._ Sir, you may thank yourself for this great loss,
That would not bless our Europe with your daughter,
But rather lose her to an African;
Where she, at least, is banish’d from your eye, 120
Who hath cause to wet the grief on’t.
_Alon._ Prithee, peace.
_Seb._ You were kneel’d to, and importuned otherwise,
By all of us; and the fair soul herself
Weigh’d between loathness and obedience, at
Which end o’ the beam should bow. We have lost your son, 125
I fear, for ever: Milan and Naples have
More widows in them of this business’ making
Than we bring men to comfort them:
The fault’s your own.
_Alon._ So is the dear’st o’ the loss.
_Gon._ My lord Sebastian, 130
The truth you speak doth lack some gentleness,
And time to speak it in: you rub the sore,
When you should bring the plaster.
_Seb._ Very well.
_Ant._ And most chirurgeonly.
_Gon._ It is foul weather in us all, good sir, 135
When you are cloudy.
_Seb._ Foul weather?
_Ant._ Very foul.
_Gon._ Had I plantation of this isle, my lord,–
_Ant._ He’ld sow’t with nettle-seed.
_Seb._ Or docks, or mallows.
_Gon._ And were the king on’t, what would I do?
_Seb._ ’Scape being drunk for want of wine. 140
_Gon._ I’ the commonwealth I would by contraries
Execute all things; for no kind of traffic
Would I admit; no name of magistrate;
Letters should not be known; riches, poverty,
And use of service, none; contract, succession, 145
Bourn, bound of land, tilth, vineyard, none;
No use of metal, corn, or wine, or oil;
No occupation; all men idle, all;
And women too, but innocent and pure;
No sovereignty;– 150
_Seb._ Yet he would be king on’t.
_Ant._ The latter end of his commonwealth forgets the
_Gon._ All things in common nature should produce
Without sweat or endeavour: treason, felony,
Sword, pike, knife, gun, or need of any engine, 155
Would I not have; but nature should bring forth,
Of its own kind, all foison, all abundance,
To feed my innocent people.
_Seb._ No marrying ’mong his subjects?
_Ant._ None, man; all idle; whores and knaves. 160
_Gon._ I would with such perfection govern, sir,
To excel the golden age.
_Seb._ ’Save his majesty!
_Ant._ Long live Gonzalo!
_Gon._ And,–do you mark me, sir?
_Alon._ Prithee, no more: thou dost talk nothing to me.
_Gon._ I do well believe your highness; and did it to minister 165
occasion to these gentlemen, who are of such sensible
and nimble lungs that they always use to laugh at nothing.
_Ant._ ’Twas you we laughed at.
_Gon._ Who in this kind of merry fooling am nothing to
you: so you may continue, and laugh at nothing still. 170
_Ant._ What a blow was there given!
_Seb._ An it had not fallen flat-long.
_Gon._ You are gentlemen of brave mettle; you would
lift the moon out of her sphere, if she would continue in it
five weeks without changing. 175
_Enter ARIEL (invisible) playing solemn music._
_Seb._ We would so, and then go a bat-fowling.
_Ant._ Nay, good my lord, be not angry.
_Gon._ No, I warrant you; I will not adventure my discretion
so weakly. Will you laugh me asleep, for I am very
_Ant._ Go sleep, and hear us.
[_All sleep except Alon., Seb., and Ant._
_Alon._ What, all so soon asleep! I wish mine eyes
Would, with themselves, shut up my thoughts: I find
They are inclined to do so.
_Seb._ Please you, sir,
Do not omit the heavy offer of it: 185
It seldom visits sorrow; when it doth,
It is a comforter.
_Ant._ We two, my lord,
Will guard your person while you take your rest,
And watch your safety.
_Seb._ What a strange drowsiness possesses them! 190
_Ant._ It is the quality o’ the climate.
Doth it not then our eyelids sink? I find not
Myself disposed to sleep.
_Ant._ Nor I; my spirits are nimble.
They fell together all, as by consent;
They dropp’d, as by a thunder-stroke. What might, 195
Worthy Sebastian?–O, what might?–No more:–
And yet methinks I see it in thy face,
What thou shouldst be: the occasion speaks thee; and
My strong imagination sees a crown
Dropping upon thy head.
_Seb._ What, art thou waking? 200
_Ant._ Do you not hear me speak?
_Seb._ I do; and surely
It is a sleepy language, and thou speak’st
Out of thy sleep. What is it thou didst say?
This is a strange repose, to be asleep
With eyes wide open; standing, speaking, moving, 205
And yet so fast asleep.
_Seb._ Thou dost snore distinctly;
There’s meaning in thy snores.
_Ant._ I am more serious than my custom: you 210
Must be so too, if heed me; which to do
Trebles thee o’er.
_Seb._ Well, I am standing water.
_Ant._ I’ll teach you how to flow.
_Seb._ Do so: to ebb
Hereditary sloth instructs me.
If you but knew how you the purpose cherish 215
Whiles thus you mock it! how, in stripping it,
You more invest it! Ebbing men, indeed,
Most often do so near the bottom run
By their own fear or sloth.
_Seb._ Prithee, say on:
The setting of thine eye and cheek proclaim 220
A matter from thee; and a birth, indeed,
Which throes thee much to yield.
_Ant._ Thus, sir:
Although this lord of weak remembrance, this,
Who shall be of as little memory
When he is earth’d, hath here almost persuaded,– 225
For he’s a spirit of persuasion, only
Professes to persuade,–the king his son’s alive,
’Tis as impossible that he’s undrown’d
As he that sleeps here swims.
_Seb._ I have no hope
That he’s undrown’d.
_Ant._ O, out of that ‘no hope’ 230
What great hope have you! no hope that way is
Another way so high a hope that even
Ambition cannot pierce a wink beyond,
But doubt discovery there. Will you grant with me
That Ferdinand is drown’d?
_Seb._ He’s gone.
_Ant._ Then, tell me, 235
Who’s the next heir of Naples?
_Ant._ She that is queen of Tunis; she that dwells
Ten leagues beyond man’s life; she that from Naples
Can have no note, unless the sun were post,–
The man i’ the moon’s too slow,–till new-born chins 240
Be rough and razorable; she that from whom
We all were sea-swallow’d, though some cast again,
And by that destiny, to perform an act
Whereof what’s past is prologue; what to come,
In yours and my discharge.
_Seb._ What stuff is this! How say you? 245
’Tis true, my brother’s daughter’s queen of Tunis;
So is she heir of Naples; ’twixt which regions
There is some space.
_Ant._ A space whose every cubit
Seems to cry out, “How shall that Claribel
Measure us back to Naples? Keep in Tunis, 250
And let Sebastian wake.” Say, this were death
That now hath seized them; why, they were no worse
Than now they are. There be that can rule Naples
As well as he that sleeps; lords that can prate
As amply and unnecessarily 255
As this Gonzalo; I myself could make
A chough of as deep chat. O, that you bore
The mind that I do! what a sleep were this
For your advancement! Do you understand me?
_Seb._ Methinks I do.
_Ant._ And how does your content 260
Tender your own good fortune?
_Seb._ I remember
You did supplant your brother Prospero.
And look how well my garments sit upon me;
Much feater than before: my brother’s servants
Were then my fellows; now they are my men. 265
_Seb._ But for your conscience.
_Ant._ Ay, sir; where lies that? if ’twere a kibe,
’Twould put me to my slipper: but I feel not
This deity in my bosom: twenty consciences,
That stand ’twixt me and Milan, candied be they, 270
And melt, ere they molest! Here lies your brother,
No better than the earth he lies upon,
If he were that which now he’s like, that’s dead;
Whom I, with this obedient steel, three inches of it,
Can lay to bed for ever; whiles you, doing thus, 275
To the perpetual wink for aye might put
This ancient morsel, this Sir Prudence, who
Should not upbraid our course. For all the rest,
They’ll take suggestion as a cat laps milk;
They’ll tell the clock to any business that 280
We say befits the hour.
_Seb._ Thy case, dear friend,
Shall be my precedent; as thou got’st Milan,
I’ll come by Naples. Draw thy sword: one stroke
Shall free thee from the tribute which thou payest;
And I the king shall love thee.
_Ant._ Draw together; 285
And when I rear my hand, do you the like,
To fall it on Gonzalo.
_Seb._ O, but one word. [_They talk apart._
_Re-enter ARIEL invisible._
_Ari._ My master through his art foresees the danger
That you, his friend, are in; and sends me forth,–
For else his project dies,–to keep them living. 290
[_Sings in Gonzalo’s ear._
While you here do snoring lie,
His time doth take.
If of life you keep a care,
Shake off slumber, and beware: 295
_Ant._ Then let us both be sudden.
_Gon._ Now, good angels
Preserve the king! [_They wake._
_Alon._ Why, how now? ho, awake!–Why are you drawn?
Wherefore this ghastly looking?
_Gon._ What’s the matter? 300
_Seb._ Whiles we stood here securing your repose,
Even now, we heard a hollow burst of bellowing
Like bulls, or rather lions: did’t not wake you?
It struck mine ear most terribly.
_Alon._ I heard nothing.
_Ant._ O, ’twas a din to fright a monster’s ear, 305
To make an earthquake! sure, it was the roar
Of a whole herd of lions.
_Alon._ Heard you this, Gonzalo?
_Gon._ Upon mine honour, sir, I heard a humming,
And that a strange one too, which did awake me:
I shaked you, sir, and cried: as mine eyes open’d, 310
I saw their weapons drawn:–there was a noise,
That’s verily. ’Tis best we stand upon our guard,
Or that we quit this place: let’s draw our weapons.
_Alon._ Lead off this ground; and let’s make further search
For my poor son.
_Gon._ Heavens keep him from these beasts! 315
For he is, sure, i’ th’ island.
_Alon._ Lead away.
_Ari._ Prospero my lord shall know what I have done:
So, king, go safely on to seek thy son. [_Exeunt._
Notes: II, 1.
3: _hint_] _stint_ Warburton.
5: _masters_] _master_ Johnson. _mistress_ Steevens conj.
_master’s_ Edd. conj.
6: _of woe_] om. Steevens conj.
11-99: Marked as interpolated by Pope.
11: _visitor_] _’viser_ Warburton.
_him_] om. Rowe.
15: _one_] F1. _on_ F2 F3 F4.
16: _entertain’d … Comes_] Capell. _entertain’d, That’s offer’d
comes_] Ff. Printed as prose by Pope.
27: _of he_] Ff. _of them, he_ Pope. _or he_ Collier MS.
See note (VII).
35: Seb. _Ha, ha, ha!–So you’re paid_] Theobald. Seb. _Ha, ha, ha!_
Ant. _So you’r paid_ Ff. Ant. _So you’ve paid_ Capell.
81, 82: Seb. _His … too_] Edd. Ant. _His … harp._
Seb. _He … too_ Ff.
88: _Ay._] I. Ff. _Ay?_ Pope.
96: _sir, my doublet_] F1. _my doublet, sir_ F2 F3 F4.
113: _stroke_] F1 F2 F3. _strokes_ F4.
124: _Weigh’d_] _Sway’d_ S. Verges conj.
_at_] _as_ Collier MS.]
125: _o’ the_] _the_ Pope.
_should_] _she’d_ Malone.
129: _The fault’s your own_] _the fault’s your own_ (at the end
of 128) Capell. _the fault’s Your own_ Malone.
137: _plantation_] _the plantation_ Rowe. _the planting_ Hanmer.
139: _on’t_] _of it_ Hanmer.
144: _riches, poverty_] _wealth, poverty_ Pope. _poverty, riches_
145: _contract, succession_] _succession, Contract_ Malone conj.
_succession, None_ id. conj.
146: _none_] _olives, none_ Hanmer.
157: _its_] F3 F4. _it_ F1 F2. See note (VIII).
162: _’Save_] F1 F2 F3. _Save_ F4. _God save_ Edd. conj.
175: Enter … invisible … music.] Malone. Enter Ariel, playing
solemn music. Ff. om. Pope. [Solemn music. Capell.
181: [All sleep … Ant.] Stage direction to the same effect,
first inserted by Capell.
182-189: Text as in Pope. In Ff. the lines begin _Would … I find
… Do not … It seldom … We two … While … Thank._
189: [Exit Ariel] Malone.
192: _find not_ Pope. _find Not_ Ff.
211: _so too, if heed_] _so too, if you heed_ Rowe.
_so, if you heed_ Pope.
212: _Trebles thee o’er_] _Troubles thee o’er_ Pope.
_Troubles thee not_ Hanmer.
222: _throes_] Pope. _throwes_ F1 F2 F3. _throws_ F4.
_Thus, sir_] _Why then thus Sir_ Hanmer.
226: _he’s_] _he’as_ Hanmer. _he_ Johnson conj.
227: _Professes to persuade_] om. Steevens.
234: _doubt_] _drops_ Hanmer. _doubts_ Capell.
241: _she that from whom_] Ff. _she from whom_ Rowe.
_she for whom_ Pope. _she from whom coming_ Singer.
_she that–from whom?_ Spedding conj. See note (IX).
242: _all_] om. Pope.
243: _And … to perform_] _May … perform_ Pope. _And by that
destin’d to perform_ Musgrave conj. _(And that by destiny)
to perform_ Staunton conj.
244: _is_] F1. _in_ F2 F3 F4.
245: _In_] _Is_ Pope.
250: _to_] F1. _by_ F2 F3 F4.
_Keep_] _Sleep_ Johnson conj.
251: See note (X).
267: _’twere_] _it were_ Singer.
267-271: Pope ends the lines with _that? … slipper … bosom …
Milan … molest … brother._
267: See note (XI).
269: _twenty_] _Ten_ Pope.
270: _stand_] _stood_ Hanmer.
_candied_] _Discandy’d_ Upton conj.
271: _And melt_] _Would melt_ Johnson conj. _Or melt_ id. conj.
273, 274: _like, that’s dead; Whom I, with_] _like, whom I With_
Steevens (Farmer conj.).
275: _whiles_] om. Pope.
277: _morsel_] _Moral_ Warburton.
280, 281: _business … hour._] _hour … business._ Farmer conj.
282: _precedent_] Pope. _president_ Ff.
_O_] om. Pope.
[They talk apart] Capell.
Re-enter Ariel invisible.] Capell. Enter Ariel with music and
289: _you, his friend,_] _these, his friends_ Steevens
289, 290: _friend … project dies … them_] _friend … projects
dies … you_ Hanmer. _friend … projects die … them_
Malone conj. _friend … project dies … thee_ Dyce.
298: [They wake.] Rowe.
300: _this_] _thus_ Collier MS.
307: _Gonzalo_] om. Pope.
312: _verily_] _verity_ Pope.
_upon our guard_] _on guard_ Pope.
SCENE II. _Another part of the island._
_Enter CALIBAN with a burden of wood. A noise of thunder heard._
_Cal._ All the infections that the sun sucks up
From bogs, fens, flats, on Prosper fall, and make him
By inch-meal a disease! His spirits hear me,
And yet I needs must curse. But they’ll nor pinch,
Fright me with urchin-shows, pitch me i’ the mire, 5
Nor lead me, like a firebrand, in the dark
Out of my way, unless he bid ’em: but
For every trifle are they set upon me;
Sometime like apes, that mow and chatter at me,
And after bite me; then like hedgehogs, which 10
Lie tumbling in my barefoot way, and mount
Their pricks at my footfall; sometime am I
All wound with adders, who with cloven tongues
Do hiss me into madness.
Lo, now, lo!
Here comes a spirit of his, and to torment me 15
For bringing wood in slowly. I’ll fall flat;
Perchance he will not mind me.
_Trin._ Here’s neither bush nor shrub, to bear off any
weather at all, and another storm brewing; I hear it sing i’
the wind: yond same black cloud, yond huge one, looks 20
like a foul bombard that would shed his liquor. If it should
thunder as it did before, I know not where to hide my head:
yond same cloud cannot choose but fall by pailfuls. What
have we here? a man or a fish? dead or alive? A fish: he
smells like a fish; a very ancient and fish-like smell; a kind 25
of not of the newest Poor-John. A strange fish! Were I
in England now, as once I was, and had but this fish
painted, not a holiday fool there but would give a piece of
silver: there would this monster make a man; any strange
beast there makes a man: when they will not give a doit to 30
relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten to see a dead
Indian. Legged like a man! and his fins like arms! Warm
o’ my troth! I do now let loose my opinion; hold it no
longer: this is no fish, but an islander, that hath lately
suffered by a thunderbolt. [_Thunder._] Alas, the storm is come 35
again! my best way is to creep under his gaberdine; there
is no other shelter hereabout: misery acquaints a man with
strange bed-fellows. I will here shroud till the dregs of the
storm be past.
_Enter STEPHANO, singing: a bottle in his hand._
_Ste._ I shall no more to sea, to sea, 40
Here shall I die a-shore,–
This is a very scurvy tune to sing at a man’s funeral: well,
here’s my comfort. [_Drinks._
[_Sings._ The master, the swabber, the boatswain, and I,
The gunner, and his mate, 45
Loved Mall, Meg, and Marian, and Margery,
But none of us cared for Kate;
For she had a tongue with a tang,
Would cry to a sailor, Go hang!
She loved not the savour of tar nor of pitch; 50
Yet a tailor might scratch her where’er she did itch.
Then, to sea, boys, and let her go hang!
This is a scurvy tune too: but here’s my comfort. [_Drinks._
_Cal._ Do not torment me:–O!
_Ste._ What’s the matter? Have we devils here? Do 55
you put tricks upon ’s with savages and men of Ind, ha? I
have not scaped drowning, to be afeard now of your four
legs; for it hath been said, As proper a man as ever went
on four legs cannot make him give ground; and it shall be
said so again, while Stephano breathes at’s nostrils. 60
_Cal._ The spirit torments me:–O!
_Ste._ This is some monster of the isle with four legs, who
hath got, as I take it, an ague. Where the devil should he
learn our language? I will give him some relief, if it be
but for that. If I can recover him, and keep him tame, and 65
get to Naples with him, he’s a present for any emperor that
ever trod on neat’s-leather.
_Cal._ Do not torment me, prithee; I’ll bring my wood
_Ste._ He’s in his fit now, and does not talk after the 70
wisest. He shall taste of my bottle: if he have never drunk
wine afore, it will go near to remove his fit. If I can recover
him, and keep him tame, I will not take too much for
him; he shall pay for him that hath him, and that soundly.
_Cal._ Thou dost me yet but little hurt; thou wilt anon, I 75
know it by thy trembling: now Prosper works upon thee.
_Ste._ Come on your ways; open your mouth; here is that
which will give language to you, cat: open your mouth; this
will shake your shaking, I can tell you, and that soundly:
you cannot tell who’s your friend: open your chaps again. 80
_Trin._ I should know that voice: it should be–but he
is drowned; and these are devils:–O defend me!
_Ste._ Four legs and two voices,–a most delicate monster!
His forward voice, now, is to speak well of his friend;
his backward voice is to utter foul speeches and to detract. 85
If all the wine in my bottle will recover him, I will help
his ague. Come:–Amen! I will pour some in thy other
_Ste._ Doth thy other mouth call me? Mercy, mercy! 90
This is a devil, and no monster: I will leave him; I have
no long spoon.
_Trin._ Stephano! If thou beest Stephano, touch me,
and speak to me; for I am Trinculo,–be not afeard,–thy
good friend Trinculo. 95
_Ste._ If thou beest Trinculo, come forth: I’ll pull thee
by the lesser legs: if any be Trinculo’s legs, these are they.
Thou art very Trinculo indeed! How earnest thou to be
the siege of this moon-calf? can he vent Trinculos?
_Trin._ I took him to be killed with a thunder-stroke. 100
But art thou not drowned, Stephano? I hope, now, thou
art not drowned. Is the storm overblown? I hid me
under the dead moon-calf’s gaberdine for fear of the storm.
And art thou living, Stephano? O Stephano, two Neapolitans
_Ste._ Prithee, do not turn me about; my stomach is not
_Cal._ [_aside_] These be fine things, an if they be not sprites.
That’s a brave god, and bears celestial liquor:
I will kneel to him. 110
_Ste._ How didst thou ’scape? How camest thou hither?
swear, by this bottle, how thou camest hither. I escaped
upon a butt of sack, which the sailors heaved o’erboard, by
this bottle! which I made of the bark of a tree with mine
own hands, since I was cast ashore. 115
_Cal._ I’ll swear, upon that bottle, to be thy true subject;
for the liquor is not earthly.
_Ste._ Here; swear, then, how thou escapedst.
_Trin._ Swum ashore, man, like a duck: I can swim
like a duck, I’ll be sworn. 120
_Ste._ Here, kiss the book. Though thou canst swim
like a duck, thou art made like a goose.
_Trin._ O Stephano, hast any more of this?
_Ste._ The whole butt, man: my cellar is in a rock by
the sea-side, where my wine is hid. How now, moon-calf! 125
how does thine ague?
_Cal._ Hast thou not dropp’d from heaven?
_Ste._ Out o’ the moon, I do assure thee: I was the man
i’ the moon when time was.
_Cal._ I have seen thee in her, and I do adore thee: 130
My mistress show’d me thee, and thy dog, and thy bush.
_Ste._ Come, swear to that; kiss the book: I will furnish
it anon with new contents: swear.
_Trin._ By this good light, this is a very shallow monster!
I afeard of him! A very weak monster! The 135
man i’ the moon! A most poor credulous monster! Well
drawn, monster, in good sooth!
_Cal._ I’ll show thee every fertile inch o’ th’ island;
And I will kiss thy foot: I prithee, be my god.
_Trin._ By this light, a most perfidious and drunken 140
monster! when’s god’s asleep, he’ll rob his bottle.
_Cal._ I’ll kiss thy foot; I’ll swear myself thy subject.
_Ste._ Come on, then; down, and swear.
_Trin._ I shall laugh myself to death at this puppy-headed
monster. A most scurvy monster! I could find in 145
my heart to beat him,–
_Ste._ Come, kiss.
_Trin._ But that the poor monster’s in drink: an abominable
_Cal._ I’ll show thee the best springs; I’ll pluck thee berries; 150
I’ll fish for thee, and get thee wood enough.
A plague upon the tyrant that I serve!
I’ll bear him no more sticks, but follow thee,
Thou wondrous man.
_Trin._ A most ridiculous monster, to make a wonder 155
of a poor drunkard!
_Cal._ I prithee, let me bring thee where crabs grow;
And I with my long nails will dig thee pig-nuts;
Show thee a jay’s nest, and instruct thee how
To snare the nimble marmoset; I’ll bring thee 160
To clustering filberts, and sometimes I’ll get thee
Young scamels from the rock. Wilt thou go with me?
_Ste._ I prithee now, lead the way, without any more
talking. Trinculo, the king and all our company else being
drowned, we will inherit here: here; bear my bottle: fellow 165
Trinculo, we’ll fill him by and by again.
SCENE I. _On a ship at sea: a tempestuous noise of thunder
and lightning heard._
_Enter _a Ship-Master_ and _a Boatswain_._
_Boats._ Here, master: what cheer?
_Mast._ Good, speak to the mariners: fall to’t, yarely, or
we run ourselves aground: bestir, bestir. [_Exit._
_Boats._ Heigh, my hearts! cheerly, cheerly, my hearts! 5
yare, yare! Take in the topsail. Tend to the master’s
whistle. Blow, till thou burst thy wind, if room enough!
_Enter ALONSO, SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, FERDINAND, GONZALO,
_Alon._ Good boatswain, have care. Where’s the master?
Play the men.
_Boats._ I pray now, keep below. 10
_Ant._ Where is the master, boatswain?
_Boats._ Do you not hear him? You mar our labour:
keep your cabins: you do assist the storm.
_Gon._ Nay, good, be patient.
_Boats._ When the sea is. Hence! What cares these 15
roarers for the name of king? To cabin: silence! trouble
_Gon._ Good, yet remember whom thou hast aboard.
_Boats._ None that I more love than myself. You are a
Counsellor; if you can command these elements to silence, 20
and work the peace of the present, we will not hand a rope
more; use your authority: if you cannot, give thanks you
have lived so long, and make yourself ready in your cabin
for the mischance of the hour, if it so hap. Cheerly, good
hearts! Out of our way, I say. [_Exit._ 25
_Gon._ I have great comfort from this fellow: methinks
he hath no drowning mark upon him; his complexion is
perfect gallows. Stand fast, good Fate, to his hanging:
make the rope of his destiny our cable, for our own doth
little advantage. If he be not born to be hanged, our case 30
is miserable. [_Exeunt._
_Boats._ Down with the topmast! yare! lower, lower!
Bring her to try with main-course. [_A cry within._] A
plague upon this howling! they are louder than the weather
or our office. 35
_Re-enter SEBASTIAN, ANTONIO, and GONZALO._
Yet again! what do you here? Shall we give o’er, and
drown? Have you a mind to sink?
_Seb._ A pox o’ your throat, you bawling, blasphemous,
_Boats._ Work you, then. 40
_Ant._ Hang, cur! hang, you whoreson, insolent noise-maker.
We are less afraid to be drowned than thou art.
_Gon._ I’ll warrant him for drowning; though the ship
were no stronger than a nutshell, and as leaky as an unstanched
_Boats._ Lay her a-hold, a-hold! set her two courses off
to sea again; lay her off.
_Enter _Mariners_ wet._
_Mariners._ All lost! to prayers, to prayers! all lost!
_Boats._ What, must our mouths be cold?
_Gon._ The king and prince at prayers! let’s assist them, 50
For our case is as theirs.
_Seb._ I’m out of patience.
_Ant._ We are merely cheated of our lives by drunkards:
This wide-chapp’d rascal,--would thou mightst lie drowning
The washing of ten tides!
_Gon._ He’ll be hang’d yet,
Though every drop of water swear against it, 55
And gape at widest to glut him.
[_A confused noise within:_ “Mercy on us!”--
“We split, we split!”-- “Farewell my wife and children!”--
“Farewell, brother!”-- “We split, we split, we split!”]
_Ant._ Let’s all sink with the king. 60
_Seb._ Let’s take leave of him. [_Exeunt Ant. and Seb._
_Gon._ Now would I give a thousand furlongs of sea for
an acre of barren ground, long heath, brown furze, any
thing. The wills above be done! but I would fain die a
dry death. [_Exeunt._ 65
Notes: I, 1.
SC. I. On a ship at sea] Pope.
Enter ... Boatswain] Collier MS. adds ‘shaking off wet.’
3: _Good,_] Rowe. _Good:_ Ff. _Good._ Collier.
7: _till thou burst thy wind_] _till thou burst, wind_ Johnson conj.
_till thou burst thee, wind_ Steevens conj.
8: Capell adds stage direction [Exeunt Mariners aloft.
11: _boatswain_] Pope. _boson_ Ff.
11-18: Verse. S. Walker conj.
15: _cares_] _care_ Rowe. See note (I).
31: [Exeunt] Theobald. [Exit. Ff.
33: _Bring her to try_] F4. _Bring her to Try_ F1 F2 F3.
_Bring her to. Try_ Story conj.
33-35: Text as in Capell. _A plague_--A cry within. Enter Sebastian,
Anthonio, and Gonzalo. _upon this howling._ Ff.
34-37: Verse. S. Walker conj.
43: _for_] _from_ Theobald.
46: _two courses off to sea_] _two courses; off to sea_ Steevens
46: [Enter...] [Re-enter... Dyce.
47: [Exeunt. Theobald.
50: _at_] _are at_ Rowe.
50-54: Printed as prose in Ff.
56: _to glut_] _t’ englut_ Johnson conj.
57: See note (II).
59: _Farewell, brother!_] _Brother, farewell!_ Theobald.
60: _with the_] Rowe. _with’_ F1 F2. _with_ F3 F4.
61: [Exeunt A. and S.] [Exit. Ff.
63: _furze_ Rowe. _firrs_ F1 F2 F3. _firs_ F4.
_long heath, brown furze_] _ling, heath, broom, furze_ Hanmer.]
65: [Exeunt] [Exit F1, om. F2 F3 F4.]
SCENE II. _The island. Before PROSPERO’S cell._
_Enter PROSPERO and MIRANDA._
_Mir._ If by your art, my dearest father, you have
Put the wild waters in this roar, allay them.
The sky, it seems, would pour down stinking pitch,
But that the sea, mounting to the welkin’s cheek,
Dashes the fire out. O, I have suffer’d 5
With those that I saw suffer! a brave vessel,
Who had, no doubt, some noble creature in her,
Dash’d all to pieces. O, the cry did knock
Against my very heart! Poor souls, they perish’d!
Had I been any god of power, I would 10
Have sunk the sea within the earth, or ere
It should the good ship so have swallow’d and
The fraughting souls within her.
_Pros._ Be collected:
No more amazement: tell your piteous heart
There’s no harm done.
_Mir._ O, woe the day!
_Pros._ No harm. 15
I have done nothing but in care of thee,
Of thee, my dear one, thee, my daughter, who
Art ignorant of what thou art, nought knowing
Of whence I am, nor that I am more better
Than Prospero, master of a full poor cell, 20
And thy no greater father.
_Mir._ More to know
Did never meddle with my thoughts.
_Pros._ ’Tis time
I should inform thee farther. Lend thy hand,
And pluck my magic garment from me. --So:
[_Lays down his mantle._
Lie there, my art. Wipe thou thine eyes; have comfort. 25
The direful spectacle of the wreck, which touch’d
The very virtue of compassion in thee,
I have with such provision in mine art
So safely order’d, that there is no soul,
No, not so much perdition as an hair 30
Betid to any creature in the vessel
Which thou heard’st cry, which thou saw’st sink. Sit down;
For thou must now know farther.
_Mir._ You have often
Begun to tell me what I am; but stopp’d,
And left me to a bootless inquisition, 35
Concluding “Stay: not yet.”
_Pros._ The hour’s now come;
The very minute bids thee ope thine ear;
Obey, and be attentive. Canst thou remember
A time before we came unto this cell?
I do not think thou canst, for then thou wast not 40
Out three years old.
_Mir._ Certainly, sir, I can.
_Pros._ By what? by any other house or person?
Of any thing the image tell me that
Hath kept with thy remembrance.
_Mir._ ’Tis far off,
And rather like a dream than an assurance 45
That my remembrance warrants. Had I not
Four or five women once that tended me?
_Pros._ Thou hadst, and more, Miranda. But how is it
That this lives in thy mind? What seest thou else
In the dark backward and abysm of time? 50
If thou remember’st ought ere thou camest here,
How thou camest here thou mayst.
_Mir._ But that I do not.
_Pros._ Twelve year since, Miranda, twelve year since,
Thy father was the Duke of Milan, and
A prince of power.
_Mir._ Sir, are not you my father? 55
_Pros._ Thy mother was a piece of virtue, and
She said thou wast my daughter; and thy father
Was Duke of Milan; and his only heir
And princess, no worse issued.
_Mir._ O the heavens!
What foul play had we, that we came from thence? 60
Or blessed was’t we did?
_Pros._ Both, both, my girl:
By foul play, as thou say’st, were we heaved thence;
But blessedly holp hither.
_Mir._ O, my heart bleeds
To think o’ the teen that I have turn’d you to.
Which is from my remembrance! Please you, farther. 65
_Pros._ My brother, and thy uncle, call’d Antonio,--
I pray thee, mark me,--that a brother should
Be so perfidious!--he whom, next thyself,
Of all the world I loved, and to him put
The manage of my state; as, at that time, 70
Through all the signories it was the first,
And Prospero the prime duke, being so reputed
In dignity, and for the liberal arts
Without a parallel; those being all my study,
The government I cast upon my brother, 75
And to my state grew stranger, being transported
And rapt in secret studies. Thy false uncle--
Dost thou attend me?
_Mir._ Sir, most heedfully.
_Pros._ Being once perfected how to grant suits,
How to deny them, whom to advance, and whom 80
To trash for over-topping, new created
The creatures that were mine, I say, or changed ’em,
Or else new form’d ’em; having both the key
Of officer and office, set all hearts i’ the state
To what tune pleased his ear; that now he was 85
The ivy which had hid my princely trunk,
And suck’d my verdure out on’t. Thou attend’st not.
_Mir._ O, good sir, I do.
_Pros._ I pray thee, mark me.
I, thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated
To closeness and the bettering of my mind 90
With that which, but by being so retired,
O’er-prized all popular rate, in my false brother
Awaked an evil nature; and my trust,
Like a good parent, did beget of him
A falsehood in its contrary, as great 95
As my trust was; which had indeed no limit,
A confidence sans bound. He being thus lorded,
Not only with what my revenue yielded,
But what my power might else exact, like one
Who having into truth, by telling of it, 100
Made such a sinner of his memory,
To credit his own lie, he did believe
He was indeed the duke; out o’ the substitution,
And executing the outward face of royalty,
With all prerogative:--hence his ambition growing,-- 105
Dost thou hear?
_Mir._ Your tale, sir, would cure deafness.
_Pros._ To have no screen between this part he play’d
And him he play’d it for, he needs will be
Absolute Milan. Me, poor man, my library
Was dukedom large enough: of temporal royalties 110
He thinks me now incapable; confederates,
So dry he was for sway, wi’ the King of Naples
To give him annual tribute, do him homage,
Subject his coronet to his crown, and bend
The dukedom, yet unbow’d,--alas, poor Milan!-- 115
To most ignoble stooping.
_Mir._ O the heavens!
_Pros._ Mark his condition, and th’ event; then tell me
If this might be a brother.
_Mir._ I should sin
To think but nobly of my grandmother:
Good wombs have borne bad sons.
_Pros._ Now the condition. 120
This King of Naples, being an enemy
To me inveterate, hearkens my brother’s suit;
Which was, that he, in lieu o’ the premises,
Of homage and I know not how much tribute,
Should presently extirpate me and mine 125
Out of the dukedom, and confer fair Milan,
With all the honours, on my brother: whereon,
A treacherous army levied, one midnight
Fated to the purpose, did Antonio open
The gates of Milan; and, i’ the dead of darkness, 130
The ministers for the purpose hurried thence
Me and thy crying self.
_Mir._ Alack, for pity!
I, not remembering how I cried out then,
Will cry it o’er again: it is a hint
That wrings mine eyes to’t.
_Pros._ Hear a little further, 135
And then I’ll bring thee to the present business
Which now’s upon ’s; without the which, this story
Were most impertinent.
_Mir._ Wherefore did they not
That hour destroy us?
_Pros._ Well demanded, wench:
My tale provokes that question. Dear, they durst not, 140
So dear the love my people bore me; nor set
A mark so bloody on the business; but
With colours fairer painted their foul ends.
In few, they hurried us aboard a bark,
Bore us some leagues to sea; where they prepared 145
A rotten carcass of a boat, not rigg’d,
Nor tackle, sail, nor mast; the very rats
Instinctively have quit it: there they hoist us,
To cry to the sea that roar’d to us; to sigh
To the winds, whose pity, sighing back again, 150
Did us but loving wrong.
_Mir._ Alack, what trouble
Was I then to you!
_Pros._ O, a cherubin
Thou wast that did preserve me. Thou didst smile,
Infused with a fortitude from heaven,
When I have deck’d the sea with drops full salt, 155
Under my burthen groan’d; which raised in me
An undergoing stomach, to bear up
Against what should ensue.
_Mir._ How came we ashore?
_Pros._ By Providence divine.
Some food we had, and some fresh water, that 160
A noble Neapolitan, Gonzalo,
Out of his charity, who being then appointed
Master of this design, did give us, with
Rich garments, linens, stuffs and necessaries,
Which since have steaded much; so, of his gentleness, 165
Knowing I loved my books, he furnish’d me
From mine own library with volumes that
I prize above my dukedom.
_Mir._ Would I might
But ever see that man!
_Pros._ Now I arise: [_Resumes his mantle._
Sit still, and hear the last of our sea-sorrow. 170
Here in this island we arrived; and here
Have I, thy schoolmaster, made thee more profit
Than other princesses can, that have more time
For vainer hours, and tutors not so careful.
_Mir._ Heavens thank you for’t! And now, I pray you, sir, 175
For still ’tis beating in my mind, your reason
For raising this sea-storm?
_Pros._ Know thus far forth.
By accident most strange, bountiful Fortune,
Now my dear lady, hath mine enemies
Brought to this shore; and by my prescience 180
I find my zenith doth depend upon
A most auspicious star, whose influence
If now I court not, but omit, my fortunes
Will ever after droop. Here cease more questions:
Thou art inclined to sleep; ’tis a good dulness, 185
And give it way: I know thou canst not choose.
Come away, servant, come. I am ready now.
Approach, my Ariel, come.
_Ari._ All hail, great master! grave sir, hail! I come
To answer thy best pleasure; be’t to fly, 190
To swim, to dive into the fire, to ride
On the curl’d clouds, to thy strong bidding task
Ariel and all his quality.
_Pros._ Hast thou, spirit,
Perform’d to point the tempest that I bade thee?
_Ari._ To every article. 195
I boarded the king’s ship; now on the beak,
Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
I flamed amazement: sometime I’ld divide,
And burn in many places; on the topmast,
The yards and bowsprit, would I flame distinctly, 200
Then meet and join. Jove’s lightnings, the precursors
O’ the dreadful thunder-claps, more momentary
And sight-outrunning were not: the fire and cracks
Of sulphurous roaring the most mighty Neptune
Seem to besiege, and make his bold waves tremble, 205
Yea, his dread trident shake.
_Pros._ My brave spirit!
Who was so firm, so constant, that this coil
Would not infect his reason?
_Ari._ Not a soul
But felt a fever of the mad, and play’d
Some tricks of desperation. All but mariners 210
Plunged in the foaming brine, and quit the vessel,
Then all afire with me: the king’s son, Ferdinand,
With hair up-staring,--then like reeds, not hair,--
Was the first man that leap’d; cried, “Hell is empty,
And all the devils are here.”
_Pros._ Why, that’s my spirit! 215
But was not this nigh shore?
_Ari._ Close by, my master.
_Pros._ But are they, Ariel, safe?
_Ari._ Not a hair perish’d;
On their sustaining garments not a blemish,
But fresher than before: and, as thou badest me,
In troops I have dispersed them ’bout the isle. 220
The king’s son have I landed by himself;
Whom I left cooling of the air with sighs
In an odd angle of the isle, and sitting,
His arms in this sad knot.
_Pros._ Of the king’s ship
The mariners, say how thou hast disposed, 225
And all the rest o’ the fleet.
_Ari._ Safely in harbour
Is the king’s ship; in the deep nook, where once
Thou call’dst me up at midnight to fetch dew
From the still-vex’d Bermoothes, there she’s hid:
The mariners all under hatches stow’d; 230
Who, with a charm join’d to their suffer’d labour,
I have left asleep: and for the rest o’ the fleet,
Which I dispersed, they all have met again,
And are upon the Mediterranean flote,
Bound sadly home for Naples; 235
Supposing that they saw the king’s ship wreck’d,
And his great person perish.
_Pros._ Ariel, thy charge
Exactly is perform’d: but there’s more work.
What is the time o’ the day?
_Ari._ Past the mid season.
_Pros._ At least two glasses. The time ’twixt six and now 240
Must by us both be spent most preciously.
_Ari._ Is there more toil? Since thou dost give me pains,
Let me remember thee what thou hast promised,
Which is not yet perform’d me.
_Pros._ How now? moody?
What is’t thou canst demand?
_Ari._ My liberty. 245
_Pros._ Before the time be out? no more!
_Ari._ I prithee,
Remember I have done thee worthy service;
Told thee no lies, made thee no mistakings, served
Without or grudge or grumblings: thou didst promise
To bate me a full year.
_Pros._ Dost thou forget 250
From what a torment I did free thee?
_Pros._ Thou dost; and think’st it much to tread the ooze
Of the salt deep,
To run upon the sharp wind of the north,
To do me business in the veins o’ the earth 255
When it is baked with frost.
_Ari._ I do not, sir.
_Pros._ Thou liest, malignant thing! Hast thou forgot
The foul witch Sycorax, who with age and envy
Was grown into a hoop? hast thou forgot her?
_Ari._ No, sir.
_Pros._ Thou hast. Where was she born? speak; tell me. 260
_Ari._ Sir, in Argier.
_Pros._ O, was she so? I must
Once in a month recount what thou hast been,
Which thou forget’st. This damn’d witch Sycorax,
For mischiefs manifold, and sorceries terrible
To enter human hearing, from Argier, 265
Thou know’st, was banish’d: for one thing she did
They would not take her life. Is not this true?
_Ari._ Ay, sir.
_Pros._ This blue-eyed hag was hither brought with child,
And here was left by the sailors. Thou, my slave, 270
As thou report’st thyself, wast then her servant;
And, for thou wast a spirit too delicate
To act her earthy and abhorr’d commands,
Refusing her grand hests, she did confine thee,
By help of her more potent ministers, 275
And in her most unmitigable rage,
Into a cloven pine; within which rift
Imprison’d thou didst painfully remain
A dozen years; within which space she died,
And left thee there; where thou didst vent thy groans 280
As fast as mill-wheels strike. Then was this island--
Save for the son that she did litter here,
A freckled whelp hag-born--not honour’d with
A human shape.
_Ari._ Yes, Caliban her son.
_Pros._ Dull thing, I say so; he, that Caliban, 285
Whom now I keep in service. Thou best know’st
What torment I did find thee in; thy groans
Did make wolves howl, and penetrate the breasts
Of ever-angry bears: it was a torment
To lay upon the damn’d, which Sycorax 290
Could not again undo: it was mine art,
When I arrived and heard thee, that made gape
The pine, and let thee out.
_Ari._ I thank thee, master.
_Pros._ If thou more murmur’st, I will rend an oak,
And peg thee in his knotty entrails, till 295
Thou hast howl’d away twelve winters.
_Ari._ Pardon, master:
I will be correspondent to command,
And do my spiriting gently.
_Pros._ Do so; and after two days
I will discharge thee.
_Ari._ That’s my noble master!
What shall I do? say what; what shall I do? 300
_Pros._ Go make thyself like a nymph o’ the sea:
Be subject to no sight but thine and mine; invisible
To every eyeball else. Go take this shape,
And hither come in’t: go, hence with diligence!
_Mir._ The strangeness of your story put
Heaviness in me.
_Pros._ Shake it off. Come on;
We’ll visit Caliban my slave, who never
Yields us kind answer.
_Mir._ ’Tis a villain, sir,
I do not love to look on.
_Pros._ But, as ’tis, 310
We cannot miss him: he does make our fire,
Fetch in our wood, and serves in offices
That profit us. What, ho! slave! Caliban!
Thou earth, thou! speak.
_Cal._ [_within_] There’s wood enough within.
_Pros._ Come forth, I say! there’s other business for thee: 315
Come, thou tortoise! when?
_Re-enter ARIEL like a water-nymph._
Fine apparition! My quaint Ariel,
Hark in thine ear.
_Ari._ My lord, it shall be done. [_Exit._
_Pros._ Thou poisonous slave, got by the devil himself
Upon thy wicked dam, come forth! 320
_Cal._ As wicked dew as e’er my mother brush’d
With raven’s feather from unwholesome fen
Drop on you both! a south-west blow on ye
And blister you all o’er!
_Pros._ For this, be sure, to-night thou shalt have cramps, 325
Side-stitches that shall pen thy breath up; urchins
Shall, for that vast of night that they may work,
All exercise on thee; thou shalt be pinch’d
As thick as honeycomb, each pinch more stinging
Than bees that made ’em.
_Cal._ I must eat my dinner. 330
This island’s mine, by Sycorax my mother,
Which thou takest from me. When thou camest first,
Thou strokedst me, and madest much of me; wouldst give me
Water with berries in’t; and teach me how
To name the bigger light, and how the less, 335
That burn by day and night: and then I loved thee,
And show’d thee all the qualities o’ th’ isle,
The fresh springs, brine-pits, barren place and fertile:
Curs’d be I that did so! All the charms
Of Sycorax, toads, beetles, bats, light on you! 340
For I am all the subjects that you have,
Which first was mine own king: and here you sty me
In this hard rock, whiles you do keep from me
The rest o’ th’ island.
_Pros._ Thou most lying slave,
Whom stripes may move, not kindness! I have used thee, 345
Filth as thou art, with human care; and lodged thee
In mine own cell, till thou didst seek to violate
The honour of my child.
_Cal._ O ho, O ho! would ’t had been done!
Thou didst prevent me; I had peopled else 350
This isle with Calibans.
_Pros._ Abhorred slave,
Which any print of goodness wilt not take,
Being capable of all ill! I pitied thee,
Took pains to make thee speak, taught thee each hour
One thing or other: when thou didst not, savage, 355
Know thine own meaning, but wouldst gabble like
A thing most brutish, I endow’d thy purposes
With words that made them known. But thy vile race,
Though thou didst learn, had that in’t which good natures
Could not abide to be with; therefore wast thou 360
Deservedly confined into this rock,
Who hadst deserved more than a prison.
_Cal._ You taught me language; and my profit on’t
Is, I know how to curse. The red plague rid you
For learning me your language!
_Pros._ Hag-seed, hence! 365
Fetch us in fuel; and be quick, thou’rt best,
To answer other business. Shrug’st thou, malice?
If thou neglect’st, or dost unwillingly
What I command, I’ll rack thee with old cramps,
Fill all thy bones with aches, make thee roar, 370
That beasts shall tremble at thy din.
_Cal._ No, pray thee.
[_Aside_] I must obey: his art is of such power,
It would control my dam’s god, Setebos,
And make a vassal of him.
_Pros._ So, slave; hence! [_Exit Caliban._
_Re-enter ARIEL, invisible, playing and singing; FERDINAND
Come unto these yellow sands, 375
And then take hands:
Courtsied when you have and kiss’d
The wild waves whist:
Foot it featly here and there;
And, sweet sprites, the burthen bear. 380
_Burthen_ [_dispersedly_]. Hark, hark!
The watch-dogs bark:
_Ari._ Hark, hark! I hear
The strain of strutting chanticleer 385
_Fer._ Where should this music be? i’ th’ air or th’ earth?
It sounds no more: and, sure, it waits upon
Some god o’ th’ island. Sitting on a bank,
Weeping again the king my father’s wreck, 390
This music crept by me upon the waters,
Allaying both their fury and my passion
With its sweet air: thence I have follow’d it.
Or it hath drawn me rather. But ’tis gone.
No, it begins again. 395
Full fathom five thy father lies;
Of his bones are coral made;
Those are pearls that were his eyes:
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a sea-change 400
Into something rich and strange.
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell:
_Ari._ Hark! now I hear them,--Ding-dong, bell.
_Fer._ The ditty does remember my drown’d father. 405
This is no mortal business, nor no sound
That the earth owes:--I hear it now above me.
_Pros._ The fringed curtains of thine eye advance,
And say what thou seest yond.
_Mir._ What is’t? a spirit?
Lord, how it looks about! Believe me, sir, 410
It carries a brave form. But ’tis a spirit.
_Pros._ No, wench; it eats and sleeps and hath such senses
As we have, such. This gallant which thou seest
Was in the wreck; and, but he’s something stain’d
With grief, that’s beauty’s canker, thou mightst call him 415
A goodly person: he hath lost his fellows,
And strays about to find ’em.
_Mir._ I might call him
A thing divine; for nothing natural
I ever saw so noble.
_Pros._ [_Aside_] It goes on, I see,
As my soul prompts it. Spirit, fine spirit! I’ll free thee 420
Within two days for this.
_Fer._ Most sure, the goddess
On whom these airs attend! Vouchsafe my prayer
May know if you remain upon this island;
And that you will some good instruction give
How I may bear me here: my prime request, 425
Which I do last pronounce, is, O you wonder!
If you be maid or no?
_Mir._ No wonder, sir;
But certainly a maid.
_Fer._ My language! heavens!
I am the best of them that speak this speech,
Were I but where ’tis spoken.
_Pros._ How? the best? 430
What wert thou, if the King of Naples heard thee?
_Fer._ A single thing, as I am now, that wonders
To hear thee speak of Naples. He does hear me;
And that he does I weep: myself am Naples,
Who with mine eyes, never since at ebb, beheld 435
The king my father wreck’d.
_Mir._ Alack, for mercy!
_Fer._ Yes, faith, and all his lords; the Duke of Milan
And his brave son being twain.
_Pros._ [_Aside_] The Duke of Milan
And his more braver daughter could control thee,
If now ’twere fit to do’t. At the first sight 440
They have changed eyes. Delicate Ariel,
I’ll set thee free for this. [_To Fer._] A word, good sir;
I fear you have done yourself some wrong: a word.
_Mir._ Why speaks my father so ungently? This
Is the third man that e’er I saw; the first 445
That e’er I sigh’d for: pity move my father
To be inclined my way!
_Fer._ O, if a virgin,
And your affection not gone forth, I’ll make you
The queen of Naples.
_Pros._ Soft, sir! one word more.
[_Aside_] They are both in either’s powers:
but this swift business 450
I must uneasy make, lest too light winning
Make the prize light. [_To Fer._] One word more; I charge thee
That thou attend me: thou dost here usurp
The name thou owest not; and hast put thyself
Upon this island as a spy, to win it 455
From me, the lord on’t.
_Fer._ No, as I am a man.
_Mir._ There’s nothing ill can dwell in such a temple:
If the ill spirit have so fair a house,
Good things will strive to dwell with’t.
_Pros._ Follow me.
Speak not you for him; he’s a traitor. Come; 460
I’ll manacle thy neck and feet together:
Sea-water shalt thou drink; thy food shall be
The fresh-brook muscles, wither’d roots, and husks
Wherein the acorn cradled. Follow.
I will resist such entertainment till 465
Mine enemy has more power.
[_Draws, and is charmed from moving._
_Mir._ O dear father,
Make not too rash a trial of him, for
He’s gentle, and not fearful.
_Pros._ What! I say,
My foot my tutor? Put thy sword up, traitor;
Who makest a show, but darest not strike, thy conscience 470
Is so possess’d with guilt: come from thy ward;
For I can here disarm thee with this stick
And make thy weapon drop.
_Mir._ Beseech you, father.
_Pros._ Hence! hang not on my garments.
_Mir._ Sir, have pity;
I’ll be his surety.
_Pros._ Silence! one word more 475
Shall make me chide thee, if not hate thee. What!
An advocate for an impostor! hush!
Thou think’st there is no more such shapes as he,
Having seen but him and Caliban: foolish wench!
To the most of men this is a Caliban, 480
And they to him are angels.
_Mir._ My affections
Are, then, most humble; I have no ambition
To see a goodlier man.
_Pros._ Come on; obey:
Thy nerves are in their infancy again,
And have no vigour in them.
_Fer._ So they are: 485
My spirits, as in a dream, are all bound up.
My father’s loss, the weakness which I feel,
The wreck of all my friends, nor this man’s threats,
To whom I am subdued, are but light to me,
Might I but through my prison once a day 490
Behold this maid: all corners else o’ th’ earth
Let liberty make use of; space enough
Have I in such a prison.
_Pros._ [_Aside_] It works. [_To Fer._] Come on.
Thou hast done well, fine Ariel! [_To Fer._] Follow me.
[_To Ari._] Hark what thou else shalt do me.
_Mir._ Be of comfort; 495
My father’s of a better nature, sir,
Than he appears by speech: this is unwonted
Which now came from him.
_Pros._ Thou shalt be as free
As mountain winds: but then exactly do
All points of my command.
_Ari._ To the syllable. 500
_Pros._ Come, follow. Speak not for him. [_Exeunt._
Notes: I, 2.
3: _stinking_] _flaming_ Singer conj. _kindling_ S. Verges conj.
4: _cheek_] _heat_ Collier MS. _crack_ Staunton conj.
7: _creature_] _creatures_ Theobald.
13: _fraughting_] Ff. _fraighted_ Pope. _fraighting_ Theobald.
15: Mir. _O, woe the day!_ Pros. _No harm._] Mir. _O woe the day!
no harm?_ Johnson conj.
19: _I am more better_] _I’m more or better_ Pope.
24: [Lays ... mantle] Pope.
28: _provision_] F1. _compassion_ F2 F3 F4. _prevision_ Hunter conj.
29: _soul_] _soul lost_ Rowe. _foyle_ Theobald. _soil_ Johnson conj.
_loss_ Capell. _foul_ Wright conj.
31: _betid_] F1. _betide_ F2 F3 F4.
35: _a_] F1. _the_ F2 F3 F4.
38: _thou_] om. Pope.
41: _Out_] _Full_ Pope (after Dryden). _Quite_ Collier MS.
44: _with_] _in_ Pope (after Dryden).
53: _Twelve year ... year_] _Tis twelve years ... years_ Pope.
58, 59: _and his only heir And princess_] _and his only heir
A princess_ Pope. _thou his only heir And princess_ Steevens.
_and though his only heir A princess_] Johnson conj.
63: _holp_] _help’d_ Pope.
_O, my heart_] _My heart_ Pope.
78: _me_] om. F3 F4.
80: _whom ... whom_] F2 F3 F4. _who ... who_ F1.
81: _trash_] _plash_ Hanmer.
82, 83: _’em ... ’em_] _them ... them_ Capell.
84: _i’ the state_] _i’th state_ F1. _e’th state_ F2.
_o’th state_ F3 F4. om. Pope.
88: _O, good sir ... mark me._] _Good sir ... mark me then._ Pope.
_O yes, good sir ... mark me._ Capell.
Mir. _O, ... do._ Pros. _I ... me_] _I ... me._ Mir. _O ... do._
89: _dedicated_] _dedicate_ Steevens (Ritson conj.).
91: _so_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4.
97: _lorded_] _loaded_ Collier MS.
99: _exact, like_] _exact. Like_ Ff.
100: _having into truth ... of it_] _loving an untruth, and telling
’t oft_ Hanmer. _having unto truth ... oft_ Warburton. _having to
untruth ... of it_ Collier MS. _having sinn’d to truth ... oft_
_telling_] _quelling_ S. Verges conj.
101: _Made ... memory_] _Makes ... memory_ Hanmer. _Makes ...
memory too_ Musgrave conj.
103: _indeed the duke_] _the duke_ Steevens. _indeed duke_ S. Walker
_out o’ the_] _from_ Pope.
105: _his_] _is_ F2.
105, 106: _ambition growing_] _ambition Growing_ Steevens.
106: _hear?_] _hear, child?_ Hanmer.
109: _Milan_] _Millanie_ F1 (Capell’s copy).
112: _wi’ the_] Capell. _with_ Ff. _wi’ th’_ Rowe. _with the_
116: _most_] F1. _much_ F2 F3 F4.
119: _but_] _not_ Pope.
120: _Good ... sons_] Theobald suggested that these words should be
given to Prospero. Hanmer prints them so.
122: _hearkens_] _hears_ Pope. _hearks_ Theobald.
129: _Fated_] _Mated_ Dryden’s version.
_purpose_] _practise_ Collier MS.
131: _ministers_] _minister_ Rowe.
133: _out_] _on’t_ Steevens conj.
135: _to ’t_] om. Steevens (Farmer conj.).
138: _Wherefore_] _Why_ Pope.
141: _me_] om. Pope.
146: _boat_] Rowe (after Dryden). _butt_ F1 F2 F3. _but_ F4.
_busse_ Black conj.
147: _sail_] F1. _nor sail_ F2 F3 F4.
148: _have_] _had_ Rowe (after Dryden).
150: _the winds_] _winds_ Pope.
155: _deck’d_] _brack’d_ Hanmer. _mock’d_ Warburton. _fleck’d_
Johnson conj. _degg’d_ anon. ap. Reed conj.
162: _who_] om. Pope. _he_ Steevens conj.
169: _Now I arise_] Continued to Miranda. Blackstone conj.
[Resumes his mantle] om. Ff. [Put on robe again. Collier MS.
173: _princesses_] _princesse_ F1 F2 F3. _princess_ F4.
_princes_ Rowe. _princess’_ Dyce (S. Walker conj.). See note (III).
186: [M. sleeps] Theobald.
189: SCENE III. Pope.
190: _be’t_] F1. _be it_ F2 F3 F4.
193: _quality_] _qualities_ Pope (after Dryden).
198: _sometime_] F1. _sometimes_ F2 F3 F4.
200: _bowsprit_] _bore-sprit_ Ff. _bolt-sprit_ Rowe.
201: _lightnings_] Theobald. _lightning_ Ff.
202: _o’ the_] _of_ Pope.
_thunder-claps_] _thunder-clap_ Johnson.
205: _Seem_] _Seem’d_ Theobald.
206: _dread_] F1. _dead_ F2 F3 F4.
_My brave_] _My brave, brave_ Theobald. _That’s my brave_ Hanmer.
209: _mad_] _mind_ Pope (after Dryden).
211, 212: _vessel, ... son_] _vessell; Then all a fire with me
the King’s sonne_ Ff.
218: _sustaining_] _sea-stained_ Edwards conj. _unstaining_ or
_sea-staining_ Spedding conj.
229: _Bermoothes_] _Bermudas_ Theobald.
231: _Who_] _Whom_ Hanmer.
234: _are_] _all_ Collier MS.
_upon_] _on_ Pope.
239-240: Ari. _Past the mid season._ Pros. _At least two glasses_]
Ari. _Past the mid season at least two glasses._ Warburton.
Pros. _... Past the mid season?_ Ari. _At least two glasses_
244: _How now? moody?_] _How now, moody!_ Dyce (so Dryden, ed. 1808).
245: _What_] F1. _Which_ F2 F3 F4.
248: _made thee_] Ff. _made_ Pope.
249: _didst_] F3 F4. _did_ F1 F2.
264: _and sorceries_] _sorceries too_ Hanmer.
267: _Is not this true?_] _Is this not true?_ Pope.
271: _wast then_] Rowe (after Dryden). _was then_ Ff.
273: _earthy_] _earthly_ Pope.
282: _son_] F1. _sunne_ F2. _sun_ F3 F4.
_she_] Rowe (after Dryden). _he_ Ff.
298: See note (IV).
301: _like_] F1. _like to_ F2 F3 F4.
302: _Be subject to_] _be subject To_ Malone.
_but thine and mine_] _but mine_ Pope.
304: _in’t_] _in it_ Pope.
_go, hence_] _goe: hence_ Ff. _go hence_ Pope. _hence_ Hanmer.
307: _Heaviness_] _Strange heaviness_ Edd. conj.
312: _serves in offices_] F1. _serves offices_ F2 F3 F4.
_serveth offices_ Collier MS.
316: _Come, thou tortoise! when?_] om. Pope.
_Come_] _Come forth_ Steevens.]
320: _come forth!_] _come forth, thou tortoise!_ Pope.
321: SCENE IV. Pope.
332: _camest_] Rowe. _cam’st_ Ff. _cam’st here_ Ritson conj.
333: _madest_] Rowe (after Dryden). _made_ Ff.
339: _Curs’d be I that_] F1. _Curs’d be I that I_ F2 F3 F4.
_cursed be I that_ Steevens.
342: _Which_] _Who_ Pope, and at line 351.
346: _thee_] om. F4.
349: _would ’t_] Ff. _I wou’d it_ Pope.
351: Pros.] Theobald (after Dryden). Mira. Ff.
352: _wilt_] F1. _will_ F2 F3 F4.
355, 356: _didst not ... Know_] _couldst not ... Shew_ Hanmer.
356: _wouldst_] _didst_ Hanmer.
361, 362: _Deservedly ... deserved_] _Justly ... who hadst Deserv’d_
S. Walker conj. _Confin’d ... deserv’d_ id. conj.
362: _Who ... prison_] om. Pope (after Dryden).
366: _thou’rt_] F1 F2 F3. _thou art_ F4. _thou wer’t_ Rowe.
375: SCENE V. Pope.
378: _The wild waves whist_] Printed as a parenthesis by Steevens.
See note (V).
380: _the burthen bear_] Pope. _bear the burthen_ Ff.
381-383: Steevens gives _Hark, hark! The watch-dogs bark_ to Ariel.
387: _i’ th’ air or th’ earth?_] _in air or earth?_ Pope.
390: _again_] _against_ Rowe (after Dryden).
407: _owes_] _owns_ Pope (after Dryden), but leaves _ow’st_ 454.
408: SCENE VI. Pope.
419: _It goes on, I see,_] _It goes, I see_ Capell. _It goes on_
420: _fine spirit!_] om. Hanmer.
427: _maid_] F3. _mayd_ F1 F2. _made_ F4.
443: See note (VI).
444: _ungently_] F1. _urgently_ F2 F3 F4.
451: _lest_] F4. _least_ F1 F2 F3.
452: _One_] _Sir, one_ Pope.
_I charge thee_] _I charge thee_ [to Ariel. Pope.
460: Pros. prefixed again to this line in Ff.
468: _and_] _tho’_ Hanmer.
469: _foot_] _fool_ S. Walker conj. _child_ Dryden’s version.
470: _makest_] _mak’st_ F1. _makes_ F2 F3 F4.
471: _so_] F1. om. F2 F3 F4. _all_ Pope.
478: _is_] _are_ Rowe.
488: _nor_] _and_ Rowe (after Dryden). _or_ Capell.
489: _are_] _were_ Malone conj.
William SHAKESPEARE (1554 – 1616)
Banished from his own lands by a usurping brother, Prospero and his daughter Miranda have been living on a deserted island for years, until fate brings the brother within the range of Prospero’s powers. Will he seek revenge, or reconcilement? (Summary by Karen Savage)
Narrator – Great Plains
Alonso, King of Naples – hefyd
Sebastian, his brother – Nathan Markham
Prospero, the right Duke of Milan – Bruce Pirie
Antonio, his brother, the usurping Duke of Milan – Jason Mills
Ferdinand, son to the King of Naples – mb
Gonzalo, an honest old Counsellor – Lorelle Anderson
Adrian, a Lord – EricJ
Francisco, a Lord – Aaron Elliott
Caliban, a savage and deformed Slave – Jason Mills
Trinculo, a Jester – Ryan Dressler
Stephano, a drunken Butler – Arielle Lipshaw
Master of a Ship – Annoying Twit
Boatswain – Jennifer Stearns
Mariners – Miriam Esther Goldman
Miranda, daughter to Prospero – Elizabeth Klett
Ariel, an airy Spirit – Karen Savage
Iris, a Spirit – Abigail Bartels
Ceres, a Spirit – Jessamie
Juno, a Spirit – Lucy Perry
If I may trust the flattering eye of sleep,
My dreams presage some joyful news at hand;
My bosom’s lord sits lightly in his throne;
And all this day an unaccustom’d spirit
Lifts me above the ground with cheerful thoughts.
I dreamt my lady came and found me dead,—
Strange dream, that gives a dead man leave to think!—
And breath’d such life with kisses in my lips,
That I reviv’d, and was an emperor.
Ah me! how sweet is love itself possess’d,
When but love’s shadows are so rich in joy!
News from Verona!—How now, Balthasar?
Dost thou not bring me letters from the friar?
How doth my lady? Is my father well?
How fares my Juliet? that I ask again;
For nothing can be ill if she be well.
Then she is well, and nothing can be ill:
Her body sleeps in Capel’s monument,
And her immortal part with angels lives.
I saw her laid low in her kindred’s vault,
And presently took post to tell it you:
O, pardon me for bringing these ill news,
Since you did leave it for my office, sir.
Is it even so? then I defy you, stars!—
Thou know’st my lodging: get me ink and paper,
And hire post-horses. I will hence to-night.
I do beseech you, sir, have patience:
Your looks are pale and wild, and do import
Tush, thou art deceiv’d:
Leave me, and do the thing I bid thee do.
Hast thou no letters to me from the friar?
No, my good lord.
No matter: get thee gone,
And hire those horses; I’ll be with thee straight.
Well, Juliet, I will lie with thee to-night.
Let’s see for means;—O mischief, thou art swift
To enter in the thoughts of desperate men!
I do remember an apothecary,—
And hereabouts he dwells,—which late I noted
In tatter’d weeds, with overwhelming brows,
Culling of simples; meagre were his looks,
Sharp misery had worn him to the bones;
And in his needy shop a tortoise hung,
An alligator stuff’d, and other skins
Of ill-shaped fishes; and about his shelves
A beggarly account of empty boxes,
Green earthen pots, bladders, and musty seeds,
Remnants of packthread, and old cakes of roses,
Were thinly scatter’d, to make up a show.
Noting this penury, to myself I said,
An if a man did need a poison now,
Whose sale is present death in Mantua,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.
O, this same thought did but forerun my need;
And this same needy man must sell it me.
As I remember, this should be the house:
Being holiday, the beggar’s shop is shut.—
What, ho! apothecary!
Who calls so loud?
Come hither, man.—I see that thou art poor;
Hold, there is forty ducats: let me have
A dram of poison; such soon-speeding gear
As will disperse itself through all the veins
That the life-weary taker mall fall dead;
And that the trunk may be discharg’d of breath
As violently as hasty powder fir’d
Doth hurry from the fatal cannon’s womb.
Such mortal drugs I have; but Mantua’s law
Is death to any he that utters them.
Art thou so bare and full of wretchedness
And fear’st to die? famine is in thy cheeks,
Need and oppression starveth in thine eyes,
Contempt and beggary hangs upon thy back,
The world is not thy friend, nor the world’s law:
The world affords no law to make thee rich;
Then be not poor, but break it and take this.
My poverty, but not my will consents.
I pay thy poverty, and not thy will.
Put this in any liquid thing you will,
And drink it off; and, if you had the strength
Of twenty men, it would despatch you straight.
There is thy gold; worse poison to men’s souls,
Doing more murders in this loathsome world
Than these poor compounds that thou mayst not sell:
I sell thee poison; thou hast sold me none.
Farewell: buy food and get thyself in flesh.—
Come, cordial and not poison, go with me
To Juliet’s grave; for there must I use thee.
Scene II. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.
[Enter Friar John.]
Holy Franciscan friar! brother, ho!
[Enter Friar Lawrence.]
This same should be the voice of Friar John.
Welcome from Mantua: what says Romeo?
Or, if his mind be writ, give me his letter.
Going to find a barefoot brother out,
One of our order, to associate me,
Here in this city visiting the sick,
And finding him, the searchers of the town,
Suspecting that we both were in a house
Where the infectious pestilence did reign,
Seal’d up the doors, and would not let us forth;
So that my speed to Mantua there was stay’d.
Who bare my letter, then, to Romeo?
I could not send it,—here it is again,—
Nor get a messenger to bring it thee,
So fearful were they of infection.
Unhappy fortune! by my brotherhood,
The letter was not nice, but full of charge
Of dear import; and the neglecting it
May do much danger. Friar John, go hence;
Get me an iron crow and bring it straight
Unto my cell.
Brother, I’ll go and bring it thee.
Now must I to the monument alone;
Within this three hours will fair Juliet wake:
She will beshrew me much that Romeo
Hath had no notice of these accidents;
But I will write again to Mantua,
And keep her at my cell till Romeo come;—
Poor living corse, clos’d in a dead man’s tomb!
Scene III. A churchyard; in it a Monument belonging to the Capulets.
[Enter Paris, and his Page bearing flowers and a torch.]
Give me thy torch, boy: hence, and stand aloof;—
Yet put it out, for I would not be seen.
Under yond yew tree lay thee all along,
Holding thine ear close to the hollow ground;
So shall no foot upon the churchyard tread,—
Being loose, unfirm, with digging up of graves,—
But thou shalt hear it: whistle then to me,
As signal that thou hear’st something approach.
Give me those flowers. Do as I bid thee, go.
[Aside.] I am almost afraid to stand alone
Here in the churchyard; yet I will adventure.
Sweet flower, with flowers thy bridal bed I strew:
O woe! thy canopy is dust and stones!
Which with sweet water nightly I will dew;
Or, wanting that, with tears distill’d by moans:
The obsequies that I for thee will keep,
Nightly shall be to strew thy grave and weep.
[The Page whistles.]
The boy gives warning something doth approach.
What cursed foot wanders this way to-night,
To cross my obsequies and true love’s rite?
What, with a torch! muffle me, night, awhile.
[Enter Romeo and Balthasar with a torch, mattock, &c.]
Give me that mattock and the wrenching iron.
Hold, take this letter; early in the morning
See thou deliver it to my lord and father.
Give me the light; upon thy life I charge thee,
Whate’er thou hear’st or seest, stand all aloof
And do not interrupt me in my course.
Why I descend into this bed of death
Is partly to behold my lady’s face,
But chiefly to take thence from her dead finger
A precious ring,—a ring that I must use
In dear employment: therefore hence, be gone:—
But if thou, jealous, dost return to pry
In what I further shall intend to do,
By heaven, I will tear thee joint by joint,
And strew this hungry churchyard with thy limbs:
The time and my intents are savage-wild;
More fierce and more inexorable far
Than empty tigers or the roaring sea.
I will be gone, sir, and not trouble you.
So shalt thou show me friendship.—Take thou that:
Live, and be prosperous: and farewell, good fellow.
For all this same, I’ll hide me hereabout:
His looks I fear, and his intents I doubt.
Thou detestable maw, thou womb of death,
Gorg’d with the dearest morsel of the earth,
Thus I enforce thy rotten jaws to open,
[Breaking open the door of the monument.]
And, in despite, I’ll cram thee with more food!
This is that banish’d haughty Montague
That murder’d my love’s cousin,—with which grief,
It is supposed, the fair creature died,—
And here is come to do some villanous shame
To the dead bodies: I will apprehend him.—
Stop thy unhallow’d toil, vile Montague!
Can vengeance be pursu’d further than death?
Condemned villain, I do apprehend thee;
Obey, and go with me; for thou must die.
I must indeed; and therefore came I hither.—
Good gentle youth, tempt not a desperate man;
Fly hence and leave me:—think upon these gone;
Let them affright thee.—I beseech thee, youth,
Put not another sin upon my head
By urging me to fury: O, be gone!
By heaven, I love thee better than myself;
For I come hither arm’d against myself:
Stay not, be gone;—live, and hereafter say,
A madman’s mercy bid thee run away.
I do defy thy conjurations,
And apprehend thee for a felon here.
Wilt thou provoke me? then have at thee, boy!
O lord, they fight! I will go call the watch.
O, I am slain! [Falls.] If thou be merciful,
Open the tomb, lay me with Juliet.
In faith, I will.—Let me peruse this face:—
Mercutio’s kinsman, noble County Paris!—
What said my man, when my betossed soul
Did not attend him as we rode? I think
He told me Paris should have married Juliet:
Said he not so? or did I dream it so?
Or am I mad, hearing him talk of Juliet,
To think it was so?—O, give me thy hand,
One writ with me in sour misfortune’s book!
I’ll bury thee in a triumphant grave;—
A grave? O, no, a lanthorn, slaught’red youth,
For here lies Juliet, and her beauty makes
This vault a feasting presence full of light.
Death, lie thou there, by a dead man interr’d.
[Laying Paris in the monument.]
How oft when men are at the point of death
Have they been merry! which their keepers call
A lightning before death: O, how may I
Call this a lightning?—O my love! my wife!
Death, that hath suck’d the honey of thy breath,
Hath had no power yet upon thy beauty:
Thou art not conquer’d; beauty’s ensign yet
Is crimson in thy lips and in thy cheeks,
And death’s pale flag is not advanced there.—
Tybalt, liest thou there in thy bloody sheet?
O, what more favour can I do to thee
Than with that hand that cut thy youth in twain
To sunder his that was thine enemy?
Forgive me, cousin!—Ah, dear Juliet,
Why art thou yet so fair? Shall I believe
That unsubstantial death is amorous;
And that the lean abhorred monster keeps
Thee here in dark to be his paramour?
For fear of that I still will stay with thee,
And never from this palace of dim night
Depart again: here, here will I remain
With worms that are thy chambermaids: O, here
Will I set up my everlasting rest;
And shake the yoke of inauspicious stars
From this world-wearied flesh.—Eyes, look your last!
Arms, take your last embrace! and, lips, O you
The doors of breath, seal with a righteous kiss
A dateless bargain to engrossing death!—
Come, bitter conduct, come, unsavoury guide!
Thou desperate pilot, now at once run on
The dashing rocks thy sea-sick weary bark!
Here’s to my love! [Drinks.]—O true apothecary!
Thy drugs are quick.—Thus with a kiss I die.
[Enter, at the other end of the Churchyard, Friar Lawrence, with a lantern, crow, and spade.]
Saint Francis be my speed! how oft to-night
Have my old feet stumbled at graves!—Who’s there?
Who is it that consorts, so late, the dead?
Here’s one, a friend, and one that knows you well.
Bliss be upon you! Tell me, good my friend,
What torch is yond that vainly lends his light
To grubs and eyeless skulls? as I discern,
It burneth in the Capels’ monument.
It doth so, holy sir; and there’s my master,
One that you love.
Who is it?
How long hath he been there?
Full half an hour.
Go with me to the vault.
I dare not, sir;
My master knows not but I am gone hence;
And fearfully did menace me with death
If I did stay to look on his intents.
Stay then; I’ll go alone:—fear comes upon me;
O, much I fear some ill unlucky thing.
As I did sleep under this yew tree here,
I dreamt my master and another fought,
And that my master slew him.
Alack, alack! what blood is this which stains
The stony entrance of this sepulchre?—
What mean these masterless and gory swords
To lie discolour’d by this place of peace?
[Enters the monument.]
Romeo! O, pale!—Who else? what, Paris too?
And steep’d in blood?—Ah, what an unkind hour
Is guilty of this lamentable chance!—The lady stirs.
[Juliet wakes and stirs.]
O comfortable friar! where is my lord?—
I do remember well where I should be,
And there I am:—where is my Romeo?
I hear some noise.—Lady, come from that nest
Of death, contagion, and unnatural sleep:
A greater power than we can contradict
Hath thwarted our intents:—come, come away!
Thy husband in thy bosom there lies dead;
And Paris too:—come, I’ll dispose of thee
Among a sisterhood of holy nuns:
Stay not to question, for the watch is coming.
Come, go, good Juliet [noise within],—I dare no longer stay.
Go, get thee hence, for I will not away.—
[Exit Friar Lawrence.]
What’s here? a cup, clos’d in my true love’s hand?
Poison, I see, hath been his timeless end:—
O churl! drink all, and left no friendly drop
To help me after?—I will kiss thy lips;
Haply some poison yet doth hang on them,
To make me die with a restorative.
Thy lips are warm!
1 Watch. [Within.] Lead, boy:—which way?
Yea, noise?—Then I’ll be brief.—O happy dagger!
[Snatching Romeo’s dagger.]
This is thy sheath [stabs herself]; there rest, and let me die.
[Falls on Romeo’s body and dies.]
[Enter Watch, with the Page of Paris.]
This is the place; there, where the torch doth burn.
The ground is bloody; search about the churchyard:
Go, some of you, whoe’er you find attach.
[Exeunt some of the Watch.]
Pitiful sight! here lies the county slain;—
And Juliet bleeding; warm, and newly dead,
Who here hath lain this two days buried.—
Go, tell the prince;—run to the Capulets,—
Raise up the Montagues,—some others search:—
[Exeunt others of the Watch.]
We see the ground whereon these woes do lie;
But the true ground of all these piteous woes
We cannot without circumstance descry.
[Re-enter some of the Watch with Balthasar.]
2 Watch. Here’s Romeo’s man; we found him in the churchyard.
1 Watch. Hold him in safety till the prince come hither.
[Re-enter others of the Watch with Friar Lawrence.]
Here is a friar, that trembles, sighs, and weeps:
We took this mattock and this spade from him
As he was coming from this churchyard side.
1 Watch. A great suspicion: stay the friar too.
[Enter the Prince and Attendants.]
What misadventure is so early up,
That calls our person from our morning’s rest?
[Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and others.]
What should it be, that they so shriek abroad?
The people in the street cry Romeo,
Some Juliet, and some Paris; and all run,
With open outcry, toward our monument.
What fear is this which startles in our ears?
Sovereign, here lies the County Paris slain;
And Romeo dead; and Juliet, dead before,
Warm and new kill’d.
Search, seek, and know how this foul murder comes.
Here is a friar, and slaughter’d Romeo’s man,
With instruments upon them fit to open
These dead men’s tombs.
O heaven!—O wife, look how our daughter bleeds!
This dagger hath mista’en,—for, lo, his house
Is empty on the back of Montague,—
And it mis-sheathed in my daughter’s bosom!
O me! this sight of death is as a bell
That warns my old age to a sepulchre.
[Enter Montague and others.]
Come, Montague; for thou art early up,
To see thy son and heir more early down.
Alas, my liege, my wife is dead to-night;
Grief of my son’s exile hath stopp’d her breath:
What further woe conspires against mine age?
Look, and thou shalt see.
O thou untaught! what manners is in this,
To press before thy father to a grave?
Seal up the mouth of outrage for a while,
Till we can clear these ambiguities,
And know their spring, their head, their true descent;
And then will I be general of your woes,
And lead you even to death: meantime forbear,
And let mischance be slave to patience.—
Bring forth the parties of suspicion.
I am the greatest, able to do least,
Yet most suspected, as the time and place
Doth make against me, of this direful murder;
And here I stand, both to impeach and purge
Myself condemned and myself excus’d.
Then say at once what thou dost know in this.
I will be brief, for my short date of breath
Is not so long as is a tedious tale.
Romeo, there dead, was husband to that Juliet;
And she, there dead, that Romeo’s faithful wife:
I married them; and their stol’n marriage day
Was Tybalt’s doomsday, whose untimely death
Banish’d the new-made bridegroom from this city;
For whom, and not for Tybalt, Juliet pin’d.
You, to remove that siege of grief from her,
Betroth’d, and would have married her perforce,
To County Paris:—then comes she to me,
And with wild looks, bid me devise some means
To rid her from this second marriage,
Or in my cell there would she kill herself.
Then gave I her, so tutored by my art,
A sleeping potion; which so took effect
As I intended, for it wrought on her
The form of death: meantime I writ to Romeo
That he should hither come as this dire night,
To help to take her from her borrow’d grave,
Being the time the potion’s force should cease.
But he which bore my letter, Friar John,
Was stay’d by accident; and yesternight
Return’d my letter back. Then all alone
At the prefixed hour of her waking
Came I to take her from her kindred’s vault;
Meaning to keep her closely at my cell
Till I conveniently could send to Romeo:
But when I came,—some minute ere the time
Of her awaking,—here untimely lay
The noble Paris and true Romeo dead.
She wakes; and I entreated her come forth
And bear this work of heaven with patience:
But then a noise did scare me from the tomb;
And she, too desperate, would not go with me,
But, as it seems, did violence on herself.
All this I know; and to the marriage
Her nurse is privy: and if ought in this
Miscarried by my fault, let my old life
Be sacrific’d, some hour before his time,
Unto the rigour of severest law.
We still have known thee for a holy man.—
Where’s Romeo’s man? what can he say in this?
I brought my master news of Juliet’s death;
And then in post he came from Mantua
To this same place, to this same monument.
This letter he early bid me give his father;
And threaten’d me with death, going in the vault,
If I departed not, and left him there.
Give me the letter,—I will look on it.—
Where is the county’s page that rais’d the watch?—
Sirrah, what made your master in this place?
He came with flowers to strew his lady’s grave;
And bid me stand aloof, and so I did:
Anon comes one with light to ope the tomb;
And by-and-by my master drew on him;
And then I ran away to call the watch.
This letter doth make good the friar’s words,
Their course of love, the tidings of her death:
And here he writes that he did buy a poison
Of a poor ‘pothecary, and therewithal
Came to this vault to die, and lie with Juliet.—
Where be these enemies?—Capulet,—Montague,—
See what a scourge is laid upon your hate,
That heaven finds means to kill your joys with love!
And I, for winking at your discords too,
Have lost a brace of kinsmen:—all are punish’d.
O brother Montague, give me thy hand:
This is my daughter’s jointure, for no more
Can I demand.
But I can give thee more:
For I will raise her statue in pure gold;
That while Verona by that name is known,
There shall no figure at such rate be set
As that of true and faithful Juliet.
As rich shall Romeo’s by his lady’s lie;
Poor sacrifices of our enmity!
A glooming peace this morning with it brings;
The sun for sorrow will not show his head.
Go hence, to have more talk of these sad things;
Some shall be pardon’d, and some punished;
For never was a story of more woe
Than this of Juliet and her Romeo.
My father Capulet will have it so;
And I am nothing slow to slack his haste.
You say you do not know the lady’s mind:
Uneven is the course; I like it not.
Immoderately she weeps for Tybalt’s death,
And therefore have I little talk’d of love;
For Venus smiles not in a house of tears.
Now, sir, her father counts it dangerous
That she do give her sorrow so much sway;
And, in his wisdom, hastes our marriage,
To stop the inundation of her tears;
Which, too much minded by herself alone,
May be put from her by society:
Now do you know the reason of this haste.
[Aside.] I would I knew not why it should be slow’d.—
Look, sir, here comes the lady toward my cell.
Happily met, my lady and my wife!
That may be, sir, when I may be a wife.
That may be must be, love, on Thursday next.
What must be shall be.
That’s a certain text.
Come you to make confession to this father?
To answer that, I should confess to you.
Do not deny to him that you love me.
I will confess to you that I love him.
So will ye, I am sure, that you love me.
If I do so, it will be of more price,
Being spoke behind your back than to your face.
Poor soul, thy face is much abus’d with tears.
The tears have got small victory by that;
For it was bad enough before their spite.
Thou wrong’st it more than tears with that report.
That is no slander, sir, which is a truth;
And what I spake, I spake it to my face.
Thy face is mine, and thou hast slander’d it.
It may be so, for it is not mine own.—
Are you at leisure, holy father, now;
Or shall I come to you at evening mass?
My leisure serves me, pensive daughter, now.—
My lord, we must entreat the time alone.
God shield I should disturb devotion!—
Juliet, on Thursday early will I rouse you:
Till then, adieu; and keep this holy kiss.
O, shut the door! and when thou hast done so,
Come weep with me; past hope, past cure, past help!
Ah, Juliet, I already know thy grief;
It strains me past the compass of my wits:
I hear thou must, and nothing may prorogue it,
On Thursday next be married to this county.
Tell me not, friar, that thou hear’st of this,
Unless thou tell me how I may prevent it:
If, in thy wisdom, thou canst give no help,
Do thou but call my resolution wise,
And with this knife I’ll help it presently.
God join’d my heart and Romeo’s, thou our hands;
And ere this hand, by thee to Romeo’s seal’d,
Shall be the label to another deed,
Or my true heart with treacherous revolt
Turn to another, this shall slay them both:
Therefore, out of thy long-experienc’d time,
Give me some present counsel; or, behold,
‘Twixt my extremes and me this bloody knife
Shall play the empire; arbitrating that
Which the commission of thy years and art
Could to no issue of true honour bring.
Be not so long to speak; I long to die,
If what thou speak’st speak not of remedy.
Hold, daughter. I do spy a kind of hope,
Which craves as desperate an execution
As that is desperate which we would prevent.
If, rather than to marry County Paris
Thou hast the strength of will to slay thyself,
Then is it likely thou wilt undertake
A thing like death to chide away this shame,
That cop’st with death himself to scape from it;
And, if thou dar’st, I’ll give thee remedy.
O, bid me leap, rather than marry Paris,
From off the battlements of yonder tower;
Or walk in thievish ways; or bid me lurk
Where serpents are; chain me with roaring bears;
Or shut me nightly in a charnel-house,
O’er-cover’d quite with dead men’s rattling bones,
With reeky shanks and yellow chapless skulls;
Or bid me go into a new-made grave,
And hide me with a dead man in his shroud;
Things that, to hear them told, have made me tremble;
And I will do it without fear or doubt,
To live an unstain’d wife to my sweet love.
Hold, then; go home, be merry, give consent
To marry Paris: Wednesday is to-morrow;
To-morrow night look that thou lie alone,
Let not thy nurse lie with thee in thy chamber:
Take thou this vial, being then in bed,
And this distilled liquor drink thou off:
When, presently, through all thy veins shall run
A cold and drowsy humour; for no pulse
Shall keep his native progress, but surcease:
No warmth, no breath, shall testify thou livest;
The roses in thy lips and cheeks shall fade
To paly ashes; thy eyes’ windows fall,
Like death, when he shuts up the day of life;
Each part, depriv’d of supple government,
Shall, stiff and stark and cold, appear like death:
And in this borrow’d likeness of shrunk death
Thou shalt continue two-and-forty hours,
And then awake as from a pleasant sleep.
Now, when the bridegroom in the morning comes
To rouse thee from thy bed, there art thou dead:
Then,—as the manner of our country is,—
In thy best robes, uncover’d, on the bier,
Thou shalt be borne to that same ancient vault
Where all the kindred of the Capulets lie.
In the mean time, against thou shalt awake,
Shall Romeo by my letters know our drift;
And hither shall he come: and he and I
Will watch thy waking, and that very night
Shall Romeo bear thee hence to Mantua.
And this shall free thee from this present shame,
If no inconstant toy nor womanish fear
Abate thy valour in the acting it.
Give me, give me! O, tell not me of fear!
Hold; get you gone, be strong and prosperous
In this resolve: I’ll send a friar with speed
To Mantua, with my letters to thy lord.
Love give me strength! and strength shall help afford.
Farewell, dear father.
Scene II. Hall in Capulet’s House.
[Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, Nurse, and Servants.]
So many guests invite as here are writ.—
[Exit first Servant.]
Sirrah, go hire me twenty cunning cooks.
2 Servant. You shall have none ill, sir; for I’ll try if they can lick their fingers.
How canst thou try them so?
2 Servant. Marry, sir, ’tis an ill cook that cannot lick his own fingers: therefore he that cannot lick his fingers goes not with me.
[Exit second Servant.]
We shall be much unfurnish’d for this time.—
What, is my daughter gone to Friar Lawrence?
Well, be may chance to do some good on her:
A peevish self-will’d harlotry it is.
See where she comes from shrift with merry look.
How now, my headstrong! where have you been gadding?
Where I have learn’d me to repent the sin
Of disobedient opposition
To you and your behests; and am enjoin’d
By holy Lawrence to fall prostrate here,
To beg your pardon:—pardon, I beseech you!
Henceforward I am ever rul’d by you.
Send for the county; go tell him of this:
I’ll have this knot knit up to-morrow morning.
I met the youthful lord at Lawrence’ cell;
And gave him what becomed love I might,
Not stepping o’er the bounds of modesty.
Why, I am glad on’t; this is well,—stand up,—
This is as’t should be.—Let me see the county;
Ay, marry, go, I say, and fetch him hither.—
Now, afore God, this reverend holy friar,
All our whole city is much bound to him.
Nurse, will you go with me into my closet,
To help me sort such needful ornaments
As you think fit to furnish me to-morrow?
No, not till Thursday; there is time enough.
Go, nurse, go with her.—We’ll to church to-morrow.
[Exeunt Juliet and Nurse.]
We shall be short in our provision:
‘Tis now near night.
Tush, I will stir about,
And all things shall be well, I warrant thee, wife:
Go thou to Juliet, help to deck up her;
I’ll not to bed to-night;—let me alone;
I’ll play the housewife for this once.—What, ho!—
They are all forth: well, I will walk myself
To County Paris, to prepare him up
Against to-morrow: my heart is wondrous light
Since this same wayward girl is so reclaim’d.
Scene III. Juliet’s Chamber.
[Enter Juliet and Nurse.]
Ay, those attires are best:—but, gentle nurse,
I pray thee, leave me to myself to-night;
For I have need of many orisons
To move the heavens to smile upon my state,
Which, well thou know’st, is cross and full of sin.
[Enter Lady Capulet.]
What, are you busy, ho? need you my help?
No, madam; we have cull’d such necessaries
As are behoveful for our state to-morrow:
So please you, let me now be left alone,
And let the nurse this night sit up with you;
For I am sure you have your hands full all
In this so sudden business.
Get thee to bed, and rest; for thou hast need.
[Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse.]
Farewell!—God knows when we shall meet again.
I have a faint cold fear thrills through my veins
That almost freezes up the heat of life:
I’ll call them back again to comfort me;—
Nurse!—What should she do here?
My dismal scene I needs must act alone.—
What if this mixture do not work at all?
Shall I be married, then, to-morrow morning?—
No, No!—this shall forbid it:—lie thou there.—
[Laying down her dagger.]
What if it be a poison, which the friar
Subtly hath minister’d to have me dead,
Lest in this marriage he should be dishonour’d,
Because he married me before to Romeo?
I fear it is: and yet methinks it should not,
For he hath still been tried a holy man:—
I will not entertain so bad a thought.—
How if, when I am laid into the tomb,
I wake before the time that Romeo
Come to redeem me? there’s a fearful point!
Shall I not then be stifled in the vault,
To whose foul mouth no healthsome air breathes in,
And there die strangled ere my Romeo comes?
Or, if I live, is it not very like
The horrible conceit of death and night,
Together with the terror of the place,—
As in a vault, an ancient receptacle,
Where, for this many hundred years, the bones
Of all my buried ancestors are pack’d;
Where bloody Tybalt, yet but green in earth,
Lies festering in his shroud; where, as they say,
At some hours in the night spirits resort;—
Alack, alack, is it not like that I,
So early waking,—what with loathsome smells,
And shrieks like mandrakes torn out of the earth,
That living mortals, hearing them, run mad;—
O, if I wake, shall I not be distraught,
Environed with all these hideous fears?
And madly play with my forefathers’ joints?
And pluck the mangled Tybalt from his shroud?
And, in this rage, with some great kinsman’s bone,
As with a club, dash out my desperate brains?—
O, look! methinks I see my cousin’s ghost
Seeking out Romeo, that did spit his body
Upon a rapier’s point:—stay, Tybalt, stay!—
Romeo, I come! this do I drink to thee.
[Throws herself on the bed.]
Scene IV. Hall in Capulet’s House.
[Enter Lady Capulet and Nurse.]
Hold, take these keys and fetch more spices, nurse.
They call for dates and quinces in the pastry.
Come, stir, stir, stir! The second cock hath crow’d,
The curfew bell hath rung, ’tis three o’clock:—
Look to the bak’d meats, good Angelica;
Spare not for cost.
Go, you cot-quean, go,
Get you to bed; faith, you’ll be sick to-morrow
For this night’s watching.
No, not a whit: what! I have watch’d ere now
All night for lesser cause, and ne’er been sick.
Ay, you have been a mouse-hunt in your time;
But I will watch you from such watching now.
[Exeunt Lady Capulet and Nurse.]
A jealous-hood, a jealous-hood!—Now, fellow,
[Enter Servants, with spits, logs and baskets.]
1 Servant. Things for the cook, sir; but I know not what.
Make haste, make haste. [Exit 1 Servant.]
—Sirrah, fetch drier logs:
Call Peter, he will show thee where they are.
I have a head, sir, that will find out logs
And never trouble Peter for the matter.
Mass, and well said; a merry whoreson, ha!
Thou shalt be logger-head.—Good faith, ’tis day.
The county will be here with music straight,
For so he said he would:—I hear him near.
Nurse!—wife!—what, ho!—what, nurse, I say!
Go, waken Juliet; go and trim her up;
I’ll go and chat with Paris:—hie, make haste,
Make haste; the bridegroom he is come already:
Make haste, I say.
Scene V. Juliet’s Chamber; Juliet on the bed.
Mistress!—what, mistress!—Juliet!—fast, I warrant her, she:—
Why, lamb!—why, lady!—fie, you slug-abed!—
Why, love, I say!—madam! sweetheart!—why, bride!—
What, not a word?—you take your pennyworths now;
Sleep for a week; for the next night, I warrant,
The County Paris hath set up his rest
That you shall rest but little.—God forgive me!
Marry, and amen, how sound is she asleep!
I needs must wake her.—Madam, madam, madam!—
Ay, let the county take you in your bed;
He’ll fright you up, i’ faith.—Will it not be?
What, dress’d! and in your clothes! and down again!
I must needs wake you.—lady! lady! lady!—
Alas, alas!—Help, help! My lady’s dead!—
O, well-a-day that ever I was born!—
Some aqua-vitae, ho!—my lord! my lady!
[Enter Lady Capulet.]
What noise is here?
O lamentable day!
What is the matter?
Look, look! O heavy day!
O me, O me!—my child, my only life!
Revive, look up, or I will die with thee!—
Help, help!—call help.
For shame, bring Juliet forth; her lord is come.
She’s dead, deceas’d, she’s dead; alack the day!
Alack the day, she’s dead, she’s dead, she’s dead!
Ha! let me see her:—out alas! she’s cold;
Her blood is settled, and her joints are stiff;
Life and these lips have long been separated:
Death lies on her like an untimely frost
Upon the sweetest flower of all the field.
Accursed time! unfortunate old man!
O lamentable day!
O woful time!
Death, that hath ta’en her hence to make me wail,
Ties up my tongue and will not let me speak.
[Enter Friar Lawrence and Paris, with Musicians.]
Come, is the bride ready to go to church?
Ready to go, but never to return:—
O son, the night before thy wedding day
Hath death lain with thy bride:—there she lies,
Flower as she was, deflowered by him.
Death is my son-in-law, death is my heir;
My daughter he hath wedded: I will die.
And leave him all; life, living, all is death’s.
Have I thought long to see this morning’s face,
And doth it give me such a sight as this?
Accurs’d, unhappy, wretched, hateful day!
Most miserable hour that e’er time saw
In lasting labour of his pilgrimage!
But one, poor one, one poor and loving child,
But one thing to rejoice and solace in,
And cruel death hath catch’d it from my sight!
O woe! O woeful, woeful, woeful day!
Most lamentable day, most woeful day
That ever, ever, I did yet behold!
O day! O day! O day! O hateful day!
Never was seen so black a day as this:
O woeful day! O woeful day!
Beguil’d, divorced, wronged, spited, slain!
Most detestable death, by thee beguil’d,
By cruel cruel thee quite overthrown!—
O love! O life!—not life, but love in death!
Despis’d, distressed, hated, martyr’d, kill’d!—
Uncomfortable time, why cam’st thou now
To murder, murder our solemnity?—
O child! O child!—my soul, and not my child!—
Dead art thou, dead!—alack, my child is dead;
And with my child my joys are buried!
Peace, ho, for shame! confusion’s cure lives not
In these confusions. Heaven and yourself
Had part in this fair maid; now heaven hath all,
And all the better is it for the maid:
Your part in her you could not keep from death;
But heaven keeps his part in eternal life.
The most you sought was her promotion;
For ’twas your heaven she should be advanc’d:
And weep ye now, seeing she is advanc’d
Above the clouds, as high as heaven itself?
O, in this love, you love your child so ill
That you run mad, seeing that she is well:
She’s not well married that lives married long:
But she’s best married that dies married young.
Dry up your tears, and stick your rosemary
On this fair corse; and, as the custom is,
In all her best array bear her to church;
For though fond nature bids us all lament,
Yet nature’s tears are reason’s merriment.
All things that we ordained festival
Turn from their office to black funeral:
Our instruments to melancholy bells;
Our wedding cheer to a sad burial feast;
Our solemn hymns to sullen dirges change;
Our bridal flowers serve for a buried corse,
And all things change them to the contrary.
Sir, go you in,—and, madam, go with him;—
And go, Sir Paris;—every one prepare
To follow this fair corse unto her grave:
The heavens do lower upon you for some ill;
Move them no more by crossing their high will.
[Exeunt Capulet, Lady Capulet, Paris, and Friar.]
1 Musician. Faith, we may put up our pipes and be gone.
Honest good fellows, ah, put up, put up;
For well you know this is a pitiful case.
1 Musician. Ay, by my troth, the case may be amended.
Musicians, O, musicians, ‘Heart’s ease,’ ‘Heart’s ease’:
O, an you will have me live, play ‘Heart’s ease.’
1 Musician. Why ‘Heart’s ease’?
Peter. O, musicians, because my heart itself plays ‘My heart is full of woe’: O, play me some merry dump to comfort me.
1 Musician. Not a dump we: ’tis no time to play now.
You will not then?
1 Musician. No.
I will then give it you soundly.
1 Musician. What will you give us?
Peter. No money, on my faith; but the gleek,—I will give you the minstrel.
1 Musician. Then will I give you the serving-creature.
Then will I lay the serving-creature’s dagger on your pate.
I will carry no crotchets: I’ll re you, I’ll fa you: do you note
1 Musician. An you re us and fa us, you note us.
2 Musician. Pray you put up your dagger, and put out your wit.
Peter. Then have at you with my wit! I will dry-beat you with an iron wit, and put up my iron dagger.—Answer me like men:
'When griping grief the heart doth wound,
And doleful dumps the mind oppress,
Then music with her silver sound'—
why ‘silver sound’? why ‘music with her silver sound’?— What say you, Simon Catling?
1 Musician. Marry, sir, because silver hath a sweet sound.
Pretty!—What say you, Hugh Rebeck?
2 Musician. I say ‘silver sound’ because musicians sound for silver.
Pretty too!—What say you, James Soundpost?
3 Musician. Faith, I know not what to say.
O, I cry you mercy; you are the singer: I will say for you.
It is ‘music with her silver sound’ because musicians have no
gold for sounding:—
'Then music with her silver sound
With speedy help doth lend redress.'
1 Musician. What a pestilent knave is this same!
2 Musician. Hang him, Jack!—Come, we’ll in here; tarry for the mourners, and stay dinner.
I pray thee, good Mercutio, let’s retire:
The day is hot, the Capulets abroad,
And, if we meet, we shall not scape a brawl;
For now, these hot days, is the mad blood stirring.
Mercutio. Thou art like one of these fellows that, when he enters the confines of a tavern, claps me his sword upon the table, and says ‘God send me no need of thee!’ and by the operation of the second cup draws him on the drawer, when indeed there is no need.
Am I like such a fellow?
Come, come, thou art as hot a Jack in thy mood as any in
Italy; and as soon moved to be moody, and as soon moody to be
And what to?
Mercutio. Nay, an there were two such, we should have none shortly, for one would kill the other. Thou! why, thou wilt quarrel with a man that hath a hair more or a hair less in his beard than thou hast. Thou wilt quarrel with a man for cracking nuts, having no other reason but because thou hast hazel eyes;—what eye but such an eye would spy out such a quarrel? Thy head is as full of quarrels as an egg is full of meat; and yet thy head hath been beaten as addle as an egg for quarrelling. Thou hast quarrelled with a man for coughing in the street, because he hath wakened thy dog that hath lain asleep in the sun. Didst thou not fall out with a tailor for wearing his new doublet before Easter? with another for tying his new shoes with an old riband? and yet thou wilt tutor me from quarrelling!
Benvolio. An I were so apt to quarrel as thou art, any man should buy the fee simple of my life for an hour and a quarter.
The fee simple! O simple!
By my head, here come the Capulets.
By my heel, I care not.
[Enter Tybalt and others.]
Tybalt. Follow me close, for I will speak to them.—Gentlemen, good-den: a word with one of you.
Mercutio. And but one word with one of us? Couple it with something; make it a word and a blow.
Tybalt. You shall find me apt enough to that, sir, an you will give me occasion.
Could you not take some occasion without giving?
Mercutio, thou consortest with Romeo,—
Mercutio. Consort! what, dost thou make us minstrels? An thou make minstrels of us, look to hear nothing but discords: here’s my fiddlestick; here’s that shall make you dance. Zounds, consort!
We talk here in the public haunt of men:
Either withdraw unto some private place,
And reason coldly of your grievances,
Or else depart; here all eyes gaze on us.
Men’s eyes were made to look, and let them gaze;
I will not budge for no man’s pleasure, I.
Well, peace be with you, sir.—Here comes my man.
But I’ll be hanged, sir, if he wear your livery:
Marry, go before to field, he’ll be your follower;
Your worship in that sense may call him man.
Romeo, the love I bear thee can afford
No better term than this,—Thou art a villain.
Tybalt, the reason that I have to love thee
Doth much excuse the appertaining rage
To such a greeting. Villain am I none;
Therefore farewell; I see thou know’st me not.
Boy, this shall not excuse the injuries
That thou hast done me; therefore turn and draw.
I do protest I never injur’d thee;
But love thee better than thou canst devise
Till thou shalt know the reason of my love:
And so good Capulet,—which name I tender
As dearly as mine own,—be satisfied.
O calm, dishonourable, vile submission!
Alla stoccata carries it away. [Draws.]
Tybalt, you rat-catcher, will you walk?
What wouldst thou have with me?
Mercutio. Good king of cats, nothing but one of your nine lives; that I mean to make bold withal, and, as you shall use me hereafter, dry-beat the rest of the eight. Will you pluck your sword out of his pitcher by the ears? make haste, lest mine be about your ears ere it be out.
I am for you. [Drawing.]
Gentle Mercutio, put thy rapier up.
Come, sir, your passado.
Draw, Benvolio; beat down their weapons.—
Gentlemen, for shame! forbear this outrage!—
Tybalt,—Mercutio,—the prince expressly hath
Forbid this bandying in Verona streets.—
Hold, Tybalt!—good Mercutio!—
[Exeunt Tybalt with his Partizans.]
I am hurt;—
A plague o’ both your houses!—I am sped.—
Is he gone, and hath nothing?
What, art thou hurt?
Ay, ay, a scratch, a scratch; marry, ’tis enough.—
Where is my page?—go, villain, fetch a surgeon.
Courage, man; the hurt cannot be much.
Mercutio. No, ’tis not so deep as a well, nor so wide as a church door; but ’tis enough, ’twill serve: ask for me to-morrow, and you shall find me a grave man. I am peppered, I warrant, for this world.—A plague o’ both your houses!—Zounds, a dog, a rat, a mouse, a cat, to scratch a man to death! a braggart, a rogue, a villain, that fights by the book of arithmetic!—Why the devil came you between us? I was hurt under your arm.
I thought all for the best.
Help me into some house, Benvolio,
Or I shall faint.—A plague o’ both your houses!
They have made worms’ meat of me:
I have it, and soundly too.—Your houses!
[Exit Mercutio and Benvolio.]
This gentleman, the prince’s near ally,
My very friend, hath got his mortal hurt
In my behalf; my reputation stain’d
With Tybalt’s slander,—Tybalt, that an hour
Hath been my kinsman.—O sweet Juliet,
Thy beauty hath made me effeminate
And in my temper soften’d valour’s steel.
O Romeo, Romeo, brave Mercutio’s dead!
That gallant spirit hath aspir’d the clouds,
Which too untimely here did scorn the earth.
This day’s black fate on more days doth depend;
This but begins the woe others must end.
Here comes the furious Tybalt back again.
Alive in triumph! and Mercutio slain!
Away to heaven respective lenity,
And fire-ey’d fury be my conduct now!—
Now, Tybalt, take the ‘villain’ back again
That late thou gavest me; for Mercutio’s soul
Is but a little way above our heads,
Staying for thine to keep him company.
Either thou or I, or both, must go with him.
Thou, wretched boy, that didst consort him here,
Shalt with him hence.
This shall determine that.
[They fight; Tybalt falls.]
Romeo, away, be gone!
The citizens are up, and Tybalt slain.—
Stand not amaz’d. The prince will doom thee death
If thou art taken. Hence, be gone, away!
O, I am fortune’s fool!
Why dost thou stay?
[Enter Citizens, &c.]
Which way ran he that kill’d Mercutio?
Tybalt, that murderer, which way ran he?
There lies that Tybalt.
1 Citizen. Up, sir, go with me; I charge thee in the prince’s name obey.
[Enter Prince, attended; Montague, Capulet, their Wives, and others.]
Where are the vile beginners of this fray?
O noble prince. I can discover all
The unlucky manage of this fatal brawl:
There lies the man, slain by young Romeo,
That slew thy kinsman, brave Mercutio.
Tybalt, my cousin! O my brother’s child!—
O prince!—O husband!—O, the blood is spill’d
Of my dear kinsman!—Prince, as thou art true,
For blood of ours shed blood of Montague.—
O cousin, cousin!
Benvolio, who began this bloody fray?
Tybalt, here slain, whom Romeo’s hand did slay;
Romeo, that spoke him fair, bid him bethink
How nice the quarrel was, and urg’d withal
Your high displeasure.—All this,—uttered
With gentle breath, calm look, knees humbly bow’d,—
Could not take truce with the unruly spleen
Of Tybalt, deaf to peace, but that he tilts
With piercing steel at bold Mercutio’s breast;
Who, all as hot, turns deadly point to point,
And, with a martial scorn, with one hand beats
Cold death aside, and with the other sends
It back to Tybalt, whose dexterity
Retorts it: Romeo he cries aloud,
‘Hold, friends! friends, part!’ and swifter than his tongue,
His agile arm beats down their fatal points,
And ‘twixt them rushes; underneath whose arm
An envious thrust from Tybalt hit the life
Of stout Mercutio, and then Tybalt fled:
But by-and-by comes back to Romeo,
Who had but newly entertain’d revenge,
And to’t they go like lightning; for, ere I
Could draw to part them was stout Tybalt slain;
And as he fell did Romeo turn and fly.
This is the truth, or let Benvolio die.
He is a kinsman to the Montague,
Affection makes him false, he speaks not true:
Some twenty of them fought in this black strife,
And all those twenty could but kill one life.
I beg for justice, which thou, prince, must give;
Romeo slew Tybalt, Romeo must not live.
Romeo slew him; he slew Mercutio:
Who now the price of his dear blood doth owe?
Not Romeo, prince; he was Mercutio’s friend;
His fault concludes but what the law should end,
The life of Tybalt.
And for that offence
Immediately we do exile him hence:
I have an interest in your hate’s proceeding,
My blood for your rude brawls doth lie a-bleeding;
But I’ll amerce you with so strong a fine
That you shall all repent the loss of mine:
I will be deaf to pleading and excuses;
Nor tears nor prayers shall purchase out abuses,
Therefore use none: let Romeo hence in haste,
Else, when he is found, that hour is his last.
Bear hence this body, and attend our will:
Mercy but murders, pardoning those that kill.
Scene II. A Room in Capulet’s House.
Gallop apace, you fiery-footed steeds,
Towards Phoebus’ lodging; such a waggoner
As Phaeton would whip you to the west
And bring in cloudy night immediately.—
Spread thy close curtain, love-performing night!
That rude eyes may wink, and Romeo
Leap to these arms, untalk’d of and unseen.—
Lovers can see to do their amorous rites
By their own beauties: or, if love be blind,
It best agrees with night.—Come, civil night,
Thou sober-suited matron, all in black,
And learn me how to lose a winning match,
Play’d for a pair of stainless maidenhoods:
Hood my unmann’d blood, bating in my cheeks,
With thy black mantle; till strange love, grown bold,
Think true love acted simple modesty.
Come, night;—come, Romeo;—come, thou day in night;
For thou wilt lie upon the wings of night
Whiter than new snow upon a raven’s back.—
Come, gentle night;—come, loving, black-brow’d night,
Give me my Romeo; and, when he shall die,
Take him and cut him out in little stars,
And he will make the face of heaven so fine
That all the world will be in love with night,
And pay no worship to the garish sun.—
O, I have bought the mansion of a love,
But not possess’d it; and, though I am sold,
Not yet enjoy’d: so tedious is this day
As is the night before some festival
To an impatient child that hath new robes,
And may not wear them. O, here comes my nurse,
And she brings news; and every tongue that speaks
But Romeo’s name speaks heavenly eloquence.—
[Enter Nurse, with cords.]
Now, nurse, what news? What hast thou there? the cords
That Romeo bid thee fetch?
Ay, ay, the cords.
[Throws them down.]
Ah me! what news? why dost thou wring thy hands?
Ah, well-a-day! he’s dead, he’s dead, he’s dead!
We are undone, lady, we are undone!—
Alack the day!—he’s gone, he’s kill’d, he’s dead!
Can heaven be so envious?
Though heaven cannot.—O Romeo, Romeo!—
Who ever would have thought it?—Romeo!
What devil art thou, that dost torment me thus?
This torture should be roar’d in dismal hell.
Hath Romeo slain himself? say thou but I,
And that bare vowel I shall poison more
Than the death-darting eye of cockatrice:
I am not I if there be such an I;
Or those eyes shut that make thee answer I.
If he be slain, say I; or if not, no:
Brief sounds determine of my weal or woe.
I saw the wound, I saw it with mine eyes,—
God save the mark!—here on his manly breast.
A piteous corse, a bloody piteous corse;
Pale, pale as ashes, all bedaub’d in blood,
All in gore-blood;—I swounded at the sight.
O, break, my heart!—poor bankrout, break at once!
To prison, eyes; ne’er look on liberty!
Vile earth, to earth resign; end motion here;
And thou and Romeo press one heavy bier!
O Tybalt, Tybalt, the best friend I had!
O courteous Tybalt! honest gentleman!
That ever I should live to see thee dead!
What storm is this that blows so contrary?
Is Romeo slaughter’d, and is Tybalt dead?
My dear-lov’d cousin, and my dearer lord?—
Then, dreadful trumpet, sound the general doom!
For who is living, if those two are gone?
Tybalt is gone, and Romeo banished;
Romeo that kill’d him, he is banished.
O God!—did Romeo’s hand shed Tybalt’s blood?
It did, it did; alas the day, it did!
O serpent heart, hid with a flowering face!
Did ever dragon keep so fair a cave?
Beautiful tyrant! fiend angelical!
Dove-feather’d raven! wolvish-ravening lamb!
Despised substance of divinest show!
Just opposite to what thou justly seem’st,
A damned saint, an honourable villain!—
O nature, what hadst thou to do in hell
When thou didst bower the spirit of a fiend
In mortal paradise of such sweet flesh?—
Was ever book containing such vile matter
So fairly bound? O, that deceit should dwell
In such a gorgeous palace!
There’s no trust,
No faith, no honesty in men; all perjur’d,
All forsworn, all naught, all dissemblers.—
Ah, where’s my man? Give me some aqua vitae.—
These griefs, these woes, these sorrows make me old.
Shame come to Romeo!
Blister’d be thy tongue
For such a wish! he was not born to shame:
Upon his brow shame is asham’d to sit;
For ’tis a throne where honour may be crown’d
Sole monarch of the universal earth.
O, what a beast was I to chide at him!
Will you speak well of him that kill’d your cousin?
Shall I speak ill of him that is my husband?
Ah, poor my lord, what tongue shall smooth thy name,
When I, thy three-hours’ wife, have mangled it?—
But wherefore, villain, didst thou kill my cousin?
That villain cousin would have kill’d my husband:
Back, foolish tears, back to your native spring;
Your tributary drops belong to woe,
Which you, mistaking, offer up to joy.
My husband lives, that Tybalt would have slain;
And Tybalt’s dead, that would have slain my husband:
All this is comfort; wherefore weep I, then?
Some word there was, worser than Tybalt’s death,
That murder’d me: I would forget it fain;
But O, it presses to my memory
Like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds:
‘Tybalt is dead, and Romeo banished.’
That ‘banished,’ that one word ‘banished,’
Hath slain ten thousand Tybalts. Tybalt’s death
Was woe enough, if it had ended there:
Or, if sour woe delights in fellowship,
And needly will be rank’d with other griefs,—
Why follow’d not, when she said Tybalt’s dead,
Thy father, or thy mother, nay, or both,
Which modern lamentation might have mov’d?
But with a rear-ward following Tybalt’s death,
‘Romeo is banished’—to speak that word
Is father, mother, Tybalt, Romeo, Juliet,
All slain, all dead: ‘Romeo is banished,’—
There is no end, no limit, measure, bound,
In that word’s death; no words can that woe sound.—
Where is my father and my mother, nurse?
Weeping and wailing over Tybalt’s corse:
Will you go to them? I will bring you thither.
Wash they his wounds with tears: mine shall be spent,
When theirs are dry, for Romeo’s banishment.
Take up those cords. Poor ropes, you are beguil’d,
Both you and I; for Romeo is exil’d:
He made you for a highway to my bed;
But I, a maid, die maiden-widowed.
Come, cords; come, nurse; I’ll to my wedding-bed;
And death, not Romeo, take my maidenhead!
Hie to your chamber. I’ll find Romeo
To comfort you: I wot well where he is.
Hark ye, your Romeo will be here at night:
I’ll to him; he is hid at Lawrence’ cell.
O, find him! give this ring to my true knight,
And bid him come to take his last farewell.
Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s cell.
[Enter Friar Lawrence.]
Romeo, come forth; come forth, thou fearful man.
Affliction is enanmour’d of thy parts,
And thou art wedded to calamity.
Father, what news? what is the prince’s doom
What sorrow craves acquaintance at my hand,
That I yet know not?
Is my dear son with such sour company:
I bring thee tidings of the prince’s doom.
What less than doomsday is the prince’s doom?
A gentler judgment vanish’d from his lips,—
Not body’s death, but body’s banishment.
Ha, banishment? be merciful, say death;
For exile hath more terror in his look,
Much more than death; do not say banishment.
Hence from Verona art thou banished:
Be patient, for the world is broad and wide.
There is no world without Verona walls,
But purgatory, torture, hell itself.
Hence-banished is banish’d from the world,
And world’s exile is death,—then banished
Is death mis-term’d: calling death banishment,
Thou cutt’st my head off with a golden axe,
And smil’st upon the stroke that murders me.
O deadly sin! O rude unthankfulness!
Thy fault our law calls death; but the kind prince,
Taking thy part, hath brush’d aside the law,
And turn’d that black word death to banishment:
This is dear mercy, and thou see’st it not.
‘Tis torture, and not mercy: heaven is here,
Where Juliet lives; and every cat, and dog,
And little mouse, every unworthy thing,
Live here in heaven, and may look on her;
But Romeo may not.—More validity,
More honourable state, more courtship lives
In carrion flies than Romeo: they may seize
On the white wonder of dear Juliet’s hand,
And steal immortal blessing from her lips;
Who, even in pure and vestal modesty,
Still blush, as thinking their own kisses sin;
But Romeo may not; he is banished,—
This may flies do, when I from this must fly.
And sayest thou yet that exile is not death!
Hadst thou no poison mix’d, no sharp-ground knife,
No sudden mean of death, though ne’er so mean,
But banished to kill me; banished?
O friar, the damned use that word in hell;
Howlings attend it: how hast thou the heart,
Being a divine, a ghostly confessor,
A sin-absolver, and my friend profess’d,
To mangle me with that word banishment?
Thou fond mad man, hear me speak a little,—
O, thou wilt speak again of banishment.
I’ll give thee armour to keep off that word;
Adversity’s sweet milk, philosophy,
To comfort thee, though thou art banished.
Yet banished? Hang up philosophy!
Unless philosophy can make a Juliet,
Displant a town, reverse a prince’s doom,
It helps not, it prevails not,—talk no more.
O, then I see that madmen have no ears.
How should they, when that wise men have no eyes?
Let me dispute with thee of thy estate.
Thou canst not speak of that thou dost not feel:
Wert thou as young as I, Juliet thy love,
An hour but married, Tybalt murdered,
Doting like me, and like me banished,
Then mightst thou speak, then mightst thou tear thy hair,
And fall upon the ground, as I do now,
Taking the measure of an unmade grave.
Arise; one knocks. Good Romeo, hide thyself.
Not I; unless the breath of heartsick groans,
Mist-like infold me from the search of eyes.
Hark, how they knock!—Who’s there?—Romeo, arise;
Thou wilt be taken.—Stay awhile;—Stand up;
Run to my study.—By-and-by!—God’s will!
What simpleness is this.—I come, I come!
Who knocks so hard? whence come you? what’s your will?
[Within.] Let me come in, and you shall know my errand;
I come from Lady Juliet.
O holy friar, O, tell me, holy friar,
Where is my lady’s lord, where’s Romeo?
There on the ground, with his own tears made drunk.
O, he is even in my mistress’ case,—
Just in her case!
O woeful sympathy!
Even so lies she,
Blubbering and weeping, weeping and blubbering.—
Stand up, stand up; stand, an you be a man:
For Juliet’s sake, for her sake, rise and stand;
Why should you fall into so deep an O?
Ah sir! ah sir!—Well, death’s the end of all.
Spakest thou of Juliet? how is it with her?
Doth not she think me an old murderer,
Now I have stain’d the childhood of our joy
With blood remov’d but little from her own?
Where is she? and how doth she/ and what says
My conceal’d lady to our cancell’d love?
O, she says nothing, sir, but weeps and weeps;
And now falls on her bed; and then starts up,
And Tybalt calls; and then on Romeo cries,
And then down falls again.
As if that name,
Shot from the deadly level of a gun,
Did murder her; as that name’s cursed hand
Murder’d her kinsman.—O, tell me, friar, tell me,
In what vile part of this anatomy
Doth my name lodge? tell me, that I may sack
The hateful mansion.
[Drawing his sword.]
Hold thy desperate hand:
Art thou a man? thy form cries out thou art;
Thy tears are womanish; thy wild acts denote
The unreasonable fury of a beast;
Unseemly woman in a seeming man!
Or ill-beseeming beast in seeming both!
Thou hast amaz’d me: by my holy order,
I thought thy disposition better temper’d.
Hast thou slain Tybalt? wilt thou slay thyself?
And slay thy lady, too, that lives in thee,
By doing damned hate upon thyself?
Why rail’st thou on thy birth, the heaven, and earth?
Since birth and heaven and earth, all three do meet
In thee at once; which thou at once wouldst lose.
Fie, fie, thou sham’st thy shape, thy love, thy wit;
Which, like a usurer, abound’st in all,
And usest none in that true use indeed
Which should bedeck thy shape, thy love, thy wit:
Thy noble shape is but a form of wax,
Digressing from the valour of a man;
Thy dear love sworn, but hollow perjury,
Killing that love which thou hast vow’d to cherish;
Thy wit, that ornament to shape and love,
Mis-shapen in the conduct of them both,
Like powder in a skilless soldier’s flask,
Is set a-fire by thine own ignorance,
And thou dismember’d with thine own defence.
What, rouse thee, man! thy Juliet is alive,
For whose dear sake thou wast but lately dead;
There art thou happy: Tybalt would kill thee,
But thou slewest Tybalt; there art thou happy too:
The law, that threaten’d death, becomes thy friend,
And turns it to exile; there art thou happy:
A pack of blessings lights upon thy back;
Happiness courts thee in her best array;
But, like a misbehav’d and sullen wench,
Thou pout’st upon thy fortune and thy love:—
Take heed, take heed, for such die miserable.
Go, get thee to thy love, as was decreed,
Ascend her chamber, hence and comfort her:
But, look, thou stay not till the watch be set,
For then thou canst not pass to Mantua;
Where thou shalt live till we can find a time
To blaze your marriage, reconcile your friends,
Beg pardon of the prince, and call thee back
With twenty hundred thousand times more joy
Than thou went’st forth in lamentation.—
Go before, nurse: commend me to thy lady;
And bid her hasten all the house to bed,
Which heavy sorrow makes them apt unto.
Romeo is coming.
O Lord, I could have stay’d here all the night
To hear good counsel: O, what learning is!—
My lord, I’ll tell my lady you will come.
Do so, and bid my sweet prepare to chide.
Here, sir, a ring she bid me give you, sir:
Hie you, make haste, for it grows very late.
How well my comfort is reviv’d by this!
Go hence; good night! and here stands all your state:
Either be gone before the watch be set,
Or by the break of day disguis’d from hence.
Sojourn in Mantua; I’ll find out your man,
And he shall signify from time to time
Every good hap to you that chances here:
Give me thy hand; ’tis late; farewell; good night.
But that a joy past joy calls out on me,
It were a grief so brief to part with thee:
Scene IV. A Room in Capulet’s House.
[Enter Capulet, Lady Capulet, and Paris.]
Things have fallen out, sir, so unluckily
That we have had no time to move our daughter:
Look you, she lov’d her kinsman Tybalt dearly,
And so did I; well, we were born to die.
‘Tis very late; she’ll not come down to-night:
I promise you, but for your company,
I would have been a-bed an hour ago.
These times of woe afford no tune to woo.—
Madam, good night: commend me to your daughter.
I will, and know her mind early to-morrow;
To-night she’s mew’d up to her heaviness.
Sir Paris, I will make a desperate tender
Of my child’s love: I think she will be rul’d
In all respects by me; nay more, I doubt it not.—
Wife, go you to her ere you go to bed;
Acquaint her here of my son Paris’ love;
And bid her, mark you me, on Wednesday next,—
But, soft! what day is this?
Monday, my lord.
Monday! ha, ha! Well, Wednesday is too soon,
Thursday let it be;—a Thursday, tell her,
She shall be married to this noble earl.—
Will you be ready? do you like this haste?
We’ll keep no great ado,—a friend or two;
For, hark you, Tybalt being slain so late,
It may be thought we held him carelessly,
Being our kinsman, if we revel much:
Therefore we’ll have some half a dozen friends,
And there an end. But what say you to Thursday?
My lord, I would that Thursday were to-morrow.
Well, get you gone: o’ Thursday be it then.—
Go you to Juliet, ere you go to bed,
Prepare her, wife, against this wedding-day.—
Farewell, my lord.—Light to my chamber, ho!—
Afore me, it is so very very late
That we may call it early by and by.—
Scene V. An open Gallery to Juliet’s Chamber, overlooking the Garden.
[Enter Romeo and Juliet.]
Wilt thou be gone? it is not yet near day:
It was the nightingale, and not the lark,
That pierc’d the fearful hollow of thine ear;
Nightly she sings on yond pomegranate tree:
Believe me, love, it was the nightingale.
It was the lark, the herald of the morn,
No nightingale: look, love, what envious streaks
Do lace the severing clouds in yonder east:
Night’s candles are burnt out, and jocund day
Stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops.
I must be gone and live, or stay and die.
Yond light is not daylight, I know it, I:
It is some meteor that the sun exhales
To be to thee this night a torch-bearer
And light thee on the way to Mantua:
Therefore stay yet, thou need’st not to be gone.
Let me be ta’en, let me be put to death;
I am content, so thou wilt have it so.
I’ll say yon gray is not the morning’s eye,
‘Tis but the pale reflex of Cynthia’s brow;
Nor that is not the lark whose notes do beat
The vaulty heaven so high above our heads:
I have more care to stay than will to go.—
Come, death, and welcome! Juliet wills it so.—
How is’t, my soul? let’s talk,—it is not day.
It is, it is!—hie hence, be gone, away!
It is the lark that sings so out of tune,
Straining harsh discords and unpleasing sharps.
Some say the lark makes sweet division;
This doth not so, for she divideth us:
Some say the lark and loathed toad change eyes;
O, now I would they had chang’d voices too!
Since arm from arm that voice doth us affray,
Hunting thee hence with hunt’s-up to the day.
O, now be gone; more light and light it grows.
More light and light,—more dark and dark our woes!
Your lady mother is coming to your chamber:
The day is broke; be wary, look about.
Then, window, let day in, and let life out.
Farewell, farewell! one kiss, and I’ll descend.
Art thou gone so? my lord, my love, my friend!
I must hear from thee every day i’ the hour,
For in a minute there are many days:
O, by this count I shall be much in years
Ere I again behold my Romeo!
I will omit no opportunity
That may convey my greetings, love, to thee.
O, think’st thou we shall ever meet again?
I doubt it not; and all these woes shall serve
For sweet discourses in our time to come.
O God! I have an ill-divining soul!
Methinks I see thee, now thou art below,
As one dead in the bottom of a tomb:
Either my eyesight fails, or thou look’st pale.
And trust me, love, in my eye so do you:
Dry sorrow drinks our blood. Adieu, adieu!
O fortune, fortune! all men call thee fickle:
If thou art fickle, what dost thou with him
That is renown’d for faith? Be fickle, fortune;
For then, I hope, thou wilt not keep him long
But send him back.
[Within.] Ho, daughter! are you up?
Who is’t that calls? is it my lady mother?
Is she not down so late, or up so early?
What unaccustom’d cause procures her hither?
[Enter Lady Capulet.]
Why, how now, Juliet?
Madam, I am not well.
Evermore weeping for your cousin’s death?
What, wilt thou wash him from his grave with tears?
An if thou couldst, thou couldst not make him live;
Therefore have done: some grief shows much of love;
But much of grief shows still some want of wit.
Yet let me weep for such a feeling loss.
So shall you feel the loss, but not the friend
Which you weep for.
Feeling so the loss,
I cannot choose but ever weep the friend.
Well, girl, thou weep’st not so much for his death
As that the villain lives which slaughter’d him.
What villain, madam?
That same villain Romeo.
Villain and he be many miles asunder.—
God pardon him! I do, with all my heart;
And yet no man like he doth grieve my heart.
That is because the traitor murderer lives.
Ay, madam, from the reach of these my hands.
Would none but I might venge my cousin’s death!
We will have vengeance for it, fear thou not:
Then weep no more. I’ll send to one in Mantua,—
Where that same banish’d runagate doth live,—
Shall give him such an unaccustom’d dram
That he shall soon keep Tybalt company:
And then I hope thou wilt be satisfied.
Indeed I never shall be satisfied
With Romeo till I behold him—dead—
Is my poor heart so for a kinsman vex’d:
Madam, if you could find out but a man
To bear a poison, I would temper it,
That Romeo should, upon receipt thereof,
Soon sleep in quiet. O, how my heart abhors
To hear him nam’d,—and cannot come to him,—
To wreak the love I bore my cousin Tybalt
Upon his body that hath slaughter’d him!
Find thou the means, and I’ll find such a man.
But now I’ll tell thee joyful tidings, girl.
And joy comes well in such a needy time:
What are they, I beseech your ladyship?
Well, well, thou hast a careful father, child;
One who, to put thee from thy heaviness,
Hath sorted out a sudden day of joy
That thou expect’st not, nor I look’d not for.
Madam, in happy time, what day is that?
Marry, my child, early next Thursday morn
The gallant, young, and noble gentleman,
The County Paris, at St. Peter’s Church,
Shall happily make thee there a joyful bride.
Now by Saint Peter’s Church, and Peter too,
He shall not make me there a joyful bride.
I wonder at this haste; that I must wed
Ere he that should be husband comes to woo.
I pray you, tell my lord and father, madam,
I will not marry yet; and when I do, I swear
It shall be Romeo, whom you know I hate,
Rather than Paris:—these are news indeed!
Here comes your father: tell him so yourself,
And see how he will take it at your hands.
[Enter Capulet and Nurse.]
When the sun sets, the air doth drizzle dew;
But for the sunset of my brother’s son
It rains downright.—
How now! a conduit, girl? what, still in tears?
Evermore showering? In one little body
Thou counterfeit’st a bark, a sea, a wind:
For still thy eyes, which I may call the sea,
Do ebb and flow with tears; the bark thy body is,
Sailing in this salt flood; the winds, thy sighs;
Who,—raging with thy tears and they with them,—
Without a sudden calm, will overset
Thy tempest-tossed body.—How now, wife!
Have you deliver’d to her our decree?
Ay, sir; but she will none, she gives you thanks.
I would the fool were married to her grave!
Soft! take me with you, take me with you, wife.
How! will she none? doth she not give us thanks?
Is she not proud? doth she not count her bles’d,
Unworthy as she is, that we have wrought
So worthy a gentleman to be her bridegroom?
Not proud you have; but thankful that you have:
Proud can I never be of what I hate;
But thankful even for hate that is meant love.
How now, how now, chop-logic! What is this?
Proud,—and, I thank you,—and I thank you not;—
And yet not proud:—mistress minion, you,
Thank me no thankings, nor proud me no prouds,
But fettle your fine joints ‘gainst Thursday next
To go with Paris to Saint Peter’s Church,
Or I will drag thee on a hurdle thither.
Out, you green-sickness carrion! out, you baggage!
Fie, fie! what, are you mad?
Good father, I beseech you on my knees,
Hear me with patience but to speak a word.
Hang thee, young baggage! disobedient wretch!
I tell thee what,—get thee to church o’ Thursday,
Or never after look me in the face:
Speak not, reply not, do not answer me;
My fingers itch.—Wife, we scarce thought us bles’d
That God had lent us but this only child;
But now I see this one is one too much,
And that we have a curse in having her:
Out on her, hilding!
God in heaven bless her!—
You are to blame, my lord, to rate her so.
And why, my lady wisdom? hold your tongue,
Good prudence; smatter with your gossips, go.
I speak no treason.
O, God ye good-en!
May not one speak?
Peace, you mumbling fool!
Utter your gravity o’er a gossip’s bowl,
For here we need it not.
You are too hot.
God’s bread! it makes me mad:
Day, night, hour, time, tide, work, play,
Alone, in company, still my care hath been
To have her match’d, and having now provided
A gentleman of noble parentage,
Of fair demesnes, youthful, and nobly train’d,
Stuff’d, as they say, with honourable parts,
Proportion’d as one’s heart would wish a man,—
And then to have a wretched puling fool,
A whining mammet, in her fortune’s tender,
To answer, ‘I’ll not wed,—I cannot love,
I am too young,—I pray you pardon me:’—
But, an you will not wed, I’ll pardon you:
Graze where you will, you shall not house with me:
Look to’t, think on’t, I do not use to jest.
Thursday is near; lay hand on heart, advise:
An you be mine, I’ll give you to my friend;
An you be not, hang, beg, starve, die i’ the streets,
For, by my soul, I’ll ne’er acknowledge thee,
Nor what is mine shall never do thee good:
Trust to’t, bethink you, I’ll not be forsworn.
Is there no pity sitting in the clouds,
That sees into the bottom of my grief?
O, sweet my mother, cast me not away!
Delay this marriage for a month, a week;
Or, if you do not, make the bridal bed
In that dim monument where Tybalt lies.
Talk not to me, for I’ll not speak a word;
Do as thou wilt, for I have done with thee.
O God!—O nurse! how shall this be prevented?
My husband is on earth, my faith in heaven;
How shall that faith return again to earth,
Unless that husband send it me from heaven
By leaving earth?—comfort me, counsel me.—
Alack, alack, that heaven should practise stratagems
Upon so soft a subject as myself!—
What say’st thou? hast thou not a word of joy?
Some comfort, nurse.
Faith, here ’tis; Romeo
Is banished; and all the world to nothing
That he dares ne’er come back to challenge you;
Or if he do, it needs must be by stealth.
Then, since the case so stands as now it doth,
I think it best you married with the county.
O, he’s a lovely gentleman!
Romeo’s a dishclout to him; an eagle, madam,
Hath not so green, so quick, so fair an eye
As Paris hath. Beshrew my very heart,
I think you are happy in this second match,
For it excels your first: or if it did not,
Your first is dead; or ’twere as good he were,
As living here, and you no use of him.
Speakest thou this from thy heart?
And from my soul too;
Or else beshrew them both.
Well, thou hast comforted me marvellous much.
Go in; and tell my lady I am gone,
Having displeas’d my father, to Lawrence’ cell,
To make confession and to be absolv’d.
Marry, I will; and this is wisely done.
Ancient damnation! O most wicked fiend!
Is it more sin to wish me thus forsworn,
Or to dispraise my lord with that same tongue
Which she hath prais’d him with above compare
So many thousand times?—Go, counsellor;
Thou and my bosom henceforth shall be twain.—
I’ll to the friar to know his remedy;
If all else fail, myself have power to die.
Scene I. An open place adjoining Capulet’s Garden.
Can I go forward when my heart is here?
Turn back, dull earth, and find thy centre out.
[He climbs the wall and leaps down within it.]
[Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.]
Romeo! my cousin Romeo!
He is wise;
And, on my life, hath stol’n him home to bed.
He ran this way, and leap’d this orchard wall:
Call, good Mercutio.
Nay, I’ll conjure too.—
Romeo! humours! madman! passion! lover!
Appear thou in the likeness of a sigh:
Speak but one rhyme, and I am satisfied;
Cry but ‘Ah me!’ pronounce but Love and dove;
Speak to my gossip Venus one fair word,
One nickname for her purblind son and heir,
Young auburn Cupid, he that shot so trim
When King Cophetua lov’d the beggar-maid!—
He heareth not, he stirreth not, he moveth not;
The ape is dead, and I must conjure him.—
I conjure thee by Rosaline’s bright eyes,
By her high forehead and her scarlet lip,
By her fine foot, straight leg, and quivering thigh,
And the demesnes that there adjacent lie,
That in thy likeness thou appear to us!
An if he hear thee, thou wilt anger him.
This cannot anger him: ‘twould anger him
To raise a spirit in his mistress’ circle,
Of some strange nature, letting it there stand
Till she had laid it, and conjur’d it down;
That were some spite: my invocation
Is fair and honest, and, in his mistress’ name,
I conjure only but to raise up him.
Come, he hath hid himself among these trees,
To be consorted with the humorous night:
Blind is his love, and best befits the dark.
If love be blind, love cannot hit the mark.
Now will he sit under a medlar tree,
And wish his mistress were that kind of fruit
As maids call medlars when they laugh alone.—
Romeo, good night.—I’ll to my truckle-bed;
This field-bed is too cold for me to sleep:
Come, shall we go?
Go then; for ’tis in vain
To seek him here that means not to be found.
Scene II. Capulet’s Garden.
He jests at scars that never felt a wound.—
[Juliet appears above at a window.]
But soft! what light through yonder window breaks?
It is the east, and Juliet is the sun!—
Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,
Who is already sick and pale with grief,
That thou her maid art far more fair than she:
Be not her maid, since she is envious;
Her vestal livery is but sick and green,
And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.—
It is my lady; O, it is my love!
O, that she knew she were!—
She speaks, yet she says nothing: what of that?
Her eye discourses, I will answer it.—
I am too bold, ’tis not to me she speaks:
Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,
Having some business, do entreat her eyes
To twinkle in their spheres till they return.
What if her eyes were there, they in her head?
The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,
As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven
Would through the airy region stream so bright
That birds would sing and think it were not night.—
See how she leans her cheek upon her hand!
O that I were a glove upon that hand,
That I might touch that cheek!
O, speak again, bright angel! for thou art
As glorious to this night, being o’er my head,
As is a winged messenger of heaven
Unto the white-upturned wondering eyes
Of mortals that fall back to gaze on him
When he bestrides the lazy-pacing clouds
And sails upon the bosom of the air.
O Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?
Deny thy father and refuse thy name;
Or, if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love,
And I’ll no longer be a Capulet.
[Aside.] Shall I hear more, or shall I speak at this?
‘Tis but thy name that is my enemy;—
Thou art thyself, though not a Montague.
What’s Montague? It is nor hand, nor foot,
Nor arm, nor face, nor any other part
Belonging to a man. O, be some other name!
What’s in a name? that which we call a rose
By any other name would smell as sweet;
So Romeo would, were he not Romeo call’d,
Retain that dear perfection which he owes
Without that title:—Romeo, doff thy name;
And for that name, which is no part of thee,
Take all myself.
I take thee at thy word:
Call me but love, and I’ll be new baptiz’d;
Henceforth I never will be Romeo.
What man art thou that, thus bescreen’d in night,
So stumblest on my counsel?
By a name
I know not how to tell thee who I am:
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself,
Because it is an enemy to thee.
Had I it written, I would tear the word.
My ears have yet not drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue’s utterance, yet I know the sound;
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?
Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike.
How cam’st thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb;
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.
With love’s light wings did I o’erperch these walls;
For stony limits cannot hold love out:
And what love can do, that dares love attempt;
Therefore thy kinsmen are no let to me.
If they do see thee, they will murder thee.
Alack, there lies more peril in thine eye
Than twenty of their swords: look thou but sweet,
And I am proof against their enmity.
I would not for the world they saw thee here.
I have night’s cloak to hide me from their sight;
And, but thou love me, let them find me here.
My life were better ended by their hate
Than death prorogued, wanting of thy love.
By whose direction found’st thou out this place?
By love, that first did prompt me to enquire;
He lent me counsel, and I lent him eyes.
I am no pilot; yet, wert thou as far
As that vast shore wash’d with the furthest sea,
I would adventure for such merchandise.
Thou knowest the mask of night is on my face;
Else would a maiden blush bepaint my cheek
For that which thou hast heard me speak to-night.
Fain would I dwell on form,fain, fain deny
What I have spoke; but farewell compliment!
Dost thou love me, I know thou wilt say Ay;
And I will take thy word: yet, if thou swear’st,
Thou mayst prove false; at lovers’ perjuries,
They say Jove laughs. O gentle Romeo,
If thou dost love, pronounce it faithfully:
Or if thou thinkest I am too quickly won,
I’ll frown, and be perverse, and say thee nay,
So thou wilt woo: but else, not for the world.
In truth, fair Montague, I am too fond;
And therefore thou mayst think my ‘haviour light:
But trust me, gentleman, I’ll prove more true
Than those that have more cunning to be strange.
I should have been more strange, I must confess,
But that thou overheard’st, ere I was ‘ware,
My true-love passion: therefore pardon me;
And not impute this yielding to light love,
Which the dark night hath so discovered.
Lady, by yonder blessed moon I swear,
That tips with silver all these fruit-tree tops,—
O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon,
That monthly changes in her circled orb,
Lest that thy love prove likewise variable.
What shall I swear by?
Do not swear at all;
Or if thou wilt, swear by thy gracious self,
Which is the god of my idolatry,
And I’ll believe thee.
If my heart’s dear love,—
Well, do not swear: although I joy in thee,
I have no joy of this contract to-night;
It is too rash, too unadvis’d, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which doth cease to be
Ere one can say It lightens. Sweet, good night!
This bud of love, by summer’s ripening breath,
May prove a beauteous flower when next we meet.
Good night, good night! as sweet repose and rest
Come to thy heart as that within my breast!
O, wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?
What satisfaction canst thou have to-night?
The exchange of thy love’s faithful vow for mine.
I gave thee mine before thou didst request it;
And yet I would it were to give again.
Would’st thou withdraw it? for what purpose, love?
But to be frank and give it thee again.
And yet I wish but for the thing I have;
My bounty is as boundless as the sea,
My love as deep; the more I give to thee,
The more I have, for both are infinite.
I hear some noise within: dear love, adieu!—
[Nurse calls within.]
Anon, good nurse!—Sweet Montague, be true.
Stay but a little, I will come again.
O blessed, blessed night! I am afeard,
Being in night, all this is but a dream,
Too flattering-sweet to be substantial.
[Enter Juliet above.]
Three words, dear Romeo, and good night indeed.
If that thy bent of love be honourable,
Thy purpose marriage, send me word to-morrow,
By one that I’ll procure to come to thee,
Where and what time thou wilt perform the rite;
And all my fortunes at thy foot I’ll lay
And follow thee, my lord, throughout the world.
I come anon.— But if thou meanest not well,
I do beseech thee,—
By-and-by I come:—
To cease thy suit and leave me to my grief:
To-morrow will I send.
So thrive my soul,—
A thousand times good night!
A thousand times the worse, to want thy light!—
Love goes toward love as schoolboys from their books;
But love from love, towards school with heavy looks.
[Re-enter Juliet, above.]
Hist! Romeo, hist!—O for a falconer’s voice
To lure this tassel-gentle back again!
Bondage is hoarse and may not speak aloud;
Else would I tear the cave where Echo lies,
And make her airy tongue more hoarse than mine
With repetition of my Romeo’s name.
It is my soul that calls upon my name:
How silver-sweet sound lovers’ tongues by night,
Like softest music to attending ears!
At what o’clock to-morrow
Shall I send to thee?
At the hour of nine.
I will not fail: ’tis twenty years till then.
I have forgot why I did call thee back.
Let me stand here till thou remember it.
I shall forget, to have thee still stand there,
Remembering how I love thy company.
And I’ll still stay, to have thee still forget,
Forgetting any other home but this.
‘Tis almost morning; I would have thee gone:
And yet no farther than a wanton’s bird;
That lets it hop a little from her hand,
Like a poor prisoner in his twisted gyves,
And with a silk thread plucks it back again,
So loving-jealous of his liberty.
I would I were thy bird.
Sweet, so would I:
Yet I should kill thee with much cherishing.
Good night, good night! parting is such sweet sorrow
That I shall say good night till it be morrow.
Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!—
Would I were sleep and peace, so sweet to rest!
Hence will I to my ghostly father’s cell,
His help to crave and my dear hap to tell.
Scene III. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.
[Enter Friar Lawrence with a basket.]
The grey-ey’d morn smiles on the frowning night,
Chequering the eastern clouds with streaks of light;
And flecked darkness like a drunkard reels
From forth day’s path and Titan’s fiery wheels:
Non, ere the sun advance his burning eye,
The day to cheer and night’s dank dew to dry,
I must up-fill this osier cage of ours
With baleful weeds and precious-juiced flowers.
The earth, that’s nature’s mother, is her tomb;
What is her burying gave, that is her womb:
And from her womb children of divers kind
We sucking on her natural bosom find;
Many for many virtues excellent,
None but for some, and yet all different.
O, mickle is the powerful grace that lies
In plants, herbs, stones, and their true qualities:
For naught so vile that on the earth doth live
But to the earth some special good doth give;
Nor aught so good but, strain’d from that fair use,
Revolts from true birth, stumbling on abuse:
Virtue itself turns vice, being misapplied;
And vice sometimes by action dignified.
Within the infant rind of this small flower
Poison hath residence, and medicine power:
For this, being smelt, with that part cheers each part;
Being tasted, slays all senses with the heart.
Two such opposed kings encamp them still
In man as well as herbs,—grace and rude will;
And where the worser is predominant,
Full soon the canker death eats up that plant.
Good morrow, father!
What early tongue so sweet saluteth me?—
Young son, it argues a distemper’d head
So soon to bid good morrow to thy bed:
Care keeps his watch in every old man’s eye,
And where care lodges sleep will never lie;
But where unbruised youth with unstuff’d brain
Doth couch his limbs, there golden sleep doth reign:
Therefore thy earliness doth me assure
Thou art uprous’d with some distemperature;
Or if not so, then here I hit it right,—
Our Romeo hath not been in bed to-night.
That last is true; the sweeter rest was mine.
God pardon sin! wast thou with Rosaline?
With Rosaline, my ghostly father? no;
I have forgot that name, and that name’s woe.
That’s my good son: but where hast thou been then?
I’ll tell thee ere thou ask it me again.
I have been feasting with mine enemy;
Where, on a sudden, one hath wounded me
That’s by me wounded. Both our remedies
Within thy help and holy physic lies;
I bear no hatred, blessed man; for, lo,
My intercession likewise steads my foe.
Be plain, good son, and homely in thy drift;
Riddling confession finds but riddling shrift.
Then plainly know my heart’s dear love is set
On the fair daughter of rich Capulet:
As mine on hers, so hers is set on mine;
And all combin’d, save what thou must combine
By holy marriage: when, and where, and how
We met, we woo’d, and made exchange of vow,
I’ll tell thee as we pass; but this I pray,
That thou consent to marry us to-day.
Holy Saint Francis! what a change is here!
Is Rosaline, that thou didst love so dear,
So soon forsaken? young men’s love, then, lies
Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes.
Jesu Maria, what a deal of brine
Hath wash’d thy sallow cheeks for Rosaline!
How much salt water thrown away in waste,
To season love, that of it doth not taste!
The sun not yet thy sighs from heaven clears,
Thy old groans ring yet in mine ancient ears;
Lo, here upon thy cheek the stain doth sit
Of an old tear that is not wash’d off yet:
If e’er thou wast thyself, and these woes thine,
Thou and these woes were all for Rosaline;
And art thou chang’d? Pronounce this sentence then,—
Women may fall, when there’s no strength in men.
Thou chidd’st me oft for loving Rosaline.
For doting, not for loving, pupil mine.
And bad’st me bury love.
Not in a grave
To lay one in, another out to have.
I pray thee chide not: she whom I love now
Doth grace for grace and love for love allow;
The other did not so.
O, she knew well
Thy love did read by rote, that could not spell.
But come, young waverer, come go with me,
In one respect I’ll thy assistant be;
For this alliance may so happy prove,
To turn your households’ rancour to pure love.
O, let us hence; I stand on sudden haste.
Wisely, and slow; they stumble that run fast.
Scene IV. A Street.
[Enter Benvolio and Mercutio.]
Where the devil should this Romeo be?—
Came he not home to-night?
Not to his father’s; I spoke with his man.
Ah, that same pale hard-hearted wench, that Rosaline,
Torments him so that he will sure run mad.
Tybalt, the kinsman to old Capulet,
Hath sent a letter to his father’s house.
A challenge, on my life.
Romeo will answer it.
Any man that can write may answer a letter.
Benvolio. Nay, he will answer the letter’s master, how he dares, being dared.
Mercutio. Alas, poor Romeo, he is already dead! stabbed with a white wench’s black eye; shot through the ear with a love song; the very pin of his heart cleft with the blind bow-boy’s butt-shaft: and is he a man to encounter Tybalt?
Why, what is Tybalt?
Mercutio. More than prince of cats, I can tell you. O, he’s the courageous captain of compliments. He fights as you sing prick-song—keeps time, distance, and proportion; rests me his minim rest, one, two, and the third in your bosom: the very butcher of a silk button, a duellist, a duellist; a gentleman of the very first house,—of the first and second cause: ah, the immortal passado! the punto reverso! the hay.—
Mercutio. The pox of such antic, lisping, affecting fantasticoes; these new tuners of accents!—’By Jesu, a very good blade!—a very tall man!—a very good whore!’—Why, is not this a lamentable thing, grandsire, that we should be thus afflicted with these strange flies, these fashion-mongers, these pardonnez-moi’s, who stand so much on the new form that they cannot sit at ease on the old bench? O, their bons, their bons!
Here comes Romeo, here comes Romeo!
Mercutio. Without his roe, like a dried herring.—O flesh, flesh, how art thou fishified!—Now is he for the numbers that Petrarch flowed in: Laura, to his lady, was but a kitchen wench,—marry, she had a better love to be-rhyme her; Dido, a dowdy; Cleopatra, a gypsy; Helen and Hero, hildings and harlots; Thisbe, a gray eye or so, but not to the purpose,—
Signior Romeo, bon jour! there’s a French salutation to your
French slop. You gave us the counterfeit fairly last night.
Good morrow to you both. What counterfeit did I give you?
The slip, sir, the slip; can you not conceive?
Romeo. Pardon, good Mercutio, my business was great; and in such a case as mine a man may strain courtesy.
Mercutio. That’s as much as to say, such a case as yours constrains a man to bow in the hams.
Meaning, to court’sy.
Thou hast most kindly hit it.
A most courteous exposition.
Nay, I am the very pink of courtesy.
Pink for flower.
Why, then is my pump well-flowered.
Mercutio. Well said: follow me this jest now till thou hast worn out thy pump;that, when the single sole of it is worn, the jest may remain, after the wearing, sole singular.
O single-soled jest, solely singular for the singleness!
Come between us, good Benvolio; my wits faint.
Swits and spurs, swits and spurs; or I’ll cry a match.
Mercutio. Nay, if thy wits run the wild-goose chase, I have done; for thou hast more of the wild-goose in one of thy wits than, I am sure, I have in my whole five: was I with you there for the goose?
Romeo. Thou wast never with me for anything when thou wast not there for the goose.
I will bite thee by the ear for that jest.
Nay, good goose, bite not.
Mercutio. Thy wit is a very bitter sweeting; it is a most sharp sauce.
And is it not, then, well served in to a sweet goose?
Mercutio. O, here’s a wit of cheveril, that stretches from an inch narrow to an ell broad!
Romeo. I stretch it out for that word broad: which added to the goose, proves thee far and wide a broad goose.
Mercutio. Why, is not this better now than groaning for love? now art thou sociable, now art thou Romeo; not art thou what thou art, by art as well as by nature: for this drivelling love is like a great natural, that runs lolling up and down to hide his bauble in a hole.
Stop there, stop there.
Thou desirest me to stop in my tale against the hair.
Thou wouldst else have made thy tale large.
Mercutio. O, thou art deceived; I would have made it short: for I was come to the whole depth of my tale; and meant indeed to occupy the argument no longer.
Here’s goodly gear!
[Enter Nurse and Peter.]
A sail, a sail, a sail!
Two, two; a shirt and a smock.
My fan, Peter.
Good Peter, to hide her face; for her fan’s the fairer face.
God ye good morrow, gentlemen.
God ye good-den, fair gentlewoman.
Is it good-den?
Mercutio. ‘Tis no less, I tell ye; for the bawdy hand of the dial is now upon the prick of noon.
Out upon you! what a man are you!
One, gentlewoman, that God hath made for himself to mar.
By my troth, it is well said;—for himself to mar, quoth
‘a?—Gentlemen, can any of you tell me where I may find the young
Romeo. I can tell you: but young Romeo will be older when you have found him than he was when you sought him: I am the youngest of that name, for fault of a worse.
You say well.
Mercutio. Yea, is the worst well? very well took, i’ faith; wisely, wisely.
If you be he, sir, I desire some confidence with you.
She will indite him to some supper.
A bawd, a bawd, a bawd! So ho!
What hast thou found?
No hare, sir; unless a hare, sir, in a lenten pie, that is
something stale and hoar ere it be spent.
An old hare hoar,
And an old hare hoar,
Is very good meat in Lent;
But a hare that is hoar
Is too much for a score
When it hoars ere it be spent.
Romeo, will you come to your father’s? we’ll to dinner thither.
I will follow you.
Mercutio. Farewell, ancient lady; farewell,— [singing] lady, lady, lady.
[Exeunt Mercutio, and Benvolio.]
Nurse. Marry, farewell!—I pray you, sir, what saucy merchant was this that was so full of his ropery?
Romeo. A gentleman, nurse, that loves to hear himself talk; and will speak more in a minute than he will stand to in a month.
Nurse. An ‘a speak anything against me, I’ll take him down, an’a were lustier than he is, and twenty such Jacks; and if I cannot, I’ll find those that shall. Scurvy knave! I am none of his flirt-gills; I am none of his skains-mates.—And thou must stand by too, and suffer every knave to use me at his pleasure!
Peter. I saw no man use you at his pleasure; if I had, my weapon should quickly have been out, I warrant you: I dare draw as soon as another man, if I see occasion in a good quarrel, and the law on my side.
Nurse. Now, afore God, I am so vexed that every part about me quivers. Scurvy knave!—Pray you, sir, a word: and, as I told you, my young lady bid me enquire you out; what she bade me say I will keep to myself: but first let me tell ye, if ye should lead her into a fool’s paradise, as they say, it were a very gross kind of behaviour, as they say: for the gentlewoman is young; and, therefore, if you should deal double with her, truly it were an ill thing to be offered to any gentlewoman, and very weak dealing.
Romeo. Nurse, commend me to thy lady and mistress. I protest unto thee,—
Good heart, and i’ faith I will tell her as much: Lord,
Lord, she will be a joyful woman.
What wilt thou tell her, nurse? thou dost not mark me.
Nurse. I will tell her, sir,—that you do protest: which, as I take it, is a gentlemanlike offer.
Bid her devise some means to come to shrift
And there she shall at Friar Lawrence’ cell
Be shriv’d and married. Here is for thy pains.
No, truly, sir; not a penny.
Go to; I say you shall.
This afternoon, sir? well, she shall be there.
And stay, good nurse, behind the abbey-wall:
Within this hour my man shall be with thee,
And bring thee cords made like a tackled stair;
Which to the high top-gallant of my joy
Must be my convoy in the secret night.
Farewell; be trusty, and I’ll quit thy pains:
Farewell; commend me to thy mistress.
Now God in heaven bless thee!—Hark you, sir.
What say’st thou, my dear nurse?
Is your man secret? Did you ne’er hear say,
Two may keep counsel, putting one away?
I warrant thee, my man’s as true as steel.
Nurse. Well, sir; my mistress is the sweetest lady.—Lord, Lord! when ’twas a little prating thing,—O, there’s a nobleman in town, one Paris, that would fain lay knife aboard; but she, good soul, had as lief see a toad, a very toad, as see him. I anger her sometimes, and tell her that Paris is the properer man; but I’ll warrant you, when I say so, she looks as pale as any clout in the versal world. Doth not rosemary and Romeo begin both with a letter?
Ay, nurse; what of that? both with an R.
Nurse. Ah, mocker! that’s the dog’s name. R is for the dog: no; I know it begins with some other letter:—and she hath the prettiest sententious of it, of you and rosemary, that it would do you good to hear it.
Commend me to thy lady.
Ay, a thousand times. [Exit Romeo.]—Peter!
Peter, take my fan, and go before.
Scene V. Capulet’s Garden.
The clock struck nine when I did send the nurse;
In half an hour she promis’d to return.
Perchance she cannot meet him: that’s not so.—
O, she is lame! love’s heralds should be thoughts,
Which ten times faster glide than the sun’s beams,
Driving back shadows over lowering hills:
Therefore do nimble-pinion’d doves draw love,
And therefore hath the wind-swift Cupid wings.
Now is the sun upon the highmost hill
Of this day’s journey; and from nine till twelve
Is three long hours,—yet she is not come.
Had she affections and warm youthful blood,
She’d be as swift in motion as a ball;
My words would bandy her to my sweet love,
And his to me:
But old folks, many feign as they were dead;
Unwieldy, slow, heavy and pale as lead.—
O God, she comes!
[Enter Nurse and Peter].
O honey nurse, what news?
Hast thou met with him? Send thy man away.
Peter, stay at the gate.
Now, good sweet nurse,—O Lord, why look’st thou sad?
Though news be sad, yet tell them merrily;
If good, thou sham’st the music of sweet news
By playing it to me with so sour a face.
I am aweary, give me leave awhile;—
Fie, how my bones ache! what a jaunt have I had!
I would thou hadst my bones, and I thy news:
Nay, come, I pray thee speak;—good, good nurse, speak.
Jesu, what haste? can you not stay awhile?
Do you not see that I am out of breath?
How art thou out of breath, when thou hast breath
To say to me that thou art out of breath?
The excuse that thou dost make in this delay
Is longer than the tale thou dost excuse.
Is thy news good or bad? answer to that;
Say either, and I’ll stay the circumstance:
Let me be satisfied, is’t good or bad?
Nurse. Well, you have made a simple choice; you know not how to choose a man: Romeo! no, not he; rhough his face be better than any man’s, yet his leg excels all men’s; and for a hand and a foot, and a body,—though they be not to be talked on, yet they are past compare: he is not the flower of courtesy,—but I’ll warrant him as gentle as a lamb.—Go thy ways, wench; serve God.- -What, have you dined at home?
No, no: but all this did I know before.
What says he of our marriage? what of that?
Lord, how my head aches! what a head have I!
It beats as it would fall in twenty pieces.
My back o’ t’ other side,—O, my back, my back!—
Beshrew your heart for sending me about
To catch my death with jauncing up and down!
I’ faith, I am sorry that thou art not well.
Sweet, sweet, sweet nurse, tell me, what says my love?
Your love says, like an honest gentleman,
And a courteous, and a kind, and a handsome;
And, I warrant, a virtuous,—Where is your mother?
Where is my mother?—why, she is within;
Where should she be? How oddly thou repliest!
‘Your love says, like an honest gentleman,—
‘Where is your mother?’
O God’s lady dear!
Are you so hot? marry,come up, I trow;
Is this the poultice for my aching bones?
Henceforward,do your messages yourself.
Here’s such a coil!—come, what says Romeo?
Have you got leave to go to shrift to-day?
Then hie you hence to Friar Lawrence’ cell;
There stays a husband to make you a wife:
Now comes the wanton blood up in your cheeks,
They’ll be in scarlet straight at any news.
Hie you to church; I must another way,
To fetch a ladder, by the which your love
Must climb a bird’s nest soon when it is dark:
I am the drudge, and toil in your delight;
But you shall bear the burden soon at night.
Go; I’ll to dinner; hie you to the cell.
Hie to high fortune!—honest nurse, farewell.
Scene VI. Friar Lawrence’s Cell.
[Enter Friar Lawrence and Romeo.]
So smile the heavens upon this holy act
That after-hours with sorrow chide us not!
Amen, amen! but come what sorrow can,
It cannot countervail the exchange of joy
That one short minute gives me in her sight:
Do thou but close our hands with holy words,
Then love-devouring death do what he dare,—
It is enough I may but call her mine.
These violent delights have violent ends,
And in their triumph die; like fire and powder,
Which, as they kiss, consume: the sweetest honey
Is loathsome in his own deliciousness,
And in the taste confounds the appetite:
Therefore love moderately: long love doth so;
Too swift arrives as tardy as too slow.
Here comes the lady:—O, so light a foot
Will ne’er wear out the everlasting flint:
A lover may bestride the gossamer
That idles in the wanton summer air
And yet not fall; so light is vanity.
Good-even to my ghostly confessor.
Romeo shall thank thee, daughter, for us both.
As much to him, else is his thanks too much.
Ah, Juliet, if the measure of thy joy
Be heap’d like mine, and that thy skill be more
To blazon it, then sweeten with thy breath
This neighbour air, and let rich music’s tongue
Unfold the imagin’d happiness that both
Receive in either by this dear encounter.
Conceit, more rich in matter than in words,
Brags of his substance, not of ornament:
They are but beggars that can count their worth;
But my true love is grown to such excess,
I cannot sum up sum of half my wealth.
Come, come with me, and we will make short work;
For, by your leaves, you shall not stay alone
Till holy church incorporate two in one.