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diff --git a/1430-0.txt b/1430-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b4f14c7 --- /dev/null +++ b/1430-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7029 @@ +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1430 *** +BEAUTIFUL STORIES FROM SHAKESPEARE + +By E. Nesbit + + + + + “It may be said of Shakespeare, that from his works may be + collected a system of civil and economical prudence. He has + been imitated by all succeeding writers; and it may be + doubted whether from all his successors more maxims of + theoretical knowledge, or more rules of practical prudence + can be collected than he alone has given to his country.”-- + Dr. SAMUEL JOHNSON. + + + + +PREFACE + + + +The writings of Shakespeare have been justly termed “the richest, the +purest, the fairest, that genius uninspired ever penned.” + +Shakespeare instructed by delighting. His plays alone (leaving mere +science out of the question), contain more actual wisdom than the +whole body of English learning. He is the teacher of all good-- pity, +generosity, true courage, love. His bright wit is cut out “into little +stars.” His solid masses of knowledge are meted out in morsels and +proverbs, and thus distributed, there is scarcely a corner of the +English-speaking world to-day which he does not illuminate, or a cottage +which he does not enrich. His bounty is like the sea, which, though +often unacknowledged, is everywhere felt. As his friend, Ben Jonson, +wrote of him, “He was not of an age but for all time.” He ever kept the +highroad of human life whereon all travel. He did not pick out by-paths +of feeling and sentiment. In his creations we have no moral highwaymen, +sentimental thieves, interesting villains, and amiable, elegant +adventuresses--no delicate entanglements of situation, in which +the grossest images are presented to the mind disguised under the +superficial attraction of style and sentiment. He flattered no bad +passion, disguised no vice in the garb of virtue, trifled with no just +and generous principle. While causing us to laugh at folly, and shudder +at crime, he still preserves our love for our fellow-beings, and our +reverence for ourselves. + +Shakespeare was familiar with all beautiful forms and images, with +all that is sweet or majestic in the simple aspects of nature, of +that indestructible love of flowers and fragrance, and dews, and +clear waters--and soft airs and sounds, and bright skies and woodland +solitudes, and moon-light bowers, which are the material elements of +poetry,--and with that fine sense of their indefinable relation to +mental emotion, which is its essence and vivifying soul--and which, in +the midst of his most busy and tragical scenes, falls like gleams of +sunshine on rocks and ruins--contrasting with all that is rugged or +repulsive, and reminding us of the existence of purer and brighter +elements. + +These things considered, what wonder is it that the works of +Shakespeare, next to the Bible, are the most highly esteemed of all the +classics of English literature. “So extensively have the characters of +Shakespeare been drawn upon by artists, poets, and writers of fiction,” + says an American author,--“So interwoven are these characters in the +great body of English literature, that to be ignorant of the plot of +these dramas is often a cause of embarrassment.” + +But Shakespeare wrote for grown-up people, for men and women, and in +words that little folks cannot understand. + +Hence this volume. To reproduce the entertaining stories contained +in the plays of Shakespeare, in a form so simple that children can +understand and enjoy them, was the object had in view by the author of +these Beautiful Stories from Shakespeare. + +And that the youngest readers may not stumble in pronouncing any +unfamiliar names to be met with in the stories, the editor has prepared +and included in the volume a Pronouncing Vocabulary of Difficult Names. +To which is added a collection of Shakespearean Quotations, classified +in alphabetical order, illustrative of the wisdom and genius of the +world's greatest dramatist. + +E. T. R. + + + + +A BRIEF LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE. + + + +In the register of baptisms of the parish church of Stratford-upon-Avon, +a market town in Warwickshire, England, appears, under date of April 26, +1564, the entry of the baptism of William, the son of John Shakspeare. +The entry is in Latin--“Gulielmus filius Johannis Shakspeare.” + +The date of William Shakespeare's birth has usually been taken as three +days before his baptism, but there is certainly no evidence of this +fact. + +The family name was variously spelled, the dramatist himself not always +spelling it in the same way. While in the baptismal record the name is +spelled “Shakspeare,” in several authentic autographs of the dramatist +it reads “Shakspere,” and in the first edition of his works it is +printed “Shakespeare.” + +Halliwell tells us, that there are not less than thirty-four ways in +which the various members of the Shakespeare family wrote the name, +and in the council-book of the corporation of Stratford, where it is +introduced one hundred and sixty-six times during the period that +the dramatist's father was a member of the municipal body, there are +fourteen different spellings. The modern “Shakespeare” is not among +them. + +Shakespeare's father, while an alderman at Stratford, appears to have +been unable to write his name, but as at that time nine men out of +ten were content to make their mark for a signature, the fact is not +specially to his discredit. + +The traditions and other sources of information about the occupation +of Shakespeare's father differ. He is described as a butcher, a +woolstapler, and a glover, and it is not impossible that he may have +been all of these simultaneously or at different times, or that if +he could not properly be called any one of them, the nature of his +occupation was such as to make it easy to understand how the various +traditions sprang up. He was a landed proprietor and cultivator of his +own land even before his marriage, and he received with his wife, who +was Mary Arden, daughter of a country gentleman, the estate of Asbies, +56 acres in extent. William was the third child. The two older than he +were daughters, and both probably died in infancy. After him was born +three sons and a daughter. For ten or twelve years at least, after +Shakespeare's birth his father continued to be in easy circumstances. In +the year 1568 he was the high bailiff or chief magistrate of Stratford, +and for many years afterwards he held the position of alderman as he +had done for three years before. To the completion of his tenth year, +therefore, it is natural to suppose that William Shakespeare would get +the best education that Stratford could afford. The free school of the +town was open to all boys and like all the grammar-schools of that time, +was under the direction of men who, as graduates of the universities, +were qualified to diffuse that sound scholarship which was once the +boast of England. There is no record of Shakespeare's having been at +this school, but there can be no rational doubt that he was educated +there. His father could not have procured for him a better education +anywhere. To those who have studied Shakespeare's works without being +influenced by the old traditional theory that he had received a very +narrow education, they abound with evidences that he must have been +solidly grounded in the learning, properly so called, was taught in the +grammar schools. + +There are local associations connected with Stratford which could not +be without their influence in the formation of young Shakespeare's mind. +Within the range of such a boy's curiosity were the fine old historic +towns of Warwick and Coventry, the sumptuous palace of Kenilworth, the +grand monastic remains of Evesham. His own Avon abounded with spots of +singular beauty, quiet hamlets, solitary woods. Nor was Stratford shut +out from the general world, as many country towns are. It was a great +highway, and dealers with every variety of merchandise resorted to its +markets. The eyes of the poet dramatist must always have been open for +observation. But nothing is known positively of Shakespeare from his +birth to his marriage to Anne Hathaway in 1582, and from that date +nothing but the birth of three children until we find him an actor in +London about 1589. + +How long acting continued to be Shakespeare's sole profession we have +no means of knowing, but it is in the highest degree probable that very +soon after arriving in London he began that work of adaptation by which +he is known to have begun his literary career. To improve and alter +older plays not up to the standard that was required at the time was +a common practice even among the best dramatists of the day, and +Shakespeare's abilities would speedily mark him out as eminently fitted +for this kind of work. When the alterations in plays originally composed +by other writers became very extensive, the work of adaptation would +become in reality a work of creation. And this is exactly what we have +examples of in a few of Shakespeare's early works, which are known to +have been founded on older plays. + +It is unnecessary here to extol the published works of the world's +greatest dramatist. Criticism has been exhausted upon them, and the +finest minds of England, Germany, and America have devoted their powers +to an elucidation of their worth. + +Shakespeare died at Stratford on the 23rd of April, 1616. His father had +died before him, in 1602, and his mother in 1608. His wife survived +him till August, 1623. His so Hamnet died in 1596 at the age of eleven +years. His two daughters survived him, the eldest of whom, Susanna, had, +in 1607, married a physician of Stratford, Dr. Hall. The only issue of +this marriage, a daughter named Elizabeth, born in 1608, married first +Thomas Nasbe, and afterwards Sir John Barnard, but left no children by +either marriage. Shakespeare's younger daughter, Judith, on the 10th of +February, 1616, married a Stratford gentleman named Thomas Quincy, by +whom she had three sons, all of whom died, however, without issue. There +are thus no direct descendants of Shakespeare. + +Shakespeare's fellow-actors, fellow-dramatists, and those who knew him +in other ways, agree in expressing not only admiration of his genius, +but their respect and love for the man. Ben Jonson said, “I love the +man, and do honor his memory, on this side idolatry, as much as any. He +was indeed honest, and of an open and free nature.” He was buried on +the second day after his death, on the north side of the chancel +of Stratford church. Over his grave there is a flat stone with this +inscription, said to have been written by himself: + + Good friend for Jesus sake forbeare + To digg the dust encloased heare: + Blest be ye man yt spares these stones, + And curst be he yt moves my bones. + + + + +CONTENTS + + PAGE + PREFACE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 3 + A BRIEF LIFE OF SHAKESPEARE . . . . . . . . . . . 7 + A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM . . . . . . . . . . . 19 + THE TEMPEST . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 + AS YOU LIKE IT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 + THE WINTER'S TALE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 + KING LEAR . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 67 + TWELFTH NIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 + MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 + ROMEO AND JULIET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 + PERICLES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 119 + HAMLET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 129 + CYMBELINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 + MACBETH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 + THE COMEDY OF ERRORS . . . . . . . . . . . . . 168 + THE MERCHANT OF VENICE . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 + TIMON OF ATHENS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 + OTHELLO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 211 + THE TAMING OF THE SHREW . . . . . . . . . . . . 228 + MEASURE FOR MEASURE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 241 + TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA . . . . . . . . . . . . 255 + ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL . . . . . . . . . . . 272 + PRONOUNCING VOCABULARY OF NAMES . . . . . . . . 286 + QUOTATIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE . . . . . . . . . . 288 + + + + +ILLUSTRATIONS + + PAGE + TITANIA: THE QUEEN OF THE FAIRIES . . . . . . . 20 + THE QUARREL . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 22 + HELENA IN THE WOOD . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 25 + TITANIA PLACED UNDER A SPELL . . . . . . . . . 30 + TITANIA AWAKES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 31 + PRINCE FERDINAND IN THE SEA . . . . . . . . . . 36 + PRINCE FERDINAND SEES MIRANDA . . . . . . . . . 39 + PLAYING CHESS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 42 + ROSALIND AND CELIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 44 + ROSALIND GIVES ORLANDO A CHAIN . . . . . . . . 47 + GANYMEDE FAINTS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 51 + LEFT ON THE SEA-COAST . . . . . . . . . . . . . 54 + THE KING WOULD NOT LOOK . . . . . . . . . . . . 57 + LEONTES RECEIVING FLORIZEL AND PERDITA . . . . 60 + FLORIZEL AND PERDITA TALKING . . . . . . . . . 62 + HERMOINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65 + CORDELIA AND THE KING OF FRANCE . . . . . . . . 67 + GONERIL AND REGAN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 69 + CORDELIA IN PRISON . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 73 + VIOLA AND THE CAPTAIN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 74 + VIOLA AS “CESARIO” MEETS OLIVIA . . . . . . . . 76 + “YOU TOO HAVE BEEN IN LOVE” . . . . . . . . . . 78 + CLAUDIA AND HERO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 86 + HERO AND URSULA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 90 + BENEDICK . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 94 + FRIAR FRANCIS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 101 + ROMEO AND TYBALT FIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 + ROMEO DISCOVERS JULIET . . . . . . . . . . . . 108 + MARRIAGE OF ROMEO AND JULIET . . . . . . . . . 111 + THE NURSE THINKS JULIET DEAD . . . . . . . . . 115 + ROMEO ENTERING THE TOMB . . . . . . . . . . . . 117 + PERICLES WINS IN THE TOURNAMENT . . . . . . . . 122 + PERICLES AND MARINA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 127 + THE KING'S GHOST APPEARS . . . . . . . . . . . 131 + POLONIUS KILLED BY HAMLET . . . . . . . . . . . 135 + DROWNING OF OPHELIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 137 + IACHIMO AND IMOGEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 + IACHIMO IN THE TRUNK . . . . . . . . . . . . . 145 + IMOGEN STUPEFIED . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 150 + IMOGEN AND LEONATUS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 + THE THREE WITCHES . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 153 + FROM “MACBETH” . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 154 + LADY MACBETH . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 157 + KING AND QUEEN MACBETH . . . . . . . . . . . . 159 + MACBETH AND MACDUFF FIGHT . . . . . . . . . . . 163 + ANTIPHOLUS AND DROMIO . . . . . . . . . . . . . 170 + LUCIANA AND ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE . . . . . . 175 + THE GOLDSMITH AND ANTIPHOLUS OF SYRACUSE . . . 178 + AEMILIA . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 181 + THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO . . . . . . . . . . . . 187 + ANTONIO SIGNS THE BOND . . . . . . . . . . . . 188 + JESSICA LEAVING HOME . . . . . . . . . . . . . 191 + BASSANIO PARTS WITH THE RING . . . . . . . . . 192 + POET READING TO TIMON . . . . . . . . . . . . 194 + PAINTER SHOWING TIMON A PICTURE . . . . . . . 197 + “NOTHING BUT AN EMPTY BOX” . . . . . . . . . . 200 + TIMON GROWS SULLEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 204 + OTHELLO TELLING DESDEMONA HIS ADVENTURES . . . 211 + OTHELLO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213 + THE DRINK OF WINE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 218 + CASSIO GIVES THE HANDKERCHIEF . . . . . . . . 222 + DESDEMONA WEEPING . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 225 + THE MUSIC MASTER . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 229 + KATHARINE BOXES THE SERVANT'S EARS . . . . . . 232 + PETRUCHIO FINDS FAULT WITH THE SUPPER . . . . 235 + THE DUKE IN THE FRIAR'S DRESS . . . . . . . . 244 + ISABELLA PLEADS WITH ANGELO . . . . . . . . . 247 + “YOUR FRIAR IS NOW YOUR PRINCE” . . . . . . . 253 + VALENTINE WRITES A LETTER FOR SILVIA . . . . . 258 + SILVIA READING THE LETTER . . . . . . . . . . 259 + THE SERENADE . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 263 + ONE OF THE OUTLAWS . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 267 + HELENA AND BERTRAM . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 272 + HELENA AND THE KING . . . . . . . . . . . . . 276 + READING BERTRAM'S LETTER . . . . . . . . . . . 281 + HELENA AND THE WIDOW . . . . . . . . . . . . . 284 + + + + +LIST OF FOUR-COLOR PLATES + + PAGE + WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE . . . . . . . . . Frontispiece + TITANIA AND THE CLOWN . . . . . . . . . . . . . 19 + FERDINAND AND MIRANDA . . . . . . . . . . . . . 33 + PRINCE FLORIZEL AND PERDITA . . . . . . . . . . 54 + ROMEO AND JULIET . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105 + IMOGEN . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 141 + CHOOSING THE CASKET . . . . . . . . . . . . . 183 + PETRUCHIO AND KATHERINE . . . . . . . . . . . 228 + + + + + +A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM + + + +Hermia and Lysander were lovers; but Hermia's father wished her to marry +another man, named Demetrius. + +Now, in Athens, where they lived, there was a wicked law, by which any +girl who refused to marry according to her father's wishes, might be put +to death. Hermia's father was so angry with her for refusing to do as +he wished, that he actually brought her before the Duke of Athens to +ask that she might be killed, if she still refused to obey him. The Duke +gave her four days to think about it, and, at the end of that time, if +she still refused to marry Demetrius, she would have to die. + +Lysander of course was nearly mad with grief, and the best thing to +do seemed to him for Hermia to run away to his aunt's house at a place +beyond the reach of that cruel law; and there he would come to her and +marry her. But before she started, she told her friend, Helena, what she +was going to do. + +Helena had been Demetrius' sweetheart long before his marriage with +Hermia had been thought of, and being very silly, like all jealous +people, she could not see that it was not poor Hermia's fault that +Demetrius wished to marry her instead of his own lady, Helena. She knew +that if she told Demetrius that Hermia was going, as she was, to the +wood outside Athens, he would follow her, “and I can follow him, and +at least I shall see him,” she said to herself. So she went to him, and +betrayed her friend's secret. + +Now this wood where Lysander was to meet Hermia, and where the other two +had decided to follow them, was full of fairies, as most woods are, if +one only had the eyes to see them, and in this wood on this night were +the King and Queen of the fairies, Oberon and Titania. Now fairies +are very wise people, but now and then they can be quite as foolish as +mortal folk. Oberon and Titania, who might have been as happy as the +days were long, had thrown away all their joy in a foolish quarrel. They +never met without saying disagreeable things to each other, and scolded +each other so dreadfully that all their little fairy followers, for +fear, would creep into acorn cups and hide them there. + +So, instead of keeping one happy Court and dancing all night through in +the moonlight as is fairies' use, the King with his attendants wandered +through one part of the wood, while the Queen with hers kept state in +another. And the cause of all this trouble was a little Indian boy whom +Titania had taken to be one of her followers. Oberon wanted the child to +follow him and be one of his fairy knights; but the Queen would not give +him up. + +On this night, in a mossy moonlit glade, the King and Queen of the +fairies met. + +“Ill met by moonlight, proud Titania,” said the King. + +“What! jealous, Oberon?” answered the Queen. “You spoil everything with +your quarreling. Come, fairies, let us leave him. I am not friends with +him now.” + +“It rests with you to make up the quarrel,” said the King. + +“Give me that little Indian boy, and I will again be your humble servant +and suitor.” + +“Set your mind at rest,” said the Queen. “Your whole fairy kingdom buys +not that boy from me. Come, fairies.” + +And she and her train rode off down the moonbeams. + +“Well, go your ways,” said Oberon. “But I'll be even with you before you +leave this wood.” + +Then Oberon called his favorite fairy, Puck. Puck was the spirit of +mischief. He used to slip into the dairies and take the cream away, and +get into the churn so that the butter would not come, and turn the beer +sour, and lead people out of their way on dark nights and then laugh at +them, and tumble people's stools from under them when they were going to +sit down, and upset their hot ale over their chins when they were going +to drink. + +“Now,” said Oberon to this little sprite, “fetch me the flower called +Love-in-idleness. The juice of that little purple flower laid on the +eyes of those who sleep will make them, when they wake, to love the +first thing they see. I will put some of the juice of that flower on +my Titania's eyes, and when she wakes she will love the first thing she +sees, were it lion, bear, or wolf, or bull, or meddling monkey, or a +busy ape.” + +While Puck was gone, Demetrius passed through the glade followed by poor +Helena, and still she told him how she loved him and reminded him of all +his promises, and still he told her that he did not and could not love +her, and that his promises were nothing. Oberon was sorry for poor +Helena, and when Puck returned with the flower, he bade him follow +Demetrius and put some of the juice on his eyes, so that he might love +Helena when he woke and looked on her, as much as she loved him. So +Puck set off, and wandering through the wood found, not Demetrius, but +Lysander, on whose eyes he put the juice; but when Lysander woke, he saw +not his own Hermia, but Helena, who was walking through the wood looking +for the cruel Demetrius; and directly he saw her he loved her and left +his own lady, under the spell of the purple flower. + +When Hermia woke she found Lysander gone, and wandered about the wood +trying to find him. Puck went back and told Oberon what he had done, +and Oberon soon found that he had made a mistake, and set about looking +for Demetrius, and having found him, put some of the juice on his eyes. +And the first thing Demetrius saw when he woke was also Helena. So now +Demetrius and Lysander were both following her through the wood, and it +was Hermia's turn to follow her lover as Helena had done before. The +end of it was that Helena and Hermia began to quarrel, and Demetrius and +Lysander went off to fight. Oberon was very sorry to see his kind scheme +to help these lovers turn out so badly. So he said to Puck-- + +“These two young men are going to fight. You must overhang the night +with drooping fog, and lead them so astray, that one will never find the +other. When they are tired out, they will fall asleep. Then drop this +other herb on Lysander's eyes. That will give him his old sight and his +old love. Then each man will have the lady who loves him, and they will +all think that this has been only a Midsummer Night's Dream. Then when +this is done, all will be well with them.” + +So Puck went and did as he was told, and when the two had fallen asleep +without meeting each other, Puck poured the juice on Lysander's eyes, +and said:-- + + “When thou wakest, + Thou takest + True delight + In the sight + Of thy former lady's eye: + Jack shall have Jill; + Nought shall go ill.” + +Meanwhile Oberon found Titania asleep on a bank where grew wild thyme, +oxlips, and violets, and woodbine, musk-roses and eglantine. There +Titania always slept a part of the night, wrapped in the enameled skin +of a snake. Oberon stooped over her and laid the juice on her eyes, +saying:-- + + “What thou seest when thou wake, + Do it for thy true love take.” + +Now, it happened that when Titania woke the first thing she saw was a +stupid clown, one of a party of players who had come out into the wood +to rehearse their play. This clown had met with Puck, who had clapped +an ass's head on his shoulders so that it looked as if it grew there. +Directly Titania woke and saw this dreadful monster, she said, “What +angel is this? Are you as wise as you are beautiful?” + +“If I am wise enough to find my way out of this wood, that's enough for +me,” said the foolish clown. + +“Do not desire to go out of the wood,” said Titania. The spell of the +love-juice was on her, and to her the clown seemed the most beautiful +and delightful creature on all the earth. “I love you,” she went on. +“Come with me, and I will give you fairies to attend on you.” + +So she called four fairies, whose names were Peaseblossom, Cobweb, Moth, +and Mustardseed. + +“You must attend this gentleman,” said the Queen. “Feed him with +apricots and dewberries, purple grapes, green figs, and mulberries. +Steal honey-bags for him from the bumble-bees, and with the wings of +painted butterflies fan the moonbeams from his sleeping eyes.” + +“I will,” said one of the fairies, and all the others said, “I will.” + +“Now, sit down with me,” said the Queen to the clown, “and let me stroke +your dear cheeks, and stick musk-roses in your smooth, sleek head, and +kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy.” + +“Where's Peaseblossom?” asked the clown with the ass's head. He did not +care much about the Queen's affection, but he was very proud of having +fairies to wait on him. “Ready,” said Peaseblossom. + +“Scratch my head, Peaseblossom,” said the clown. “Where's Cobweb?” + “Ready,” said Cobweb. + +“Kill me,” said the clown, “the red bumble-bee on the top of the thistle +yonder, and bring me the honey-bag. Where's Mustardseed?” + +“Ready,” said Mustardseed. + +“Oh, I want nothing,” said the clown. “Only just help Cobweb to scratch. +I must go to the barber's, for methinks I am marvelous hairy about the +face.” + +“Would you like anything to eat?” said the fairy Queen. + +“I should like some good dry oats,” said the clown--for his donkey's +head made him desire donkey's food--“and some hay to follow.” + +“Shall some of my fairies fetch you new nuts from the squirrel's house?” + asked the Queen. + +“I'd rather have a handful or two of good dried peas,” said the clown. +“But please don't let any of your people disturb me; I am going to +sleep.” + +Then said the Queen, “And I will wind thee in my arms.” + +And so when Oberon came along he found his beautiful Queen lavishing +kisses and endearments on a clown with a donkey's head. + +And before he released her from the enchantment, he persuaded her to +give him the little Indian boy he so much desired to have. Then he took +pity on her, and threw some juice of the disenchanting flower on her +pretty eyes; and then in a moment she saw plainly the donkey-headed +clown she had been loving, and knew how foolish she had been. + +Oberon took off the ass's head from the clown, and left him to finish +his sleep with his own silly head lying on the thyme and violets. + +Thus all was made plain and straight again. Oberon and Titania loved +each other more than ever. Demetrius thought of no one but Helena, and +Helena had never had any thought of anyone but Demetrius. + +As for Hermia and Lysander, they were as loving a couple as you could +meet in a day's march, even through a fairy wood. + +So the four mortal lovers went back to Athens and were married; and the +fairy King and Queen live happily together in that very wood at this +very day. + + + + +THE TEMPEST + + + +Prospero, the Duke of Milan, was a learned and studious man, who lived +among his books, leaving the management of his dukedom to his brother +Antonio, in whom indeed he had complete trust. But that trust was +ill-rewarded, for Antonio wanted to wear the duke's crown himself, and, +to gain his ends, would have killed his brother but for the love the +people bore him. However, with the help of Prospero's great enemy, +Alonso, King of Naples, he managed to get into his hands the dukedom +with all its honor, power, and riches. For they took Prospero to sea, +and when they were far away from land, forced him into a little boat +with no tackle, mast, or sail. In their cruelty and hatred they put his +little daughter, Miranda (not yet three years old), into the boat with +him, and sailed away, leaving them to their fate. + +But one among the courtiers with Antonio was true to his rightful +master, Prospero. To save the duke from his enemies was impossible, but +much could be done to remind him of a subject's love. So this worthy +lord, whose name was Gonzalo, secretly placed in the boat some fresh +water, provisions, and clothes, and what Prospero valued most of all, +some of his precious books. + +The boat was cast on an island, and Prospero and his little one landed +in safety. Now this island was enchanted, and for years had lain under +the spell of a fell witch, Sycorax, who had imprisoned in the trunks +of trees all the good spirits she found there. She died shortly before +Prospero was cast on those shores, but the spirits, of whom Ariel was +the chief, still remained in their prisons. + +Prospero was a great magician, for he had devoted himself almost +entirely to the study of magic during the years in which he allowed +his brother to manage the affairs of Milan. By his art he set free the +imprisoned spirits, yet kept them obedient to his will, and they were +more truly his subjects than his people in Milan had been. For he +treated them kindly as long as they did his bidding, and he exercised +his power over them wisely and well. One creature alone he found it +necessary to treat with harshness: this was Caliban, the son of the +wicked old witch, a hideous, deformed monster, horrible to look on, and +vicious and brutal in all his habits. + +When Miranda was grown up into a maiden, sweet and fair to see, it +chanced that Antonio and Alonso, with Sebastian, his brother, and +Ferdinand, his son, were at sea together with old Gonzalo, and their +ship came near Prospero's island. Prospero, knowing they were there, +raised by his art a great storm, so that even the sailors on board gave +themselves up for lost; and first among them all Prince Ferdinand leaped +into the sea, and, as his father thought in his grief, was drowned. But +Ariel brought him safe ashore; and all the rest of the crew, although +they were washed overboard, were landed unhurt in different parts of +the island, and the good ship herself, which they all thought had been +wrecked, lay at anchor in the harbor whither Ariel had brought her. Such +wonders could Prospero and his spirits perform. + +While yet the tempest was raging, Prospero showed his daughter the brave +ship laboring in the trough of the sea, and told her that it was filled +with living human beings like themselves. She, in pity of their lives, +prayed him who had raised this storm to quell it. Then her father bade +her to have no fear, for he intended to save every one of them. + +Then, for the first time, he told her the story of his life and hers, +and that he had caused this storm to rise in order that his enemies, +Antonio and Alonso, who were on board, might be delivered into his +hands. + +When he had made an end of his story he charmed her into sleep, for +Ariel was at hand, and he had work for him to do. Ariel, who longed +for his complete freedom, grumbled to be kept in drudgery, but on being +threateningly reminded of all the sufferings he had undergone when +Sycorax ruled in the land, and of the debt of gratitude he owed to the +master who had made those sufferings to end, he ceased to complain, and +promised faithfully to do whatever Prospero might command. + +“Do so,” said Prospero, “and in two days I will discharge thee.” + +Then he bade Ariel take the form of a water nymph and sent him in search +of the young prince. And Ariel, invisible to Ferdinand, hovered near +him, singing the while-- + + “Come unto these yellow sands + And then take hands: + Court'sied when you have, and kiss'd + (The wild waves whist), + Foot it featly here and there; + And, sweet sprites, the burden bear!” + +And Ferdinand followed the magic singing, as the song changed to a +solemn air, and the words brought grief to his heart, and tears to his +eyes, for thus they ran-- + + “Full fathom five thy father lies; + Of his bones are coral made. + Those are pearls that were his eyes, + Nothing of him that doth fade, + But doth suffer a sea-change + Into something rich and strange. + Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell. + Hark! now I hear them,-- ding dong bell!” + +And so singing, Ariel led the spell-bound prince into the presence of +Prospero and Miranda. Then, behold! all happened as Prospero desired. +For Miranda, who had never, since she could first remember, seen +any human being save her father, looked on the youthful prince with +reverence in her eyes, and love in her secret heart. + +“I might call him,” she said, “a thing divine, for nothing natural I +ever saw so noble!” + +And Ferdinand, beholding her beauty with wonder and delight, exclaimed-- + +“Most sure the goddess on whom these airs attend!” + +Nor did he attempt to hide the passion which she inspired in him, for +scarcely had they exchanged half a dozen sentences, before he vowed to +make her his queen if she were willing. But Prospero, though secretly +delighted, pretended wrath. + +“You come here as a spy,” he said to Ferdinand. “I will manacle your +neck and feet together, and you shall feed on fresh water mussels, +withered roots and husk, and have sea-water to drink. Follow.” + +“No,” said Ferdinand, and drew his sword. But on the instant Prospero +charmed him so that he stood there like a statue, still as stone; and +Miranda in terror prayed her father to have mercy on her lover. But he +harshly refused her, and made Ferdinand follow him to his cell. There +he set the Prince to work, making him remove thousands of heavy logs of +timber and pile them up; and Ferdinand patiently obeyed, and thought his +toil all too well repaid by the sympathy of the sweet Miranda. + +She in very pity would have helped him in his hard work, but he would +not let her, yet he could not keep from her the secret of his love, and +she, hearing it, rejoiced and promised to be his wife. + +Then Prospero released him from his servitude, and glad at heart, he +gave his consent to their marriage. + +“Take her,” he said, “she is thine own.” + +In the meantime, Antonio and Sebastian in another part of the island +were plotting the murder of Alonso, the King of Naples, for Ferdinand +being dead, as they thought, Sebastian would succeed to the throne on +Alonso's death. And they would have carried out their wicked purpose +while their victim was asleep, but that Ariel woke him in good time. + +Many tricks did Ariel play them. Once he set a banquet before them, and +just as they were going to fall to, he appeared to them amid thunder +and lightning in the form of a harpy, and immediately the banquet +disappeared. Then Ariel upbraided them with their sins and vanished too. + +Prospero by his enchantments drew them all to the grove without his +cell, where they waited, trembling and afraid, and now at last bitterly +repenting them of their sins. + +Prospero determined to make one last use of his magic power, “And then,” + said he, “I'll break my staff and deeper than did ever plummet sound +I'll drown my book.” + +So he made heavenly music to sound in the air, and appeared to them in +his proper shape as the Duke of Milan. Because they repented, he +forgave them and told them the story of his life since they had cruelly +committed him and his baby daughter to the mercy of wind and waves. +Alonso, who seemed sorriest of them all for his past crimes, lamented +the loss of his heir. But Prospero drew back a curtain and showed them +Ferdinand and Miranda playing at chess. Great was Alonso's joy to greet +his loved son again, and when he heard that the fair maid with whom +Ferdinand was playing was Prospero's daughter, and that the young folks +had plighted their troth, he said-- + +“Give me your hands, let grief and sorrow still embrace his heart that +doth not wish you joy.” + +So all ended happily. The ship was safe in the harbor, and next day they +all set sail for Naples, where Ferdinand and Miranda were to be married. +Ariel gave them calm seas and auspicious gales; and many were the +rejoicings at the wedding. + +Then Prospero, after many years of absence, went back to his own +dukedom, where he was welcomed with great joy by his faithful subjects. +He practiced the arts of magic no more, but his life was happy, and not +only because he had found his own again, but chiefly because, when his +bitterest foes who had done him deadly wrong lay at his mercy, he took +no vengeance on them, but nobly forgave them. + +As for Ariel, Prospero made him free as air, so that he could wander +where he would, and sing with a light heart his sweet song-- + + “Where the bee sucks, there suck I: + In a cowslip's bell I lie; + There I couch when owls do cry. + On the bat's back I do fly + After summer, merrily: + Merrily, merrily, shall I live now, + Under the blossom that hangs on the bough.” + + + + +AS YOU LIKE IT + + + +There was once a wicked Duke named Frederick, who took the dukedom that +should have belonged to his brother, sending him into exile. His +brother went into the Forest of Arden, where he lived the life of a bold +forester, as Robin Hood did in Sherwood Forest in merry England. + +The banished Duke's daughter, Rosalind, remained with Celia, Frederick's +daughter, and the two loved each other more than most sisters. One day +there was a wrestling match at Court, and Rosalind and Celia went to see +it. Charles, a celebrated wrestler, was there, who had killed many men +in contests of this kind. Orlando, the young man he was to wrestle with, +was so slender and youthful, that Rosalind and Celia thought he would +surely be killed, as others had been; so they spoke to him, and asked +him not to attempt so dangerous an adventure; but the only effect of +their words was to make him wish more to come off well in the encounter, +so as to win praise from such sweet ladies. + +Orlando, like Rosalind's father, was being kept out of his inheritance +by his brother, and was so sad at his brother's unkindness that, until +he saw Rosalind, he did not care much whether he lived or died. But now +the sight of the fair Rosalind gave him strength and courage, so that +he did marvelously, and at last, threw Charles to such a tune, that the +wrestler had to be carried off the ground. Duke Frederick was pleased +with his courage, and asked his name. + +“My name is Orlando, and I am the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys,” + said the young man. + +Now Sir Rowland de Boys, when he was alive, had been a good friend to +the banished Duke, so that Frederick heard with regret whose son Orlando +was, and would not befriend him. But Rosalind was delighted to hear that +this handsome young stranger was the son of her father's old friend, and +as they were going away, she turned back more than once to say another +kind word to the brave young man. + +“Gentleman,” she said, giving him a chain from her neck, “wear this for +me. I could give more, but that my hand lacks means.” + +Rosalind and Celia, when they were alone, began to talk about the +handsome wrestler, and Rosalind confessed that she loved him at first +sight. + +“Come, come,” said Celia, “wrestle with thy affections.” + +“Oh,” answered Rosalind, “they take the part of a better wrestler than +myself. Look, here comes the Duke.” + +“With his eyes full of anger,” said Celia. + +“You must leave the Court at once,” he said to Rosalind. “Why?” she +asked. + +“Never mind why,” answered the Duke, “you are banished. If within ten +days you are found within twenty miles of my Court, you die.” + +So Rosalind set out to seek her father, the banished Duke, in the Forest +of Arden. Celia loved her too much to let her go alone, and as it was +rather a dangerous journey, Rosalind, being the taller, dressed up as +a young countryman, and her cousin as a country girl, and Rosalind said +that she would be called Ganymede, and Celia, Aliena. They were very +tired when at last they came to the Forest of Arden, and as they were +sitting on the grass a countryman passed that way, and Ganymede +asked him if he could get them food. He did so, and told them that +a shepherd's flocks and house were to be sold. They bought these and +settled down as shepherd and shepherdess in the forest. + +In the meantime, Oliver having sought to take his brother Orlando's +life, Orlando also wandered into the forest, and there met with the +rightful Duke, and being kindly received, stayed with him. Now, Orlando +could think of nothing but Rosalind, and he went about the forest +carving her name on trees, and writing love sonnets and hanging them on +the bushes, and there Rosalind and Celia found them. One day Orlando met +them, but he did not know Rosalind in her boy's clothes, though he liked +the pretty shepherd youth, because he fancied a likeness in him to her +he loved. + +“There is a foolish lover,” said Rosalind, “who haunts these woods and +hangs sonnets on the trees. If I could find him, I would soon cure him +of his folly.” + +Orlando confessed that he was the foolish lover, and Rosalind said--“If +you will come and see me every day, I will pretend to be Rosalind, and I +will take her part, and be wayward and contrary, as is the way of women, +till I make you ashamed of your folly in loving her.” + +And so every day he went to her house, and took a pleasure in saying to +her all the pretty things he would have said to Rosalind; and she had +the fine and secret joy of knowing that all his love-words came to the +right ears. Thus many days passed pleasantly away. + +One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a man asleep +on the ground, and that there was a lioness crouching near, waiting for +the man who was asleep to wake: for they say that lions will not prey on +anything that is dead or sleeping. Then Orlando looked at the man, and +saw that it was his wicked brother, Oliver, who had tried to take his +life. He fought with the lioness and killed her, and saved his brother's +life. + +While Orlando was fighting the lioness, Oliver woke to see his brother, +whom he had treated so badly, saving him from a wild beast at the risk +of his own life. This made him repent of his wickedness, and he begged +Orlando's pardon, and from thenceforth they were dear brothers. The +lioness had wounded Orlando's arm so much, that he could not go on to +see the shepherd, so he sent his brother to ask Ganymede to come to him. + +Oliver went and told the whole story to Ganymede and Aliena, and Aliena +was so charmed with his manly way of confessing his faults, that she +fell in love with him at once. But when Ganymede heard of the danger +Orlando had been in she fainted; and when she came to herself, said +truly enough, “I should have been a woman by right.” + +Oliver went back to his brother and told him all this, saying, “I love +Aliena so well that I will give up my estates to you and marry her, and +live here as a shepherd.” + +“Let your wedding be to-morrow,” said Orlando, “and I will ask the Duke +and his friends.” + +When Orlando told Ganymede how his brother was to be married on the +morrow, he added: “Oh, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness +through another man's eyes.” + +Then answered Rosalind, still in Ganymede's dress and speaking with his +voic--“If you do love Rosalind so near the heart, then when your brother +marries Aliena, shall you marry her.” + +Now the next day the Duke and his followers, and Orlando, and Oliver, +and Aliena, were all gathered together for the wedding. + +Then Ganymede came in and said to the Duke, “If I bring in your daughter +Rosalind, will you give her to Orlando here?” “That I would,” said the +Duke, “if I had all kingdoms to give with her.” + +“And you say you will have her when I bring her?” she said to Orlando. +“That would I,” he answered, “were I king of all kingdoms.” + +Then Rosalind and Celia went out, and Rosalind put on her pretty woman's +clothes again, and after a while came back. + +She turned to her father--“I give myself to you, for I am yours.” “If +there be truth in sight,” he said, “you are my daughter.” + +Then she said to Orlando, “I give myself to you, for I am yours.” “If +there be truth in sight,” he said, “you are my Rosalind.” + +“I will have no father if you be not he,” she said to the Duke, and to +Orlando, “I will have no husband if you be not he.” + +So Orlando and Rosalind were married, and Oliver and Celia, and they +lived happy ever after, returning with the Duke to the kingdom. For +Frederick had been shown by a holy hermit the wickedness of his ways, +and so gave back the dukedom of his brother, and himself went into a +monastery to pray for forgiveness. + +The wedding was a merry one, in the mossy glades of the forest. A +shepherd and shepherdess who had been friends with Rosalind, when she +was herself disguised as a shepherd, were married on the same day, and +all with such pretty feastings and merrymakings as could be nowhere +within four walls, but only in the beautiful green wood. + + + + +THE WINTER'S TALE + + + +Leontes was the King of Sicily, and his dearest friend was Polixenes, +King of Bohemia. They had been brought up together, and only separated +when they reached man's estate and each had to go and rule over +his kingdom. After many years, when each was married and had a son, +Polixenes came to stay with Leontes in Sicily. + +Leontes was a violent-tempered man and rather silly, and he took it into +his stupid head that his wife, Hermione, liked Polixenes better than +she did him, her own husband. When once he had got this into his head, +nothing could put it out; and he ordered one of his lords, Camillo, to +put a poison in Polixenes' wine. Camillo tried to dissuade him from this +wicked action, but finding he was not to be moved, pretended to consent. +He then told Polixenes what was proposed against him, and they fled from +the Court of Sicily that night, and returned to Bohemia, where Camillo +lived on as Polixenes' friend and counselor. + +Leontes threw the Queen into prison; and her son, the heir to the +throne, died of sorrow to see his mother so unjustly and cruelly +treated. + +While the Queen was in prison she had a little baby, and a friend of +hers, named Paulina, had the baby dressed in its best, and took it to +show the King, thinking that the sight of his helpless little daughter +would soften his heart towards his dear Queen, who had never done him +any wrong, and who loved him a great deal more than he deserved; but the +King would not look at the baby, and ordered Paulina's husband to take +it away in a ship, and leave it in the most desert and dreadful place +he could find, which Paulina's husband, very much against his will, was +obliged to do. + +Then the poor Queen was brought up to be tried for treason in preferring +Polixenes to her King; but really she had never thought of anyone except +Leontes, her husband. Leontes had sent some messengers to ask the god, +Apollo, whether he was not right in his cruel thoughts of the Queen. But +he had not patience to wait till they came back, and so it happened that +they arrived in the middle of the trial. The Oracle said-- + +“Hermione is innocent, Polixenes blameless, Camillo a true subject, +Leontes a jealous tyrant, and the King shall live without an heir, if +that which is lost be not found.” + +Then a man came and told them that the little Prince was dead. The +poor Queen, hearing this, fell down in a fit; and then the King saw how +wicked and wrong he had been. He ordered Paulina and the ladies who were +with the Queen to take her away, and try to restore her. But Paulina +came back in a few moments, and told the King that Hermione was dead. + +Now Leontes' eyes were at last opened to his folly. His Queen was dead, +and the little daughter who might have been a comfort to him he had sent +away to be the prey of wolves and kites. Life had nothing left for him +now. He gave himself up to his grief, and passed many sad years in +prayer and remorse. + +The baby Princess was left on the seacoast of Bohemia, the very kingdom +where Polixenes reigned. Paulina's husband never went home to tell +Leontes where he had left the baby; for as he was going back to the +ship, he met a bear and was torn to pieces. So there was an end of him. + +But the poor deserted little baby was found by a shepherd. She was +richly dressed, and had with her some jewels, and a paper was pinned to +her cloak, saying that her name was Perdita, and that she came of noble +parents. + +The shepherd, being a kind-hearted man, took home the little baby to +his wife, and they brought it up as their own child. She had no more +teaching than a shepherd's child generally has, but she inherited from +her royal mother many graces and charms, so that she was quite different +from the other maidens in the village where she lived. + +One day Prince Florizel, the son of the good King of Bohemia, was +bunting near the shepherd's house and saw Perdita, now grown up to a +charming woman. He made friends with the shepherd, not telling him that +he was the Prince, but saying that his name was Doricles, and that he +was a private gentleman; and then, being deeply in love with the pretty +Perdita, he came almost daily to see her. + +The King could not understand what it was that took his son nearly every +day from home; so he set people to watch him, and then found out that +the heir of the King of Bohemia was in love with Perdita, the pretty +shepherd girl. Polixenes, wishing to see whether this was true, +disguised himself, and went with the faithful Camillo, in disguise +too, to the old shepherd's house. They arrived at the feast of +sheep-shearing, and, though strangers, they were made very welcome. +There was dancing going on, and a peddler was selling ribbons and laces +and gloves, which the young men bought for their sweethearts. + +Florizel and Perdita, however, were taking no part in this gay scene, +but sat quietly together talking. The King noticed the charming manners +and great beauty of Perdita, never guessing that she was the daughter of +his old friend, Leontes. He said to Camillo-- + +“This is the prettiest low-born lass that ever ran on the green +sward. Nothing she does or seems but smacks of something greater than +herself--too noble for this place.” + +And Camillo answered, “In truth she is the Queen of curds and cream.” + +But when Florizel, who did not recognize his father, called upon the +strangers to witness his betrothal with the pretty shepherdess, the King +made himself known and forbade the marriage, adding that if ever she saw +Florizel again, he would kill her and her old father, the shepherd; and +with that he left them. But Camillo remained behind, for he was charmed +with Perdita, and wished to befriend her. + +Camillo had long known how sorry Leontes was for that foolish madness of +his, and he longed to go back to Sicily to see his old master. He now +proposed that the young people should go there and claim the protection +of Leontes. So they went, and the shepherd went with them, taking +Perdita's jewels, her baby clothes, and the paper he had found pinned to +her cloak. + +Leontes received them with great kindness. He was very polite to Prince +Florizel, but all his looks were for Perdita. He saw how much she was +like the Queen Hermione, and said again and again-- + +“Such a sweet creature my daughter might have been, if I had not cruelly +sent her from me.” + +When the old shepherd heard that the King had lost a baby daughter, who +had been left upon the coast of Bohemia, he felt sure that Perdita, the +child he had reared, must be the King's daughter, and when he told +his tale and showed the jewels and the paper, the King perceived that +Perdita was indeed his long-lost child. He welcomed her with joy, and +rewarded the good shepherd. + +Polixenes had hastened after his son to prevent his marriage with +Perdita, but when he found that she was the daughter of his old friend, +he was only too glad to give his consent. + +Yet Leontes could not be happy. He remembered how his fair Queen, +who should have been at his side to share his joy in his daughter's +happiness, was dead through his unkindness, and he could say nothing for +a long time but-- + +“Oh, thy mother! thy mother!” and ask forgiveness of the King of +Bohemia, and then kiss his daughter again, and then the Prince Florizel, +and then thank the old shepherd for all his goodness. + +Then Paulina, who had been high all these years in the King's favor, +because of her kindness to the dead Queen Hermione, said--“I have a +statue made in the likeness of the dead Queen, a piece many years in +doing, and performed by the rare Italian master, Giulio Romano. I keep +it in a private house apart, and there, ever since you lost your Queen, +I have gone twice or thrice a day. Will it please your Majesty to go and +see the statue?” + +So Leontes and Polixenes, and Florizel and Perdita, with Camillo and +their attendants, went to Paulina's house where there was a heavy purple +curtain screening off an alcove; and Paulina, with her hand on the +curtain, said-- + +“She was peerless when she was alive, and I do believe that her dead +likeness excels whatever yet you have looked upon, or that the hand +of man hath done. Therefore I keep it lonely, apart. But here it +is--behold, and say, 'tis well.” + +And with that she drew back the curtain and showed them the statue. The +King gazed and gazed on the beautiful statue of his dead wife, but said +nothing. + +“I like your silence,” said Paulina; “it the more shows off your wonder. +But speak, is it not like her?” + +“It is almost herself,” said the King, “and yet, Paulina, Hermione was +not so much wrinkled, nothing so old as this seems.” + +“Oh, not by much,” said Polixenes. + +“Al,” said Paulina, “that is the cleverness of the carver, who shows her +to us as she would have been had she lived till now.” + +And still Leontes looked at the statue and could not take his eyes away. + +“If I had known,” said Paulina, “that this poor image would so have +stirred your grief, and love, I would not have shown it to you.” + +But he only answered, “Do not draw the curtain.” + +“No, you must not look any longer,” said Paulina, “or you will think it +moves.” + +“Let be! let be!” said the King. “Would you not think it breathed?” + +“I will draw the curtain,” said Paulina; “you will think it lives +presently.” + +“Ah, sweet Paulina,” said Leontes, “make me to think so twenty years +together.” + +“If you can bear it,” said Paulina, “I can make the statue move, make +it come down and take you by the hand. Only you would think it was by +wicked magic.” + +“Whatever you can make her do, I am content to look on,” said the King. + +And then, all folks there admiring and beholding, the statue moved from +its pedestal, and came down the steps and put its arms round the King's +neck, and he held her face and kissed her many times, for this was +no statue, but the real living Queen Hermione herself. She had lived +hidden, by Paulina's kindness, all these years, and would not discover +herself to her husband, though she knew he had repented, because she +could not quite forgive him till she knew what had become of her little +baby. + +Now that Perdita was found, she forgave her husband everything, and it +was like a new and beautiful marriage to them, to be together once more. + +Florizel and Perdita were married and lived long and happily. + +To Leontes his many years of suffering were well paid for in the moment +when, after long grief and pain, he felt the arms of his true love +around him once again. + + + + +KING LEAR + + + +King Lear was old and tired. He was aweary of the business of his +kingdom, and wished only to end his days quietly near his three +daughters. Two of his daughters were married to the Dukes of Albany +and Cornwall; and the Duke of Burgundy and the King of France were both +suitors for the hand of Cordelia, his youngest daughter. + +Lear called his three daughters together, and told them that he proposed +to divide his kingdom between them. “But first,” said he, “I should like +to know how much you love me.” + +Goneril, who was really a very wicked woman, and did not love her father +at all, said she loved him more than words could say; she loved him +dearer than eyesight, space or liberty, more than life, grace, health, +beauty, and honor. + +“I love you as much as my sister and more,” professed Regan, “since I +care for nothing but my father's love.” + +Lear was very much pleased with Regan's professions, and turned to his +youngest daughter, Cordelia. “Now, our joy, though last not least,” he +said, “the best part of my kingdom have I kept for you. What can you +say?” + +“Nothing, my lord,” answered Cordelia. + +“Nothing can come of nothing. Speak again,” said the King. + +And Cordelia answered, “I love your Majesty according to my duty--no +more, no less.” + +And this she said, because she was disgusted with the way in which her +sisters professed love, when really they had not even a right sense of +duty to their old father. + +“I am your daughter,” she went on, “and you have brought me up and loved +me, and I return you those duties back as are right and fit, obey you, +love you, and most honor you.” + +Lear, who loved Cordelia best, had wished her to make more extravagant +professions of love than her sisters. “Go,” he said, “be for ever a +stranger to my heart and me.” + +The Earl of Kent, one of Lear's favorite courtiers and captains, tried +to say a word for Cordelia's sake, but Lear would not listen. He divided +the kingdom between Goneril and Regan, and told them that he should only +keep a hundred knights at arms, and would live with his daughters by +turns. + +When the Duke of Burgundy knew that Cordelia would have no share of the +kingdom, he gave up his courtship of her. But the King of France was +wiser, and said, “Thy dowerless daughter, King, is Queen of us--of ours, +and our fair France.” + +“Take her, take her,” said the King; “for I will never see that face of +hers again.” + +So Cordelia became Queen of France, and the Earl of Kent, for having +ventured to take her part, was banished from the kingdom. The King now +went to stay with his daughter Goneril, who had got everything from her +father that he had to give, and now began to grudge even the hundred +knights that he had reserved for himself. She was harsh and undutiful +to him, and her servants either refused to obey his orders or pretended +that they did not hear them. + +Now the Earl of Kent, when he was banished, made as though he would +go into another country, but instead he came back in the disguise of +a servingman and took service with the King. The King had now two +friends--the Earl of Kent, whom he only knew as his servant, and his +Fool, who was faithful to him. Goneril told her father plainly that his +knights only served to fill her Court with riot and feasting; and so she +begged him only to keep a few old men about him such as himself. + +“My train are men who know all parts of duty,” said Lear. “Goneril, I +will not trouble you further--yet I have left another daughter.” + +And his horses being saddled, he set out with his followers for the +castle of Regan. But she, who had formerly outdone her sister in +professions of attachment to the King, now seemed to outdo her in +undutiful conduct, saying that fifty knights were too many to wait on +him, and Goneril (who had hurried thither to prevent Regan showing any +kindness to the old King) said five were too many, since her servants +could wait on him. + +Then when Lear saw that what they really wanted was to drive him away, +he left them. It was a wild and stormy night, and he wandered about the +heath half mad with misery, and with no companion but the poor Fool. +But presently his servant, the good Earl of Kent, met him, and at last +persuaded him to lie down in a wretched little hovel. At daybreak the +Earl of Kent removed his royal master to Dover, and hurried to the Court +of France to tell Cordelia what had happened. + +Cordelia's husband gave her an army and with it she landed at Dover. +Here she found poor King Lear, wandering about the fields, wearing a +crown of nettles and weeds. They brought him back and fed and clothed +him, and Cordelia came to him and kissed him. + +“You must bear with me,” said Lear; “forget and forgive. I am old and +foolish.” + +And now he knew at last which of his children it was that had loved him +best, and who was worthy of his love. + +Goneril and Regan joined their armies to fight Cordelia's army, and were +successful; and Cordelia and her father were thrown into prison. Then +Goneril's husband, the Duke of Albany, who was a good man, and had not +known how wicked his wife was, heard the truth of the whole story; and +when Goneril found that her husband knew her for the wicked woman she +was, she killed herself, having a little time before given a deadly +poison to her sister, Regan, out of a spirit of jealousy. + +But they had arranged that Cordelia should be hanged in prison, and +though the Duke of Albany sent messengers at once, it was too late. The +old King came staggering into the tent of the Duke of Albany, carrying +the body of his dear daughter Cordelia, in his arms. + +And soon after, with words of love for her upon his lips, he fell with +her still in his arms, and died. + + + + +TWELFTH NIGHT + + + +Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, was deeply in love with a beautiful +Countess named Olivia. Yet was all his love in vain, for she disdained +his suit; and when her brother died, she sent back a messenger from the +Duke, bidding him tell his master that for seven years she would not +let the very air behold her face, but that, like a nun, she would walk +veiled; and all this for the sake of a dead brother's love, which she +would keep fresh and lasting in her sad remembrance. + +The Duke longed for someone to whom he could tell his sorrow, and repeat +over and over again the story of his love. And chance brought him such a +companion. For about this time a goodly ship was wrecked on the Illyrian +coast, and among those who reached land in safety were the captain and +a fair young maid, named Viola. But she was little grateful for being +rescued from the perils of the sea, since she feared that her twin +brother was drowned, Sebastian, as dear to her as the heart in her +bosom, and so like her that, but for the difference in their manner of +dress, one could hardly be told from the other. The captain, for her +comfort, told her that he had seen her brother bind himself “to a strong +mast that lived upon the sea,” and that thus there was hope that he +might be saved. + +Viola now asked in whose country she was, and learning that the young +Duke Orsino ruled there, and was as noble in his nature as in his name, +she decided to disguise herself in male attire, and seek for employment +with him as a page. + +In this she succeeded, and now from day to day she had to listen to the +story of Orsino's love. At first she sympathized very truly with him, +but soon her sympathy grew to love. At last it occurred to Orsino that +his hopeless love-suit might prosper better if he sent this pretty lad +to woo Olivia for him. Viola unwillingly went on this errand, but when +she came to the house, Malvolio, Olivia's steward, a vain, officious +man, sick, as his mistress told him, of self-love, forbade the messenger +admittance. + +Viola, however (who was now called Cesario), refused to take any denial, +and vowed to have speech with the Countess. Olivia, hearing how her +instructions were defied and curious to see this daring youth, said, +“We'll once more hear Orsino's embassy.” + +When Viola was admitted to her presence and the servants had been sent +away, she listened patiently to the reproaches which this bold messenger +from the Duke poured upon her, and listening she fell in love with the +supposed Cesario; and when Cesario had gone, Olivia longed to send some +love-token after him. So, calling Malvolio, she bade him follow the boy. + +“He left this ring behind him,” she said, taking one from her finger. +“Tell him I will none of it.” + +Malvolio did as he was bid, and then Viola, who of course knew perfectly +well that she had left no ring behind her, saw with a woman's quickness +that Olivia loved her. Then she went back to the Duke, very sad at heart +for her lover, and for Olivia, and for herself. + +It was but cold comfort she could give Orsino, who now sought to ease +the pangs of despised love by listening to sweet music, while Cesario +stood by his side. + +“Ah,” said the Duke to his page that night, “you too have been in love.” + +“A little,” answered Viola. + +“What kind of woman is it?” he asked. + +“Of your complexion,” she answered. + +“What years, i' faith?” was his next question. + +To this came the pretty answer, “About your years, my lord.” + +“Too old, by Heaven!” cried the Duke. “Let still the woman take an elder +than herself.” + +And Viola very meekly said, “I think it well, my lord.” + +By and by Orsino begged Cesario once more to visit Olivia and to plead +his love-suit. But she, thinking to dissuade him, said-- + +“If some lady loved you as you love Olivia?” + +“Ah! that cannot be,” said the Duke. + +“But I know,” Viola went on, “what love woman may have for a man. My +father had a daughter loved a man, as it might be,” she added blushing, +“perhaps, were I a woman, I should love your lordship.” + +“And what is her history?” he asked. + +“A blank, my lord,” Viola answered. “She never told her love, but let +concealment like a worm in the bud feed on her damask cheek: she +pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy she sat, like +Patience on a monument, smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?” + +“But died thy sister of her love, my boy?” the Duke asked; and Viola, +who had all the time been telling her own love for him in this pretty +fashion, said-- + +“I am all the daughters my father has and all the brothers-- Sir, shall +I go to the lady?” + +“To her in haste,” said the Duke, at once forgetting all about the +story, “and give her this jewel.” + +So Viola went, and this time poor Olivia was unable to hide her love, +and openly confessed it with such passionate truth, that Viola left her +hastily, saying-- + +“Nevermore will I deplore my master's tears to you.” + +But in vowing this, Viola did not know the tender pity she would feel +for other's suffering. So when Olivia, in the violence of her love, +sent a messenger, praying Cesario to visit her once more, Cesario had no +heart to refuse the request. + +But the favors which Olivia bestowed upon this mere page aroused the +jealousy of Sir Andrew Aguecheek, a foolish, rejected lover of hers, who +at that time was staying at her house with her merry old uncle Sir Toby. +This same Sir Toby dearly loved a practical joke, and knowing Sir Andrew +to be an arrant coward, he thought that if he could bring off a duel +between him and Cesario, there would be rare sport indeed. So he induced +Sir Andrew to send a challenge, which he himself took to Cesario. The +poor page, in great terror, said-- + +“I will return again to the house, I am no fighter.” + +“Back you shall not to the house,” said Sir Toby, “unless you fight me +first.” + +And as he looked a very fierce old gentleman, Viola thought it best to +await Sir Andrew's coming; and when he at last made his appearance, in +a great fright, if the truth had been known, she tremblingly drew her +sword, and Sir Andrew in like fear followed her example. Happily for +them both, at this moment some officers of the Court came on the scene, +and stopped the intended duel. Viola gladly made off with what speed she +might, while Sir Toby called after her-- + +“A very paltry boy, and more a coward than a hare!” + +Now, while these things were happening, Sebastian had escaped all +the dangers of the deep, and had landed safely in Illyria, where he +determined to make his way to the Duke's Court. On his way thither he +passed Olivia's house just as Viola had left it in such a hurry, and +whom should he meet but Sir Andrew and Sir Toby. Sir Andrew, mistaking +Sebastian for the cowardly Cesario, took his courage in both hands, and +walking up to him struck him, saying, “There's for you.” + +“Why, there's for you; and there, and there!” said Sebastian, bitting +back a great deal harder, and again and again, till Sir Toby came to +the rescue of his friend. Sebastian, however, tore himself free from Sir +Toby's clutches, and drawing his sword would have fought them both, but +that Olivia herself, having heard of the quarrel, came running in, and +with many reproaches sent Sir Toby and his friend away. Then turning +to Sebastian, whom she too thought to be Cesario, she besought him with +many a pretty speech to come into the house with her. + +Sebastian, half dazed and all delighted with her beauty and grace, +readily consented, and that very day, so great was Olivia's baste, +they were married before she had discovered that he was not Cesario, or +Sebastian was quite certain whether or not he was in a dream. + +Meanwhile Orsino, hearing how ill Cesario sped with Olivia, visited her +himself, taking Cesario with him. Olivia met them both before her +door, and seeing, as she thought, her husband there, reproached him for +leaving her, while to the Duke she said that his suit was as fat and +wholesome to her as howling after music. + +“Still so cruel?” said Orsino. + +“Still so constant,” she answered. + +Then Orsino's anger growing to cruelty, he vowed that, to be revenged on +her, he would kill Cesario, whom he knew she loved. “Come, boy,” he said +to the page. + +And Viola, following him as he moved away, said, “I, to do you rest, a +thousand deaths would die.” + +A great fear took hold on Olivia, and she cried aloud, “Cesario, +husband, stay!” + +“Her husband?” asked the Duke angrily. + +“No, my lord, not I,” said Viola. + +“Call forth the holy father,” cried Olivia. + +And the priest who had married Sebastian and Olivia, coming in, declared +Cesario to be the bridegroom. + +“O thou dissembling cub!” the Duke exclaimed. “Farewell, and take her, +but go where thou and I henceforth may never meet.” + +At this moment Sir Andrew came up with bleeding crown, complaining that +Cesario had broken his head, and Sir Toby's as well. + +“I never hurt you,” said Viola, very positively; “you drew your sword on +me, but I bespoke you fair, and hurt you not.” + +Yet, for all her protesting, no one there believed her; but all their +thoughts were on a sudden changed to wonder, when Sebastian came in. + +“I am sorry, madam,” he said to his wife, “I have hurt your kinsman. +Pardon me, sweet, even for the vows we made each other so late ago.” + +“One face, one voice, one habit, and two persons!” cried the Duke, +looking first at Viola, and then at Sebastian. + +“An apple cleft in two,” said one who knew Sebastian, “is not more twin +than these two creatures. Which is Sebastian?” + +“I never had a brother,” said Sebastian. “I had a sister, whom the blind +waves and surges have devoured.” “Were you a woman,” he said to Viola, +“I should let my tears fall upon your cheek, and say, 'Thrice welcome, +drowned Viola!'” + +Then Viola, rejoicing to see her dear brother alive, confessed that she +was indeed his sister, Viola. As she spoke, Orsino felt the pity that is +akin to love. + +“Boy,” he said, “thou hast said to me a thousand times thou never +shouldst love woman like to me.” + +“And all those sayings will I overswear,” Viola replied, “and all those +swearings keep true.” + +“Give me thy hand,” Orsino cried in gladness. “Thou shalt be my wife, +and my fancy's queen.” + +Thus was the gentle Viola made happy, while Olivia found in Sebastian +a constant lover, and a good husband, and he in her a true and loving +wife. + + + + +MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING + + + +In Sicily is a town called Messina, which is the scene of a curious +storm in a teacup that raged several hundred years ago. + +It began with sunshine. Don Pedro, Prince of Arragon, in Spain, had +gained so complete a victory over his foes that the very land whence +they came is forgotten. Feeling happy and playful after the fatigues of +war, Don Pedro came for a holiday to Messina, and in his suite were his +stepbrother Don John and two young Italian lords, Benedick and Claudio. + +Benedick was a merry chatterbox, who had determined to live a bachelor. +Claudio, on the other hand, no sooner arrived at Messina than he fell in +love with Hero, the daughter of Leonato, Governor of Messina. + +One July day, a perfumer called Borachio was burning dried lavender in +a musty room in Leonato's house, when the sound of conversation floated +through the open window. + +“Give me your candid opinion of Hero,” Claudio, asked, and Borachio +settled himself for comfortable listening. + +“Too short and brown for praise,” was Benedick's reply; “but alter her +color or height, and you spoil her.” + +“In my eyes she is the sweetest of women,” said Claudio. + +“Not in mine,” retorted Benedick, “and I have no need for glasses. She +is like the last day of December compared with the first of May if you +set her beside her cousin. Unfortunately, the Lady Beatrice is a fury.” + +Beatrice was Leonato's niece. She amused herself by saying witty and +severe things about Benedick, who called her Dear Lady Disdain. She +was wont to say that she was born under a dancing star, and could not +therefore be dull. + +Claudio and Benedick were still talking when Don Pedro came up and said +good-humoredly, “Well, gentlemen, what's the secret?” + +“I am longing,” answered Benedick, “for your Grace to command me to +tell.” + +“I charge you, then, on your allegiance to tell me,” said Don Pedro, +falling in with his humor. + +“I can be as dumb as a mute,” apologized Benedick to Claudio, “but his +Grace commands my speech.” To Don Pedro he said, “Claudio is in love +with Hero, Leonato's short daughter.” + +Don Pedro was pleased, for he admired Hero and was fond of Claudio. When +Benedick had departed, he said to Claudio, “Be steadfast in your love +for Hero, and I will help you to win her. To-night her father gives a +masquerade, and I will pretend I am Claudio, and tell her how Claudio +loves her, and if she be pleased, I will go to her father and ask his +consent to your union.” + +Most men like to do their own wooing, but if you fall in love with a +Governor's only daughter, you are fortunate if you can trust a prince to +plead for you. + +Claudio then was fortunate, but he was unfortunate as well, for he +had an enemy who was outwardly a friend. This enemy was Don Pedro's +stepbrother Don John, who was jealous of Claudio because Don Pedro +preferred him to Don John. + +It was to Don John that Borachio came with the interesting conversation +which he had overheard. + +“I shall have some fun at that masquerade myself,” said Don John when +Borachio ceased speaking. + +On the night of the masquerade, Don Pedro, masked and pretending he was +Claudio, asked Hero if he might walk with her. + +They moved away together, and Don John went up to Claudio and said, +“Signor Benedick, I believe?” “The same,” fibbed Claudio. + +“I should be much obliged then,” said Don John, “if you would use your +influence with my brother to cure him of his love for Hero. She is +beneath him in rank.” + +“How do you know he loves her?” inquired Claudio. + +“I heard him swear his affection,” was the reply, and Borachio chimed in +with, “So did I too.” + +Claudio was then left to himself, and his thought was that his Prince +had betrayed him. “Farewell, Hero,” he muttered; “I was a fool to trust +to an agent.” + +Meanwhile Beatrice and Benedick (who was masked) were having a brisk +exchange of opinions. + +“Did Benedick ever make you laugh?” asked she. + +“Who is Benedick?” he inquired. + +“A Prince's jester,” replied Beatrice, and she spoke so sharply that “I +would not marry her,” he declared afterwards, “if her estate were the +Garden of Eden.” + +But the principal speaker at the masquerade was neither Beatrice nor +Benedick. It was Don Pedro, who carried out his plan to the letter, and +brought the light back to Claudio's face in a twinkling, by appearing +before him with Leonato and Hero, and saying, “Claudio, when would you +like to go to church?” + +“To-morrow,” was the prompt answer. “Time goes on crutches till I marry +Hero.” + +“Give her a week, my dear son,” said Leonato, and Claudio's heart +thumped with joy. + +“And now,” said the amiable Don Pedro, “we must find a wife for Signor +Benedick. It is a task for Hercules.” + +“I will help you,” said Leonato, “if I have to sit up ten nights.” + +Then Hero spoke. “I will do what I can, my lord, to find a good husband +for Beatrice.” + +Thus, with happy laughter, ended the masquerade which had given Claudio +a lesson for nothing. + +Borachio cheered up Don John by laying a plan before him with which he +was confident he could persuade both Claudio and Don Pedro that Hero was +a fickle girl who had two strings to her bow. Don John agreed to this +plan of hate. + +Don Pedro, on the other hand, had devised a cunning plan of love. +“If,” he said to Leonato, “we pretend, when Beatrice is near enough to +overhear us, that Benedick is pining for her love, she will pity him, +see his good qualities, and love him. And if, when Benedick thinks we +don't know he is listening, we say how sad it is that the beautiful +Beatrice should be in love with a heartless scoffer like Benedick, he +will certainly be on his knees before her in a week or less.” + +So one day, when Benedick was reading in a summer-house, Claudio sat +down outside it with Leonato, and said, “Your daughter told me something +about a letter she wrote.” + +“Letter!” exclaimed Leonato. “She will get up twenty times in the night +and write goodness knows what. But once Hero peeped, and saw the words +'Benedick and Beatrice' on the sheet, and then Beatrice tore it up.” + +“Hero told me,” said Claudio, “that she cried, 'O sweet Benedick!'” + +Benedick was touched to the core by this improbable story, which he was +vain enough to believe. “She is fair and good,” he said to himself. +“I must not seem proud. I feel that I love her. People will laugh, of +course; but their paper bullets will do me no harm.” + +At this moment Beatrice came to the summerhouse, and said, “Against my +will, I have come to tell you that dinner is ready.” + +“Fair Beatrice, I thank you,” said Benedick. + +“I took no more pains to come than you take pains to thank me,” was the +rejoinder, intended to freeze him. + +But it did not freeze him. It warmed him. The meaning he squeezed out of +her rude speech was that she was delighted to come to him. + +Hero, who had undertaken the task of melting the heart of Beatrice, took +no trouble to seek an occasion. She simply said to her maid Margaret one +day, “Run into the parlor and whisper to Beatrice that Ursula and I are +talking about her in the orchard.” + +Having said this, she felt as sure that Beatrice would overhear what was +meant for her ears as if she had made an appointment with her cousin. + +In the orchard was a bower, screened from the sun by honeysuckles, and +Beatrice entered it a few minutes after Margaret had gone on her errand. + +“But are you sure,” asked Ursula, who was one of Hero's attendants, +“that Benedick loves Beatrice so devotedly?” + +“So say the Prince and my betrothed,” replied Hero, “and they wished me +to tell her, but I said, 'No! Let Benedick get over it.'” + +“Why did you say that?” + +“Because Beatrice is unbearably proud. Her eyes sparkle with disdain and +scorn. She is too conceited to love. I should not like to see her making +game of poor Benedick's love. I would rather see Benedick waste away +like a covered fire.” + +“I don't agree with you,” said Ursula. “I think your cousin is too +clear-sighted not to see the merits of Benedick.” “He is the one man in +Italy, except Claudio,” said Hero. + +The talkers then left the orchard, and Beatrice, excited and tender, +stepped out of the summer-house, saying to herself, “Poor dear Benedick, +be true to me, and your love shall tame this wild heart of mine.” + +We now return to the plan of hate. + +The night before the day fixed for Claudio's wedding, Don John entered +a room in which Don Pedro and Claudio were conversing, and asked Claudio +if he intended to be married to-morrow. + +“You know he does!” said Don Pedro. + +“He may know differently,” said Don John, “when he has seen what I will +show him if he will follow me.” + +They followed him into the garden; and they saw a lady leaning out of +Hero's window talking love to Borachio. + +Claudio thought the lady was Hero, and said, “I will shame her for it +to-morrow!” Don Pedro thought she was Hero, too; but she was not Hero; +she was Margaret. + +Don John chuckled noiselessly when Claudio and Don Pedro quitted the +garden; he gave Borachio a purse containing a thousand ducats. + +The money made Borachio feel very gay, and when he was walking in the +street with his friend Conrade, he boasted of his wealth and the giver, +and told what he had done. + +A watchman overheard them, and thought that a man who had been paid a +thousand ducats for villainy was worth taking in charge. He therefore +arrested Borachio and Conrade, who spent the rest of the night in +prison. + +Before noon of the next day half the aristocrats in Messina were at +church. Hero thought it was her wedding day, and she was there in her +wedding dress, no cloud on her pretty face or in her frank and shining +eyes. + +The priest was Friar Francis. + +Turning to Claudio, he said, “You come hither, my lord, to marry this +lady?” “No!” contradicted Claudio. + +Leonato thought he was quibbling over grammar. “You should have said, +Friar,” said he, “'You come to be married to her.'” + +Friar Francis turned to Hero. “Lady,” he said, “you come hither to be +married to this Count?” “I do,” replied Hero. + +“If either of you know any impediment to this marriage, I charge you to +utter it,” said the Friar. + +“Do you know of any, Hero?” asked Claudio. “None,” said she. + +“Know you of any, Count?” demanded the Friar. “I dare reply for him, +'None,'” said Leonato. + +Claudio exclaimed bitterly, “O! what will not men dare say! Father,” + he continued, “will you give me your daughter?” “As freely,” replied +Leonato, “as God gave her to me.” + +“And what can I give you,” asked Claudio, “which is worthy of this +gift?” “Nothing,” said Don Pedro, “unless you give the gift back to the +giver.” + +“Sweet Prince, you teach me,” said Claudio. “There, Leonato, take her +back.” + +These brutal words were followed by others which flew from Claudio, Don +Pedro and Don John. + +The church seemed no longer sacred. Hero took her own part as long as +she could, then she swooned. All her persecutors left the church, except +her father, who was befooled by the accusations against her, and cried, +“Hence from her! Let her die!” + +But Friar Francis saw Hero blameless with his clear eyes that probed the +soul. “She is innocent,” he said; “a thousand signs have told me so.” + +Hero revived under his kind gaze. Her father, flurried and angry, knew +not what to think, and the Friar said, “They have left her as one dead +with shame. Let us pretend that she is dead until the truth is declared, +and slander turns to remorse.” + +“The Friar advises well,” said Benedick. Then Hero was led away into a +retreat, and Beatrice and Benedick remained alone in the church. + +Benedick knew she had been weeping bitterly and long. “Surely I do +believe your fair cousin is wronged,” he said. She still wept. + +“Is it not strange,” asked Benedick, gently, “that I love nothing in the +world as well as you?” + +“It were as possible for me to say I loved nothing as well as you,” said +Beatrice, “but I do not say it. I am sorry for my cousin.” + +“Tell me what to do for her,” said Benedick. “Kill Claudio.” + +“Ha! not for the wide world,” said Benedick. “Your refusal kills me,” + said Beatrice. “Farewell.” + +“Enough! I will challenge him,” cried Benedick. + +During this scene Borachio and Conrade were in prison. There they were +examined by a constable called Dogberry. + +The watchman gave evidence to the effect that Borachio had said that he +had received a thousand ducats for conspiring against Hero. + +Leonato was not present at this examination, but he was nevertheless now +thoroughly convinced Of Hero's innocence. He played the part of bereaved +father very well, and when Don Pedro and Claudio called on him in a +friendly way, he said to the Italian, “You have slandered my child to +death, and I challenge you to combat.” + +“I cannot fight an old man,” said Claudio. + +“You could kill a girl,” sneered Leonato, and Claudio crimsoned. + +Hot words grew from hot words, and both Don Pedro and Claudio were +feeling scorched when Leonato left the room and Benedick entered. + +“The old man,” said Claudio, “was like to have snapped my nose off.” + +“You are a villain!” said Benedick, shortly. “Fight me when and with +what weapon you please, or I call you a coward.” + +Claudio was astounded, but said, “I'll meet you. Nobody shall say I +can't carve a calf's head.” + +Benedick smiled, and as it was time for Don Pedro to receive officials, +the Prince sat down in a chair of state and prepared his mind for +justice. + +The door soon opened to admit Dogberry and his prisoners. + +“What offence,” said Don Pedro, “are these men charged with?” + +Borachio thought the moment a happy one for making a clean breast of it. +He laid the whole blame on Don John, who had disappeared. “The lady Hero +being dead,” he said, “I desire nothing but the reward of a murderer.” + +Claudio heard with anguish and deep repentance. + +Upon the re-entrance of Leonato be said to him, “This slave makes clear +your daughter's innocence. Choose your revenge. + +“Leonato,” said Don Pedro, humbly, “I am ready for any penance you may +impose.” + +“I ask you both, then,” said Leonato, “to proclaim my daughter's +innocence, and to honor her tomb by singing her praise before it. As for +you, Claudio, I have this to say: my brother has a daughter so like Hero +that she might be a copy of her. Marry her, and my vengeful feelings +die.” + +“Noble sir,” said Claudio, “I am yours.” Claudio then went to his room +and composed a solemn song. Going to the church with Don Pedro and his +attendants, he sang it before the monument of Leonato's family. When he +had ended he said, “Good night, Hero. Yearly will I do this.” + +He then gravely, as became a gentleman whose heart was Hero's, made +ready to marry a girl whom he did not love. He was told to meet her in +Leonato's house, and was faithful to his appointment. + +He was shown into a room where Antonio (Leonato's brother) and several +masked ladies entered after him. Friar Francis, Leonato, and Benedick +were present. + +Antonio led one of the ladies towards Claudio. + +“Sweet,” said the young man, “let me see your face.” + +“Swear first to marry her,” said Leonato. + +“Give me your hand,” said Claudio to the lady; “before this holy friar I +swear to marry you if you will be my wife.” + +“Alive I was your wife,” said the lady, as she drew off her mask. + +“Another Hero!” exclaimed Claudio. + +“Hero died,” explained Leonato, “only while slander lived.” + +The Friar was then going to marry the reconciled pair, but Benedick +interrupted him with, “Softly, Friar; which of these ladies is +Beatrice?” + +Hereat Beatrice unmasked, and Benedick said, “You love me, don't you?” + +“Only moderately,” was the reply. “Do you love me?” + +“Moderately,” answered Benedick. + +“I was told you were well-nigh dead for me,” remarked Beatrice. + +“Of you I was told the same,” said Benedick. + +“Here's your own hand in evidence of your love,” said Claudio, producing +a feeble sonnet which Benedick had written to his sweetheart. “And +here,” said Hero, “is a tribute to Benedick, which I picked out of the +pocket of Beatrice.” + +“A miracle!” exclaimed Benedick. “Our hands are against our hearts! +Come, I will marry you, Beatrice.” + +“You shall be my husband to save your life,” was the rejoinder. + +Benedick kissed her on the mouth; and the Friar married them after he +had married Claudio and Hero. + +“How is Benedick the married man?” asked Don Pedro. + +“Too happy to be made unhappy,” replied Benedick. “Crack what jokes you +will. As for you, Claudio, I had hoped to run you through the body, but +as you are now my kinsman, live whole and love my cousin.” + +“My cudgel was in love with you, Benedick, until to-day,” said Claudio; +but, “Come, come, let's dance,” said Benedick. + +And dance they did. Not even the news of the capture of Don John was +able to stop the flying feet of the happy lovers, for revenge is not +sweet against an evil man who has failed to do harm. + + + + +ROMEO AND JULIET + + + +Once upon a time there lived in Verona two great families named Montagu +and Capulet. They were both rich, and I suppose they were as sensible, +in most things, as other rich people. But in one thing they were +extremely silly. There was an old, old quarrel between the two families, +and instead of making it up like reasonable folks, they made a sort of +pet of their quarrel, and would not let it die out. So that a Montagu +wouldn't speak to a Capulet if he met one in the street--nor a Capulet +to a Montagu--or if they did speak, it was to say rude and unpleasant +things, which often ended in a fight. And their relations and +servants were just as foolish, so that street fights and duels and +uncomfortablenesses of that kind were always growing out of the +Montagu-and-Capulet quarrel. + +Now Lord Capulet, the head of that family, gave a party-- a grand supper +and a dance--and he was so hospitable that he said anyone might come to +it except (of course) the Montagues. But there was a young Montagu named +Romeo, who very much wanted to be there, because Rosaline, the lady he +loved, had been asked. This lady had never been at all kind to him, and +he had no reason to love her; but the fact was that he wanted to love +somebody, and as he hadn't seen the right lady, he was obliged to love +the wrong one. So to the Capulet's grand party he came, with his friends +Mercutio and Benvolio. + +Old Capulet welcomed him and his two friends very kindly--and young +Romeo moved about among the crowd of courtly folk dressed in their +velvets and satins, the men with jeweled sword hilts and collars, and +the ladies with brilliant gems on breast and arms, and stones of price +set in their bright girdles. Romeo was in his best too, and though he +wore a black mask over his eyes and nose, everyone could see by his +mouth and his hair, and the way he held his head, that he was twelve +times handsomer than anyone else in the room. + +Presently amid the dancers he saw a lady so beautiful and so lovable +that from that moment he never again gave one thought to that Rosaline +whom he had thought he loved. And he looked at this other fair lady, as +she moved in the dance in her white satin and pearls, and all the world +seemed vain and worthless to him compared with her. And he was saying +this, or something like it, when Tybalt, Lady Capulet's nephew, hearing +his voice, knew him to be Romeo. Tybalt, being very angry, went at +once to his uncle, and told him how a Montagu had come uninvited to the +feast; but old Capulet was too fine a gentleman to be discourteous to +any man under his own roof, and he bade Tybalt be quiet. But this young +man only waited for a chance to quarrel with Romeo. + +In the meantime Romeo made his way to the fair lady, and told her in +sweet words that he loved her, and kissed her. Just then her mother sent +for her, and then Romeo found out that the lady on whom he had set his +heart's hopes was Juliet, the daughter of Lord Capulet, his sworn foe. +So he went away, sorrowing indeed, but loving her none the less. + +Then Juliet said to her nurse: + +“Who is that gentleman that would not dance?” + +“His name is Romeo, and a Montagu, the only son of your great enemy,” + answered the nurse. + +Then Juliet went to her room, and looked out of her window, over the +beautiful green-grey garden, where the moon was shining. And Romeo was +hidden in that garden among the trees--because he could not bear to go +right away without trying to see her again. So she--not knowing him to +be there--spoke her secret thought aloud, and told the quiet garden how +she loved Romeo. + +And Romeo heard and was glad beyond measure. Hidden below, he looked +up and saw her fair face in the moonlight, framed in the blossoming +creepers that grew round her window, and as he looked and listened, he +felt as though he had been carried away in a dream, and set down by some +magician in that beautiful and enchanted garden. + +“Ah--why are you called Romeo?” said Juliet. “Since I love you, what +does it matter what you are called?” + +“Call me but love, and I'll be new baptized--henceforth I never will be +Romeo,” he cried, stepping into the full white moonlight from the shade +of the cypresses and oleanders that had hidden him. + +She was frightened at first, but when she saw that it was Romeo himself, +and no stranger, she too was glad, and, he standing in the garden below +and she leaning from the window, they spoke long together, each one +trying to find the sweetest words in the world, to make that pleasant +talk that lovers use. And the tale of all they said, and the sweet music +their voices made together, is all set down in a golden book, where you +children may read it for yourselves some day. + +And the time passed so quickly, as it does for folk who love each other +and are together, that when the time came to part, it seemed as though +they had met but that moment-- and indeed they hardly knew how to part. + +“I will send to you to-morrow,” said Juliet. + +And so at last, with lingering and longing, they said good-bye. + +Juliet went into her room, and a dark curtain bid her bright window. +Romeo went away through the still and dewy garden like a man in a dream. + +The next morning, very early, Romeo went to Friar Laurence, a priest, +and, telling him all the story, begged him to marry him to Juliet +without delay. And this, after some talk, the priest consented to do. + +So when Juliet sent her old nurse to Romeo that day to know what he +purposed to do, the old woman took back a message that all was well, +and all things ready for the marriage of Juliet and Romeo on the next +morning. + +The young lovers were afraid to ask their parents' consent to their +marriage, as young people should do, because of this foolish old quarrel +between the Capulets and the Montagues. + +And Friar Laurence was willing to help the young lovers secretly, +because he thought that when they were once married their parents +might soon be told, and that the match might put a happy end to the old +quarrel. + +So the next morning early, Romeo and Juliet were married at Friar +Laurence's cell, and parted with tears and kisses. And Romeo promised to +come into the garden that evening, and the nurse got ready a rope-ladder +to let down from the window, so that Romeo could climb up and talk to +his dear wife quietly and alone. + +But that very day a dreadful thing happened. + +Tybalt, the young man who had been so vexed at Romeo's going to the +Capulet's feast, met him and his two friends, Mercutio and Benvolio, in +the street, called Romeo a villain, and asked him to fight. Romeo had no +wish to fight with Juliet's cousin, but Mercutio drew his sword, and +he and Tybalt fought. And Mercutio was killed. When Romeo saw that this +friend was dead, he forgot everything except anger at the man who had +killed him, and he and Tybalt fought till Tybalt fell dead. + +So, on the very day of his wedding, Romeo killed his dear Juliet's +cousin, and was sentenced to be banished. Poor Juliet and her young +husband met that night indeed; he climbed the rope-ladder among the +flowers, and found her window, but their meeting was a sad one, and they +parted with bitter tears and hearts heavy, because they could not know +when they should meet again. + +Now Juliet's father, who, of course, had no idea that she was married, +wished her to wed a gentleman named Paris, and was so angry when she +refused, that she hurried away to ask Friar Laurence what she should do. +He advised her to pretend to consent, and then he said: + +“I will give you a draught that will make you seem to be dead for two +days, and then when they take you to church it will be to bury you, and +not to marry you. They will put you in the vault thinking you are dead, +and before you wake up Romeo and I will be there to take care of you. +Will you do this, or are you afraid?” + +“I will do it; talk not to me of fear!” said Juliet. And she went home +and told her father she would marry Paris. If she had spoken out and +told her father the truth . . . well, then this would have been a +different story. + +Lord Capulet was very much pleased to get his own way, and set about +inviting his friends and getting the wedding feast ready. Everyone +stayed up all night, for there was a great deal to do, and very little +time to do it in. Lord Capulet was anxious to get Juliet married because +he saw she was very unhappy. Of course she was really fretting about her +husband Romeo, but her father thought she was grieving for the death of +her cousin Tybalt, and he thought marriage would give her something else +to think about. + +Early in the morning the nurse came to call Juliet, and to dress her +for her wedding; but she would not wake, and at last the nurse cried out +suddenly-- + +“Alas! alas! help! help! my lady's dead! Oh, well-a-day that ever I was +born!” + +Lady Capulet came running in, and then Lord Capulet, and Lord Paris, the +bridegroom. There lay Juliet cold and white and lifeless, and all their +weeping could not wake her. So it was a burying that day instead of a +marrying. Meantime Friar Laurence had sent a messenger to Mantua with a +letter to Romeo telling him of all these things; and all would have been +well, only the messenger was delayed, and could not go. + +But ill news travels fast. Romeo's servant who knew the secret of the +marriage, but not of Juliet's pretended death, heard of her funeral, and +hurried to Mantua to tell Romeo how his young wife was dead and lying in +the grave. + +“Is it so?” cried Romeo, heart-broken. “Then I will lie by Juliet's side +to-night.” + +And he bought himself a poison, and went straight back to Verona. He +hastened to the tomb where Juliet was lying. It was not a grave, but a +vault. He broke open the door, and was just going down the stone steps +that led to the vault where all the dead Capulets lay, when he heard a +voice behind him calling on him to stop. + +It was the Count Paris, who was to have married Juliet that very day. + +“How dare you come here and disturb the dead bodies of the Capulets, you +vile Montagu?” cried Paris. + +Poor Romeo, half mad with sorrow, yet tried to answer gently. + +“You were told,” said Paris, “that if you returned to Verona you must +die.” + +“I must indeed,” said Romeo. “I came here for nothing else. Good, gentle +youth--leave me! Oh, go--before I do you any harm! I love you better +than myself--go--leave me here--” + +Then Paris said, “I defy you, and I arrest you as a felon,” and Romeo, +in his anger and despair, drew his sword. They fought, and Paris was +killed. + +As Romeo's sword pierced him, Paris cried-- + +“Oh, I am slain! If thou be merciful, open the tomb, and lay me with +Juliet!” + +And Romeo said, “In faith I will.” + +And he carried the dead man into the tomb and laid him by the dear +Juliet's side. Then he kneeled by Juliet and spoke to her, and held +her in his arms, and kissed her cold lips, believing that she was dead, +while all the while she was coming nearer and nearer to the time of her +awakening. Then he drank the poison, and died beside his sweetheart and +wife. + +Now came Friar Laurence when it was too late, and saw all that had +happened--and then poor Juliet woke out of her sleep to find her husband +and her friend both dead beside her. + +The noise of the fight had brought other folks to the place too, and +Friar Laurence, hearing them, ran away, and Juliet was left alone. She +saw the cup that had held the poison, and knew how all had happened, and +since no poison was left for her, she drew her Romeo's dagger and thrust +it through her heart--and so, falling with her head on her Romeo's +breast, she died. And here ends the story of these faithful and most +unhappy lovers. + + * * * * * * * + +And when the old folks knew from Friar Laurence of all that had +befallen, they sorrowed exceedingly, and now, seeing all the mischief +their wicked quarrel had wrought, they repented them of it, and over the +bodies of their dead children they clasped hands at last, in friendship +and forgiveness. + + + + +PERICLES + + + +Pericles, the Prince of Tyre, was unfortunate enough to make an enemy of +Antiochus, the powerful and wicked King of Antioch; and so great was the +danger in which he stood that, on the advice of his trusty counselor, +Lord Helicanus, he determined to travel about the world for a time. He +came to this decision despite the fact that, by the death of his father, +he was now King of Tyre. So he set sail for Tarsus, appointing Helicanus +Regent during his absence. That he did wisely in thus leaving his +kingdom was soon made clear. + +Hardly had he sailed on his voyage, when Lord Thaliard arrived from +Antioch with instructions from his royal master to kill Pericles. The +faithful Helicanus soon discovered the deadly purpose of this wicked +lord, and at once sent messengers to Tarsus to warn the King of the +danger which threatened him. + +The people of Tarsus were in such poverty and distress that Pericles, +feeling that he could find no safe refuge there, put to sea again. But +a dreadful storm overtook the ship in which he was, and the good vessel +was wrecked, while of all on board only Pericles was saved. Bruised +and wet and faint, he was flung upon the cruel rocks on the coast of +Pentapolis, the country of the good King Simonides. Worn out as he was, +he looked for nothing but death, and that speedily. But some fishermen, +coming down to the beach, found him there, and gave him clothes and bade +him be of good cheer. + +“Thou shalt come home with me,” said one of them, “and we will have +flesh for holidays, fish for fasting days, and moreo'er, puddings and +flapjacks, and thou shalt be welcome.” + +They told him that on the morrow many princes and knights were going +to the King's Court, there to joust and tourney for the love of his +daughter, the beautiful Princess Thaisa. + +“Did but my fortunes equal my desires,” said Pericles, “I'd wish to make +one there.” + +As he spoke, some of the fishermen came by, drawing their net, and it +dragged heavily, resisting all their efforts, but at last they hauled it +in, to find that it contained a suit of rusty armor; and looking at it, +he blessed Fortune for her kindness, for he saw that it was his own, +which had been given to him by his dead father. He begged the fishermen +to let him have it that he might go to Court and take part in the +tournament, promising that if ever his ill fortunes bettered, he would +reward them well. The fishermen readily consented, and being thus fully +equipped, Pericles set off in his rusty armor to the King's Court. + +In the tournament none bore himself so well as Pericles, and he won the +wreath of victory, which the fair Princess herself placed on his brows. +Then at her father's command she asked him who he was, and whence he +came; and he answered that he was a knight of Tyre, by name Pericles, +but he did not tell her that he was the King of that country, for he +knew that if once his whereabouts became known to Antiochus, his life +would not be worth a pin's purchase. + +Nevertheless Thaisa loved him dearly, and the King was so pleased with +his courage and graceful bearing that he gladly permitted his daughter +to have her own way, when she told him she would marry the stranger +knight or die. + +Thus Pericles became the husband of the fair lady for whose sake he +had striven with the knights who came in all their bravery to joust and +tourney for her love. + +Meanwhile the wicked King Antiochus had died, and the people in Tyre, +hearing no news of their King, urged Lord Helicanus to ascend the vacant +throne. But they could only get him to promise that he would become +their King, if at the end of a year Pericles did not come back. +Moreover, he sent forth messengers far and wide in search of the missing +Pericles. + +Some of these made their way to Pentapolis, and finding their King +there, told him how discontented his people were at his long absence, +and that, Antiochus being dead, there was nothing now to hinder him from +returning to his kingdom. Then Pericles told his wife and father-in-law +who he really was, and they and all the subjects of Simonides greatly +rejoiced to know that the gallant husband of Thaisa was a King in his +own right. So Pericles set sail with his dear wife for his native land. +But once more the sea was cruel to him, for again a dreadful storm broke +out, and while it was at its height, a servant came to tell him that +a little daughter was born to him. This news would have made his heart +glad indeed, but that the servant went on to add that his wife--his +dear, dear Thaisa--was dead. + +While he was praying the gods to be good to his little baby girl, +the sailors came to him, declaring that the dead Queen must be thrown +overboard, for they believed that the storm would never cease so long +as a dead body remained in the vessel. So Thaisa was laid in a big chest +with spices and jewels, and a scroll on which the sorrowful King wrote +these lines: + + “Here I give to understand + (If e'er this coffin drive a-land), + I, King Pericles, have lost + This Queen worth all our mundane cost. + Who finds her, give her burying; + She was the daughter of a King; + Besides this treasure for a fee, + The gods requite his charity!” + +Then the chest was cast into the sea, and the waves taking it, by and +by washed it ashore at Ephesus, where it was found by the servants of a +lord named Cerimon. He at once ordered it to be opened, and when he +saw how lovely Thaisa looked, he doubted if she were dead, and took +immediate steps to restore her. Then a great wonder happened, for she, +who had been thrown into the sea as dead, came back to life. But feeling +sure that she would never see her husband again, Thaisa retired from the +world, and became a priestess of the Goddess Diana. + +While these things were happening, Pericles went on to Tarsus with his +little daughter, whom he called Marina, because she had been born at +sea. Leaving her in the hands of his old friend the Governor of Tarsus, +the King sailed for his own dominions. + +Now Dionyza, the wife of the Governor of Tarsus, was a jealous and +wicked woman, and finding that the young Princess grew up a more +accomplished and charming girl than her own daughter, she determined to +take Marina's life. So when Marina was fourteen, Dionyza ordered one of +her servants to take her away and kill her. This villain would have done +so, but that he was interrupted by some pirates who came in and carried +Marina off to sea with them, and took her to Mitylene, where they sold +her as a slave. Yet such was her goodness, her grace, and her beauty, +that she soon became honored there, and Lysimachus, the young Governor, +fell deep in love with her, and would have married her, but that he +thought she must be of too humble parentage to become the wife of one in +his high position. + +The wicked Dionyza believed, from her servant's report, that Marina was +really dead, and so she put up a monument to her memory, and showed it +to King Pericles, when after long years of absence he came to see +his much-loved child. When he heard that she was dead, his grief was +terrible to see. He set sail once more, and putting on sackcloth, vowed +never to wash his face or cut his hair again. There was a pavilion +erected on deck, and there he lay alone, and for three months he spoke +word to none. + +At last it chanced that his ship came into the port of Mitylene, and +Lysimachus, the Governor, went on board to enquire whence the vessel +came. When he heard the story of Pericles' sorrow and silence, he +bethought him of Marina, and believing that she could rouse the King +from his stupor, sent for her and bade her try her utmost to persuade +the King to speak, promising whatever reward she would, if she +succeeded. Marina gladly obeyed, and sending the rest away, she sat and +sang to her poor grief-laden father, yet, sweet as was her voice, he +made no sign. So presently she spoke to him, saying that her grief might +equal his, for, though she was a slave, she came from ancestors that +stood equal to mighty kings. + +Something in her voice and story touched the King's heart, and he looked +up at her, and as he looked, he saw with wonder how like she was to his +lost wife, so with a great hope springing up in his heart, he bade her +tell her story. + +Then, with many interruptions from the King, she told him who she was +and how she had escaped from the cruel Dionyza. So Pericles knew that +this was indeed his daughter, and he kissed her again and again, crying +that his great seas of joy drowned him with their sweetness. “Give me my +robes,” he said: “O Heaven, bless my girl!” + +Then there came to him, though none else could hear it, the sound of +heavenly music, and falling asleep, he beheld the goddess Diana, in a +vision. + +“Go,” she said to him, “to my temple at Ephesus, and when my maiden +priests are met together, reveal how thou at sea didst lose thy wife.” + +Pericles obeyed the goddess and told his tale before her altar. Hardly +had he made an end, when the chief priestess, crying out, “You are--you +are--O royal Pericles!” fell fainting to the ground, and presently +recovering, she spoke again to him, “O my lord, are you not Pericles?” + “The voice of dead Thaisa!” exclaimed the King in wonder. “That Thaisa +am I,” she said, and looking at her he saw that she spoke the very +truth. + +Thus Pericles and Thaisa, after long and bitter suffering, found +happiness once more, and in the joy of their meeting they forgot the +pain of the past. To Marina great happiness was given, and not only +in being restored to her dear parents; for she married Lysimachus, and +became a princess in the land where she had been sold as a slave. + + + + +HAMLET + + + +Hamlet was the only son of the King of Denmark. He loved his father and +mother dearly--and was happy in the love of a sweet lady named Ophelia. +Her father, Polonius, was the King's Chamberlain. + +While Hamlet was away studying at Wittenberg, his father died. Young +Hamlet hastened home in great grief to hear that a serpent had stung +the King, and that he was dead. The young Prince had loved his father so +tenderly that you may judge what he felt when he found that the Queen, +before yet the King had been laid in the ground a month, had determined +to marry again--and to marry the dead King's brother. + +Hamlet refused to put off mourning for the wedding. + +“It is not only the black I wear on my body,” he said, “that proves my +loss. I wear mourning in my heart for my dead father. His son at least +remembers him, and grieves still.” + +Then said Claudius the King's brother, “This grief is unreasonable. Of +course you must sorrow at the loss of your father, but--” + +“Ah,” said Hamlet, bitterly, “I cannot in one little month forget those +I love.” + +With that the Queen and Claudius left him, to make merry over their +wedding, forgetting the poor good King who had been so kind to them +both. + +And Hamlet, left alone, began to wonder and to question as to what he +ought to do. For he could not believe the story about the snake-bite. +It seemed to him all too plain that the wicked Claudius had killed the +King, so as to get the crown and marry the Queen. Yet he had no proof, +and could not accuse Claudius. + +And while he was thus thinking came Horatio, a fellow student of his, +from Wittenberg. + +“What brought you here?” asked Hamlet, when he had greeted his friend +kindly. + +“I came, my lord, to see your father's funeral.” + +“I think it was to see my mother's wedding,” said Hamlet, bitterly. “My +father! We shall not look upon his like again.” + +“My lord,” answered Horatio, “I think I saw him yesternight.” + +Then, while Hamlet listened in surprise, Horatio told how he, with two +gentlemen of the guard, had seen the King's ghost on the battlements. +Hamlet went that night, and true enough, at midnight, the ghost of the +King, in the armor he had been wont to wear, appeared on the battlements +in the chill moonlight. Hamlet was a brave youth. Instead of running +away from the ghost he spoke to it--and when it beckoned him he followed +it to a quiet place, and there the ghost told him that what he had +suspected was true. The wicked Claudius had indeed killed his good +brother the King, by dropping poison into his ear as he slept in his +orchard in the afternoon. + +“And you,” said the ghost, “must avenge this cruel murder-- on my wicked +brother. But do nothing against the Queen-- for I have loved her, and +she is your mother. Remember me.” + +Then seeing the morning approach, the ghost vanished. + +“Now,” said Hamlet, “there is nothing left but revenge. Remember thee--I +will remember nothing else--books, pleasure, youth--let all go--and your +commands alone live on my brain.” + +So when his friends came back he made them swear to keep the secret of +the ghost, and then went in from the battlements, now gray with mingled +dawn and moonlight, to think how he might best avenge his murdered +father. + +The shock of seeing and hearing his father's ghost made him feel almost +mad, and for fear that his uncle might notice that he was not himself, +he determined to hide his mad longing for revenge under a pretended +madness in other matters. + +And when he met Ophelia, who loved him--and to whom he had given gifts, +and letters, and many loving words--he behaved so wildly to her, that +she could not but think him mad. For she loved him so that she could not +believe he would be as cruel as this, unless he were quite mad. So she +told her father, and showed him a pretty letter from Hamlet. And in the +letter was much folly, and this pretty verse-- + + “Doubt that the stars are fire; + Doubt that the sun doth move; + Doubt truth to be a liar; + But never doubt I love.” + +And from that time everyone believed that the cause of Hamlet's supposed +madness was love. + +Poor Hamlet was very unhappy. He longed to obey his father's ghost--and +yet he was too gentle and kindly to wish to kill another man, even his +father's murderer. And sometimes he wondered whether, after all, the +ghost spoke truly. + +Just at this time some actors came to the Court, and Hamlet ordered them +to perform a certain play before the King and Queen. Now, this play +was the story of a man who had been murdered in his garden by a near +relation, who afterwards married the dead man's wife. + +You may imagine the feelings of the wicked King, as he sat on his +throne, with the Queen beside him and all his Court around, and saw, +acted on the stage, the very wickedness that he had himself done. And +when, in the play, the wicked relation poured poison into the ear of the +sleeping man, the wicked Claudius suddenly rose, and staggered from the +room--the Queen and others following. + +Then said Hamlet to his friends-- + +“Now I am sure the ghost spoke true. For if Claudius had not done this +murder, he could not have been so distressed to see it in a play.” + +Now the Queen sent for Hamlet, by the King's desire, to scold him +for his conduct during the play, and for other matters; and Claudius, +wishing to know exactly what happened, told old Polonius to hide himself +behind the hangings in the Queen's room. And as they talked, the Queen +got frightened at Hamlet's rough, strange words, and cried for help, and +Polonius behind the curtain cried out too. Hamlet, thinking it was the +King who was hidden there, thrust with his sword at the hangings, and +killed, not the King, but poor old Polonius. + +So now Hamlet had offended his uncle and his mother, and by bad hap +killed his true love's father. + +“Oh! what a rash and bloody deed is this,” cried the Queen. + +And Hamlet answered bitterly, “Almost as bad as to kill a king, and +marry his brother.” Then Hamlet told the Queen plainly all his thoughts +and how he knew of the murder, and begged her, at least, to have no more +friendship or kindness of the base Claudius, who had killed the good +King. And as they spoke the King's ghost again appeared before Hamlet, +but the Queen could not see it. So when the ghost had gone, they parted. + +When the Queen told Claudius what had passed, and how Polonius was dead, +he said, “This shows plainly that Hamlet is mad, and since he has killed +the Chancellor, it is for his own safety that we must carry out our +plan, and send him away to England.” + +So Hamlet was sent, under charge of two courtiers who served the King, +and these bore letters to the English Court, requiring that Hamlet +should be put to death. But Hamlet had the good sense to get at these +letters, and put in others instead, with the names of the two courtiers +who were so ready to betray him. Then, as the vessel went to England, +Hamlet escaped on board a pirate ship, and the two wicked courtiers left +him to his fate, and went on to meet theirs. + +Hamlet hurried home, but in the meantime a dreadful thing had happened. +Poor pretty Ophelia, having lost her lover and her father, lost her wits +too, and went in sad madness about the Court, with straws, and weeds, +and flowers in her hair, singing strange scraps of songs, and talking +poor, foolish, pretty talk with no heart of meaning to it. And one +day, coming to a stream where willows grew, she tried to bang a flowery +garland on a willow, and fell into the water with all her flowers, and +so died. + +And Hamlet had loved her, though his plan of seeming madness had made +him hide it; and when he came back, he found the King and Queen, and the +Court, weeping at the funeral of his dear love and lady. + +Ophelia's brother, Laertes, had also just come to Court to ask justice +for the death of his father, old Polonius; and now, wild with grief, he +leaped into his sister's grave, to clasp her in his arms once more. + +“I loved her more than forty thousand brothers,” cried Hamlet, and leapt +into the grave after him, and they fought till they were parted. + +Afterwards Hamlet begged Laertes to forgive him. + +“I could not bear,” he said, “that any, even a brother, should seem to +love her more than I.” + +But the wicked Claudius would not let them be friends. He told Laertes +how Hamlet had killed old Polonius, and between them they made a plot to +slay Hamlet by treachery. + +Laertes challenged him to a fencing match, and all the Court were +present. Hamlet had the blunt foil always used in fencing, but Laertes +had prepared for himself a sword, sharp, and tipped with poison. And the +wicked King had made ready a bowl of poisoned wine, which he meant +to give poor Hamlet when he should grow warm with the sword play, and +should call for drink. + +So Laertes and Hamlet fought, and Laertes, after some fencing, gave +Hamlet a sharp sword thrust. Hamlet, angry at this treachery--for +they had been fencing, not as men fight, but as they play--closed with +Laertes in a struggle; both dropped their swords, and when they picked +them up again, Hamlet, without noticing it, had exchanged his own blunt +sword for Laertes' sharp and poisoned one. And with one thrust of it he +pierced Laertes, who fell dead by his own treachery. + +At this moment the Queen cried out, “The drink, the drink! Oh, my dear +Hamlet! I am poisoned!” + +She had drunk of the poisoned bowl the King had prepared for Hamlet, and +the King saw the Queen, whom, wicked as he was, he really loved, fall +dead by his means. + +Then Ophelia being dead, and Polonius, and the Queen, and Laertes, and +the two courtiers who had been sent to England, Hamlet at last found +courage to do the ghost's bidding and avenge his father's murder--which, +if he had braced up his heart to do long before, all these lives +had been spared, and none had suffered but the wicked King, who well +deserved to die. + +Hamlet, his heart at last being great enough to do the deed he ought, +turned the poisoned sword on the false King. + +“Then--venom--do thy work!” he cried, and the King died. + +So Hamlet in the end kept the promise he had made his father. And all +being now accomplished, he himself died. And those who stood by saw him +die, with prayers and tears, for his friends and his people loved him +with their whole hearts. Thus ends the tragic tale of Hamlet, Prince of +Denmark. + + + + +CYMBELINE + + + +Cymbeline was the King of Britain. He had three children. The two sons +were stolen away from him when they were quite little children, and he +was left with only one daughter, Imogen. The King married a second +time, and brought up Leonatus, the son of a dear friend, as Imogen's +playfellow; and when Leonatus was old enough, Imogen secretly married +him. This made the King and Queen very angry, and the King, to punish +Leonatus, banished him from Britain. + +Poor Imogen was nearly heart-broken at parting from Leonatus, and he was +not less unhappy. For they were not only lovers and husband and wife, +but they had been friends and comrades ever since they were quite little +children. With many tears and kisses they said “Good-bye.” They promised +never to forget each other, and that they would never care for anyone +else as long as they lived. + +“This diamond was my mother's, love,” said Imogen; “take it, my heart, +and keep it as long as you love me.” + +“Sweetest, fairest,” answered Leonatus, “wear this bracelet for my +sake.” + +“Ah!” cried Imogen, weeping, “when shall we meet again?” + +And while they were still in each other's arms, the King came in, and +Leonatus had to leave without more farewell. + +When he was come to Rome, where he had gone to stay with an old friend +of his father's, he spent his days still in thinking of his dear Imogen, +and his nights in dreaming of her. One day at a feast some Italian and +French noblemen were talking of their sweethearts, and swearing that +they were the most faithful and honorable and beautiful ladies in the +world. And a Frenchman reminded Leonatus how he had said many times that +his wife Imogen was more fair, wise, and constant than any of the ladies +in France. + +“I say so still,” said Leonatus. + +“She is not so good but that she would deceive,” said Iachimo, one of +the Italian nobles. + +“She never would deceive,” said Leonatus. + +“I wager,” said Iachimo, “that, if I go to Britain, I can persuade your +wife to do whatever I wish, even if it should be against your wishes.” + +“That you will never do,” said Leonatus. “I wager this ring upon my +finger,” which was the very ring Imogen had given him at parting, “that +my wife will keep all her vows to me, and that you will never persuade +her to do otherwise.” + +So Iachimo wagered half his estate against the ring on Leonatus's +finger, and started forthwith for Britain, with a letter of introduction +to Leonatus's wife. When he reached there he was received with all +kindness; but he was still determined to win his wager. + +He told Imogen that her husband thought no more of her, and went on to +tell many cruel lies about him. Imogen listened at first, but presently +perceived what a wicked person Iachimo was, and ordered him to leave +her. Then he said-- + +“Pardon me, fair lady, all that I have said is untrue. I only told you +this to see whether you would believe me, or whether you were as much to +be trusted as your husband thinks. Will you forgive me?” + +“I forgive you freely,” said Imogen. + +“Then,” went on Iachimo, “perhaps you will prove it by taking charge of +a trunk, containing a number of jewels which your husband and I and some +other gentlemen have bought as a present for the Emperor of Rome.” + +“I will indeed,” said Imogen, “do anything for my husband and a friend +of my husband's. Have the jewels sent into my room, and I will take care +of them.” + +“It is only for one night,” said Iachimo, “for I leave Britain again +to-morrow.” + +So the trunk was carried into Imogen's room, and that night she went to +bed and to sleep. When she was fast asleep, the lid of the trunk opened +and a man got out. It was Iachimo. The story about the jewels was as +untrue as the rest of the things he had said. He had only wished to get +into her room to win his wicked wager. He looked about him and noticed +the furniture, and then crept to the side of the bed where Imogen +was asleep and took from her arm the gold bracelet which had been the +parting gift of her husband. Then he crept back to the trunk, and next +morning sailed for Rome. + +When he met Leonatus, he said-- + +“I have been to Britain and I have won the wager, for your wife no +longer thinks about you. She stayed talking with me all one night in her +room, which is hung with tapestry and has a carved chimney-piece, and +silver andirons in the shape of two winking Cupids.” + +“I do not believe she has forgotten me; I do not believe she stayed +talking with you in her room. You have heard her room described by the +servants.” + +“Ah!” said Iachimo, “but she gave me this bracelet. She took it from +her arm. I see her yet. Her pretty action did outsell her gift, and yet +enriched it too. She gave it me, and said she prized it once.” + +“Take the ring,” cried Leonatus, “you have won; and you might have +won my life as well, for I care nothing for it now I know my lady has +forgotten me.” + +And mad with anger, he wrote letters to Britain to his old servant, +Pisanio, ordering him to take Imogen to Milford Haven, and to murder +her, because she had forgotten him and given away his gift. At the same +time he wrote to Imogen herself, telling her to go with Pisanio, his old +servant, to Milford Haven, and that he, her husband, would be there to +meet her. + +Now when Pisanio got this letter he was too good to carry out its +orders, and too wise to let them alone altogether. So he gave Imogen the +letter from her husband, and started with her for Milford Haven. Before +he left, the wicked Queen gave him a drink which, she said, would be +useful in sickness. She hoped he would give it to Imogen, and that +Imogen would die, and the wicked Queen's son could be King. For the +Queen thought this drink was a poison, but really and truly it was only +a sleeping-draft. + +When Pisanio and Imogen came near to Milford Haven, he told her what was +really in the letter he had had from her husband. + +“I must go on to Rome, and see him myself,” said Imogen. + +And then Pisanio helped her to dress in boy's clothes, and sent her +on her way, and went back to the Court. Before he went he gave her the +drink he had had from the Queen. + +Imogen went on, getting more and more tired, and at last came to a cave. +Someone seemed to live there, but no one was in just then. So she went +in, and as she was almost dying of hunger, she took some food she saw +there, and had just done so, when an old man and two boys came into the +cave. She was very much frightened when she saw them, for she thought +that they would be angry with her for taking their food, though she +had meant to leave money for it on the table. But to her surprise they +welcomed her kindly. She looked very pretty in her boy's clothes and her +face was good, as well as pretty. + +“You shall be our brother,” said both the boys; and so she stayed with +them, and helped to cook the food, and make things comfortable. But one +day when the old man, whose name was Bellarius, was out hunting with +the two boys, Imogen felt ill, and thought she would try the medicine +Pisanio had given her. So she took it, and at once became like a dead +creature, so that when Bellarius and the boys came back from hunting, +they thought she was dead, and with many tears and funeral songs, they +carried her away and laid her in the wood, covered with flowers. + +They sang sweet songs to her, and strewed flowers on her, pale +primroses, and the azure harebell, and eglantine, and furred moss, and +went away sorrowful. No sooner had they gone than Imogen awoke, and not +knowing how she came there, nor where she was, went wandering through +the wood. + +Now while Imogen had been living in the cave, the Romans had decided to +attack Britain, and their army had come over, and with them Leonatus, +who had grown sorry for his wickedness against Imogen, so had come +back, not to fight with the Romans against Britain, but with the Britons +against Rome. So as Imogen wandered alone, she met with Lucius, the +Roman General, and took service with him as his page. + +When the battle was fought between the Romans and Britons, Bellarius and +his two boys fought for their own country, and Leonatus, disguised as +a British peasant, fought beside them. The Romans had taken Cymbeline +prisoner, and old Bellarius, with his sons and Leonatus, bravely rescued +the King. Then the Britons won the battle, and among the prisoners +brought before the King were Lucius, with Imogen, Iachimo, and Leonatus, +who had put on the uniform of a Roman soldier. He was tired of his life +since he had cruelly ordered his wife to be killed, and he hoped that, +as a Roman soldier, he would be put to death. + +When they were brought before the King, Lucius spoke out-- + +“A Roman with a Roman's heart can suffer,” he said. “If I must die, so +be it. This one thing only will I entreat. My boy, a Briton born, let +him be ransomed. Never master had a page so kind, so duteous, diligent, +true. He has done no Briton harm, though he has served a Roman. Save +him, Sir.” + +Then Cymbeline looked on the page, who was his own daughter, Imogen, in +disguise, and though he did not recognize her, he felt such a kindness +that he not only spared the boy's life, but he said-- + +“He shall have any boon he likes to ask of me, even though he ask a +prisoner, the noblest taken.” + +Then Imogen said, “The boon I ask is that this gentleman shall say from +whom he got the ring he has on his finger,” and she pointed to Iachimo. + +“Speak,” said Cymbeline, “how did you get that diamond?” + +Then Iachimo told the whole truth of his villainy. At this, Leonatus was +unable to contain himself, and casting aside all thought of disguise, he +came forward, cursing himself for his folly in having believed Iachimo's +lying story, and calling again and again on his wife whom he believed +dead. + +“Oh, Imogen, my love, my life!” he cried. “Oh, Imogen! + +Then Imogen, forgetting she was disguised, cried out, “Peace, my +lord--here, here!” + +Leonatus turned to strike the forward page who thus interfered in his +great trouble, and then he saw that it was his wife, Imogen, and they +fell into each other's arms. + +The King was so glad to see his dear daughter again, and so grateful to +the man who had rescued him (whom he now found to be Leonatus), that he +gave his blessing on their marriage, and then he turned to Bellarius, +and the two boys. Now Bellarius spoke-- + +“I am your old servant, Bellarius. You accused me of treason when I had +only been loyal to you, and to be doubted, made me disloyal. So I stole +your two sons, and see,--they are here!” And he brought forward the two +boys, who had sworn to be brothers to Imogen when they thought she was a +boy like themselves. + +The wicked Queen was dead of some of her own poisons, and the King, with +his three children about him, lived to a happy old age. + +So the wicked were punished, and the good and true lived happy ever +after. So may the wicked suffer, and honest folk prosper till the +world's end. + + + + +MACBETH + + + +When a person is asked to tell the story of Macbeth, he can tell two +stories. One is of a man called Macbeth who came to the throne of +Scotland by a crime in the year of our Lord 1039, and reigned justly +and well, on the whole, for fifteen years or more. This story is part +of Scottish history. The other story issues from a place called +Imagination; it is gloomy and wonderful, and you shall hear it. + +A year or two before Edward the Confessor began to rule England, a +battle was won in Scotland against a Norwegian King by two generals +named Macbeth and Banquo. After the battle, the generals walked together +towards Forres, in Elginshire, where Duncan, King of Scotland, was +awaiting them. + +While they were crossing a lonely heath, they saw three bearded women, +sisters, hand in hand, withered in appearance and wild in their attire. + +“Speak, who are you?” demanded Macbeth. + +“Hail, Macbeth, chieftain of Glamis,” said the first woman. + +“Hail, Macbeth, chieftain of Cawdor,” said the second woman. + +“Hail, Macbeth, King that is to be,” said the third woman. + +Then Banquo asked, “What of me?” and the third woman replied, “Thou +shalt be the father of kings.” + +“Tell me more,” said Macbeth. “By my father's death I am chieftain of +Glamis, but the chieftain of Cawdor lives, and the King lives, and his +children live. Speak, I charge you!” + +The women replied only by vanishing, as though suddenly mixed with the +air. + +Banquo and Macbeth knew then that they had been addressed by witches, +and were discussing their prophecies when two nobles approached. One of +them thanked Macbeth, in the King's name, for his military services, and +the other said, “He bade me call you chieftain of Cawdor.” + +Macbeth then learned that the man who had yesterday borne that title +was to die for treason, and he could not help thinking, “The third witch +called me, 'King that is to be.'” + +“Banquo,” he said, “you see that the witches spoke truth concerning me. +Do you not believe, therefore, that your child and grandchild will be +kings?” + +Banquo frowned. Duncan had two sons, Malcolm and Donalbain, and he +deemed it disloyal to hope that his son Fleance should rule Scotland. +He told Macbeth that the witches might have intended to tempt them +both into villainy by their prophecies concerning the throne. Macbeth, +however, thought the prophecy that he should be King too pleasant to +keep to himself, and he mentioned it to his wife in a letter. + +Lady Macbeth was the grand-daughter of a King of Scotland who had died +in defending his crown against the King who preceded Duncan, and by +whose order her only brother was slain. To her, Duncan was a reminder +of bitter wrongs. Her husband had royal blood in his veins, and when she +read his letter, she was determined that he should be King. + +When a messenger arrived to inform her that Duncan would pass a night in +Macbeth's castle, she nerved herself for a very base action. + +She told Macbeth almost as soon as she saw him that Duncan must spend +a sunless morrow. She meant that Duncan must die, and that the dead are +blind. “We will speak further,” said Macbeth uneasily, and at night, +with his memory full of Duncan's kind words, he would fain have spared +his guest. + +“Would you live a coward?” demanded Lady Macbeth, who seems to have +thought that morality and cowardice were the same. + +“I dare do all that may become a man,” replied Macbeth; “who dare do +more is none.” + +“Why did you write that letter to me?” she inquired fiercely, and with +bitter words she egged him on to murder, and with cunning words she +showed him how to do it. + +After supper Duncan went to bed, and two grooms were placed on guard at +his bedroom door. Lady Macbeth caused them to drink wine till they were +stupefied. She then took their daggers and would have killed the King +herself if his sleeping face had not looked like her father's. + +Macbeth came later, and found the daggers lying by the grooms; and soon +with red hands he appeared before his wife, saying, “Methought I heard a +voice cry, 'Sleep no more! Macbeth destroys the sleeping.'” + +“Wash your hands,” said she. “Why did you not leave the daggers by the +grooms? Take them back, and smear the grooms with blood.” + +“I dare not,” said Macbeth. + +His wife dared, and she returned to him with hands red as his own, but a +heart less white, she proudly told him, for she scorned his fear. + +The murderers heard a knocking, and Macbeth wished it was a knocking +which could wake the dead. It was the knocking of Macduff, the chieftain +of Fife, who had been told by Duncan to visit him early. Macbeth went to +him, and showed him the door of the King's room. + +Macduff entered, and came out again crying, “O horror! horror! horror!” + +Macbeth appeared as horror-stricken as Macduff, and pretending that he +could not bear to see life in Duncan's murderers, he slew the two grooms +with their own daggers before they could proclaim their innocence. + +These murders did not shriek out, and Macbeth was crowned at Scone. +One of Duncan's sons went to Ireland, the other to England. Macbeth was +King. But he was discontented. The prophecy concerning Banquo oppressed +his mind. If Fleance were to rule, a son of Macbeth would not rule. +Macbeth determined, therefore, to murder both Banquo and his son. He +hired two ruffians, who slew Banquo one night when he was on his way +with Fleance to a banquet which Macbeth was giving to his nobles. +Fleance escaped. + +Meanwhile Macbeth and his Queen received their guests very graciously, +and he expressed a wish for them which has been uttered thousands of +times since his day--“Now good digestion wait on appetite, and health on +both.” + +“We pray your Majesty to sit with us,” said Lennox, a Scotch noble; but +ere Macbeth could reply, the ghost of Banquo entered the banqueting hall +and sat in Macbeth's place. + +Not noticing the ghost, Macbeth observed that, if Banquo were present, +he could say that he had collected under his roof the choicest chivalry +of Scotland. Macduff, however, had curtly declined his invitation. + +The King was again pressed to take a seat, and Lennox, to whom Banquo's +ghost was invisible, showed him the chair where it sat. + +But Macbeth, with his eyes of genius, saw the ghost. He saw it like a +form of mist and blood, and he demanded passionately, “Which of you have +done this?” + +Still none saw the ghost but he, and to the ghost Macbeth said, “Thou +canst not say I did it.” + +The ghost glided out, and Macbeth was impudent enough to raise a glass +of wine “to the general joy of the whole table, and to our dear friend +Banquo, whom we miss.” + +The toast was drunk as the ghost of Banquo entered for the second time. + +“Begone!” cried Macbeth. “You are senseless, mindless! Hide in the +earth, thou horrible shadow.” + +Again none saw the ghost but he. + +“What is it your Majesty sees?” asked one of the nobles. + +The Queen dared not permit an answer to be given to this question. She +hurriedly begged her guests to quit a sick man who was likely to grow +worse if he was obliged to talk. + +Macbeth, however, was well enough next day to converse with the witches +whose prophecies had so depraved him. + +He found them in a cavern on a thunderous day. They were revolving round +a cauldron in which were boiling particles of many strange and horrible +creatures, and they knew he was coming before he arrived. + +“Answer me what I ask you,” said the King. + +“Would you rather hear it from us or our masters?” asked the first +witch. + +“Call them,” replied Macbeth. + +Thereupon the witches poured blood into the cauldron and grease into the +flame that licked it, and a helmeted head appeared with the visor on, so +that Macbeth could only see its eyes. + +He was speaking to the head, when the first witch said gravely, “He +knows thy thought,” and a voice in the head said, “Macbeth, beware +Macduff, the chieftain of Fife.” The head then descended Into the +cauldron till it disappeared. + +“One word more,” pleaded Macbeth. + +“He will not be commanded,” said the first witch, and then a crowned +child ascended from the cauldron bearing a tree in his hand The child +said-- + + “Macbeth shall be unconquerable till + The Wood of Birnam climbs Dunsinane Hill.” + +“That will never be,” said Macbeth; and he asked to be told if Banquo's +descendants would ever rule Scotland. + +The cauldron sank into the earth; music was heard, and a procession of +phantom kings filed past Macbeth; behind them was Banquo's ghost. In +each king, Macbeth saw a likeness to Banquo, and he counted eight kings. + +Then he was suddenly left alone. + +His next proceeding was to send murderers to Macduff's castle. They +did not find Macduff, and asked Lady Macduff where he was. She gave +a stinging answer, and her questioner called Macduff a traitor. “Thou +liest!” shouted Macduff's little son, who was immediately stabbed, and +with his last breath entreated his mother to fly. The murderers did not +leave the castle while one of its inmates remained alive. + +Macduff was in England listening, with Malcolm, to a doctor's tale of +cures wrought by Edward the Confessor when his friend Ross came to tell +him that his wife and children were no more. At first Ross dared not +speak the truth, and turn Macduff's bright sympathy with sufferers +relieved by royal virtue into sorrow and hatred. But when Malcolm said +that England was sending an army into Scotland against Macbeth, Ross +blurted out his news, and Macduff cried, “All dead, did you say? All my +pretty ones and their mother? Did you say all?” + +His sorry hope was in revenge, but if he could have looked into +Macbeth's castle on Dunsinane Hill, he would have seen at work a force +more solemn than revenge. Retribution was working, for Lady Macbeth was +mad. She walked in her sleep amid ghastly dreams. She was wont to wash +her hands for a quarter of an hour at a time; but after all her washing, +would still see a red spot of blood upon her skin. It was pitiful to +hear her cry that all the perfumes of Arabia could not sweeten her +little hand. + +“Canst thou not minister to a mind diseased?” inquired Macbeth of the +doctor, but the doctor replied that his patient must minister to her own +mind. This reply gave Macbeth a scorn of medicine. “Throw physic to the +dogs,” he said; “I'll none of it.” + +One day he heard a sound of women crying. An officer approached him and +said, “The Queen, your Majesty, is dead.” “Out, brief candle,” muttered +Macbeth, meaning that life was like a candle, at the mercy of a puff of +air. He did not weep; he was too familiar with death. + +Presently a messenger told him that he saw Birnam Wood on the march. +Macbeth called him a liar and a slave, and threatened to hang him if he +had made a mistake. “If you are right you can hang me,” he said. + +From the turret windows of Dunsinane Castle, Birnam Wood did indeed +appear to be marching. Every soldier of the English army held aloft a +bough which he had cut from a tree in that wood, and like human trees +they climbed Dunsinane Hill. + +Macbeth had still his courage. He went to battle to conquer or die, and +the first thing he did was to kill the English general's son in single +combat. Macbeth then felt that no man could fight him and live, and when +Macduff came to him blazing for revenge, Macbeth said to him, “Go back; +I have spilt too much of your blood already.” + +“My voice is in my sword,” replied Macduff, and hacked at him and bade +him yield. + +“I will not yield!” said Macbeth, but his last hour had struck. He fell. + +Macbeth's men were in retreat when Macduff came before Malcolm holding a +King's head by the hair. + +“Hail, King!” he said; and the new King looked at the old. + +So Malcolm reigned after Macbeth; but in years that came afterwards the +descendants of Banquo were kings. + + + + +THE COMEDY OF ERRORS + + + +AEGEON was a merchant of Syracuse, which is a seaport in Sicily. His +wife was AEmilia, and they were very happy until AEgeon's manager died, +and he was obliged to go by himself to a place called Epidamnum on the +Adriatic. As soon as she could AEmilia followed him, and after they had +been together some time two baby boys were born to them. The babies were +exactly alike; even when they were dressed differently they looked the +same. + +And now you must believe a very strange thing. At the same inn where +these children were born, and on the same day, two baby boys were born +to a much poorer couple than AEmilia and AEgeon; so poor, indeed, were +the parents of these twins that they sold them to the parents of the +other twins. + +AEmilia was eager to show her children to her friends in Syracuse, +and in treacherous weather she and AEgeon and the four babies sailed +homewards. + +They were still far from Syracuse when their ship sprang a leak, and the +crew left it in a body by the only boat, caring little what became of +their passengers. + +AEmilia fastened one of her children to a mast and tied one of the +slave-children to him; AEgeon followed her example with the remaining +children. Then the parents secured themselves to the same masts, and +hoped for safety. + +The ship, however, suddenly struck a rock and was split in two, and +AEmilia, and the two children whom she had tied, floated away from +AEgeon and the other children. AEmilia and her charges were picked up by +some people of Epidamnum, but some fishermen of Corinth took the +babies from her by force, and she returned to Epidanmum alone, and very +miserable. Afterwards she settled in Ephesus, a famous town in Asia +Minor. + +AEgeon and his charges were also saved; and, more fortunate than +AEmilia, he was able to return to Syracuse and keep them till they were +eighteen. His own child he called Antipholus, and the slavechild he +called Dromio; and, strangely enough, these were the names given to the +children who floated away from him. + +At the age of eighteen the son who was with AEgeon grew restless with a +desire to find his brother. AEgeon let him depart with his servant, and +the young men are henceforth known as Antipholus of Syracuse and Dromio +of Syracuse. + +Let alone, AEgeon found his home too dreary to dwell in, and traveled +for five years. He did not, during his absence, learn all the news of +Syracuse, or he would never have gone to Ephesus. + +As it was, his melancholy wandering ceased in that town, where he was +arrested almost as soon as he arrived. He then found that the Duke of +Syracuse had been acting in so tyrannical a manner to Ephesians unlucky +enough to fall into his hands, that the Government of Ephesus had +angrily passed a law which punished by death or a fine of a thousand +pounds any Syracusan who should come to Ephesus. AEgeon was brought +before Solinus, Duke of Ephesus, who told him that he must die or pay a +thousand pounds before the end of the day. + +You will think there was fate in this when I tell you that the children +who were kidnaped by the fishermen of Corinth were now citizens of +Ephesus, whither they had been brought by Duke Menaphon, an uncle of +Duke Solinus. They will henceforth be called Antipholus of Ephesus and +Dromio of Ephesus. + +Moreover, on the very day when AEgeon was arrested, Antipholus of +Syracuse landed in Ephesus and pretended that he came from Epidamnum in +order to avoid a penalty. He handed his money to his servant Dromio of +Syracuse, and bade him take it to the Centaur Inn and remain there till +he came. + +In less than ten minutes he was met on the Mart by Dromio of Ephesus, +his brother's slave, and immediately mistook him for his own Dromio. +“Why are you back so soon? Where did you leave the money?” asked +Antipholus of Syracuse. + +This Drornio knew of no money except sixpence, which he had received on +the previous Wednesday and given to the saddler; but he did know that +his mistress was annoyed because his master was not in to dinner, and he +asked Antipholus of Syracuse to go to a house called The Phoenix without +delay. His speech angered the hearer, who would have beaten him if he +had not fled. Antipholus of Syracuse them went to The Centaur, found +that his gold had been deposited there, and walked out of the inn. + +He was wandering about Ephesus when two beautiful ladies signaled to him +with their hands. They were sisters, and their names were Adriana and +Luciana. Adriana was the wife of his brother Antipholus of Ephesus, and +she had made up her mind, from the strange account given her by Dromio +of Ephesus, that her husband preferred another woman to his wife. “Ay, +you may look as if you did not know me,” she said to the man who was +really her brother-in-law, “but I can remember when no words were sweet +unless I said them, no meat flavorsome unless I carved it.” + +“Is it I you address?” said Antipholus of Syracuse stiffly. “I do not +know you.” + +“Fie, brother,” said Luciana. “You know perfectly well that she sent +Dromio to you to bid you come to dinner;” and Adriana said, “Come, come; +I have been made a fool of long enough. My truant husband shall dine +with me and confess his silly pranks and be forgiven.” + +They were determined ladies, and Antipholus of Syracuse grew weary of +disputing with them, and followed them obediently to The Phoenix, where +a very late “mid-day” dinner awaited them. + +They were at dinner when Antipholus of Ephesus and his slave Dromio +demanded admittance. “Maud, Bridget, Marian, Cecily, Gillian, Ginn!” + shouted Dromio of Ephesus, who knew all his fellow-servants' names by +heart. + +From within came the reply, “Fool, dray-horse, coxcomb, idiot!” It was +Dromio of Syracuse unconsciously insulting his brother. + +Master and man did their best to get in, short of using a crowbar, and +finally went away; but Antipholus of Ephesus felt so annoyed with his +wife that he decided to give a gold chain which he had promised her, to +another woman. + +Inside The Phoenix, Luciana, who believed Antipholus of Syracuse to be +her sister's husband, attempted, by a discourse in rhyme, when alone +with him, to make him kinder to Adriana. In reply he told her that he +was not married, but that he loved her so much that, if Luciana were a +mermaid, he would gladly lie on the sea if he might feel beneath him her +floating golden hair. + +Luciana was shocked and left him, and reported his lovemaking to +Adriana, who said that her husband was old and ugly, and not fit to be +seen or heard, though secretly she was very fond of him. + +Antipholus of Syracuse soon received a visitor in the shape of Angelo +the goldsmith, of whom Antipholus of Ephesus had ordered the chain which +he had promised his wife and intended to give to another woman. + +The goldsmith handed the chain to Antipholus of Syracuse, and treated +his “I bespoke it not” as mere fun, so that the puzzled merchant took +the chain as good-humoredly as he had partaken of Adriana's dinner. He +offered payment, but Angelo foolishly said he would call again. + +The consequence was that Angelo was without money when a creditor of the +sort that stands no nonsense, threatened him with arrest unless he paid +his debt immediately. This creditor had brought a police officer with +him, and Angelo was relieved to see Antipholus of Ephesus coming out of +the house where he had been dining because he had been locked out of The +Phoenix. Bitter was Angelo's dismay when Antipholus denied receipt of +the chain. Angelo could have sent his mother to prison if she had said +that, and he gave Antipholus of Ephesus in charge. + +At this moment up came Dromio of Syracuse and told the wrong Antipholus +that he had shipped his goods, and that a favorable wind was blowing. +To the ears of Antipholus of Ephesus this talk was simple nonsense. He +would gladly have beaten the slave, but contented himself with crossly +telling him to hurry to Adriana and bid her send to her arrested husband +a purse of money which she would find in his desk. + +Though Adriana was furious with her husband because she thought he had +been making love to her sister, she did not prevent Luciana from +getting the purse, and she bade Dromio of Syracuse bring home his master +immediately. + +Unfortunately, before Dromio could reach the police station he met his +real master, who had never been arrested, and did not understand what +he meant by offering him a purse. Antipholus of Syracuse was further +surprised when a lady whom he did not know asked him for a chain that he +had promised her. She was, of course, the lady with whom Antipholus of +Ephesus had dined when his brother was occupying his place at table. +“Avaunt, thou witch!” was the answer which, to her astonishment, she +received. + +Meanwhile Antipholus of Ephesus waited vainly for the money which was +to have released him. Never a good-tempered man, he was crazy with anger +when Dromio of Ephesus, who, of course, had not been instructed to fetch +a purse, appeared with nothing more useful than a rope. He beat the +slave in the street despite the remonstrance of the police officer; +and his temper did not mend when Adriana, Luciana, and a doctor arrived +under the impression that he was mad and must have his pulse felt. He +raged so much that men came forward to bind him. But the kindness of +Adriana spared him this shame. She promised to pay the sum demanded of +him, and asked the doctor to lead him to The Phoenix. + +Angelo's merchant creditor being paid, the two were friendly again, +and might soon have been seen chatting before an abbey about the odd +behavior of Antipholus of Ephesus. “Softly,” said the merchant at last, +“that's he, I think.” + +It was not; it was Antipholus of Syracuse with his servant Dromio, +and he wore Angelo's chain round his neck! The reconciled pair fairly +pounced upon him to know what he meant by denying the receipt of the +chain he had the impudence to wear. Antipholus of Syracuse lost his +temper, and drew his sword, and at that moment Adriana and several +others appeared. “Hold!” shouted the careful wife. “Hurt him not; he is +mad. Take his sword away. Bind him--and Dromio too.” + +Dromio of Syracuse did not wish to be bound, and he said to his master, +“Run, master! Into that abbey, quick, or we shall be robbed!” + +They accordingly retreated into the abbey. + +Adriana, Luciana, and a crowd remained outside, and the Abbess came out, +and said, “People, why do you gather here?” + +“To fetch my poor distracted husband,” replied Adriana. + +Angelo and the merchant remarked that they had not known that he was +mad. + +Adriana then told the Abbess rather too much about her wifely worries, +for the Abbess received the idea that Adriana was a shrew, and that +if her husband was distracted he had better not return to her for the +present. + +Adriana determined, therefore, to complain to Duke Solinus, and, lo and +behold! a minute afterwards the great man appeared with officers and two +others. The others were AEgeon and the headsman. The thousand marks had +not been found, and AEgeon's fate seemed sealed. + +Ere the Duke could pass the abbey Adriana knelt before him, and told a +woeful tale of a mad husband rushing about stealing jewelry and drawing +his sword, adding that the Abbess refused to allow her to lead him home. + +The Duke bade the Abbess be summoned, and no sooner had he given the +order than a servant from The Phoenix ran to Adriana with the tale that +his master had singed off the doctor's beard. + +“Nonsense!” said Adriana, “he's in the abbey.” + +“As sure as I live I speak the truth,” said the servant. + +Antipholus of Syracuse had not come out of the abbey, before his +brother of Ephesus prostrated himself in front of the Duke, exclaiming, +“Justice, most gracious Duke, against that woman.” He pointed to +Adriana. “She has treated another man like her husband in my own house.” + +Even while he was speaking AEgeon said, “Unless I am delirious, I see my +son Antipholus.” + +No one noticed him, and Antipholus of Ephesus went on to say how the +doctor, whom he called “a threadbare juggler,” had been one of a gang +who tied him to his slave Dromio, and thrust them into a vault whence he +had escaped by gnawing through his bonds. + +The Duke could not understand how the same man who spoke to him was +seen to go into the abbey, and he was still wondering when AEgeon asked +Antipholus of Ephesus if he was not his son. He replied, “I never saw +my father in my life;” but so deceived was AEgeon by his likeness to +the brother whom he had brought up, that he said, “Thou art ashamed to +acknowledge me in misery.” + +Soon, however, the Abbess advanced with Antipholus of Syracuse and +Dromio of Syracuse. + +Then cried Adriana, “I see two husbands or mine eyes deceive me;” and +Antipholus, espying his father, said, “Thou art AEgeon or his ghost.” + +It was a day of surprises, for the Abbess said, “I will free that man by +paying his fine, and gain my husband whom I lost. Speak, AEgeon, for I +am thy wife AEmilia.” + +The Duke was touched. “He is free without a fine,” he said. + +So AEgeon and AEmilia were reunited, and Adriana and her husband +reconciled; but no one was happier than Antipholus of Syracuse, who, in +the Duke's presence, went to Luciana and said, “I told you I loved you. +Will you be my wife?” + +Her answer was given by a look, and therefore is not written. + +The two Dromios were glad to think they would receive no more beatings. + + + + +THE MERCHANT OF VENICE + + + +Antonio was a rich and prosperous merchant of Venice. His ships were +on nearly every sea, and he traded with Portugal, with Mexico, with +England, and with India. Although proud of his riches, he was very +generous with them, and delighted to use them in relieving the wants of +his friends, among whom his relation, Bassanio, held the first place. + +Now Bassanio, like many another gay and gallant gentleman, was reckless +and extravagant, and finding that he had not only come to the end of his +fortune, but was also unable to pay his creditors, he went to Antonio +for further help. + +“To you, Antonio,” he said, “I owe the most in money and in love: and I +have thought of a plan to pay everything I owe if you will but help me.” + +“Say what I can do, and it shall be done,” answered his friend. + +Then said Bassanio, “In Belmont is a lady richly left, and from all +quarters of the globe renowned suitors come to woo her, not only because +she is rich, but because she is beautiful and good as well. She looked +on me with such favor when last we met, that I feel sure that I should +win her away from all rivals for her love had I but the means to go to +Belmont, where she lives.” + +“All my fortunes,” said Antonio, “are at sea, and so I have no ready +money; but luckily my credit is good in Venice, and I will borrow for +you what you need.” + +There was living in Venice at this time a rich money-lender, named +Shylock. Antonio despised and disliked this man very much, and treated +him with the greatest harshness and scorn. He would thrust him, like a +cur, over his threshold, and would even spit on him. Shylock submitted +to all these indignities with a patient shrug; but deep in his heart he +cherished a desire for revenge on the rich, smug merchant. For Antonio +both hurt his pride and injured his business. “But for him,” thought +Shylock, “I should be richer by half a million ducats. On the market +place, and wherever he can, he denounces the rate of interest I charge, +and--worse than that--he lends out money freely.” + +So when Bassanio came to him to ask for a loan of three thousand ducats +to Antonio for three months, Shylock hid his hatred, and turning to +Antonio, said--“Harshly as you have treated me, I would be friends with +you and have your love. So I will lend you the money and charge you no +interest. But, just for fun, you shall sign a bond in which it shall be +agreed that if you do not repay me in three months' time, then I shall +have the right to a pound of your flesh, to be cut from what part of +your body I choose.” + +“No,” cried Bassanio to his friend, “you shall run no such risk for me.” + +“Why, fear not,” said Antonio, “my ships will be home a month before the +time. I will sign the bond.” + +Thus Bassanio was furnished with the means to go to Belmont, there to +woo the lovely Portia. The very night he started, the money-lender's +pretty daughter, Jessica, ran away from her father's house with her +lover, and she took with her from her father's hoards some bags of +ducats and precious stones. Shylock's grief and anger were terrible to +see. His love for her changed to hate. “I would she were dead at my +feet and the jewels in her ear,” he cried. His only comfort now was in +hearing of the serious losses which had befallen Antonio, some of whose +ships were wrecked. “Let him look to his bond,” said Shylock, “let him +look to his bond.” + +Meanwhile Bassanio had reached Belmont, and had visited the fair Portia. +He found, as he had told Antonio, that the rumor of her wealth and +beauty had drawn to her suitors from far and near. But to all of them +Portia had but one reply. She would only accept that suitor who would +pledge himself to abide by the terms of her father's will. These were +conditions that frightened away many an ardent wooer. For he who would +win Portia's heart and hand, had to guess which of three caskets held +her portrait. If he guessed aright, then Portia would be his bride; if +wrong, then he was bound by oath never to reveal which casket he chose, +never to marry, and to go away at once. + +The caskets were of gold, silver, and lead. The gold one bore this +inscription:--“Who chooseth me shall gain what many men desire;” + the silver one had this:--“Who chooseth me shall get as much as he +deserves;” while on the lead one were these words:--“Who chooseth me +must give and hazard all he hath.” The Prince of Morocco, as brave as he +was black, was among the first to submit to this test. He chose the +gold casket, for he said neither base lead nor silver could contain her +picture. So be chose the gold casket, and found inside the likeness of +what many men desire--death. + +After him came the haughty Prince of Arragon, and saying, “Let me have +what I deserve--surely I deserve the lady,” he chose the silver one, and +found inside a fool's head. “Did I deserve no more than a fool's head?” + he cried. + +Then at last came Bassanio, and Portia would have delayed him from +making his choice from very fear of his choosing wrong. For she loved +him dearly, even as he loved her. “But,” said Bassanio, “let me choose at +once, for, as I am, I live upon the rack.” + +Then Portia bade her servants to bring music and play while her gallant +lover made his choice. And Bassanio took the oath and walked up to the +caskets--the musicians playing softly the while. “Mere outward show,” he +said, “is to be despised. The world is still deceived with ornament, and +so no gaudy gold or shining silver for me. I choose the lead casket; +joy be the consequence!” And opening it, he found fair Portia's portrait +inside, and he turned to her and asked if it were true that she was his. + +“Yes,” said Portia, “I am yours, and this house is yours, and with them +I give you this ring, from which you must never part.” + +And Bassanio, saying that he could hardly speak for joy, found words to +swear that he would never part with the ring while he lived. + +Then suddenly all his happiness was dashed with sorrow, for messengers +came from Venice to tell him that Antonio was ruined, and that Shylock +demanded from the Duke the fulfilment of the bond, under which he was +entitled to a pound of the merchant's flesh. Portia was as grieved as +Bassanio to hear of the danger which threatened his friend. + +“First,” she said, “take me to church and make me your wife, and then +go to Venice at once to help your friend. You shall take with you money +enough to pay his debt twenty times over.” + +But when her newly-made husband had gone, Portia went after him, and +arrived in Venice disguised as a lawyer, and with an introduction from +a celebrated lawyer Bellario, whom the Duke of Venice had called in +to decide the legal questions raised by Shylock's claim to a pound of +Antonio's flesh. When the Court met, Bassanio offered Shylock twice the +money borrowed, if he would withdraw his claim. But the money-lender's +only answer was-- + + “If every ducat in six thousand ducats, + Were in six parts, and every part a ducat, + I would not draw them,--I would have my bond.” + +It was then that Portia arrived in her disguise, and not even her own +husband knew her. The Duke gave her welcome on account of the great +Bellario's introduction, and left the settlement of the case to her. +Then in noble words she bade Shylock have mercy. But he was deaf to her +entreaties. “I will have the pound of flesh,” was his reply. + +“What have you to say?” asked Portia of the merchant. + +“But little,” he answered; “I am armed and well prepared.” + +“The Court awards you a pound of Antonio's flesh,” said Portia to the +money-lender. + +“Most righteous judge!” cried Shylock. “A sentence: come, prepare.” + +“Tarry a little. This bond gives you no right to Antonio's blood, only +to his flesh. If, then, you spill a drop of his blood, all your property +will be forfeited to the State. Such is the Law.” + +And Shylock, in his fear, said, “Then I will take Bassanio's offer.” + +“No,” said Portia sternly, “you shall have nothing but your bond. Take +your pound of flesh, but remember, that if you take more or less, even +by the weight of a hair, you will lose your property and your life.” + +Shylock now grew very much frightened. “Give me my three thousand ducats +that I lent him, and let him go.” + +Bassanio would have paid it to him, but said Portia, “No! He shall have +nothing but his bond.” + +“You, a foreigner,” she added, “have sought to take the life of a +Venetian citizen, and thus by the Venetian law, your life and goods are +forfeited. Down, therefore, and beg mercy of the Duke.” + +Thus were the tables turned, and no mercy would have been shown to +Shylock had it not been for Antonio. As it was, the money-lender +forfeited half his fortune to the State, and he had to settle the other +half on his daughter's husband, and with this he had to be content. + +Bassanio, in his gratitude to the clever lawyer, was induced to part +with the ring his wife had given him, and with which he had promised +never to part, and when on his return to Belmont he confessed as much to +Portia, she seemed very angry, and vowed she would not be friends with +him until she had her ring again. But at last she told him that it was +she who, in the disguise of the lawyer, had saved his friend's life, and +got the ring from him. So Bassanio was forgiven, and made happier +than ever, to know how rich a prize he had drawn in the lottery of the +caskets. + + + + +TIMON OF ATHENS + + + +Four hundred years before the birth of Christ, a man lived in Athens +whose generosity was not only great, but absurd. He was very rich, but +no worldly wealth was enough for a man who spent and gave like Timon. If +anybody gave Timon a horse, he received from Timon twenty better horses. +If anybody borrowed money of Timon and offered to repay it, Timon was +offended. If a poet had written a poem and Timon had time to read it, he +would be sure to buy it; and a painter had only to hold up his canvas in +front of Timon to receive double its market price. + +Flavius, his steward, looked with dismay at his reckless mode of life. +When Timon's house was full of noisy lords drinking and spilling costly +wine, Flavius would sit in a cellar and cry. He would say to himself, +“There are ten thousand candles burning in this house, and each of those +singers braying in the concert-room costs a poor man's yearly income a +night;” and he would remember a terrible thing said by Apemantus, one of +his master's friends, “O what a number of men eat Timon, and Timon sees +them not!” + +Of course, Timon was much praised. + +A jeweler who sold him a diamond pretended that it was not quite perfect +till Timon wore it. “You mend the jewel by wearing it,” he said. Timon +gave the diamond to a lord called Sempronius, and the lord exclaimed, +“O, he's the very soul of bounty.” “Timon is infinitely dear to me,” + said another lord, called Lucullus, to whom he gave a beautiful horse; +and other Athenians paid him compliments as sweet. + +But when Apemantus had listened to some of them, he said, “I'm going to +knock out an honest Athenian's brains.” + +“You will die for that,” said Timon. + +“Then I shall die for doing nothing,” said Apemantus. And now you know +what a joke was like four hundred years before Christ. + +This Apernantus was a frank despiser of mankind, but a healthy one, +because he was not unhappy. In this mixed world anyone with a number +of acquaintances knows a person who talks bitterly of men, but does not +shun them, and boasts that he is never deceived by their fine speeches, +and is inwardly cheerful and proud. Apemantus was a man like that. + +Timon, you will be surprised to hear, became much worse than Apemantus, +after the dawning of a day which we call Quarter Day. + +Quarter Day is the day when bills pour in. The grocer, the butcher, and +the baker are all thinking of their debtors on that day, and the wise +man has saved enough money to be ready for them. But Timon had not; and +he did not only owe money for food. He owed it for jewels and horses and +furniture; and, worst of all, he owed it to money-lenders, who expected +him to pay twice as much as he had borrowed. + +Quarter Day is a day when promises to pay are scorned, and on that day +Timon was asked for a large sum of money. “Sell some land,” he said +to his steward. “You have no land,” was the reply. “Nonsense! I had a +hundred, thousand acres,” said Timon. “You could have spent the price of +the world if you had possessed it,” said Flavius. + +“Borrow some then,” said Timon; “try Ventidius.” He thought of Ventidius +because he had once got Ventidius out of prison by paying a creditor of +this young man. Ventidius was now rich. Timon trusted in his gratitude. +But not for all; so much did he owe! Servants were despatched with +requests for loans of money to several friends: + +One servant (Flaminius) went to Lucullus. When he was announced Lucullus +said, “A gift, I warrant. I dreamt of a silver jug and basin last +night.” Then, changing his tone, “How is that honorable, free-hearted, +perfect gentleman, your master, eh?” + +“Well in health, sir,” replied Flaminius. + +“And what have you got there under your cloak?” asked Lucullus, +jovially. + +“Faith, sir, nothing but an empty box, which, on my master's behalf, I +beg you to fill with money, sir.” + +“La! la! la!” said Lucullus, who could not pretend to mean, “Ha! ha! +ha!” “Your master's one fault is that he is too fond of giving parties. +I've warned him that it was expensive. Now, look here, Flaminius, you +know this is no time to lend money without security, so suppose you +act like a good boy and tell him that I was not at home. Here's three +solidares for yourself.” + +“Back, wretched money,” cried Flaminius, “to him who worships you!” + +Others of Timon's friends were tried and found stingy. Amongst them was +Sempronius. + +“Hum,” he said to Timon's servant, “has he asked Ventidius? Ventidius is +beholden to him.” + +“He refused.” + +“Well, have you asked Lucullus?” + +“He refused.” + +“A poor compliment to apply to me last of all,” said Sempronius, in +affected anger. “If he had sent to me at first, I would gladly have lent +him money, but I'm not going to be such a fool as to lend him any now.” + +“Your lordship makes a good villain,” said the servant. + +When Timon found that his friends were so mean, he took advantage of +a lull in his storm of creditors to invite Ventidius and Company to a +banquet. Flavius was horrified, but Ventidius and Company, were not in +the least ashamed, and they assembled accordingly in Timon's house, and +said to one another that their princely host had been jesting with them. + +“I had to put off an important engagement in order to come here,” said +Lucullus; “but who could refuse Timon?” + +“It was a real grief to me to be without ready money when he asked for +some,” said Sempronius. + +“The same here,” chimed in a third lord. + +Timon now appeared, and his guests vied with one another in apologies +and compliments. Inwardly sneering, Timon was gracious to them all. + +In the banqueting ball was a table resplendent with covered dishes. +Mouths watered. These summer-friends loved good food. + +“Be seated, worthy friends,” said Timon. He then prayed aloud to the +gods of Greece. “Give each man enough,” he said, “for if you, who are +our gods, were to borrow of men they would cease to adore you. Let men +love the joint more than the host. Let every score of guests contain +twenty villains. Bless my friends as much as they have blessed me. +Uncover the dishes, dogs, and lap!” + +The hungry lords were too much surprised by this speech to resent it. +They thought Timon was unwell, and, although he had called them dogs, +they uncovered the dishes. + +There was nothing in them but warm water. + +“May you never see a better feast,” wished Timon “I wash off the +flatteries with which you plastered me and sprinkle you with your +villainy.” With these words he threw the water into his guests' faces, +and then he pelted them with the dishes. Having thus ended the banquet, +he went into an outhouse, seized a spade, and quitted Athens for ever. + +His next dwelling was a cave near the sea. + +Of all his friends, the only one who had not refused him aid was a +handsome soldier named Alcibiades, and he had not been asked because, +having quarreled with the Government of Athens, he had left that town. +The thought that Alcibiades might have proved a true friend did not +soften Timon's bitter feeling. He was too weak-minded to discern +the fact that good cannot be far from evil in this mixed world. He +determined to see nothing better in all mankind than the ingratitude of +Ventidius and the meanness of Lucullus. + +He became a vegetarian, and talked pages to himself as he dug in the +earth for food. + +One day, when he was digging for roots near the shore, his spade struck +gold. If he had been a wise man he would have enriched himself quickly, +and returned to Athens to live in comfort. But the sight of the gold +vein gave no joy but only scorn to Timon. “This yellow slave,” he said, +“will make and break religions. It will make black white and foul fair. +It will buy murder and bless the accursed.” + +He was still ranting when Alcibiades, now an enemy of Athens, approached +with his soldiers and two beautiful women who cared for nothing but +pleasure. + +Timon was so changed by his bad thoughts and rough life that Alcibiades +did not recognize him at first. + +“Who are you?” he asked. + +“A beast, as you are,” was the reply. + +Alcibiades knew his voice, and offered him help and money. But Timon +would none of it, and began to insult the women. They, however, when +they found he had discovered a gold mine, cared not a jot for his +opinion of them, but said, “Give us some gold, good Timon. Have you +more?” + +With further insults, Timon filled their aprons with gold ore. + +“Farewell,” said Alcibiades, who deemed that Timon's wits were lost; and +then his disciplined soldiers left without profit the mine which could +have paid their wages, and marched towards Athens. + +Timon continued to dig and curse, and affected great delight when he dug +up a root and discovered that it was not a grape. + +Just then Apemantus appeared. “I am told that you imitate me,” said +Apemantus. “Only,” said Timon, “because you haven't a dog which I can +imitate.” + +“You are revenging yourself on your friends by punishing yourself,” said +Apemantus. “That is very silly, for they live just as comfortably as +they ever did. I am sorry that a fool should imitate me.” + +“If I were like you,” said Timon, “I should throw myself away.” + +“You have done so,” sneered Apemantus. “Will the cold brook make you a +good morning drink, or an east wind warm your clothes as a valet would?” + +“Off with you!” said Timon; but Apemantus stayed a while longer and told +him he had a passion for extremes, which was true. Apemantus even made a +pun, but there was no good laughter to be got out of Timon. + +Finally, they lost their temper like two schoolboys, and Timon said he +was sorry to lose the stone which he flung at Apemantus, who left him +with an evil wish. + +This was almost an “at home” day for Timon, for when Apemantus had +departed, he was visited by some robbers. They wanted gold. + +“You want too much,” said Timon. “Here are water, roots and berries.” + +“We are not birds and pigs,” said a robber. + +“No, you are cannibals,” said Timon. “Take the gold, then, and may it +poison you! Henceforth rob one another.” + +He spoke so frightfully to them that, though they went away with full +pockets, they almost repented of their trade. His last visitor on that +day of visits was his good steward Flavius. “My dearest master!” cried +he. + +“Away! What are you?” said Timon. + +“Have you forgotten me, sir?” asked Flavius, mournfully. + +“I have forgotten all men,” was the reply; “and if you'll allow that you +are a man, I have forgotten you.” + +“I was your honest servant,” said Flavius. + +“Nonsense! I never had an honest man about me,” retorted Timon. + +Flavius began to cry. + +“What! shedding tears?” said Timon. “Come nearer, then. I will love you +because you are a woman, and unlike men, who only weep when they laugh +or beg.” + +They talked awhile; then Timon said, “Yon gold is mine. I will make you +rich, Flavius, if you promise me to live by yourself and hate mankind. +I will make you very rich if you promise me that you will see the flesh +slide off the beggar's bones before you feed him, and let the debtor die +in jail before you pay his debt.” + +Flavius simply said, “Let me stay to comfort you, my master.” + +“If you dislike cursing, leave me,” replied Timon, and he turned his +back on Flavius, who went sadly back to Athens, too much accustomed to +obedience to force his services upon his ailing master. + +The steward had accepted nothing, but a report got about that a mighty +nugget of gold had been given him by his former master, and Timon +therefore received more visitors. They were a painter and a poet, whom +he had patronized in his prosperity. + +“Hail, worthy Timon!” said the poet. “We heard with astonishment how +your friends deserted you. No whip's large enough for their backs!” + +“We have come,” put in the painter, “to offer our services.” + +“You've heard that I have gold,” said Timon. + +“There was a report,” said the painter, blushing; “but my friend and I +did not come for that.” + +“Good honest men!” jeered Timon. “All the same, you shall have plenty of +gold if you will rid me of two villains.” + +“Name them,” said his two visitors in one breath. “Both of you!” + answered Timon. Giving the painter a whack with a big stick, he said, +“Put that into your palette and make money out of it.” Then he gave a +whack to the poet, and said, “Make a poem out of that and get paid for +it. There's gold for you.” + +They hurriedly withdrew. + +Finally Timon was visited by two senators who, now that Athens was +threatened by Alcibiades, desired to have on their side this bitter +noble whose gold might help the foe. + +“Forget your injuries,” said the first senator. “Athens offers you +dignities whereby you may honorably live.” + +“Athens confesses that your merit was overlooked, and wishes to atone, +and more than atone, for her forgetfulness,” said the second senator. + +“Worthy senators,” replied Timon, in his grim way, “I am almost weeping; +you touch me so! All I need are the eyes of a woman and the heart of a +fool.” + +But the senators were patriots. They believed that this bitter man could +save Athens, and they would not quarrel with him. “Be our captain,” + they said, “and lead Athens against Alcibiades, who threatens to destroy +her.” + +“Let him destroy the Athenians too, for all I care,” said Timon; and +seeing an evil despair in his face, they left him. + +The senators returned to Athens, and soon afterwards trumpets were blown +before its walls. Upon the walls they stood and listened to Alcibiades, +who told them that wrong-doers should quake in their easy chairs. They +looked at his confident army, and were convinced that Athens must yield +if he assaulted it, therefore they used the voice that strikes deeper +than arrows. + +“These walls of ours were built by the hands of men who never wronged +you, Alcibiades,” said the first senator. + +“Enter,” said the second senator, “and slay every tenth man, if your +revenge needs human flesh.” + +“Spare the cradle,” said the first senator. + +“I ask only justice,” said Alcibiades. “If you admit my army, I will +inflict the penalty of your own laws upon any soldier who breaks them.” + +At that moment a soldier approached Alcibiades, and said, “My noble +general, Timon is dead.” He handed Alcibiades a sheet of wax, saying, +“He is buried by the sea, on the beach, and over his grave is a stone +with letters on it which I cannot read, and therefore I have impressed +them on wax.” + +Alcibiades read from the sheet of wax this couplet-- + + “Here lie I, Timon, who, alive, + all living men did hate. + Pass by and say your worst; but pass, + and stay not here your gait.” + +“Dead, then, is noble Timon,” said Alcibiades; and be entered Athens +with an olive branch instead of a sword. + +So it was one of Timon's friends who was generous in a greater matter +than Timon's need; yet are the sorrow and rage of Timon remembered as a +warning lest another ingratitude should arise to turn love into hate. + + + + +OTHELLO + + + +Four hundred years ago there lived in Venice an ensign named Iago, who +hated his general, Othello, for not making him a lieutenant. Instead of +Iago, who was strongly recommended, Othello had chosen Michael Cassio, +whose smooth tongue had helped him to win the heart of Desdemona. Iago +had a friend called Roderigo, who supplied him with money and felt he +could not be happy unless Desdemona was his wife. + +Othello was a Moor, but of so dark a complexion that his enemies called +him a Blackamoor. His life had been hard and exciting. He had been +vanquished in battle and sold into slavery; and he had been a great +traveler and seen men whose shoulders were higher than their heads. +Brave as a lion, he had one great fault--jealousy. His love was a +terrible selfishness. To love a woman meant with him to possess her as +absolutely as he possessed something that did not live and think. The +story of Othello is a story of jealousy. + +One night Iago told Roderigo that Othello had carried off Desdemona +without the knowledge of her father, Brabantio. He persuaded Roderigo +to arouse Brabantio, and when that senator appeared Iago told him +of Desdemona's elopement in the most unpleasant way. Though he was +Othello's officer, he termed him a thief and a Barbary horse. + +Brabantio accused Othello before the Duke of Venice of using sorcery to +fascinate his daughter, but Othello said that the only sorcery he used +was his voice, which told Desdemona his adventures and hair-breadth +escapes. Desdemona was led into the council-chamber, and she explained +how she could love Othello despite his almost black face by saying, “I +saw Othello's visage in his mind.” + +As Othello had married Desdemona, and she was glad to be his wife, there +was no more to be said against him, especially as the Duke wished him to +go to Cyprus to defend it against the Turks. Othello was quite ready to +go, and Desdemona, who pleaded to go with him, was permitted to join him +at Cyprus. + +Othello's feelings on landing in this island were intensely joyful. “Oh, +my sweet,” he said to Desdemona, who arrived with Iago, his wife, and +Roderigo before him, “I hardly know what I say to you. I am in love with +my own happiness.” + +News coming presently that the Turkish fleet was out of action, he +proclaimed a festival in Cyprus from five to eleven at night. + +Cassio was on duty in the Castle where Othello ruled Cyprus, so Iago +decided to make the lieutenant drink too much. He had some difficulty, +as Cassio knew that wine soon went to his head, but servants brought +wine into the room where Cassio was, and Iago sang a drinking song, and +so Cassio lifted a glass too often to the health of the general. + +When Cassio was inclined to be quarrelsome, Iago told Roderigo to say +something unpleasant to him. Cassio cudgeled Roderigo, who ran into the +presence of Montano, the ex-governor. Montano civilly interceded for +Roderigo, but received so rude an answer from Cassio that he said, +“Come, come, you're drunk!” Cassio then wounded him, and Iago sent +Roderigo out to scare the town with a cry of mutiny. + +The uproar aroused Othello, who, on learning its cause, said, “Cassio, I +love thee, but never more be officer of mine.” + +On Cassio and Iago being alone together, the disgraced man moaned about +his reputation. Iago said reputation and humbug were the same thing. +“O God,” exclaimed Cassio, without heeding him, “that men should put an +enemy in their mouths to steal away their brains!” + +Iago advised him to beg Desdemona to ask Othello to pardon him. Cassio +was pleased with the advice, and next morning made his request to +Desdemona in the garden of the castle. She was kindness itself, and +said, “Be merry, Cassio, for I would rather die than forsake your +cause.” + +Cassio at that moment saw Othello advancing with Iago, and retired +hurriedly. + +Iago said, “I don't like that.” + +“What did you say?” asked Othello, who felt that he had meant something +unpleasant, but Iago pretended he had said nothing. “Was not that Cassio +who went from my wife?” asked Othello, and Iago, who knew that it was +Cassio and why it was Cassio, said, “I cannot think it was Cassio who +stole away in that guilty manner.” + +Desdemona told Othello that it was grief and humility which made Cassio +retreat at his approach. She reminded him how Cassio had taken his part +when she was still heart-free, and found fault with her Moorish lover. +Othello was melted, and said, “I will deny thee nothing,” but Desdemona +told him that what she asked was as much for his good as dining. + +Desdemona left the garden, and Iago asked if it was really true that +Cassio had known Desdemona before her marriage. + +“Yes,” said Othello. + +“Indeed,” said Iago, as though something that had mystified him was now +very clear. + +“Is he not honest?” demanded Othello, and Iago repeated the adjective +inquiringly, as though he were afraid to say “No.” + +“What do you mean?” insisted Othello. + +To this Iago would only say the flat opposite of what he said to Cassio. +He had told Cassio that reputation was humbug. To Othello he said, “Who +steals my purse steals trash, but he who filches from me my good name +ruins me.” + +At this Othello almost leapt into the air, and Iago was so confident +of his jealousy that he ventured to warn him against it. Yes, it was no +other than Iago who called jealousy “the green-eyed monster which doth +mock the meat it feeds on.” + +Iago having given jealousy one blow, proceeded to feed it with the +remark that Desdemona deceived her father when she eloped with Othello. +“If she deceived him, why not you?” was his meaning. + +Presently Desdemona re-entered to tell Othello that dinner was ready. +She saw that he was ill at ease. He explained it by a pain in his +forehead. Desdemona then produced a handkerchief, which Othello +had given her. A prophetess, two hundred years old, had made this +handkerchief from the silk of sacred silkworms, dyed it in a +liquid prepared from the hearts of maidens, and embroidered it with +strawberries. Gentle Desdemona thought of it simply as a cool, soft +thing for a throbbing brow; she knew of no spell upon it that would work +destruction for her who lost it. “Let me tie it round your head,” she +said to Othello; “you will be well in an hour.” But Othello pettishly +said it was too small, and let it fall. Desdemona and he then went +indoors to dinner, and Emilia picked up the handkerchief which Iago had +often asked her to steal. + +She was looking at it when Iago came in. After a few words about it he +snatched it from her, and bade her leave him. + +In the garden he was joined by Othello, who seemed hungry for the worst +lies he could offer. He therefore told Othello that he had seen Cassio +wipe his mouth with a handkerchief, which, because it was spotted with +strawberries, he guessed to be one that Othello had given his wife. + +The unhappy Moor went mad with fury, and Iago bade the heavens witness +that he devoted his hand and heart and brain to Othello's service. “I +accept your love,” said Othello. “Within three days let me hear that +Cassio is dead.” + +Iago's next step was to leave Desdemona's handkerchief in Cassio's room. +Cassio saw it, and knew it was not his, but he liked the strawberry +pattern on it, and he gave it to his sweetheart Bianca and asked her to +copy it for him. + +Iago's next move was to induce Othello, who had been bullying Desdemona +about the handkerchief, to play the eavesdropper to a conversation +between Cassio and himself. His intention was to talk about Cassio's +sweetheart, and allow Othello to suppose that the lady spoken of was +Desdemona. + +“How are you, lieutenant?” asked Iago when Cassio appeared. + +“The worse for being called what I am not,” replied Cassio, gloomily. + +“Keep on reminding Desdemona, and you'll soon be restored,” said Iago, +adding, in a tone too low for Othello to hear, “If Bianca could set the +matter right, how quickly it would mend!” + +“Alas! poor rogue,” said Cassio, “I really think she loves me,” and like +the talkative coxcomb he was, Cassio was led on to boast of Bianca's +fondness for him, while Othello imagined, with choked rage, that he +prattled of Desdemona, and thought, “I see your nose, Cassio, but not +the dog I shall throw it to.” + +Othello was still spying when Bianca entered, boiling over with the idea +that Cassio, whom she considered her property, had asked her to copy the +embroidery on the handkerchief of a new sweetheart. She tossed him the +handkerchief with scornful words, and Cassio departed with her. + +Othello had seen Bianca, who was in station lower, in beauty and speech +inferior far, to Desdemona and he began in spite of himself to praise +his wife to the villain before him. He praised her skill with the +needle, her voice that could “sing the savageness out of a bear,” her +wit, her sweetness, the fairness of her skin. Every time he praised +her Iago said something that made him remember his anger and utter it +foully, and yet he must needs praise her, and say, “The pity of it, +Iago! O Iago, the pity of it, Iago!” + +There was never in all Iago's villainy one moment of wavering. If there +had been he might have wavered then. + +“Strangle her,” he said; and “Good, good!” said his miserable dupe. + +The pair were still talking murder when Desdemona appeared with a +relative of Desdemona's father, called Lodovico, who bore a letter +for Othello from the Duke of Venice. The letter recalled Othello from +Cyprus, and gave the governorship to Cassio. + +Luckless Desdemona seized this unhappy moment to urge once more the suit +of Cassio. + +“Fire and brimstone!” shouted Othello. + +“It may be the letter agitates him,” explained Lodovico to Desdemona, +and he told her what it contained. + +“I am glad,” said Desdemona. It was the first bitter speech that +Othello's unkindness had wrung out of her. + +“I am glad to see you lose your temper,” said Othello. + +“Why, sweet Othello?” she asked, sarcastically; and Othello slapped her +face. + +Now was the time for Desdemona to have saved her life by separation, but +she knew not her peril--only that her love was wounded to the core. “I +have not deserved this,” she said, and the tears rolled slowly down her +face. + +Lodovico was shocked and disgusted. “My lord,” he said, “this would not +be believed in Venice. Make her amends;” but, like a madman talking in +his nightmare, Othello poured out his foul thought in ugly speech, and +roared, “Out of my sight!” + +“I will not stay to offend you,” said his wife, but she lingered even in +going, and only when he shouted “Avaunt!” did she leave her husband and +his guests. + +Othello then invited Lodovico to supper, adding, “You are welcome, sir, +to Cyprus. Goats and monkeys!” Without waiting for a reply he left the +company. + +Distinguished visitors detest being obliged to look on at family +quarrels, and dislike being called either goats or monkeys, and Lodovico +asked Iago for an explanation. + +True to himself, Iago, in a round-about way, said that Othello was worse +than he seemed, and advised them to study his behavior and save him from +the discomfort of answering any more questions. + +He proceeded to tell Roderigo to murder Cassio. Roderigo was out of tune +with his friend. He had given Iago quantities of jewels for Desdemona +without effect; Desdemona had seen none of them, for Iago was a thief. + +Iago smoothed him with a lie, and when Cassio was leaving Bianca's +house, Roderigo wounded him, and was wounded in return. Cassio shouted, +and Lodovico and a friend came running up. Cassio pointed out Roderigo +as his assailant, and Iago, hoping to rid himself of an inconvenient +friend, called him “Villain!” and stabbed him, but not to death. + +At the Castle, Desdemona was in a sad mood. She told Emilia that she +must leave her; her husband wished it. “Dismiss me!” exclaimed Emilia. +“It was his bidding, said Desdemona; we must not displease him now.” + +She sang a song which a girl had sung whose lover had been base to +her--a song of a maiden crying by that tree whose boughs droop as though +it weeps, and she went to bed and slept. + +She woke with her husband's wild eyes upon her. “Have you prayed +to-night?” he asked; and he told this blameless and sweet woman to ask +God's pardon for any sin she might have on her conscience. “I would not +kill thy soul,” he said. + +He told her that Cassio had confessed, but she knew Cassio had nought to +confess that concerned her. She said that Cassio could not say anything +that would damage her. Othello said his mouth was stopped. + +Then Desdemona wept, but with violent words, in spite of all her +pleading, Othello pressed upon her throat and mortally hurt her. + +Then with boding heart came Emilia, and besought entrance at the door, +and Othello unlocked it, and a voice came from the bed saying, “A +guiltless death I die.” + +“Who did it?” cried Emilia; and the voice said, “Nobody--I myself. +Farewell!” + +“'Twas I that killed her,” said Othello. + +He poured out his evidence by that sad bed to the people who came +running in, Iago among them; but when he spoke of the handkerchief, +Emilia told the truth. + +And Othello knew. “Are there no stones in heaven but thunderbolts?” he +exclaimed, and ran at Iago, who gave Emilia her death-blow and fled. + +But they brought him back, and the death that came to him later on was a +relief from torture. + +They would have taken Othello back to Venice to try him there, but he +escaped them on his sword. “A word or two before you go,” he said to the +Venetians in the chamber. “Speak of me as I was--no better, no worse. +Say I cast away the pearl of pearls, and wept with these hard eyes; and +say that, when in Aleppo years ago I saw a Turk beating a Venetian, I +took him by the throat and smote him thus.” + +With his own hand he stabbed himself to the heart; and ere he died his +lips touched the face of Desdemona with despairing love. + + + + +THE TAMING OF THE SHREW + + + +There lived in Padua a gentleman named Baptista, who had two fair +daughters. The eldest, Katharine, was so very cross and ill-tempered, +and unmannerly, that no one ever dreamed of marrying her, while her +sister, Bianca, was so sweet and pretty, and pleasant-spoken, that more +than one suitor asked her father for her hand. But Baptista said the +elder daughter must marry first. + +So Bianca's suitors decided among themselves to try and get some one to +marry Katharine--and then the father could at least be got to listen to +their suit for Bianca. + +A gentleman from Verona, named Petruchio, was the one they thought +of, and, half in jest, they asked him if he would marry Katharine, the +disagreeable scold. Much to their surprise he said yes, that was just +the sort of wife for him, and if Katharine were handsome and rich, he +himself would undertake soon to make her good-tempered. + +Petruchio began by asking Baptista's permission to pay court to his +gentle daughter Katharine--and Baptista was obliged to own that she +was anything but gentle. And just then her music master rushed in, +complaining that the naughty girl had broken her lute over his head, +because he told her she was not playing correctly. + +“Never mind,” said Petruchio, “I love her better than ever, and long to +have some chat with her.” + +When Katharine came, he said, “Good-morrow, Kate--for that, I hear, is +your name.” + +“You've only heard half,” said Katharine, rudely. + +“Oh, no,” said Petruchio, “they call you plain Kate, and bonny Kate, and +sometimes Kate the shrew, and so, hearing your mildness praised in every +town, and your beauty too, I ask you for my wife.” + +“Your wife!” cried Kate. “Never!” She said some extremely disagreeable +things to him, and, I am sorry to say, ended by boxing his ears. + +“If you do that again, I'll cuff you,” he said quietly; and still +protested, with many compliments, that he would marry none but her. + +When Baptista came back, he asked at once-- + +“How speed you with my daughter?” + +“How should I speed but well,” replied Petruchio--“how, but well?” + +“How now, daughter Katharine?” the father went on. + +“I don't think,” said Katharine, angrily, “you are acting a father's +part in wishing me to marry this mad-cap ruffian.” + +“Ah!” said Petruchio, “you and all the world would talk amiss of her. +You should see how kind she is to me when we are alone. In short, I will +go off to Venice to buy fine things for our wedding--for--kiss me, Kate! +we will be married on Sunday.” + +With that, Katharine flounced out of the room by one door in a violent +temper, and he, laughing, went out by the other. But whether she fell in +love with Petruchio, or whether she was only glad to meet a man who was +not afraid of her, or whether she was flattered that, in spite of her +rough words and spiteful usage, he still desired her for his wife--she +did indeed marry him on Sunday, as he had sworn she should. + +To vex and humble Katharine's naughty, proud spirit, he was late at the +wedding, and when he came, came wearing such shabby clothes that she was +ashamed to be seen with him. His servant was dressed in the same shabby +way, and the horses they rode were the sport of everyone they passed. + +And, after the marriage, when should have been the wedding breakfast, +Petruchio carried his wife away, not allowing her to eat or +drink--saying that she was his now, and he could do as he liked with +her. + +And his manner was so violent, and he behaved all through his wedding in +so mad and dreadful a manner, that Katharine trembled and went with him. +He mounted her on a stumbling, lean, old horse, and they journeyed by +rough muddy ways to Petruchio's house, he scolding and snarling all the +way. + +She was terribly tired when she reached her new home, but Petruchio was +determined that she should neither eat nor sleep that night, for he had +made up his mind to teach his bad-tempered wife a lesson she would never +forget. + +So he welcomed her kindly to his house, but when supper was served +he found fault with everything--the meat was burnt, he said, and +ill-served, and he loved her far too much to let her eat anything but +the best. At last Katharine, tired out with her journey, went supperless +to bed. Then her husband, still telling her how he loved her, and how +anxious he was that she should sleep well, pulled her bed to pieces, +throwing the pillows and bedclothes on the floor, so that she could not +go to bed at all, and still kept growling and scolding at the servants +so that Kate might see how unbeautiful a thing ill-temper was. + +The next day, too, Katharine's food was all found fault with, and caught +away before she could touch a mouthful, and she was sick and giddy for +want of sleep. Then she said to one of the servants-- + +“I pray thee go and get me some repast. I care not what.” + +“What say you to a neat's foot?” said the servant. + +Katharine said “Yes,” eagerly; but the servant, who was in his master's +secret, said he feared it was not good for hasty-tempered people. Would +she like tripe? + +“Bring it me,” said Katharine. + +“I don't think that is good for hasty-tempered people,” said the +servant. “What do you say to a dish of beef and mustard?” + +“I love it,” said Kate. + +“But mustard is too hot.” + +“Why, then, the beef, and let the mustard go,” cried Katharine, who was +getting hungrier and hungrier. + +“No,” said the servant, “you must have the mustard, or you get no beef +from me.” + +“Then,” cried Katharine, losing patience, “let it be both, or one, or +anything thou wilt.” + +“Why, then,” said the servant, “the mustard without the beef!” + +Then Katharine saw he was making fun of her, and boxed his ears. + +Just then Petruchio brought her some food--but she had scarcely begun +to satisfy her hunger, before he called for the tailor to bring her new +clothes, and the table was cleared, leaving her still hungry. Katharine +was pleased with the pretty new dress and cap that the tailor had made +for her, but Petruchio found fault with everything, flung the cap and +gown on the floor vowing his dear wife should not wear any such foolish +things. + +“I will have them,” cried Katharine. “All gentlewomen wear such caps as +these--” + +“When you are gentle you shall have one too,” he answered, “and not +till then.” When he had driven away the tailor with angry words--but +privately asking his friend to see him paid--Petruchio said-- + +“Come, Kate, let's go to your father's, shabby as we are, for as the +sun breaks through the darkest clouds, so honor peereth in the meanest +habit. It is about seven o'clock now. We shall easily get there by +dinner-time.” + +“It's nearly two,” said Kate, but civilly enough, for she had grown to +see that she could not bully her husband, as she had done her father and +her sister; “it's nearly two, and it will be supper-time before we get +there.” + +“It shall be seven,” said Petruchio, obstinately, “before I start. Why, +whatever I say or do, or think, you do nothing but contradict. I won't +go to-day, and before I do go, it shall be what o'clock I say it is.” + +At last they started for her father's house. + +“Look at the moon,” said he. + +“It's the sun,” said Katharine, and indeed it was. + +“I say it is the moon. Contradicting again! It shall be sun or moon, or +whatever I choose, or I won't take you to your father's.” + +Then Katharine gave in, once and for all. “What you will have it named,” + she said, “it is, and so it shall be so for Katharine.” And so it was, +for from that moment Katharine felt that she had met her master, and +never again showed her naughty tempers to him, or anyone else. + +So they journeyed on to Baptista's house, and arriving there, they found +all folks keeping Bianca's wedding feast, and that of another newly +married couple, Hortensio and his wife. They were made welcome, and sat +down to the feast, and all was merry, save that Hortensio's wife, seeing +Katharine subdued to her husband, thought she could safely say many +disagreeable things, that in the old days, when Katharine was free and +froward, she would not have dared to say. But Katharine answered with +such spirit and such moderation, that she turned the laugh against the +new bride. + +After dinner, when the ladies had retired, Baptista joined in a laugh +against Petruchio, saying “Now in good sadness, son Petruchio, I fear +you have got the veriest shrew of all.” + +“You are wrong,” said Petruchio, “let me prove it to you. Each of us +shall send a message to his wife, desiring her to come to him, and the +one whose wife comes most readily shall win a wager which we will agree +on.” + +The others said yes readily enough, for each thought his own wife the +most dutiful, and each thought he was quite sure to win the wager. + +They proposed a wager of twenty crowns. + +“Twenty crowns,” said Petruchio, “I'll venture so much on my hawk or +hound, but twenty times as much upon my wife.” + +“A hundred then,” cried Lucentio, Bianca's husband. + +“Content,” cried the others. + +Then Lucentio sent a message to the fair Bianca bidding her to come to +him. And Baptista said he was certain his daughter would come. But the +servant coming back, said-- + +“Sir, my mistress is busy, and she cannot come.”' + +“There's an answer for you,” said Petruchio. + +“You may think yourself fortunate if your wife does not send you a +worse.” + +“I hope, better,” Petruchio answered. Then Hortensio said-- + +“Go and entreat my wife to come to me at once.” + +“Oh--if you entreat her,” said Petruchio. + +“I am afraid,” answered Hortensio, sharply, “do what you can, yours will +not be entreated.” + +But now the servant came in, and said-- + +“She says you are playing some jest, she will not come.” + +“Better and better,” cried Petruchio; “now go to your mistress and say I +command her to come to me.” + +They all began to laugh, saying they knew what her answer would be, and +that she would not come. + +Then suddenly Baptista cried-- + +“Here comes Katharine!” And sure enough--there she was. + +“What do you wish, sir?” she asked her husband. + +“Where are your sister and Hortensio's wife?” + +“Talking by the parlor fire.” + +“Fetch them here.” + +When she was gone to fetch them, Lucentio said-- + +“Here is a wonder!” + +“I wonder what it means,” said Hortensio. + +“It means peace,” said Petruchio, “and love, and quiet life.” + +“Well,” said Baptista, “you have won the wager, and I will add +another twenty thousand crowns to her dowry--another dowry for another +daughter--for she is as changed as if she were someone else.” + +So Petruchio won his wager, and had in Katharine always a loving wife +and true, and now he had broken her proud and angry spirit he loved her +well, and there was nothing ever but love between those two. And so they +lived happy ever afterwards. + + + + +MEASURE FOR MEASURE + + + +More centuries ago than I care to say, the people of Vienna were +governed too mildly. The reason was that the reigning Duke Vicentio was +excessively good-natured, and disliked to see offenders made unhappy. + +The consequence was that the number of ill-behaved persons in Vienna +was enough to make the Duke shake his head in sorrow when his chief +secretary showed him it at the end of a list. He decided, therefore, +that wrongdoers must be punished. But popularity was dear to him. He +knew that, if he were suddenly strict after being lax, he would cause +people to call him a tyrant. For this reason he told his Privy Council +that he must go to Poland on important business of state. “I have chosen +Angelo to rule in my absence,” said he. + +Now this Angelo, although he appeared to be noble, was really a mean +man. He had promised to marry a girl called Mariana, and now would have +nothing to say to her, because her dowry had been lost. So poor Mariana +lived forlornly, waiting every day for the footstep of her stingy lover, +and loving him still. + +Having appointed Angelo his deputy, the Duke went to a friar called +Thomas and asked him for a friar's dress and instruction in the art of +giving religious counsel, for he did not intend to go to Poland, but to +stay at home and see how Angelo governed. + +Angelo had not been a day in office when he condemned to death a young +man named Claudio for an act of rash selfishness which nowadays would +only be punished by severe reproof. + +Claudio had a queer friend called Lucio, and Lucio saw a chance of +freedom for Claudio if Claudio's beautiful sister Isabella would plead +with Angelo. + +Isabella was at that time living in a nunnery. Nobody had won her heart, +and she thought she would like to become a sister, or nun. + +Meanwhile Claudio did not lack an advocate. + +An ancient lord, Escalus, was for leniency. “Let us cut a little, but +not kill,” he said. “This gentleman had a most noble father.” + +Angelo was unmoved. “If twelve men find me guilty, I ask no more mercy +than is in the law.” + +Angelo then ordered the Provost to see that Claudio was executed at nine +the next morning. + +After the issue of this order Angelo was told that the sister of the +condemned man desired to see him. + +“Admit her,” said Angelo. + +On entering with Lucio, the beautiful girl said, “I am a woeful suitor +to your Honor.” + +“Well?” said Angelo. + +She colored at his chill monosyllable and the ascending red increased +the beauty of her face. “I have a brother who is condemned to die,” she +continued. “Condemn the fault, I pray you, and spare my brother.” + +“Every fault,” said Angelo, “is condemned before it is committed. A +fault cannot suffer. Justice would be void if the committer of a fault +went free.” + +She would have left the court if Lucio had not whispered to her, “You +are too cold; you could not speak more tamely if you wanted a pin.” + +So Isabella attacked Angelo again, and when he said, “I will not pardon +him,” she was not discouraged, and when he said, “He's sentenced; 'tis +too late,” she returned to the assault. But all her fighting was with +reasons, and with reasons she could not prevail over the Deputy. + +She told him that nothing becomes power like mercy. She told him that +humanity receives and requires mercy from Heaven, that it was good to +have gigantic strength, and had to use it like a giant. She told him +that lightning rives the oak and spares the myrtle. She bade him look +for fault in his own breast, and if he found one, to refrain from making +it an argument against her brother's life. + +Angelo found a fault in his breast at that moment. He loved Isabella's +beauty, and was tempted to do for her beauty what he would not do for +the love of man. + +He appeared to relent, for he said, “Come to me to-morrow before noon.” + +She had, at any rate, succeeded in prolonging her brother's life for a +few hours.' + +In her absence Angelo's conscience rebuked him for trifling with his +judicial duty. + +When Isabella called on him the second time, he said, “Your brother +cannot live.” + +Isabella was painfully astonished, but all she said was, “Even so. +Heaven keep your Honor.” + +But as she turned to go, Angelo felt that his duty and honor were slight +in comparison with the loss of her. + +“Give me your love,” he said, “and Claudio shall be freed.” + +“Before I would marry you, he should die if he had twenty heads to lay +upon the block,” said Isabella, for she saw then that he was not the +just man he pretended to be. + +So she went to her brother in prison, to inform him that he must die. +At first he was boastful, and promised to hug the darkness of death. +But when he clearly understood that his sister could buy his life by +marrying Angelo, he felt his life more valuable than her happiness, and +he exclaimed, “Sweet sister, let me live.” + +“O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!” she cried. + +At this moment the Duke came forward, in the habit of a friar, to +request some speech with Isabella. He called himself Friar Lodowick. + +The Duke then told her that Angelo was affianced to Mariana, whose +love-story he related. He then asked her to consider this plan. Let +Mariana, in the dress of Isabella, go closely veiled to Angelo, and say, +in a voice resembling Isabella's, that if Claudio were spared she would +marry him. Let her take the ring from Angelo's little finger, that it +might be afterwards proved that his visitor was Mariana. + +Isabella had, of course, a great respect for friars, who are as nearly +like nuns as men can be. She agreed, therefore, to the Duke's plan. They +were to meet again at the moated grange, Mariana's house. + +In the street the Duke saw Lucio, who, seeing a man dressed like a +friar, called out, “What news of the Duke, friar?” “I have none,” said +the Duke. + +Lucio then told the Duke some stories about Angelo. Then he told one +about the Duke. The Duke contradicted him. Lucio was provoked, and +called the Duke “a shallow, ignorant fool,” though he pretended to love +him. “The Duke shall know you better if I live to report you,” said the +Duke, grimly. Then he asked Escalus, whom he saw in the street, what he +thought of his ducal master. Escalus, who imagined he was speaking to a +friar, replied, “The Duke is a very temperate gentleman, who prefers to +see another merry to being merry himself.” + +The Duke then proceeded to call on Mariana. + +Isabella arrived immediately afterwards, and the Duke introduced the +two girls to one another, both of whom thought he was a friar. They +went into a chamber apart from him to discuss the saving of Claudio, and +while they talked in low and earnest tones, the Duke looked out of the +window and saw the broken sheds and flower-beds black with moss, which +betrayed Mariana's indifference to her country dwelling. Some women +would have beautified their garden: not she. She was for the town; she +neglected the joys of the country. He was sure that Angelo would not +make her unhappier. + +“We are agreed, father,” said Isabella, as she returned with Mariana. + +So Angelo was deceived by the girl whom he had dismissed from his love, +and put on her finger a ring he wore, in which was set a milky stone +which flashed in the light with secret colors. + +Hearing of her success, the Duke went next day to the prison prepared +to learn that an order had arrived for Claudio's release. It had not, +however, but a letter was banded to the Provost while he waited. His +amazement was great when the Provost read aloud these words, “Whatsoever +you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the +clock. Let me have his head sent me by five.” + +But the Duke said to the Provost, “You must show the Deputy another +head,” and he held out a letter and a signet. “Here,” he said, “are the +hand and seal of the Duke. He is to return, I tell you, and Angelo knows +it not. Give Angelo another head.” + +The Provost thought, “This friar speaks with power. I know the Duke's +signet and I know his hand.” + +He said at length, “A man died in prison this morning, a pirate of the +age of Claudio, with a beard of his color. I will show his head.” + +The pirate's head was duly shown to Angelo, who was deceived by its +resemblance to Claudio's. + +The Duke's return was so popular that the citizens removed the city +gates from their hinges to assist his entry into Vienna. Angelo and +Escalus duly presented themselves, and were profusely praised for their +conduct of affairs in the Duke's absence. + +It was, therefore, the more unpleasant for Angelo when Isabella, +passionately angered by his treachery, knelt before the Duke, and cried +for justice. + +When her story was told, the Duke cried, “To prison with her for a +slanderer of our right hand! But stay, who persuaded you to come here?” + +“Friar Lodowick,” said she. + +“Who knows him?” inquired the Duke. + +“I do, my lord,” replied Lucio. “I beat him because he spake against +your Grace.” + +A friar called Peter here said, “Friar Lodowick is a holy man.” + +Isabella was removed by an officer, and Mariana came forward. She took +off her veil, and said to Angelo, “This is the face you once swore was +worth looking on.” + +Bravely he faced her as she put out her hand and said, “This is the hand +which wears the ring you thought to give another.” + +“I know the woman,” said Angelo. “Once there was talk of marriage +between us, but I found her frivolous.” + +Mariana here burst out that they were affianced by the strongest vows. +Angelo replied by asking the Duke to insist on the production of Friar +Lodowick. + +“He shall appear,” promised the Duke, and bade Escalus examine the +missing witness thoroughly while he was elsewhere. + +Presently the Duke re-appeared in the character of Friar Lodowick, and +accompanied by Isabella and the Provost. He was not so much examined as +abused and threatened by Escalus. Lucio asked him to deny, if he dared, +that he called the Duke a fool and a coward, and had had his nose pulled +for his impudence. + +“To prison with him!” shouted Escalus, but as hands were laid upon him, +the Duke pulled off his friar's hood, and was a Duke before them all. + +“Now,” he said to Angelo, “if you have any impudence that can yet serve +you, work it for all it's worth.” + +“Immediate sentence and death is all I beg,” was the reply. + +“Were you affianced to Mariana?” asked the Duke. + +“I was,” said Angelo. + +“Then marry her instantly,” said his master. “Marry them,” he said to +Friar Peter, “and return with them here.” + +“Come hither, Isabel,” said the Duke, in tender tones. “Your friar is +now your Prince, and grieves he was too late to save your brother;” but +well the roguish Duke knew he had saved him. + +“O pardon me,” she cried, “that I employed my Sovereign in my trouble.” + +“You are pardoned,” he said, gaily. + +At that moment Angelo and his wife re-entered. “And now, Angelo,” said +the Duke, gravely, “we condemn thee to the block on which Claudio laid +his head!” + +“O my most gracious lord,” cried Mariana, “mock me not!” + +“You shall buy a better husband,” said the Duke. + +“O my dear lord,” said she, “I crave no better man.” + +Isabella nobly added her prayer to Mariana's, but the Duke feigned +inflexibility. + +“Provost,” he said, “how came it that Claudio was executed at an +unusual hour?” + +Afraid to confess the lie he had imposed upon Angelo, the Provost said, +“I had a private message.” + +“You are discharged from your office,” said the Duke. The Provost then +departed. Angelo said, “I am sorry to have caused such sorrow. I prefer +death to mercy.” Soon there was a motion in the crowd. The Provost +re-appeared with Claudio. Like a big child the Provost said, “I +saved this man; he is like Claudio.” The Duke was amused, and said to +Isabella, “I pardon him because he is like your brother. He is like my +brother, too, if you, dear Isabel, will be mine.” + +She was his with a smile, and the Duke forgave Angelo, and promoted the +Provost. + +Lucio he condemned to marry a stout woman with a bitter tongue. + + + + +TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA + + + +Only one of them was really a gentleman, as you will discover later. +Their names were Valentine and Proteus. They were friends, and lived +at Verona, a town in northern Italy. Valentine was happy in his name +because it was that of the patron saint of lovers; it is hard for a +Valentine to be fickle or mean. Proteus was unhappy in his name, because +it was that of a famous shape-changer, and therefore it encouraged him +to be a lover at one time and a traitor at another. + +One day, Valentine told his friend that he was going to Milan. “I'm +not in love like you,” said he, “and therefore I don't want to stay at +home.” + +Proteus was in love with a beautiful yellow-haired girl called Julia, +who was rich, and had no one to order her about. He was, however, sorry +to part from Valentine, and he said, “If ever you are in danger tell me, +and I will pray for you.” Valentine then went to Milan with a servant +called Speed, and at Milan he fell in love with the Duke of Milan's +daughter, Silvia. + +When Proteus and Valentine parted Julia had not acknowledged that she +loved Proteus. Indeed, she had actually torn up one of his letters in +the presence of her maid, Lucetta. Lucetta, however, was no simpleton, +for when she saw the pieces she said to herself, “All she wants is to be +annoyed by another letter.” Indeed, no sooner had Lucetta left her alone +than Julia repented of her tearing, and placed between her dress and her +heart the torn piece of paper on which Proteus had signed his name. So +by tearing a letter written by Proteus she discovered that she loved +him. Then, like a brave, sweet girl, she wrote to Proteus, “Be patient, +and you shall marry me.” + +Delighted with these words Proteus walked about, flourishing Julia's +letter and talking to himself. + +“What have you got there?” asked his father, Antonio. + +“A letter from Valentine,” fibbed Proteus. + +“Let me read it,” said Antonio. + +“There is no news,” said deceitful Proteus; “he only says that he is +very happy, and the Duke of Milan is kind to him, and that he wishes I +were with him.” + +This fib had the effect of making Antonio think that his son should go +to Milan and enjoy the favors in which Valentine basked. “You must go +to-morrow,” he decreed. Proteus was dismayed. “Give me time to get my +outfit ready.” He was met with the promise, “What you need shall be sent +after you.” + +It grieved Julia to part from her lover before their engagement was two +days' old. She gave him a ring, and said, “Keep this for my sake,” and +he gave her a ring, and they kissed like two who intend to be true till +death. Then Proteus departed for Milan. + +Meanwhile Valentine was amusing Silvia, whose grey eyes, laughing at him +under auburn hair, had drowned him in love. One day she told him that +she wanted to write a pretty letter to a gentleman whom she thought well +of, but had no time: would he write it? Very much did Valentine dislike +writing that letter, but he did write it, and gave it to her coldly. +“Take it back,” she said; “you did it unwillingly.” + +“Madam,” he said, “it was difficult to write such a letter for you.” + +“Take it back,” she commanded; “you did not write tenderly enough.” + +Valentine was left with the letter, and condemned to write another; +but his servant Speed saw that, in effect, the Lady Silvia had allowed +Valentine to write for her a love-letter to Valentine's own self. “The +joke,” he said, “is as invisible as a weather-cock on a steeple.” He +meant that it was very plain; and he went on to say exactly what it was: +“If master will write her love-letters, he must answer them.” + +On the arrival of Proteus, he was introduced by Valentine to Silvia and +afterwards, when they were alone, Valentine asked Proteus how his love +for Julia was prospering. + +“Why,” said Proteus, “you used to get wearied when I spoke of her.” + +“Aye,” confessed Valentine, “but it's different now. I can eat and drink +all day with nothing but love on my plate and love in my cup.” + +“You idolize Silvia,” said Proteus. + +“She is divine,” said Valentine. + +“Come, come!” remonstrated Proteus. + +“Well, if she's not divine,” said Valentine, “she is the queen of all +women on earth.” + +“Except Julia,” said Proteus. + +“Dear boy,” said Valentine, “Julia is not excepted; but I will grant +that she alone is worthy to bear my lady's train.” + +“Your bragging astounds me,” said Proteus. + +But he had seen Silvia, and he felt suddenly that the yellow-haired +Julia was black in comparison. He became in thought a villain without +delay, and said to himself what he had never said before--“I to myself +am dearer than my friend.” + +It would have been convenient for Valentine if Proteus had changed, by +the power of the god whose name he bore, the shape of his body at the +evil moment when he despised Julia in admiring Silvia. But his body did +not change; his smile was still affectionate, and Valentine confided to +him the great secret that Silvia had now promised to run away with him. +“In the pocket of this cloak,” said Valentine, “I have a silken rope +ladder, with hooks which will clasp the window-bar of her room.” + +Proteus knew the reason why Silvia and her lover were bent on flight. +The Duke intended her to wed Sir Thurio, a gentlemanly noodle for whom +she did not care a straw. + +Proteus thought that if he could get rid of Valentine he might make +Silvia fond of him, especially if the Duke insisted on her enduring +Sir Thurio's tiresome chatter. He therefore went to the Duke, and said, +“Duty before friendship! It grieves me to thwart my friend Valentine, +but your Grace should know that he intends to-night to elope with your +Grace's daughter.” He begged the Duke not to tell Valentine the giver +of this information, and the Duke assured him that his name would not be +divulged. + +Early that evening the Duke summoned Valentine, who came to him wearing +a large cloak with a bulging pocket. + +“You know,” said the Duke, “my desire to marry my daughter to Sir +Thurio?” + +“I do,” replied Valentine. “He is virtuous and generous, as befits a man +so honored in your Grace's thoughts.” + +“Nevertheless she dislikes him,” said the Duke. “She is a peevish, +proud, disobedient girl, and I should be sorry to leave her a penny. I +intend, therefore, to marry again.” + +Valentine bowed. + +“I hardly know how the young people of to-day make love,” continued the +Duke, “and I thought that you would be just the man to teach me how to +win the lady of my choice.” + +“Jewels have been known to plead rather well,” said Valentine. + +“I have tried them,” said the Duke. + +“The habit of liking the giver may grow if your Grace gives her some +more.” + +“The chief difficulty,” pursued the Duke, “is this. The lady is promised +to a young gentleman, and it is hard to have a word with her. She is, in +fact, locked up.” + +“Then your Grace should propose an elopement,” said Valentine. “Try a +rope ladder.” + +“But how should I carry it?” asked the Duke. + +“A rope ladder is light,” said Valentine; “You can carry it in a cloak.” + +“Like yours?” + +“Yes, your Grace.” + +“Then yours will do. Kindly lend it to me.” + +Valentine had talked himself into a trap. He could not refuse to lend +his cloak, and when the Duke had donned it, his Grace drew from the +pocket a sealed missive addressed to Silvia. He coolly opened it, and +read these words: “Silvia, you shall be free to-night.” + +“Indeed,” he said, “and here's the rope ladder. Prettily contrived, but +not perfectly. I give you, sir, a day to leave my dominions. If you are +in Milan by this time to-morrow, you die.” + +Poor Valentine was saddened to the core. “Unless I look on Silvia in the +day,” he said, “there is no day for me to look upon.” + +Before he went he took farewell of Proteus, who proved a hypocrite of +the first order. “Hope is a lover's staff,” said Valentine's betrayer; +“walk hence with that.” + +After leaving Milan, Valentine and his servant wandered into a forest +near Mantua where the great poet Virgil lived. In the forest, however, +the poets (if any) were brigands, who bade the travelers stand. They +obeyed, and Valentine made so good an impression upon his captors that +they offered him his life on condition that he became their captain. + +“I accept,” said Valentine, “provided you release my servant, and are +not violent to women or the poor.” + +The reply was worthy of Virgil, and Valentine became a brigand chief. + +We return now to Julia, who found Verona too dull to live in since +Proteus had gone. She begged her maid Lucetta to devise a way by which +she could see him. “Better wait for him to return,” said Lucetta, and +she talked so sensibly that Julia saw it was idle to hope that Lucetta +would bear the blame of any rash and interesting adventure. Julia +therefore said that she intended to go to Milan and dressed like a page. + +“You must cut off your hair then,” said Lucetta, who thought that at +this announcement Julia would immediately abandon her scheme. + +“I shall knot it up,” was the disappointing rejoinder. + +Lucetta then tried to make the scheme seem foolish to Julia, but Julia +had made up her mind and was not to be put off by ridicule; and when her +toilet was completed, she looked as comely a page as one could wish to +see. + +Julia assumed the male name Sebastian, and arrived in Milan in time to +hear music being performed outside the Duke's palace. + +“They are serenading the Lady Silvia,” said a man to her. + +Suddenly she heard a voice lifted in song, and she knew that voice. It +was the voice of Proteus. But what was he singing? + + “Who is Silvia? what is she, + That all our swains commend her? + Holy, fair, and wise is she; + The heaven such grace did lend her + That she might admired be.” + +Julia tried not to hear the rest, but these two lines somehow thundered +into her mind-- + + “Then to Silvia let us sing; + She excels each mortal thing.” + +Then Proteus thought Silvia excelled Julia; and, since he sang so +beautifully for all the world to hear, it seemed that he was not only +false to Julia, but had forgotten her. Yet Julia still loved him. She +even went to him, and asked to be his page, and Proteus engaged her. + +One day, he handed to her the ring which she had given him, and said, +“Sebastian, take that to the Lady Silvia, and say that I should like the +picture of her she promised me.” + +Silvia had promised the picture, but she disliked Proteus. She was +obliged to talk to him because he was high in the favor of her father, +who thought he pleaded with her on behalf of Sir Thurio. Silvia had +learned from Valentine that Proteus was pledged to a sweetheart in +Verona; and when he said tender things to her, she felt that he was +disloyal in friendship as well as love. + +Julia bore the ring to Silvia, but Silvia said, “I will not wrong the +woman who gave it him by wearing it.” + +“She thanks you,” said Julia. + +“You know her, then?” said Silvia, and Julia spoke so tenderly of +herself that Silvia wished that Sebastian would marry Julia. + +Silvia gave Julia her portrait for Proteus, who would have received it +the worse for extra touches on the nose and eyes if Julia had not made +up her mind that she was as pretty as Silvia. + +Soon there was an uproar in the palace. Silvia had fled. + +The Duke was certain that her intention was to join the exiled +Valentine, and he was not wrong. + +Without delay he started in pursuit, with Sir Thurio, Proteus, and some +servants. + +The members of the pursuing party got separated, and Proteus and Julia +(in her page's dress) were by themselves when they saw Silvia, who had +been taken prisoner by outlaws and was now being led to their Captain. +Proteus rescued her, and then said, “I have saved you from death; give +me one kind look.” + +“O misery, to be helped by you!” cried Silvia. “I would rather be a +lion's breakfast.” + +Julia was silent, but cheerful. Proteus was so much annoyed with Silvia +that he threatened her, and seized her by the waist. + +“O heaven!” cried Silvia. + +At that instant there was a noise of crackling branches. Valentine came +crashing through the Mantuan forest to the rescue of his beloved. Julia +feared he would slay Proteus, and hurried to help her false lover. But +he struck no blow, he only said, “Proteus, I am sorry I must never trust +you more.” + +Thereat Proteus felt his guilt, and fell on his knees, saying, “Forgive +me! I grieve! I suffer!” + +“Then you are my friend once more,” said the generous Valentine. “If +Silvia, that is lost to me, will look on you with favor, I promise that +I will stand aside and bless you both.” + +These words were terrible to Julia, and she swooned. Valentine revived +her, and said, “What was the matter, boy?” + +“I remembered,” fibbed Julia, “that I was charged to give a ring to the +Lady Silvia, and that I did not.” + +“Well, give it to me,” said Proteus. + +She handed him a ring, but it was the ring that Proteus gave to Julia +before he left Verona. + +Proteus looked at her hand, and crimsoned to the roots of his hair. + +“I changed my shape when you changed your mind,” said she. + +“But I love you again,” said he. + +Just then outlaws entered, bringing two prizes--the Duke and Sir Thurio. + +“Forbear!” cried Valentine, sternly. “The Duke is sacred.” + +Sir Thurio exclaimed, “There's Silvia; she's mine!” + +“Touch her, and you die!” said Valentine. + +“I should be a fool to risk anything for her,” said Sir Thurio. + +“Then you are base,” said the Duke. “Valentine, you are a brave man. +Your banishment is over. I recall you. You may marry Silvia. You deserve +her.” + +“I thank your Grace,” said Valentine, deeply moved, “and yet must ask +you one more boon.” + +“I grant it,” said the Duke. + +“Pardon these men, your Grace, and give them employment. They are better +than their calling.” + +“I pardon them and you,” said the Duke. “Their work henceforth shall be +for wages.” + +“What think you of this page, your Grace?” asked Valentine, indicating +Julia. + +The Duke glanced at her, and said, “I think the boy has grace in him.” + +“More grace than boy, say I,” laughed Valentine, and the only punishment +which Proteus had to bear for his treacheries against love and +friendship was the recital in his presence of the adventures of +Julia-Sebastian of Verona. + + + + +ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL + + + +In the year thirteen hundred and something, the Countess of Rousillon +was unhappy in her palace near the Pyrenees. She had lost her husband, +and the King of France had summoned her son Bertram to Paris, hundreds +of miles away. + +Bertram was a pretty youth with curling hair, finely arched eyebrows, +and eyes as keen as a hawk's. He was as proud as ignorance could make +him, and would lie with a face like truth itself to gain a selfish end. +But a pretty youth is a pretty youth, and Helena was in love with him. + +Helena was the daughter of a great doctor who had died in the service +of the Count of Rousillon. Her sole fortune consisted in a few of her +father's prescriptions. + +When Bertram had gone, Helena's forlorn look was noticed by the +Countess, who told her that she was exactly the same to her as her +own child. Tears then gathered in Helena's eyes, for she felt that the +Countess made Bertram seem like a brother whom she could never marry. +The Countess guessed her secret forthwith, and Helena confessed that +Bertram was to her as the sun is to the day. + +She hoped, however, to win this sun by earning the gratitude of the King +of France, who suffered from a lingering illness, which made him lame. +The great doctors attached to the Court despaired of curing him, but +Helena had confidence in a prescription which her father had used with +success. + +Taking an affectionate leave of the Countess, she went to Paris, and was +allowed to see the King. + +He was very polite, but it was plain he thought her a quack. “It would +not become me,” he said, “to apply to a simple maiden for the relief +which all the learned doctors cannot give me.” + +“Heaven uses weak instruments sometimes,” said Helena, and she declared +that she would forfeit her life if she failed to make him well. + +“And if you succeed?” questioned the King. + +“Then I will ask your Majesty to give me for a husband the man whom I +choose!” + +So earnest a young lady could not be resisted forever by a suffering +king. Helena, therefore, became the King's doctor, and in two days the +royal cripple could skip. + +He summoned his courtiers, and they made a glittering throng in the +throne room of his palace. Well might the country girl have been +dazzled, and seen a dozen husbands worth dreaming of among the handsome +young noblemen before her. But her eyes only wandered till they found +Bertram. Then she went up to him, and said, “I dare not say I take you, +but I am yours!” Raising her voice that the King might hear, she added, +“This is the Man!” + +“Bertram,” said the King, “take her; she's your wife!” + +“My wife, my liege?” said Bertram. “I beg your Majesty to permit me to +choose a wife.” + +“Do you know, Bertram, what she has done for your King?” asked the +monarch, who had treated Bertram like a son. + +“Yes, your Majesty,” replied Bertram; “but why should I marry a girl who +owes her breeding to my father's charity?” + +“You disdain her for lacking a title, but I can give her a title,” said +the King; and as he looked at the sulky youth a thought came to him, and +he added, “Strange that you think so much of blood when you could not +distinguish your own from a beggar's if you saw them mixed together in a +bowl.” + +“I cannot love her,” asserted Bertram; and Helena said gently, “Urge +him not, your Majesty. I am glad to have cured my King for my country's +sake.” + +“My honor requires that scornful boy's obedience,” said the King. +“Bertram, make up your mind to this. You marry this lady, of whom you +are so unworthy, or you learn how a king can hate. Your answer?” + +Bertram bowed low and said, “Your Majesty has ennobled the lady by your +interest in her. I submit.” + +“Take her by the band,” said the King, “and tell her she is yours.” + +Bertram obeyed, and with little delay he was married to Helena. + +Fear of the King, however, could not make him a lover. Ridicule helped +to sour him. A base soldier named Parolles told him to his face that +now he had a “kicky-wicky” his business was not to fight but to stay +at home. “Kicky-wicky” was only a silly epithet for a wife, but it made +Bertram feel he could not bear having a wife, and that he must go to the +war in Italy, though the King had forbidden him. + +Helena he ordered to take leave of the King and return to Rousillon, +giving her letters for his mother and herself. He then rode off, bidding +her a cold good-bye. + +She opened the letter addressed to herself, and read, “When you can get +the ring from my finger you can call me husband, but against that 'when' +I write 'never.'” + +Dry-eyed had Helena been when she entered the King's presence and said +farewell, but he was uneasy on her account, and gave her a ring from +his own finger, saying, “If you send this to me, I shall know you are in +trouble, and help you.” + +She did not show him Bertram's letter to his wife; it would have made +him wish to kill the truant Count; but she went back to Rousillon and +handed her mother-in-law the second letter. It was short and bitter. “I +have run away,” it said. “If the world be broad enough, I will be always +far away from her.” + +“Cheer up,” said the noble widow to the deserted wife. “I wash his name +out of my blood, and you alone are my child.” + +The Dowager Countess, however, was still mother enough to Bertram to lay +the blame of his conduct on Parolles, whom she called “a very tainted +fellow.” + +Helena did not stay long at Rousillon. She clad herself as a pilgrim, +and, leaving a letter for her mother-in-law, secretly set out for +Florence. + +On entering that city she inquired of a woman the way to the Pilgrims' +House of Rest, but the woman begged “the holy pilgrim” to lodge with +her. + +Helena found that her hostess was a widow, who had a beautiful daughter +named Diana. + +When Diana heard that Helena came from France, she said, “A countryman +of yours, Count Rousillon, has done worthy service for Florence.” But +after a time, Diana had something to tell which was not at all worthy of +Helena's husband. Bertram was making love to Diana. He did not hide the +fact that he was married, but Diana heard from Parolles that his wife +was not worth caring for. + +The widow was anxious for Diana's sake, and Helena decided to inform her +that she was the Countess Rousillon. + +“He keeps asking Diana for a lock of her hair,” said the widow. + +Helena smiled mournfully, for her hair was as fine as Diana's and of the +same color. Then an idea struck her, and she said, “Take this purse of +gold for yourself. I will give Diana three thousand crowns if she will +help me to carry out this plan. Let her promise to give a lock of her +hair to my husband if he will give her the ring which he wears on his +finger. It is an ancestral ring. Five Counts of Rousillon have worn it, +yet he will yield it up for a lock of your daughter's hair. Let your +daughter insist that he shall cut the lock of hair from her in a dark +room, and agree in advance that she shall not speak a single word.” + +The widow listened attentively, with the purse of gold in her lap. She +said at last, “I consent, if Diana is willing.” + +Diana was willing, and, strange to say, the prospect of cutting off +a lock of hair from a silent girl in a dark room was so pleasing to +Bertram that he handed Diana his ring, and was told when to follow her +into the dark room. At the time appointed he came with a sharp knife, +and felt a sweet face touch his as he cut off the lock of hair, and he +left the room satisfied, like a man who is filled with renown, and on +his finger was a ring which the girl in the dark room had given him. + +The war was nearly over, but one of its concluding chapters taught +Bertram that the soldier who had been impudent enough to call Helena his +“kicky-wicky” was far less courageous than a wife. Parolles was such +a boaster, and so fond of trimings to his clothes, that the French +officers played him a trick to discover what he was made of. He had lost +his drum, and had said that he would regain it unless he was killed in +the attempt. His attempt was a very poor one, and he was inventing the +story of a heroic failure, when he was surrounded and disarmed. + +“Portotartarossa,” said a French lord. + +“What horrible lingo is this?” thought Parolles, who had been +blindfolded. + +“He's calling for the tortures,” said a French man, affecting to act as +interpreter. “What will you say without 'em?” + +“As much,” replied Parolles, “as I could possibly say if you pinched me +like a pasty.” He was as good as his word. He told them how many there +were in each regiment of the Florentine army, and he refreshed them with +spicy anecdotes of the officers commanding it. + +Bertram was present, and heard a letter read, in which Parolles told +Diana that he was a fool. + +“This is your devoted friend,” said a French lord. + +“He is a cat to me now,” said Bertram, who detested our hearthrug pets. + +Parolles was finally let go, but henceforth he felt like a sneak, and +was not addicted to boasting. + +We now return to France with Helena, who had spread a report of her +death, which was conveyed to the Dowager Countess at Rousillon by Lafeu, +a lord who wished to marry his daughter Magdalen to Bertram. + +The King mourned for Helena, but he approved of the marriage proposed +for Bertram, and paid a visit to Rousillon in order to see it +accomplished. + +“His great offense is dead,” he said. “Let Bertram approach me.” + +Then Bertram, scarred in the cheek, knelt before his Sovereign, and said +that if he had not loved Lafeu's daughter before he married Helena, he +would have prized his wife, whom he now loved when it was too late. + +“Love that is late offends the Great Sender,” said the King. “Forget +sweet Helena, and give a ring to Magdalen.” + +Bertram immediately gave a ring to Lafeu, who said indignantly, “It's +Helena's!” + +“It's not!” said Bertram. + +Hereupon the King asked to look at the ring, and said, “This is the ring +I gave to Helena, and bade her send to me if ever she needed help. So +you had the cunning to get from her what could help her most.” + +Bertram denied again that the ring was Helena's, but even his mother +said it was. + +“You lie!” exclaimed the King. “Seize him, guards!” but even while they +were seizing him, Bertram wondered how the ring, which he thought Diana +had given him, came to be so like Helena's. A gentleman now entered, +craving permission to deliver a petition to the King. It was a petition +signed Diana Capilet, and it begged that the King would order Bertram to +marry her whom he had deserted after winning her love. + +“I'd sooner buy a son-in-law at a fair than take Bertram now,” said +Lafeu. + +“Admit the petitioner,” said the King. + +Bertram found himself confronted by Diana and her mother. He denied +that Diana had any claim on him, and spoke of her as though her life was +spent in the gutter. But she asked him what sort of gentlewoman it +was to whom he gave, as to her he gave, the ring of his ancestors now +missing from his finger? + +Bertram was ready to sink into the earth, but fate had one crowning +generosity reserved for him. Helena entered. + +“Do I see reality?” asked the King. + +“O pardon! pardon!” cried Bertram. + +She held up his ancestral ring. “Now that I have this,” said she, “will +you love me, Bertram?” + +“To the end of my life,” cried he. + +“My eyes smell onions,” said Lafeu. Tears for Helena were twinkling in +them. + +The King praised Diana when he was fully informed by that not very shy +young lady of the meaning of her conduct. For Helena's sake she had +wished to expose Bertram's meanness, not only to the King, but to +himself. His pride was now in shreds, and it is believed that he made a +husband of some sort after all. + + + + +PRONOUNCING VOCABULARY OF NAMES. + + + + [Key.-- + + a,e,i,o,u -- as in hat, bet, it, hot, hut; + â,ê,î,ô,û -- as in ate, mote, mite, mote, mute; + å -- as in America, freeman, coward; + ë -- as in her, fern; + ü -- as in burn, furl. ] + + Adriana (ad-ri-â'-nå) + AEgeon (ê'-ge-on) + AEmilia (ê-mil'-i-å) + Alcibiades (al-si-bî'-å-dêz) + Aliena (â-li-ê'-nå) + Angelo (an'-je-lô) + Antioch (an'-ti-ok) + Antiochus (an-tî'-o-kus) + Antipholus (an-tif'-o-lus) + Antonio (an-tô'-ni-ô) + Apemantus (ap-e-man'-tus) + Apollo (å-pol'-ô) + Ariel (â'ri-el) + Arragon (ar'-å-gon) + + Banquo (ban'-kwô) + Baptista (bap-tis'-tå) + Bassanio (bas-sa'-ni-ô) + Beatrice (bê'å-tris) + Bellario (bel-lâ'-ri-ô) + Bellarius (bel-lâ'-ri-us) + Benedick (ben'-e-dik) + Benvolio (ben-vô'-li-ô) + Bertram (bër'-tram) + Bianca (bê-an'-kå) + Borachio (bô-rach'-i-ô) + Brabantio (brå-ban'chô) + Burgundy (bür'-gun-di) + + Caliban (kal'-i-ban) + Camillo (kå-mil'-ô) + Capulet (kap'-û-let) + Cassio (kas'-i-ô) + Celia (sê'-li-å) + Centaur (sen'-tawr) + Cerimon (sê'-ri-mon) + Cesario (se-sâ'-ri-ô) + Claudio (klaw'-di-ô) + Claudius (klaw'-di-us) + Cordelia (kawr-dê'-li-å) + Cornwall (kawrn'-wawl) + Cymbeline (sim'-be-lên) + + Demetrius (de-mê'-tri-us) + Desdemona (des-de-mô-nå) + Diana (dî-an'-å) + Dionyza (dî-ô-nî'-zå) + Donalbain (don'-al-ban) + Doricles (dor'-i-klêz) + Dromio (drô'-mi-ô) + Duncan (dung'-kån) + + Emilia (ê-mil'-i-å) + Ephesus (ef'e-sus) + Escalus (es'-kå-lus) + + Ferdinand (fër'-di-nand) + Flaminius (flå-min'-i-us) + Flavius (flâ'-vi-us) + Fleance (flê'-ans) + Florizel (flor'-i-zel) + + Ganymede (gan'-i-mêd) + Giulio (jû'-li-ô) + Goneril (gon'-e-ril) + Gonzalo (gon-zah'-lô) + + Helena (hel'-e-nå) + Helicanus (hel-i-kâ'nus) + Hercules (hër'kû-lêz) + Hermia (hër'mi-å) + Hermione (hër-mî'-o-nê) + Horatio (hô-râ'-shi-ô) + Hortensio (hor-ten'-si-ô) + + Iachimo (yak'-i-mô) + Iago (ê-ah-gô) + Illyria ((il-lir'-i-å) + Imogen (im'-o-jen) + + Jessica (jes'-i-kå) + Juliet (ju'li-et) + + Laertes (lâ-ër'-têz) + Lafeu (lah-fu') + Lear (lêr) + Leodovico (lê-ô-dô'-vi-kô) + Leonato (lê-ô-nâ'-tô) + Leontes (lê-on-têz) + Luciana (lû-shi-â'nå) + Lucio (lû'-shi-ô) + Lucius (lû'-shi-us) + Lucullus (lû-kul'-us) + Lysander (lî-san'-dër) + Lysimachus (lî-sim'-å-kus) + + Macbeth (mak-beth') + Magdalen (mag'-då-len) + Malcolm (mal'-kum) + Malvolio (mal-vô'li-ô) + Mantua (man-'tû-å) + Mariana (mah-ri-â'-na) + Menaphon (men'-å-fon) + Mercutio (mer-kû'-shi-ô) + Messina (mes-sê'-nah) + Milan (mil'-ån) + Miranda (mî-ran'-då) + Mitylene (mit-ê-lê'-nê) + Montagu (mon'-tå-gû) + Montano (mon-tah'-nô) + + Oberon (ob'-ër-on) + Olivia (ô-liv'-i-å) + Ophelia (ô-fêl'-i-å or o-fêl'-yå) + Orlando (awr-lan'-dô) + Orsino (awr-sê'-nô) + Othello (ô-thel'-ô) + + Parolles (pa-rol'-êz) + Paulina (paw-lî'-nå) + Pentapolis (pen-tap'-o-lis) + Perdita (për'-di-tå) + Pericles (per'-i-klêz) + Petruchio (pe-trû'-chi-ô) + Phoenix (fê'-niks) + Pisanio (pê-sah'-ni-ô) + Polixines (pô-liks'-e-nêz) + Polonius (pô-lô'-ni-us) + Portia (pôr'-shi-å) + Proteus (prô'-te-us or prô'-tûs) + + Regan (rê'-gån) + Roderigo (rô-der'-i-gô) + Romano (rô-mah'-nô) + Romeo (rô'-me-ô) + Rosalind (roz'-å-lind) + Rosaline (roz'-å-lin) + Rousillon (ru-sê-lyawng') + + Sebastian (se-bas'-ti-ån) + Sempronius (sem-prô'-ni-us) + Simonides (si-mon'-i-dêz) + Solinus (sô-lî'-nus) + Sycorax (sî'-ko-raks) + Syracuse (sir-å-kus) + + Thaisa (tha-is'-å) + Thaliard (thâ'-li-ård) + Thurio (thû'-ri-ô) + Timon (tî'-mon) + Titania (tî-tan'-i-å) + Tybalt (tib'-ålt) + + Ursula (ur'-sû-lå) + + Venetian (ve-nê'-shån) + Venice (ven'-is) + Ventidius (ven-tid'-i-us) + Verona (vâ-rô'-nå) + Vicentio (vê-sen'-shi-ô) + + + + + +QUOTATIONS FROM SHAKESPEARE + + + +ACTION. + + Action is eloquence, and the eyes of the ignorant + More learned than their ears. + + Coriolanus -- III. 2. + + + + +ADVERSITY. + + Sweet are the uses of adversity, + Which, like the toad, ugly and venomous, + Wears yet a precious jewel in his head. + + As You Like It -- II. 1. + + + That, Sir, which serves and seeks for gain, + And follows but for form, + Will pack, when it begins to rain, + And leave thee in the storm. + + King Lear -- II. 4. + + + Ah! when the means are gone, that buy this praise, + The breath is gone whereof this praise is made: + Feast won--fast lost; one cloud of winter showers, + These flies are couched. + + Timon of Athens -- II. 2. + + + + + +ADVICE TO A SON LEAVING HOME. + + Give thy thoughts no tongue, + Nor any unproportioned thought his act + Be thou familiar, but by no means vulgar. + The friends thou hast, and their adoption tried + Grapple them to thy soul with hooks of steel; + But do not dull thy palm with entertainment + Of each new-hatched, unfledged comrade. Beware + Of entrance to a quarrel: but, being in, + Bear it, that the opposer may beware of thee. + Give every man thine ear, but few thy voice: + Take each man's censure, but reserve thy judgment, + Costly thy habit as thy purse can buy, + But not expressed in fancy: rich, not gaudy: + For the apparel oft proclaims the man; + And they in France, of the best rank and station, + Are most select and generous, chief in that. + Neither a borrower, nor a lender be: + For loan oft loses both itself and friend; + And borrowing dulls the edge of husbandry. + This above all.--To thine ownself be true; + And it must follow, as the night the day, + Thou canst not then be false to any man. + + Hamlet -- I. 3. + + + + +AGE. + + My May of life Is + fallen into the sear, the yellow leaf: + And that which should accompany old age, + As honor, love, obedience, troops of friends, + I must not look to have; but, in their stead, + Curses not loud, but deep, mouth-honor, breath, + Which the poor heart would feign deny, but dare not. + + Macbeth -- V. 3. + + + + +AMBITION. + + Dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of + the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. And I + hold ambition of so airy and light a quality, that it is but + a shadow's shadow. + + Hamlet -- II 2. + + + I charge thee fling away ambition; + By that sin fell the angels, how can man then, + The image of his Maker, hope to win by 't? + Love thyself last; cherish those hearts that hate thee; + Corruption wins not more than honesty. + Still in thy right hand carry gentle peace, + To silence envious tongues. Be just, and fear not! + Let all the ends, thou aim'st at, be thy country's, + Thy God's, and truth's. + + King Henry VIII. -- III. 2. + + + + +ANGER. + + Anger is like + A full-hot horse, who being allowed his way, + Self-mettle tires him. + + King Henry VIII. -- I. 1. + + + + +ARROGANCE. + + There are a sort of men, whose visages + Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, + And do a willful stillness entertain, + With purpose to be dressed in an opinion + Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, + As who should say, “I am Sir Oracle, + And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark!” + O! my Antonio, I do know of these + That therefore are reputed wise + For saying nothing, when, I am sure, + If they should speak, would almost dam those ears, + Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. + + The Merchant of Venice -- I. 1. + + + + +AUTHORITY. + + Thou hast seen a farmer's dog bark at a beggar? + And the creature run from the cur? + There thou might'st behold the great image of authority + a dog's obeyed in office. + + King Lear -- IV. 6. + + + Could great men thunder + As Jove himself does, Jove would ne'er be quiet, + For every pelting, petty officer + Would use his heaven for thunder: nothing but thunder-- + Merciful heaven! + Thou rather, with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt, + Splitt'st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak, + Than the soft myrtle!--O, but man, proud man! + Drest in a little brief authority -- + Most ignorant of what he's most assured, + His glassy essence,--like an angry ape, + Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven, + As make the angels weep. + + Measure for Measure -- II. 2. + + + +BEAUTY. + + The hand, that hath made you fair, hath made you good: the + goodness, that is cheap in beauty, makes beauty brief in goodness; + but grace, being the soul of your complexion, should keep the body + of it ever fair. + + Measure for Measure -- III. 1. + + + + +BLESSINGS UNDERVALUED. + + It so falls out + That what we have we prize not to the worth, + Whiles we enjoy it; but being lacked and lost, + Why, then we rack the value; then we find + The virtue, that possession would not show us + Whiles it was ours. + + Much Ado About Nothing -- IV. 1. + + + + +BRAGGARTS. + + It will come to pass, + That every braggart shall be found an ass. + + All's Well that Ends Well -- IV. 3. + + + They that have the voice of lions, and the act of bares, + are they not monsters? + + Troilus and Cressida -- III. 2. + + + + +CALUMNY. + + Be thou as chaste as ice, as pure as snow, + thou shalt not escape calumny. + + Hamlet -- III. 1. + + + No might nor greatness in mortality + Can censure 'scape; back-wounding calumny + The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong, + Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue? + + Measure for Measure -- III. 2. + + + + +CEREMONY. + + Ceremony + Was but devised at first, to set a gloss + On faint deeds, hollow welcomes. + Recanting goodness, sorry ere 'tis shown; + But where there is true friendship, there needs none. + + Timon of Athens -- I. 2. + + + + +COMFORT. + + Men + Can counsel, and speak comfort to that grief + Which they themselves not feel; but tasting it, + Their counsel turns to passion, which before + Would give preceptial medicine to rage, + Fetter strong madness in a silken thread, + Charm ache with air, and agony with words: + No, no; 'tis all men's office to speak patience + To those that wring under the load of sorrow; + But no man's virtue, nor sufficiency, + To be so moral, when he shall endure + The like himself. + + Much Ado About Nothing -- V. 1. + + + Well, every one can master a grief, but he that has it. + + Idem -- II. + + + + +COMPARISON. + + When the moon shone, we did not see the candle. + So doth the greater glory dim the less; + A substitute shines brightly as a king, + Until a king be by; and then his state + Empties itself, as does an inland brook + Into the main of waters. + + Merchant of Venice -- V. 1. + + + + +CONSCIENCE. + + Thus conscience does make cowards of us all; + And thus the native hue of resolution + Is sicklied o'er with the pale cast of thought; + And enterprises of great pith and moment, + With this regard, their currents turn awry, + And lose the name of action. + + Hamlet -- III. 1. + + + + +CONTENT. + + My crown is in my heart, not on my head; + Not decked with diamonds and Indian stones, + Nor to be seen; my crown is called “content;” + A crown it is, that seldom kings enjoy. + + King Henry VI., Part 3d - III. 1. + + + + +CONTENTION. + + How, in one house, + Should many people, under two commands, + Hold amity? + + King Lear -- II. 4. + + + When two authorities are set up, + Neither supreme, how soon confusion + May enter twixt the gap of both, and take + The one by the other. + + Coriolanus -- III. 1. + + + + +CONTENTMENT. + + 'Tis better to be lowly born, + And range with humble livers in content, + Than to be perked up in a glistering grief, + And wear a golden sorrow. + + King Henry VIII. -- II. 3. + + + + +COWARDS. + + Cowards die many times before their deaths; + The valiant never taste of death but once. + + Julius Caesar -- II. 2. + + + + +CUSTOM. + + That monster, custom, who all sense doth eat + Of habit's devil, is angel yet in this: + That to the use of actions fair and good + He likewise gives a frock, or livery, + That aptly is put on: Refrain to-night: + And that shall lend a kind of easiness + To the next abstinence: the next more easy: + For use almost can change the stamp of nature, + And either curb the devil, or throw him out + With wondrous potency. + + Hamlet -- III. 4. + + + A custom + More honored in the breach, then the observance. + + Idem -- I. 4. + + + + +DEATH. + + Kings, and mightiest potentates, must die; + For that's the end of human misery. + + King Henry VI., Part 1st -- III. 2. + + + Of all the wonders that I yet have heard, + It seems to me most strange that men should fear; + Seeing that death, a necessary end, + Will come, when it will come. + + Julius Caesar -- II. 2. + + + The dread of something after death, + Makes us rather bear those ills we have, + Than fly to others we know not of. + + Hamlet -- III. 1. + + + The sense of death is most in apprehension. + + Measure for Measure -- III. 1. + + + By medicine life may be prolonged, yet death + Will seize the doctor too. + + Cymbeline -- V. 5. + + + + +DECEPTION. + + The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. + An evil soul, producing holy witness, + Is like a villain with a smiling cheek; + A goodly apple rotten at the heart; + O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath! + + Merchant of Venice -- I. 3. + + + + +DEEDS. + + Foul deeds will rise, + Though all the earth o'erwhelm them to men's eyes. + + Hamlet -- I. 2. + + + How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds, + Makes deeds ill done! + + King John -- IV. 2. + + + + +DELAY. + + That we would do, + We should do when we would; for this would changes, + And hath abatements and delays as many, + As there are tongues, are hands, are accidents; + And then this should is like a spendthrift sigh, + That hurts by easing. + + Hamlet -- IV. 7. + + + + +DELUSION. + + For love of grace, + Lay not that flattering unction to your soul; + It will but skin and film the ulcerous place; + Whiles rank corruption, mining all within, + Infects unseen. + + Hamlet -- III. 4. + + + + +DISCRETION. + + Let's teach ourselves that honorable stop, + Not to outsport discretion. + + Othello -- II. 3. + + + + +DOUBTS AND FEARS. + + I am cabin'd, cribb'd, confined, bound in + To saucy doubts and fears. + + Macbeth -- III. 4. + + + + +DRUNKENNESS. + + Boundless intemperance. + In nature is a tyranny; it hath been + Th' untimely emptying of the happy throne, + And fall of many kings. + + Measure for Measure -- I. 3. + + + + +DUTY OWING TO OURSELVES AND OTHERS. + + Love all, trust a few, + Do wrong to none; be able for thine enemy + Rather in power, than use; and keep thy friend + Under thy own life's key; be checked for silence, + But never taxed for speech. + + All's Well that Ends Well -- I. 1. + + + + +EQUIVOCATION. + + But yet + I do not like but yet, it does allay + The good precedence; fye upon but yet: + But yet is as a gailer to bring forth + Some monstrous malefactor. + + Antony and Cleopatra -- II. 5. + + + + +EXCESS. + + A surfeit of the sweetest things + The deepest loathing to the stomach brings. + + Midsummer Night's Dream -- II. 3. + + + Every inordinate cup is unblessed, + and the ingredient is a devil. + + Othello -- II. 3. + + + + +FALSEHOOD. + + Falsehood, cowardice, and poor descent, + Three things that women hold in hate. + + Two Gentlemen of Verona -- III. 2. + + + + +FEAR. + + Fear frames disorder, and disorder wounds + Where it should guard. + + King Henry VI., Part 2d -- V. 2. + + + Fear, and be slain; no worse can come, to fight: + And fight and die, is death destroying death; + Where fearing dying, pays death servile breath. + + King Richard II. -- III. 2. + + + + +FEASTS. + + Small cheer, and great welcome, makes a merry feast. + + Comedy of Errors -- III. 1. + + + + +FILIAL INGRATITUDE. + + Ingratitude! Thou marble-hearted fiend, + More hideous, when thou showest thee in a child, + Than the sea-monster. + + King Lear -- I. 4. + + + How sharper than a serpent's tooth it is + To have a thankless child + + Idem -- I. 4. + + + + +FORETHOUGHT. + + Determine on some course, + More than a wild exposure to each cause + That starts i' the way before thee. + + Coriolanus -- IV. 1. + + + + +FORTITUDE. + + Yield not thy neck + To fortune's yoke, but let thy dauntless mind + Still ride in triumph over all mischance. + + King Henry VI., Part 3d -- III. 3. + + + + +FORTUNE. + + When fortune means to men most good, + She looks upon them with a threatening eye. + + King John -- III. 4. + + + + +GREATNESS. + + Farewell, a long farewell, to all my greatness! + This is the state of man: To-day he puts forth + The tender leaves of hope, to-morrow blossoms, + And bears his blushing honors thick upon him; + The third day, comes a frost, a killing frost; + And,--when he thinks, good easy man, full surely + His greatness is ripening,--nips his root, + And then he falls, as I do. + + King Henry VIII. -- III. 2. + + + Some are born great, some achieve greatness, + and some have greatness thrust upon them. + + Twelfth Night -- II. 5. + + + + +HAPPINESS. + + O, how bitter a thing it is to look into happiness + through another man's eyes. + + As You Like It -- V. 2. + + + + +HONESTY. + + An honest man is able to speak for himself, + when a knave is not. + + King Henry VI., Part 2d -- V. 1. + + + To be honest, as this world goes, is to be + one man picked out of ten thousand. + + Hamlet -- II. 2. + + + + +HYPOCRISY. + + Devils soonest tempt, + resembling spirits of light. + + Love's Labor Lost -- IV. 3. + + + One may smile, and smile, + and be a villain. + + Hamlet -- I. 5. + + + + + +INNOCENCE. + + The trust I have is in mine innocence, + And therefore am I bold and resolute. + + Troilus and Cressida -- IV. 4. + + + + +INSINUATIONS. + + The shrug, the hum, or ha; these petty brands, + That calumny doth use;-- + For calumny will sear + Virtue itself:--these shrugs, these bums, and ha's, + When you have said, she's goodly, come between, + Ere you can say she's honest. + + Winter's Tale -- II. 1. + + + + +JEALOUSY. + + Trifles, light as air, + Are, to the jealous, confirmations strong + As proofs of holy writ. + + Othello -- III. 3. + + + O beware of jealousy: + It is the green-eyed monster, which does mock + The meat it feeds on. + + Idem. + + + + +JESTS. + + A jest's prosperity lies in the ear + of him that hears it. + + Love's Labor Lost -- V. 2. + + + He jests at scars, + that never felt a wound. + + Romeo and Juliet -- II. 2. + + + + +JUDGMENT. + + Heaven is above all; there sits a Judge, + That no king can corrupt. + + King Henry VIII, -- III. 1. + + + + +LIFE. + + Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player, + That struts and frets his hour upon the stage, + And then is heard no more: it is a tale + Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, + Signifying nothing. + + Macbeth -- V. 5. + + + We are such stuff + As dreams are made of, and our little life + Is rounded with a sleep. + + The Tempest -- IV. 1. + + + + +LOVE. + + A murd'rous, guilt shows not itself more soon, + Than love that would seem bid: love's night is noon. + + Twelfth Night -- III. 2. + + + Sweet love, changing his property, + Turns to the sourest and most deadly hate. + + King Richard II. -- III. 2. + + + When love begins to sicken and decay, + It useth an enforced ceremony. + + Julius Caesar -- II. 2. + + + The course of true-love + never did run smooth. + + Midsummer Night's Dream -- I. 1. + + + Love looks not with the eyes, + but with the mind. + + Idem. + + + She never told her love,-- + But let concealment, like a worm i' th' bud, + Feed on her damask check: she pined in thought + And, with a green and yellow melancholy, + She sat like Patience on a monument, + Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed? + + Twelfth Night -- II. 4. + + + But love is blind, and lovers cannot see + The pretty follies that themselves commit. + + The Merchant of Venice -- II. 6. + + + + +MAN. + + What a piece of work is man! How noble in reason! + How infinite in faculties! in form, and moving, + how express and admirable! in action, how like + an angel! in apprehension, how like a god! the + beauty of the world! the paragon of animals! + + Hamlet -- II. 2. + + + + +MERCY. + + The quality of mercy is not strained: + it droppeth, as the gentle rain from heaven, + Upon the place beneath: it is twice bless'd; + It blesses him that gives, and him that takes: + 'Tis mightiest in the mightiest: it becomes + The throned monarch better than his crown: + His scepter shows the force of temporal power, + The attribute to awe and majesty, + Wherein doth sit the dread and fear of kings; + But mercy is above this sceptered sway; + It is enthroned in the hearts of kings; + It is an attribute to God himself; + And earthly power doth then show likest God's, + When mercy seasons justice. + Consider this,-- + That, in the course of justice, none of us + Should see salvation: we do pray for mercy; + And that same prayer doth teach us all to render + The deeds of mercy. + + Merchant of Venice -- IV. 1. + + + + +MERIT. + + Who shall go about + To cozen fortune, and be honorable + Without the stamp of merit! Let none presume + To wear an undeserved dignity. + + Merchant of Venice -- II. 9. + + + + +MODESTY. + + It is the witness still of excellency, + To put a strange face on his own perfection. + + Much Ado About Nothing -- II. 3. + + + + +MORAL CONQUEST. + + Brave conquerors! for so you are, + That war against your own affections, + And the huge army of the world's desires. + + Love's Labor's Lost -- I. 1. + + + + +MURDER. + + The great King of kings + Hath in the table of his law commanded, + That thou shalt do no murder. + Take heed; for he holds vengeance in his band, + To hurl upon their heads thatbreak his law. + + King Richard III. -- I. 4. + + + Blood, like sacrificing Abel's, cries, + Even from the tongueless caverns of the earth. + + King Richard II. -- I. 1. + + + + +MUSIC. + + The man that hath no music in himself, + Nor is not moved with concord of sweet sounds, + Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils; + The motions of his spirit are dull as night, + And his affections dark as Erebus: + Let no such man be trusted. + + Merchant of Venice -- V. 1. + + + + +NAMES. + + What's in a name? that, which we call a rose, + By any other name would smell as sweet. + + Romeo and Juliet -- II. 2. + + + Good name, in man, and woman, + Is the immediate jewel of their souls: + Who steals my purse steals trash; 'tis something, nothing. + 'Twas mine, 'tis his, and has been slave to thousands: + But he, that filches from me my good name, + Robs me of that, which not enriches him, + And makes me poor indeed. + + Othello -- III. 3. + + + + +NATURE. + + One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. + + Troilus and Cressida -- III. 3. + + + + +NEWS, GOOD AND BAD. + + Though it be honest, it is never good + To bring bad news. Give to a gracious message + An host of tongues; but let ill tidings tell + Themselves, when they be felt. + + Antony and Cleopatra -- II. 5. + + + + +OFFICE. + + 'Tis the curse of service; + Preferment goes by letter, and affection, + Not by the old gradation, where each second + Stood heir to the first. + + Othello -- I. 1. + + + + +OPPORTUNITY. + + Who seeks, and will not take when offered, + Shall never find it more. + + Antony and Cleopatra -- II. 7. + + + There is a tide in the affairs of men, + Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune; + Omitted, all the voyage of their life + Is bound in shallows, and in miseries: + And we must take the current when it serves, + Or lose our ventures. + + Julius Caesar -- IV. 3. + + + + +OPPRESSION. + + Press not a falling man too far; 'tis virtue: + His faults lie open to the laws; let them, + Not you, correct them. + + King Henry VIII. -- III. 2. + + + + +PAST AND FUTURE. + + O thoughts of men accurst! + Past, and to come, seem best; things present, worst. + + King Henry IV., Part 2d -- I. 3. + + + + +PATIENCE. + + How poor are they, that have not patience!-- + What wound did ever heal, but by degrees? + + Othello -- II. 3. + + + + +PEACE. + + A peace is of the nature of a conquest; + For then both parties nobly are subdued, + And neither party loser. + + King Henry IV., Part 2d -- IV. 2. + + + I will use the olive with my sword: + Make war breed peace; make peace stint war; make each + Prescribe to other, as each other's leech. + + Timon of Athens -- V. 5. + + + I know myself now; and I feel within me + A peace above all earthly dignities, + A still and quiet conscience. + + King Henry VIII. -- III. 2. + + + + +PENITENCE. + + Who by repentance is not satisfied, + Is nor of heaven, nor earth; for these are pleased; + By penitence the Eternal's wrath appeased. + + Two Gentlemen of Verona -- V. 4. + + + + +PLAYERS. + + All the world's a stage, + And all the men and women merely players: + They have their exits and their entrances; + And one man in his time plays many parts. + + As You Like It -- II. 7. + + + There be players, that I have seen play,-- + and heard others praise, and that highly,-- + not to speak it profanely, that, + neither having the accent of Christians, + nor the gait of Christian, Pagan, nor man, + have so strutted, and bellowed, + that I have thought some of nature's journeymen + had made men and not made them well, + they imitated humanity so abominably. + + Hamlet -- III. 2. + + + + +POMP. + + Why, what is pomp, rule, reign, but earth and dust? + And, live we how we can, yet die we must. + + King Henry V. Part 3d -- V. 2. + + + + +PRECEPT AND PRACTICE. + + If to do were as easy as to know what were good + to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's + cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that + follows his own instructions: I can easier teach + twenty what were good to be done, than be one of + twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may + devise laws for the blood; but a hot temper leaps + o'er a cold decree: such a bare is madness, the + youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel, + the cripple. + + The Merchant of Venice -- I. 2. + + + + +PRINCES AND TITLES. + + Princes have but their titles for their glories, + An outward honor for an inward toil; + And, for unfelt imaginations, + They often feel a world of restless cares: + So that, between their titles, and low name, + There's nothing differs but the outward fame. + + King Richard III. -- I. 4. + + + + +QUARRELS. + + In a false quarrel these is no true valor. + + Much Ado About Nothing -- V. 1. + + + Thrice is he armed that hath his quarrel just; + And he but naked, though locked up in steel, + Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted. + + King Henry VI., Part 2d -- III. 2. + + + + +RAGE. + + Men in rage strike those that wish them best. + + Othello -- II. 3. + + + + +REPENTANCE. + + Men shall deal unadvisedly sometimes, + Which after-hours give leisure to repent. + + King Richard III. -- IV. 4. + + + + +REPUTATION. + + The purest treasure mortal times afford, + Is--spotless reputation; that away, + Men are but gilded loam, or painted clay. + A jewel in a ten-times-barred-up chest + I-- a bold spirit in a loyal breast. + + King Richard II. -- I. 1. + + + + +RETRIBUTION. + + The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices + Make instruments to scourge us. + + King Lear -- V. S. + + + If these men have defeated the law, + and outrun native punishment, + though they can outstrip men, + they have no wings to fly from God. + + King Henry V. -- IV. 1. + + + + +SCARS. + + A sear nobly got, or a noble scar, + is a good livery of honor. + + All's Well that Ends Well -- IV. 6. + + + To such as boasting show their scars, + A mock is due. + + Troilus and Cressida -- IV. 5. + + + + +SELF-CONQUEST. + + Better conquest never can'st thou make, + Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts + Against those giddy loose suggestions. + + King John -- III. 1. + + + + +SELF-EXERTION. + + Men at some time are masters of their fates; + The fault is not in our stars, + But in ourselves. + + Julius Caesar -- I. 2. + + + + +SELF-RELIANCE. + + Our remedies oft in ourselves do lie, + Which we ascribe to heaven: the fated sky + Gives us free scope; only, doth backward pull + Our slow designs, when we ourselves are dull. + + All's Well that Ends Well -- I. 1. + + + + +SILENCE. + + Out of this silence, yet I picked a welcome; + And in the modesty of fearful duty + I read as much, as from the rattling tongue + Of saucy and audacious eloquence. + + Midsummer Night's Dream -- V. 1. + + + The silence often of pure innocence + Persuades, when speaking fails. + + Winter's Tale -- II. 2. + + + Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: + I were but little happy, if I could say how much. + + Much Ado About Nothing -- II. 1. + + + + +SLANDER. + + Slander, + Whose edge is sharper than the sword; whose tongue + Outvenoms all the worms of Nile; whose breath + Rides on the posting winds, and doth belie + All corners of the world; kings, queens, and states, + Maids, matrons, nay, the secrets of the grave, + This viperous slander enters. + + Cymbeline -- III. 4. + + + + +SLEEP. + + The innocent sleep; + Sleep that knits up the raveled sleeve of care, + The death of each day's life, sore labor's bath, + Balm of hurt minds, great nature's second course, + Chief nourisher in life's feast. + + Macbeth -- II. 2. + + + + +SUICIDE. + + Against self-slaughter + There is a prohibition so divine, + That cravens my weak hand. + + Cymbeline -- III. 4. + + + + +TEMPERANCE. + + Though I look old, yet am I strong and lusty: + For in my youth I never did apply + Hot and rebellious liquors in my blood; + Nor did not with unbashful forehead woo + The means of weakness and debility: + Therefore my age is as a lusty winter, + Frosty, but kindly. + + As You Like It -- II. 3. + + + + +THEORY AND PRACTICE. + + There was never yet philosopher, + That could endure the tooth-ache patiently; + However, they have writ the style of the gods, + And made a pish at chance and sufferance. + + Much Ado About Nothing -- V. 1. + + + + +TREACHERY. + + Though those, that are betrayed, + Do feel the treason sharply, yet the traitor + Stands in worse case of woe. + + Cymbeline -- III. 4. + + + + +VALOR. + + The better part of valor is--discretion. + + King Henry IV., Part 1st -- V. 4. + + + When Valor preys on reason, + It eats the sword it fights with. + + Antony and Cleopatra -- III. 2. + + + What valor were it, when a cur doth grin + For one to thrust his band between his teeth, + When he might spurn him with his foot away? + + King Henry VI., Part 1st -- I. 4. + + + + +WAR. + + Take care + How you awake the sleeping sword of war: + We charge you in the name of God, take heed. + + King Henry IV., Part 1st -- I. 2. + + + + +WELCOME. + + Welcome ever smiles, + And farewell goes out sighing. + + Troilus and Cressida -- III. 3. + + + + +WINE. + + Good wine is a good familiar creature, + if it be well used. + + Othello -- II. 3. + + + O thou invisible spirit of wine, + if thou hast no name to be known by, + let us call thee --devil!. . . O, that + men should put an enemy in their mouths, + to steal away their brains! + that we should with joy, revel, + pleasure, and applause, + transform ourselves into beasts! + + Othello -- II. 3. + + + + +WOMAN. + + A woman impudent and mannish grown + Is not more loathed than an effeminate man. + + Troilus and Cressida -- III. 3. + + + + +WORDS. + + Words without thoughts + never to heaven go. + + Hamlet -- III. 3. + + + Few words shall fit the trespass best, + Where no excuse can give the fault amending. + + Troilus and Cressida -- III. 2. + + + + +WORLDLY CARE. + + You have too much respect upon the world: + They lose it, that do buy it with much care. + + Merchant of Venice -- I. 1. + + + + +WORLDLY HONORS. + + Not a man, for being simply man, + Hath any honor; but honor for those honors + That are without him, as place, riches, favor, + Prizes of accident as oftas merit; + Which when they fall, as being slippery standers, + The love that leaned on them, as slippery too, + Do one pluck down another, and together + Die in the fall. But 'tis not so with me. + + Troilus and Cressida -- III. 3. + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 1430 *** |