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Tales from Shakespeare

by Charles Lamb · English · Gutenberg #573 · 581,083 chars · public domain (US)

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Title: Tales from Shakespeare

Author: Charles Lamb
        Mary Lamb


        
Release date: June 1, 1996 [eBook #573]
                Most recently updated: May 25, 2025

Language: English

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/573

Credits: Tokuya Matsumoto


*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE ***




TALES FROM SHAKESPEARE


by

CHARLES AND MARY LAMB




PREFACE

The following Tales are meant to be submitted to the young reader as an
introduction to the study of Shakespeare, for which purpose his words
are used whenever it seemed possible to bring them in; and in whatever
has been added to give them the regular form of a connected story,
diligent are has been taken to select such words as might least
interrupt the effect of the beautiful English tongue in which he wrote:
therefore, words introduced into our language since his time have been
as far as possible avoided.

In those tales which have been taken from the Tragedies, the young
readers will perceive, when they come to see the source from which
these stories are derived, that Shakespeare's own words, with little
alteration, recur very frequently in the narrative as well as in the
dialogue; but in those made from the Comedies the writers found
themselves scarcely ever able to turn his words into the narrative
form: therefore it is feared that, in them, dialogue has been made use
of too frequently for young people not accustomed to the dramatic form
of writing. But this fault, if it be a fault, has been caused by an
earnest wish to give as much of Shakespeare's own words as possible:
and if the 'He said,' and 'She said,' the question and the reply,
should sometimes seem tedious to their young ears, they must pardon it,
because it was the only way in which could be given to them a few hints
and little foretastes of the great pleasure which awaits them in their
elder years, when they come to the rich treasures from which these
small and valueless coins are extracted; pretending to no other merit
than as faint and imperfect stamps of Shakespeare's matchless image.
Faint and imperfect images they must be called, because the beauty of
his language is too frequently destroyed by the necessity of changing
many of his excellent words into words far less expressive of his true
sense, to make it read something like prose; and even in some few
places, where his blank verse is given unaltered, as hoping from its
simple plainness to cheat the young reader into the belief that they
are reading prose, yet still his language being transplanted from its
own natural soil and wild poetic garden, it must want much of its
native beauty.

It has been wished to make these Tales easy reading for very young
children. To the utmost of their ability the writers have constantly
kept this in mind; but the subjects of most of them made this a very
difficult task. It was no easy matter to give the histories of men and
women in terms familiar to the apprehension of a very young mind. For
young ladies too, it has been the intention chiefly to write; because
boys being generally permitted the use of their fathers' libraries at a
much earlier age than girls are, they frequently have the best scenes
of Shakespeare by heart, before their sisters are permitted to look
into this manly book; and, therefore, instead of recommending these
Tales to the perusal of young gentlemen who can read them so much
better in the originals, their kind assistance is rather requested in
explaining to their sisters such parts as are hardest for them to
understand: and when they have helped them to get over the
difficulties, then perhaps they will read to them (carefully selecting
what is proper for a young sister's ear) some passage which has pleased
them in one of these stories, in the very words of the scene from which
it is taken; and it is hoped they will find that the beautiful
extracts, the select passages, they may choose to give their sisters in
this way will be much better relished and understood from their having
some notion of the general story from one of these imperfect
abridgments; which if they be fortunately so done as to prove
delightful to any of the young readers, it is hoped that no worse
effect will result than to make them wish themselves a little older,
that they may be allowed to read the Plays at full length (such a wish
will be neither peevish nor irrational). When time and leave of
judicious friends shall put them into their hands, they will discover
in such of them as are here abridged (not to mention almost as many
more, which are left untouched) many surprising events and turns of
fortune, which for their infinite variety could not be contained in
this little book, besides a world of sprightly and cheerful characters,
both men and women, the humour of which it was feared would be lost if
it were attempted to reduce the length of them.

What these Tales shall have been to the young readers, that and much
more it is the writers' wish that the true Plays of Shakespeare may
prove to them in older years enrichers of the fancy, strengtheners of
virtue, a withdrawing from all selfish and mercenary thoughts, a lesson
of all sweet and honourable thoughts and actions, to teach courtesy,
benignity, generosity, humanity: for of examples, teaching these
virtues, his pages are full.




CONTENTS

  THE TEMPEST
  A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM
  THE WINTER'S TALE
  MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING
  AS YOU LIKE IT
  THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA
  THE MERCHANT OF VENICE
  CYMBELINE
  KING LEAR
  MACBETH
  ALL'S WELL THAT ENDS WELL
  THE TAMING OF THE SHREW
  THE COMEDY OF ERRORS
  MEASURE FOR MEASURE
  TWELFTH NIGHT; OR, WHAT YOU WILL
  TIMON OF ATHENS
  ROMEO AND JULIET
  HAMLET, PRINCE OF DENMARK
  OTHELLO
  PERICLES, PRINCE OF TYRE




THE TEMPEST


There was a certain island in the sea, the only inhabitants of which
were an old man, whose name was Prospero, and his daughter Miranda, a
very beautiful young lady. She came to this island so young, that she
had no memory of having seen any other human face than her father's.

They lived in a cave or cell, made out of a rock; it was divided into
several apartments, one of which Prospero called his study; there he
kept his books, which chiefly treated of magic, a study at that time
much affected by all learned men: and the knowledge of this art he
found very useful to him; for being thrown by a strange chance upon
this island, which had been enchanted by a witch called Sycorax, who
died there a short time before his arrival, Prospero, by virtue of his
art, released many good spirits that Sycorax had imprisoned in the
bodies of large trees, because they had refused to execute her wicked
commands. These gentle spirits were ever after obedient to the will of
Prospero. Of these Ariel was the chief.

The lively little sprite Ariel had nothing mischievous in his nature,
except that he took rather too much pleasure in tormenting an ugly
monster called Caliban, for he owed him a grudge because he was the son
of his old enemy Sycorax. This Caliban, Prospero found in the woods, a
strange misshapen thing, far less human in form than an ape: he took
him home to his cell, and taught him to speak; and Prospero would have
been very kind to him, but the bad nature which Caliban inherited from
his mother Sycorax, would not let him learn anything good or useful:
therefore he was employed like a slave, to fetch wood, and do the most
laborious offices; and Ariel had the charge of compelling him to these
services.

When Caliban was lazy and neglected his work, Ariel (who was invisible
to all eyes but Prospero's) would come slily and pinch him, and
sometimes tumble him down in the mire; and then Ariel, in the likeness
of an ape, would make mouths at him. Then swiftly changing his shape,
in the likeness of a hedgehog, he would lie tumbling in Caliban's way,
who feared the hedgehog's sharp quills would prick his bare feet. With
a variety of suchlike vexatious tricks Ariel would often torment him,
whenever Caliban neglected the work which Prospero commanded him to do.

Having these powerful spirits obedient to his will, Prospero could by
their means command the winds, and the waves of the sea. By his orders
they raised a violent storm, in the midst of which, and struggling with
the wild sea-waves that every moment threatened to swallow it up, he
showed his daughter a fine large ship, which he told her was full of
living beings like themselves. 'O my dear father,' said she, 'if by
your art you have raised this dreadful storm, have pity on their sad
distress. See! the vessel will be dashed to pieces. Poor souls! they
will all perish. If I had power, I would sink the sea beneath the
earth, rather than the good ship should be destroyed, with all the
precious souls within her.'

'Be not so amazed, daughter Miranda,' said Prospero; 'there is no harm
done. I have so ordered it, that no person in the ship shall receive
any hurt. What I have done has been in care of you, my dear child. You
are ignorant who you are, or where you came from, and you know no more
of me, but that I am your father, and live in this poor cave Can you
remember a time before you came to this cell? I think you cannot for
you were not then three years of age.'

'Certainly I can, sir,'  replied Miranda.

'By what?' asked Prospero; 'by any other house or person? Tell me what
you can remember, my child.'

Miranda said: 'It seems to me like the recollection of a dream. But had
I not once four or five women who attended upon me?'

Prospero answered: 'You had, and more. How is it that this still lives
in your mind? Do you remember how you came here?'

'No, sir,' said Miranda, 'I remember nothing more.'

'Twelve years ago, Miranda,' continued Prospero, 'I was duke of Milan,
and you were a princess, and my only heir. I had a younger brother,
whose name was Antonio, to whom I trusted everything: and as I was fond
of retirement and deep study, I commonly left the management of my
state affairs to your uncle, my false brother (for so indeed he
proved). I, neglecting all worldly ends, buried among my books, did
dedicate my whole time to the bettering of my mind. My brother Antonio
being thus in possession of my power, began to think himself the duke
indeed. The opportunity I gave him of making himself popular among my
subjects awakened in his bad nature a proud ambition to deprive me of
my dukedom: this he soon effected with the aid of the king of Naples, a
powerful prince, who was my enemy.'

'Wherefore,' said Miranda, 'did they not that hour destroy us?'

'My child,' answered her father, 'they durst not, so dear was the love
that my people bore me. Antonio carried us on board a ship, and when we
were some leagues out at sea, he forced us into a small boat, without
either tackle, sail, or mast: there he left us, as he thought, to
perish. But a kind lord of my court, one Gonzalo, who loved me, had
privately placed in the boat, water, provisions, apparel, and some
books which I prize above my dukedom.'

'O my father,' said Miranda, 'what a trouble must I have been to you
then!'

'No, my love,' said Prospero, 'you were a little cherub that did
preserve me. Your innocent smiles made me bear up against my
misfortunes. Our food lasted till we landed on this desert island,
since when my chief delight has been in teaching you, Miranda, and well
have you profited by my instructions.'

'Heaven thank you, my dear father,' said Miranda 'Now pray tell me,
sir, your reason for raising this sea-storm?'

'Know then,' said her father, 'that by means of this storm, my enemies,
the king of Naples, and my cruel brother, are cast ashore upon this
island.'

Having so said, Prospero gently touched his daughter with his magic
wand, and she fell fast asleep; for the spirit Ariel just then
presented himself before his master, to give an account of the tempest,
and how he had disposed of the ship's company, and though the spirits
were always invisible to Miranda, Prospero did not choose she should
hear him holding converse (as would seem to her) with the empty air.

'Well, my brave spirit,' said Prospero to Ariel, 'how have you
performed your task?'

Ariel gave a lively description of the storm, and of the terrors of the
mariners; and how the king's son, Ferdinand, was the first who leaped
into the sea; and his father thought he saw his dear son swallowed up
by the waves and lost. 'But he is safe,' said Ariel, 'in a corner of
the isle, sitting with his arms folded, sadly lamenting the loss of the
king, his father, whom he concludes drowned. Not a hair of his head is
injured, and his princely garments, though drenched in the sea-waves,
look fresher than before.'

'That's my delicate Ariel,' said Prospero. 'Bring him hither: my
daughter must see this young prince. Where is the king, and my brother?'

'I left them,' answered Ariel, 'searching for Ferdinand, whom they have
little hopes of finding, thinking they saw him perish. Of the ship's
crew not one is missing; though each one thinks himself the only one
saved: and the ship, though invisible to them, is safe in the harbour.'

'Ariel,' said Prospero, 'thy charge is faithfully performed: but there
is more work yet.'

'Is there more work?' said Ariel. 'Let me remind you, master, you have
promised me my liberty. I pray, remember, I have done you worthy
service, told you no lies, made no mistakes, served you without grudge
or grumbling.'

'How now!' said Prospero. 'You do not recollect what a torment I freed
you from. Have you forgot the wicked witch Sycorax, who with age and
envy was almost bent double? Where was she born? Speak; tell me.'

'Sir, in Algiers,' said Ariel.

'O was she so?' said Prospero. 'I must recount what you have been,
which I find you do not remember. This bad witch, Sycorax, for her
witchcrafts, too terrible to enter human hearing, was banished from
Algiers, and here left by the sailors; and because you were a spirit
too delicate to execute her wicked commands, she shut you up in a tree,
where I found you howling. This torment, remember, I did free you from.'

'Pardon me, dear master,' said Ariel, ashamed to seem ungrateful; 'I
will obey your commands.'

'Do so,' said Prospero, 'and I will set you free.' He then gave orders
what further he would have him do; and away went Ariel, first to where
he had left Ferdinand, and found him still sitting on the grass in the
same melancholy posture.

'O my young gentleman,' said Ariel, when he saw him, 'I will soon move
you. You must be brought, I find, for the Lady Miranda to have a sight
of your pretty person. Come, sir, follow me.' He then began singing:

  '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.'


This strange news of his lost father soon roused the prince from the
stupid fit into which he had fallen. He followed in amazement the sound
of Ariel's voice, till it led him to Prospero and Miranda, who were
sitting under the shade of a large tree. Now Miranda had never seen a
man before, except her own father.

'Miranda,' said Prospero, 'tell me what you are looking at yonder.'

'O father,' said Miranda, in a strange surprise, 'surely that is a
spirit. Lord! how it looks about! Believe me, sir, it is a beautiful
creature. Is it not a spirit?'

'No, girl,' answered her father; 'it eats, and sleeps, and has senses
such as we have. This young man you see was in the ship. He is somewhat
altered by grief, or you might call him a handsome person. He has lost
his companions, and is wandering about to find them.'

Miranda, who thought all men had grave faces and grey beards like her
father, was delighted with the appearance of this beautiful young
prince; and Ferdinand, seeing such a lovely lady in this desert place,
and from the strange sounds he had heard, expecting nothing but
wonders, thought he was upon an enchanted island, and that Miranda was
the goddess of the place, and as such he began to address her.

She timidly answered, she was no goddess, but a simple maid, and was
going to give him an account of herself, when Prospero interrupted her.
He was well pleased to find they admired each other, for he plainly
perceived they had (as we say) fallen in love at first sight: but to
try Ferdinand's constancy, he resolved to throw some difficulties in
their way: therefore advancing forward, he addressed the prince with a
stern air, telling him, he came to the island as a spy, to take it from
him who was the lord of it. 'Follow me,' said he, 'I will tie you neck
and feet together. You shall drink sea-water; shell-lush, withered
roots, and husks of acorns shall be your food.' 'No,' said Ferdinand,
'I will resist such entertainment, till I see a more powerful enemy,'
and drew his sword; but Prospero, waving his magic wand, fixed him to
the spot where he stood, so that he had no power to move.

Miranda hung upon her father, saying: 'Why are you so ungentle? Have
pity, sir; I will be his surety. This is the second man I ever saw, and
to me he seems a true one.'

'Silence,' said the father: 'one word more will make me chide you,
girl! What! an advocate for an impostor! You think there are no more
such fine men, having seen only him and Caliban. I tell you, foolish
girl, most men as far excel this, as he does Caliban.' This he said to
prove his daughter's constancy; and she replied: 'My affections are
most humble. I have no wish to see a goodlier man.'

'Come on, young man,' said Prospero to the prince; 'you have no power
to disobey me.'

'I have not indeed,' answered Ferdinand; and not knowing that it was by
magic he was deprived of all power of resistance, he was astonished to
kind himself so strangely compelled to follow Prospero: looking back on
Miranda as long as he could see her, he said, as he went after Prospero
into the cave: 'My spirits are all bound up as if I were in a dream;
but this man's threats, and the weakness which I feel, would seem light
to me if from my prison I might once a day behold this fair maid.'

Prospero kept Ferdinand not long confined within the cell: he soon
brought out his prisoner, and set him a severe task to perform, taking
care to let his daughter know the hard labour he had imposed on him,
and then pretending to go into his study, he secretly watched them both.

Prospero had commanded Ferdinand to pile up some heavy logs of wood.
Kings' sons not being much used to laborious work, Miranda soon after
found her lover almost dying with fatigue. 'Alas!' said she, 'do not
work so hard; my father is at his studies, he is safe for these three
hours; pray rest yourself.'

'O my dear lady,' said Ferdinand, 'I dare not. I must finish my task
before I take my rest.'

'If you will sit down,' said Miranda, 'I will carry your logs the
while.' But this Ferdinand would by no means agree to. Instead of a
help Miranda became a hindrance, for they began a long conversation, so
that the business of log-carrying went on very slowly.

Prospero, who had enjoined Ferdinand this task merely as a trial of his
love, was not at his books, as his daughter supposed, but was standing
by them invisible, to overhear what they said.

Ferdinand inquired her name, which she told, saying it was against her
father's express command she did so.

Prospero only smiled at this first instance of his daughter's
disobedience, for having by his magic art caused his daughter to fall
in love so suddenly, he was not angry that she showed her love by
forgetting to obey his commands. And he listened well pleased to a long
speech of Ferdinand's, in which he professed to love her above all the
ladies he ever saw.

In answer to his praises of her beauty, which he said exceeded all the
women in the world, she replied: 'I do not remember the face of any
woman, nor have I seen any more men than you, my good friend, and my
dear father. How features are abroad, I know not: but, believe me, sir,
I would not wish any companion in the world but you, nor can my
imagination form any shape but yours that I could like. But, sir, I
fear I talk to you too freely, and my father's precepts I forget.'

At this Prospero smiled, and nodded his head, as much as to say: 'This
goes on exactly as I could wish; my girl will be queen of Naples.'

And then Ferdinand, in another fine long speech (for young princes
speak in courtly phrases), told the innocent Miranda he was heir to the
crown of Naples, and that she should be his queen.

'Ah! sir,' said she, 'I am a fool to weep at what I am glad of. I will
answer you in plain and holy innocence. I am your wife if you will
marry me.'

Prospero prevented Ferdinand's thanks by appearing visible before them.

'Fear nothing, my child,' said he; 'I have overheard, and approve of
all you have said. And, Ferdinand, if I have too severely used you, I
will make you rich amends, by giving you my daughter. All your
vexations were but trials of your love, and you have nobly stood the
test. Then as my gift, which your true love has worthily purchased,
take my daughter, and do not smile that I boast she is above all
praise.' He then, telling them that he had business which required his
presence, desired they would sit down and talk together till he
returned; and this command Miranda seemed not at all disposed to
disobey.

When Prospero left them, he called his spirit Ariel, who quickly
appeared before him, eager to relate what he had done with Prospero's
brother and the king of Naples. Ariel said he had left them almost out
of their senses with fear, at the strange things he had caused them to
see and hear. When fatigued with wandering about, and famished for want
of food, he had suddenly set before them a delicious banquet, and then,
just as they were going to eat, he appeared visible before them in the
shape of a harpy, a voracious monster with wings, and the feast
vanished away. Then, to their utter amazement, this seeming harpy spoke
to them, reminding them of their cruelty in driving Prospero from his
dukedom, and leaving him and his infant daughter to perish in the sea;
saying, that for this cause these terrors were suffered to afflict them.

The king of Naples, and Antonio the false brother, repented the
injustice they had done to Prospero; and Ariel told his master he was
certain their penitence was sincere, and that he, though a spirit,
could not but pity them.

'Then bring them hither, Ariel,' said Prospero: 'if you, who are but a
spirit, feel for their distress, shall not I, who am a human being like
themselves, have compassion on them? Bring them, quickly, my dainty
Ariel.'

Ariel soon returned with the king, Antonio, and old Gonzalo in their
train, who had followed him, wondering at the wild music he played in
the air to draw them on to his master's presence. This Gonzalo was the
same who had so kindly provided Prospero formerly with books and
provisions, when his wicked brother left him, as he thought, to perish
in an open boat in the sea.

Grief and terror had so stupefied their senses, that they did not know
Prospero. He first discovered himself to the good old Gonzalo, calling
him the preserver of his life; and then his brother and the king knew
that he was the injured Prospero.

Antonio with tears, and sad words of sorrow and true repentance,
implored his brother's forgiveness, and the king expressed his sincere
remorse for having assisted Antonio to depose his brother: and Prospero
forgave them and, upon their engaging to restore his dukedom, he said
to the king of Naples: 'I have a gift in store for you too'; and
opening a door, showed him his son Ferdinand playing at chess with
Miranda.

Nothing could exceed the joy of the father and the son at this
unexpected meeting, for they each thought the other drowned in the
storm.

'O wonder!' said Miranda, 'what noble creatures these are! It must
surely be a brave world that has such people in it.'

The king of Naples was almost as much astonished at the beauty and
excellent graces of the young Miranda, as his son had been. 'Who is
this maid?' said he; 'she seems the goddess that has parted us, and
brought us thus together.' 'No, sir,' answered Ferdinand, smiling to
find his father had fallen into the same mistake that he had done when
he first saw Miranda, 'she is a mortal but by immortal Providence she
is mine; I chose her when I could not ask you, my father, for your
consent, not thinking you were alive. She is the daughter to this
Prospero, who is the famous duke of Milan, of whose renown I have heard
so much, but never saw him till now: of him I have received a new life:
he has made himself to me a second father, giving me this dear lady.'

'Then I must be her father,' said the king; 'but oh! how oddly will it
sound, that I must ask my child forgiveness.'

'No more of that,' said Prospero: 'let us not remember our troubles
past, since they so happily have ended.' And then Prospero embraced his
brother, and again assured him of his forgiveness; and said that a wise
overruling Providence had permitted that he should be driven from his
poor dukedom of Milan, that his daughter might inherit the crown of
Naples, for that by their meeting in this desert island, it had
happened that the king's son had loved Miranda.

These kind words which Prospero spoke, meaning to comfort his brother,
so filled Antonio with shame and remorse, that he wept and was unable
to speak; and the kind old Gonzalo wept to see this joyful
reconciliation, and prayed for blessings on the young couple.

Prospero now told them that their ship was safe in the harbour, and the
sailors all on board her, and that he and his daughter would accompany
them home the next morning. 'In the meantime,' says he, 'partake of
such refreshments as my poor cave affords; and for your evening's
entertainment I will relate the history of my life from my first
landing in this desert island.' He then called for Caliban to prepare
some food, and set the cave in order; and the company were astonished
at the uncouth form and savage appearance of this ugly monster, who
(Prospero said) was the only attendant he had to wait upon him.

Before Prospero left the island, he dismissed Ariel from his service,
to the great joy of that lively little spirit; who, though he had been
a faithful servant to his master, was always longing to enjoy his free
liberty, to wander uncontrolled in the air, like a wild bird, under
green trees, among pleasant fruits, and sweet-smelling flowers. 'My
quaint Ariel,' said Prospero to the little sprite when he made him
free, 'I shall miss you; yet you shall have your freedom.' 'Thank you,
my dear master,' said Ariel; 'but give me leave to attend your ship
home with prosperous gales, before you bid farewell to the assistance
of your faithful spirit; and then, master, when I am free, how merrily
I shall live!' Here Ariel sung this pretty song:

  Where the bee sucks there suck I;
  In a cowslip's bell I lie;
  There I crouch 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.'


Prospero then buried deep in the earth his magical books and wand, for
he was resolved never more to make use of the magic art. And having
thus overcome his enemies, and being reconciled to his brother and the
king of Naples, nothing now remained to complete his happiness, but to
revisit his native land, to take possession of his dukedom, and to
witness the happy nuptials of his daughter and Prince Ferdinand, which
the king said should be instantly celebrated with great splendour on
their return to Naples. At which place, under the safe convoy of the
spirit Ariel, they, after a pleasant voyage, soon arrived.




A MIDSUMMER NIGHT'S DREAM


There was a law in the city of Athens which gave to its citizens the
power of compelling their daughters to marry whomsoever they pleased;
for upon a daughter's refusing to marry the man her father had chosen
to be her husband, the father was empowered by this law to cause her to
be put to death; but as fathers do not often desire the death of their
own daughters, even though they do happen to prove a little refractory,
this law was seldom or never put in execution, though perhaps the young
ladies of that city were not unfrequently threatened by their parents
with the terrors of it.

There was one instance, however, of an old man, whose name was Egeus,
who actually did come before Theseus (at that time the reigning duke of
Athens), to complain that his daughter Hermia, whom he had commanded to
marry Demetrius, a young man of a noble Athenian family, refused to
obey him, because she loved another young Athenian, named Lysander.
Egeus demanded justice of Theseus, and desired that this cruel law
might be put in force against his daughter.

Hermia pleaded in excuse for her disobedience, that Demetrius had
formerly professed love for her dear friend Helena, and that Helena
loved Demetrius to distraction; but this honourable reason, which
Hermia gave for not obeying her father's command, moved not the stern
Egeus.

Theseus, though a great and merciful prince, had no power to alter the
laws of his country; therefore he could only give Hermia four days to
consider of it: and at the end of that time, if she still refused to
marry Demetrius, she was to be put to death.

When Hermia was dismissed from the presence of the duke, she went to
her lover Lysander, and told him the peril she was in, and that she
must either give him up and marry Demetrius, or lose her life in four
days.

Lysander was in great affliction at hearing these evil tidings; but
recollecting that he had an aunt who lived at some distance from
Athens, and that at the place where she lived the cruel law could not
be put in force against Hermia (this law not extending beyond the
boundaries of the city), he proposed to Hermia that she should steal
out of her father's house that night, and go with him to his aunt's
house, where he would marry her. 'I will meet you,' said Lysander, 'in
the wood a few miles without the city; in that delightful wood where we
have so often walked with Helena in the pleasant month of May.'

To this proposal Hermia joyfully agreed; and she told no one of her
intended flight but her friend Helena. Helena (as maidens will do
foolish things for love) very ungenerously resolved to go and tell this
to Demetrius, though she could hope no benefit from betraying her
friend's secret, but the poor pleasure of following her faithless lover
to the wood; for she well knew that Demetrius would go thither in
pursuit of Hermia.

The wood in which Lysander and Hermia proposed to meet was the
favourite haunt of those little beings known by the name of Fairies.

Oberon the king, and Titania the queen of the fairies, with all their
tiny train of followers, in this wood held their midnight revels.

Between this little king and queen of sprites there happened, at this
time, a sad disagreement; they never met by moonlight in the shady
walks of this pleasant wood, but they were quarrelling, till all their
fairy elves would creep into acorn-cups and hide themselves for fear.

The cause of this unhappy disagreement was Titania's refusing to give
Oberon a little changeling boy, whose mother had been Titania's friend;
and upon her death the fairy queen stole the child from its nurse, and
brought him up in the woods.

The night on which the lovers were to meet in this wood, as Titania was
walking with some of her maids of honour, she met Oberon attended by
his train of fairy courtiers.

'I'll met by moonlight, proud Titania,' said the fairy king. The queen
replied: 'What, jealous Oberon, is it you? Fairies, skip hence; I have
foresworn his company.' 'Tarry, rash fairy,' said Oberon; 'am not I thy
lord? Why does Titania cross her Oberon? Give me your little changeling
boy to be my page.'

Set your heart at rest,' answered the queen; 'your whole fairy kingdom
buys not the boy of me.' She then left her lord in great anger. 'Well,
go your way,' said Oberon 'before the morning dawns I will torment you
for this injury.'

Oberon then sent for Puck, his chief favourite and privy counsellor.

Puck (or as he was sometimes called, Robin Goodfellow) was a shrewd and
knavish sprite, that used to play comical pranks in the neighbouring
villages; sometimes getting into the dairies and skimming the milk,
sometimes plunging his light and airy form into the butter-churn, and
while he was dancing his fantastic shape in the churn, in vain the
dairymaid would labour to change her cream into butter: nor had the
village swains any better success; whenever Puck chose to play his
freaks in the brewing copper, the ale was sure to be spoiled. When a
few good neighbours were met to drink some comfortable ale together,
Puck would jump into the bowl of ale in the likeness of a roasted crab,
and when some old goody was going to drink he would bob against her
lips, and spill the ale over her withered chin; and presently after,
when the same old dame was gravely seating herself to tell her
neighbours a sad and melancholy story, Puck would slip her three-legged
stool from under her, and down toppled the poor old woman, and then the
old gossips would hold their sides and laugh at her, and swear they
never wasted a merrier hour.

'Come hither, Puck,' said Oberon to this little merry wanderer of the
night; 'fetch me the flower which maids call Lore in Idleness; the
juice of that little purple flower laid on the eyelids of those who
sleep, will make them, when they awake, dote on the first thing they
see. Some of the juice of that flower I will drop on the eyelids of my
Titania when she is asleep; and the first thing she looks upon when she
opens her eyes she will fall in love with, even though it be a lion or
a bear, a meddling monkey, or a busy ape; and before I will take this
charm from off her sight, which I can do with another charm I know of,
I will make her give me that boy to be my page.'

Puck, who loved mischief to his heart, was highly diverted with this
intended frolic of his master, and ran to seek the flower; and while
Oberon was waiting the return of Puck, he observed Demetrius and Helena
enter the wood: he overheard Demetrius reproaching Helena for following
him, and after many unkind words on his part, and gentle expostulations
from Helena, reminding him of his former love and professions of true
faith to her, he left her (as he said) to the mercy of the wild beasts,
and she ran after him as swiftly as she could.

The fairy king, who was always friendly to true lovers, felt great
compassion for Helena; and perhaps, as Lysander said they used to walk
by moonlight in this pleasant wood, Oberon might have seen Helena in
those happy times when she was beloved by Demetrius. However that might
be, when Puck returned with the little purple flower, Oberon said to
his favourite: 'Take a part of this flower; there has been a sweet
Athenian lady here, who is in love with a disdainful youth; if you find
him sleeping, drop some of the love-juice in his eyes, but contrive to
do it when she is near him, that the first thing he sees when he awakes
may be this despised lady. You will know the man by the Athenian
garments which he wears.' Puck promised to manage this matter very
dexterously: and then Oberon went, unperceived by Titania, to her
bower, where she was preparing to go to rest. Her fairy bower was a
bank, where grew wild thyme, cowslips, and sweet violets, under a
canopy of wood-bine, musk-roses, and eglantine. There Titania always
slept some part of the night; her coverlet the enamelled skin of a
snake, which, though a small mantle, was wide enough to wrap a fairy in.

He found Titania giving orders to her fairies, how they were to employ
themselves while she slept. 'Some of you,' said her majesty, 'must kill
cankers in the musk-rose buds, and some wage war with the bats for
their leathern wings, to make my small elves coats; and some of you
keep watch that the clamorous owl, that nightly hoots, come not near
me: but first sing me to sleep.' Then they began to sing this song:

  'You spotted snakes with double tongue,
  Thorny hedgehogs, be not seen
  Newts and blind-worms do no wrong
  Come not near our Fairy Queen.
  Philomel, with melody
  Sing in our sweet lullaby
  Lulla, lulla, lullaby; lulla, lulla, lullaby;
  Never harm, nor spell, nor charm,
  Come our lovely lady nigh;
  So good night with lullaby.'


When the fairies had sung their queen asleep with this pretty lullaby,
they left her to perform the important services she had enjoined them.
Oberon then softly drew near his Titania, and dropped some of the
love-juice on her eyelids, saying:

  'What thou seest when thou wake
  Do it for thy true-love take.'


But to return to Hermia, who made her escape out of her father's house
that night, to avoid the death she was doomed to for refusing to marry
Demetrius. When she entered the wood, she found her dear Lysander
waiting for her, to conduct her to his aunt's house; but before they
had passed half through the wood, Hermia was so much fatigued, that
Lysander, who was very careful of this dear lady, who had proved her
affection for him even by hazarding her life for his sake, persuaded
her to rest till morning on a bank of soft moss, and lying down himself
on the ground at some little distance, they soon fell fast asleep. Here
they were found by Puck, who, seeing a handsome young man asleep, and
perceiving that his clothes were made in the Athenian fashion, and that
a pretty lady was sleeping near him, concluded that this must be the
Athenian maid and her disdainful lover whom Oberon had sent him to
seek; and he naturally enough conjectured that, as they were alone
together, she must be the first thing he would see when he awoke; so,
without more ado, he proceeded to pour some of the juice of the little
purple flower into his eyes. But it so fell out, that Helena came that
way, and, instead of Hermia, was the first object Lysander beheld when
he opened his eyes; and strange to relate, so powerful was the
love-charm, all his love for Hermia vanished away, and Lysander fell in
love with Helena.

Had he first seen Hermia when he awoke, the blunder Puck committed
would have been of no consequence, for he could not love that faithful
lady too well; but for poor Lysander to be forced by a fairy love-charm
to forget his own true Hermia, and to run after another lady, and leave
Hermia asleep quite alone in a wood at midnight, was a sad chance
indeed.

Thus this misfortune happened. Helena, as has been before related,
endeavoured to keep pace with Demetrius when he ran away so rudely from
her; but she could not continue this unequal race long, men being
always better runners in a long race than ladies. Helena soon lost
sight of Demetrius; and as she was wandering about, dejected and
forlorn, she arrived at the place where Lysander was sleeping. 'Ah!'
said she, 'this is Lysander lying on the ground: is he dead or asleep?'
Then, gently touching him, she said: 'Good sir, if you are alive,
awake.' Upon this Lysander opened his eyes, and (the love-charm
beginning to work) immediately addressed her in terms of extravagant
love and admiration; telling her she as much excelled Hermia in beauty
as a dove does a raven, and that he would run through fire for her
sweet sake; and many more such lover-like speeches. Helena, knowing
Lysander was her friend Hermia's lover, and that he was solemnly
engaged to marry her, was in the utmost rage when she heard herself
addressed in this manner; for she thought (as well she might) that
Lysander was making a jest of her. 'Oh!' said she, 'why was I born to
be mocked and scorned by every one? Is it not enough, is it not enough,
young man, that I can never get a sweet look or a kind word from
Demetrius; but you, sir, must pretend in this disdainful manner to
court me? I thought, Lysander, you were a lord of more true
gentleness.' Saying these words in great anger, she ran away; and
Lysander followed her, quite forgetful of his own Hermia, who was still
asleep.

When Hermia awoke, she was in a sad fright at finding herself alone.
She wandered about the wood, not knowing what was become of Lysander,
or which way to go to seek for him. In the meantime Demetrius, not
being able to find Hermia and his rival Lysander, and fatigued with his
fruitless search, was observed by Oberon fast asleep. Oberon had learnt
by some questions he had asked of Puck, that he had applied the
love-charm to the wrong person's eyes; and now having found the person
first intended, he touched the eyelids of the sleeping Demetrius with
the love-juice, and he instantly awoke; and the first thing he saw
being Helena, he, as Lysander had done before, began to address
love-speeches to her; and just at that moment Lysander, followed by
Hermia (for through Puck's unlucky mistake it was now become Hermia's
turn to run after her lover) made his appearance; and then Lysander and
Demetrius, both speaking together, made love to Helena, they being each
one under the influence of the same potent charm.

The astonished Helena thought that Demetrius, Lysander, and her once
dear friend Hermia, were all in a plot together to make a jest of her.

Hermia was as much surprised as Helena; she knew not why Lysander and
Demetrius, who both before loved her, were now become the lovers of
Helena; and to Hermia the matter seemed to be no jest.

The ladies, who before had always been the dearest of friends, now fell
to high words together.

'Unkind Hermia,' said Helena, 'it is you have set Lysander on to vex me
with mock praises; and your other lover Demetrius, who used almost to
spurn me with his foot, have you not bid him call me Goddess, Nymph,
rare, precious, and celestial? He would not speak thus to me, whom he
hates, if you did not set him on to make a jest of me. Unkind Hermia,
to join with men in scorning your poor friend. Have you forgot our
school-day friendship? How often, Hermia, have we two, sitting on one
cushion, both singing one song, with our needles working the same
flower, both on the same sampler wrought; growing up together in
fashion of a double cherry, scarcely seeming parted! Hermia, it is not
friendly in you, it is not maidenly to join with men in scorning your
poor friend.'

I am amazed at your passionate words,' said Hermia: I scorn you not; it
seems you scorn me.' 'Ay, do,' returned Hermia, 'persevere, counterfeit
serious looks, and make mouths at me when I turn my back; then wink at
each other, and hold the sweet jest up. If you had any pity, grace, or
manners, you would not use me thus.'

While Helena and Hermia were speaking these angry words to each other,
Demetrius and Lysander left them, to fight together in the wood for the
love of Helena.

When they found the gentlemen had left them, they departed, and once
more wandered weary in the wood in search of their lovers.

As soon as they were gone, the fairy king, who with little Puck had
been listening to their quarrels, said to him: 'This is your
negligence, Puck; or did you do this wilfully?' 'Believe me, king of
shadows,' answered Puck, 'it was a mistake; did not you tell me I
should know the man by his Athenian garments? However, I am not sorry
this has happened, for I think their jangling makes excellent sport.'
'You heard,' said Oberon, 'that Demetrius and Lysander are gone to seek
a convenient place to fight in. I command you to overhang the night
with a thick fog, and lead these quarrelsome lovers so astray in the
dark, that they shall not be able to kind each other. Counterfeit each
of their voices to the other, and with bitter taunts provoke them to
follow you, while they think it is their rival's tongue they hear. See
you do this, till they are so weary they can go no farther; and when
you find they are asleep, drop the juice of this other flower into
Lysander's eyes, and when he awakes he will forget his new love for
Helena, and return to his old passion for Hermia; and then the two fair
ladies may each one be happy with the man she loves, and they will
think all that has passed a vexatious dream. About this quickly, Puck,
and I will go and see what sweet love my Titania has found.'

Titania was still sleeping, and Oberon seeing a clown near her, who had
lost his way in the wood, and was likewise asleep: 'This fellow,' said
he, 'shall be my Titania's true love'; and clapping an ass's head over
the clown's, it seemed to fit him as well as if it had grown upon his
own shoulders. Though Oberon fixed the ass's head on very gently, it
awakened him, and rising up, unconscious of what Oberon had done to
him, he went towards the bower where the fairy queen slept.

'Ah! what angel is that I see?' said Titania, opening her eyes, and the
juice of the little purple flower beginning to take effect: 'are you as
wise as you are beautiful?'

'Why, mistress,' said the foolish clown, 'if I have wit enough to find
the way out of this wood, I have enough to serve my turn.'

'Out of the wood do not desire to go,' said the enamoured queen. 'I am
a spirit of no common rate. I love you. Go with me, and I will give you
fairies to attend upon you.'

She then called four of her fairies: their names were, Pease-blossom,
Cobweb, Moth, and Mustard-seed.

'Attend,' said the queen, 'upon this sweet gentleman; hop in his walks,
and gambol in his sight; feed him with grapes and apricots, and steal
for him the honey-bags from the bees. Come, sit with me,' said she to
the clown, 'and let me play with your amiable hairy cheeks, my
beautiful ass! and kiss your fair large ears, my gentle joy!'

'Where is Pease-blossom?' said the ass-headed clown, not much regarding
the fairy queen's courtship, but very proud of his new attendants.

'Here, sir,' said little Pease-blossom.

'Scratch my head,' said the clown. 'Where is Cobweb?'

'Here, sir,' said Cobweb.

'Good Mr. Cobweb,' said the foolish clown, 'kill me the red humble bee
on the top of that thistle yonder; and, good Mr. Cobweb, bring me the
honey-bag. Do not fret yourself too much in the action, Mr. Cobweb, and
take care the honey-bag break not; I should be sorry to have you
overflown with a honey-bag. Where is Mustard-seed?'

'Here, sir,' said Mustard-seed: 'what is your will?'

'Nothing,' said the clown, 'good Mr. Mustard-seed, but to help Mr.
Pease-blossom to scratch; I must go to a barber's, Mr. Mustard-seed,
for methinks I am marvellous hairy about the face.'

'My sweet love,' said the queen, 'what will you have to eat? I have a
venturous fairy shall seek the squirrel's hoard, and fetch you some new
nuts.'

'I had rather have a handful of dried pease,' said the clown, who with
his ass's head had got an ass's appetite. 'But, I pray, let none of
your people disturb me, for I have a mind to sleep.'

'Sleep, then,' said the queen, 'and I will wind you in my arms. O how I
love you! how I dote upon you!'

When the fairy king saw the clown sleeping in the arms of his queen, he
advanced within her sight, and reproached her with having lavished her
favours upon an ass.

This she could not deny, as the clown was then sleeping within her
arms, with his ass's head crowned by her with flowers.

When Oberon had teased her for some time, he again demanded the
changeling boy; which she, ashamed of being discovered by her lord with
her new favourite, did not dare to refuse him.

Oberon, having thus obtained the little boy he had so long wished for
to be his page, took pity on the disgraceful situation into which, by
his merry contrivance, he had brought his Titania and threw some of the
juice of the other flower into her eyes; and the fairy queen
immediately recovered her senses, and wondered at her late dotage,
saying how she now loathed the sight of the strange monster.

Oberon likewise took the ass's head from off the clown, and left him to
finish his nap with his own fool's head upon his shoulders.

Oberon and his Titania being now perfectly reconciled, he related to
her the history of the lovers, and their midnight quarrels; and she
agreed to go with him and see the end of their adventures.

The fairy king and queen found the lovers and their fair ladies, at no
great distance from each other, sleeping on a grass-plot; for Puck, to
make amends for his former mistake, had contrived with the utmost
diligence to bring them all to the same spot, unknown to each other:
and he had carefully removed the charm from off the eyes of Lysander
with the antidote the fairy king gave to him.

Hermia first awoke, and finding her lost Lysander asleep so near her,
was looking at him and wondering at his strange inconstancy. Lysander
presently opening his eyes, and seeing his dear Hermia, recovered his
reason which the fairy charm had before clouded, and with his reason,
his love for Hermia; and they began to talk over the adventures of the
night, doubting if these things had really happened, or if they had
both been dreaming the same bewildering dream.

Helena and Demetrius were by this time awake; and a sweet sleep having
quieted Helena's disturbed and angry spirits, she listened with delight
to the professions of love which Demetrius still made to her, and
which, to her surprise as well as pleasure, she began to perceive were
sincere.

These fair night-wandering ladies, now no longer rivals, became once
more true friends; all the unkind words which had passed were forgiven,
and they calmly consulted together what was best to be done in their
present situation. It was soon agreed that, as Demetrius had given up
his pretensions to Hermia, he should endeavour to prevail upon her
father to revoke the cruel sentence of death which had been passed
against her. Demetrius was preparing to return to Athens for this
friendly purpose, when they were surprised with the sight of Egeus,
Hermia's father, who came to the wood in pursuit of his runaway
daughter.

When Egeus understood that Demetrius would not now marry his daughter,
he no longer opposed her marriage with Lysander, but gave his consent
that they should be wedded on the fourth day from that time, being the
same day on which Hermia had been condemned to lose her life; and on
that same day Helena joyfully agreed to marry her beloved and now
faithful Demetrius.

The fairy king and queen, who were invisible spectators of this
reconciliation, and now saw the happy ending of the lovers' history,
brought about through the good offices of Oberon, received so much
pleasure, that these kind spirits resolved to celebrate the approaching
nuptials with sports and revels throughout their fairy kingdom.

And now, if any are offended with this story of fairies and their
pranks, as judging it incredible and strange, they have only to think
that they have been asleep and dreaming, and that all these adventures
were visions which they saw in their sleep: and I hope none of my
readers will be so unreasonable as to be offended with a pretty
harmless Midsummer Night's Dream.




THE WINTER'S TALE


Leontes, king of Sicily, and his queen, the beautiful and virtuous
Hermione, once lived in the greatest harmony together. So happy was
Leontes in the love of this excellent lady, that he had no wish
ungratified, except that he sometimes desired to see again, and to
present to his queen, his old companion and school-fellow, Polixenes,
king of Bohemia. Leontes and Polixenes were brought up together from
their infancy, but being, by the death of their fathers, called to
reign over their respective kingdoms, they had not met for many years,
though they frequently interchanged gifts, letters, and loving
embassies.

At length, after repeated invitations, Polixenes came from Bohemia to
the Sicilian court, to make his friend Leontes a visit.

At first this visit gave nothing but pleasure to Leontes. He
recommended the friend of his youth to the queen's particular
attention, and seemed in the presence of his dear friend and old
companion to have his felicity quite completed. They talked over old
times; their schooldays and their youthful pranks were remembered, and
recounted to Hermione, who always took a cheerful part in these
conversations.

When, after a long stay, Polixenes was preparing to depart, Hermione,
at the desire of her husband, joined her entreaties to his that
Polixenes would prolong his visit.

And now began this good queen's sorrow; for Polixenes refusing to stay
at the request of Leontes, was won over by Hermione's gentle and
persuasive words to put off his departure for some weeks longer. Upon
this, although Leontes had so long known the integrity and honourable
principles of his friend Polixenes, as well as the excellent
disposition of his virtuous queen, he was seized with an ungovernable
jealousy. Every attention Hermione showed to Polixenes, though by her
husband's particular desire, and merely to please him, increased the
unfortunate king's jealousy; and from being a loving and a true friend,
and the best and fondest of husbands, Leontes became suddenly a savage
and inhuman monster. Sending for Camillo, one of the lords of his
court, and telling him of the suspicion he entertained, he commanded
him to poison Polixenes.

Camillo was a good man; and he, well knowing that the jealousy of
Leontes had not the slightest foundation in truth, instead of poisoning
Polixenes, acquainted him with the king his master's orders, and agreed
to escape with him out of the Sicilian dominions; and Polixenes, with
the assistance of Camillo, arrived safe in his own kingdom of Bohemia,
where Camillo lived from that time in the king's court, and became the
chief friend and favourite of Polixenes.

The flight of Polixenes enraged the jealous Leontes still more; he went
to the queen's apartment, where the good lady was sitting with her
little son Mamillius, who was just beginning to tell one of his best
stories to amuse his mother, when the king entered, and taking the
child away, sent Hermione to prison.

Mamillius, though but a very young child, loved his mother tenderly;
and when he saw her so dishonoured, and found she was taken from him to
be put into a prison, he took it deeply to heart, and drooped and pined
away by slow degrees, losing his appetite and his sleep, till it was
thought his grief would kill him.

The king, when he had sent his queen to prison, commanded Cleomenes and
Dion, two Sicilian lords, to go to Delphos, there to inquire of the
oracle at the temple of Apollo, if his queen had been unfaithful to
him. When Hermione had been a short time in prison, she was brought to
bed of a daughter; and the poor lady received much comfort from the
sight of her pretty baby, and she said to it: 'My poor little prisoner,
I am as innocent as you are.'

Hermione had a kind friend in the noble-spirited Paulina, who was the
wife of Antigonus, a Sicilian lord; and when the lady Paulina heard her
royal mistress was brought to bed, she went to the prison where
Hermione was confined; and she said to Emilia, a lady who attended upon
Hermione: 'I pray you, Emilia, tell the good queen, if her majesty dare
trust me with her little babe, I will carry it to the king, its father;
we do not know how he may soften at the sight of his innocent child.'
'Most worthy madam,' replied Emilia, 'I will acquaint the queen with
your noble offer; she was wishing to-day that she had any friend who
would venture to present the child to the king.' 'And tell her,' said
Paulina, 'that I will speak boldly to Leontes in her defence.' 'May you
be for ever blessed,' said Emilia, 'for your kindness to our gracious
queen!' Emilia then went to Hermione, who joyfully gave up her baby to
the care of Paulina, for she had feared that no one would dare venture
to present the child to its father.

Paulina took the new-born infant, and forcing herself into the king's
presence, notwithstanding her husband, fearing the king's anger,
endeavoured to prevent her, she laid the babe at its father's feet, and
Paulina made a noble speech to the king in defence of Hermione, and she
reproached him severely for his inhumanity, and implored him to have
mercy on his innocent wife and child. But Paulina's spirited
remonstrances only aggravated Leontes' displeasure, and he ordered her
husband Antigonus to take her from his presence.

When Paulina went away, she left the little baby at its father's feet,
thinking when he was alone with it, he would look upon it, and have
pity on its helpless innocence.

The good Paulina was mistaken: for no sooner was she gone than the
merciless father ordered Antigonus, Paulina's husband, to take the
child, and carry it out to sea, and leave it upon some desert shore to
perish.

Antigonus, unlike the good Camillo, too well obeyed the orders of
Leontes; for he immediately carried the child on ship-board, and put
out to sea, intending to leave it on the first desert coast he could
find.

So firmly was the king persuaded of the guilt of Hermione, that he
would not wait for the return of Cleomenes and Dion, whom he had sent
to consult the oracle of Apollo at Delphos; but before the queen was
recovered from her lying-in, and from her grief for the loss of her
precious baby, he had her brought to a public trial before all the
lords and nobles of his court. And when all the great lords, the
judges, and all the nobility of the land were assembled together to try
Hermione, and that unhappy queen was standing as a prisoner before her
subjects to receive their judgement Cleomenes and Dion entered the
assembly, and presented to the king the answer of the oracle, sealed
up; and Leontes commanded the seal to be broken, and the words of the
oracle to be read aloud, and these were the words: '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.' The king would give no credit to the words of
the oracle: he said it was a falsehood invented by the queen's friends,
and he desired the judge to proceed in the trial of the queen; but
while Leontes was speaking, a man entered and told him that the prince
Mamillius, hearing his mother was to be tried for her life, struck with
grief and shame, had suddenly died.

Hermione, upon hearing of the death of this dear affectionate child,
who had lost his life in sorrowing for her misfortune, fainted; and
Leontes, pierced to the heart by the news, began to feel pity for his
unhappy queen, and he ordered Paulina, and the ladies who were her
attendants, to take her away, and use means for her recovery. Paulina
soon returned, and told the king that Hermione was dead.

When Leontes heard that the queen was dead, he repented of his cruelty
to her; and now that he thought his ill-usage had broken Hermione's
heart, he believed her innocent; and now he thought the words of the
oracle were true, as he knew 'if that which was lost was not found,'
which he concluded was his young daughter, he should be without an
heir, the young prince Mamillius being dead; and he would give his
kingdom now to recover his lost daughter: and Leontes gave himself up
to remorse, and passed many years in mournful thoughts and repentant
grief.

The ship in which Antigonus carried the infant princess out to sea was
driven by a storm upon the coast of Bohemia, the very kingdom of the
good king Polixenes. Here Antigonus landed, and here he left the little
baby.

Antigonus never returned to Sicily to tell Leontes where he had left
his daughter, for as he was going back to the ship, a bear came out of
the woods, and tore him to pieces; a just punishment on him for obeying
the wicked order of Leontes.

The child was dressed in rich clothes and jewels; for Hermione had made
it very fine when she sent it to Leontes, and Antigonus had pinned a
paper to its mantle, and the name of Perdita written thereon, and words
obscurely intimating its high birth and untoward fate.

This poor deserted baby was found by a shepherd. He was a humane man,
and so he carried the little Perdita home to his wife, who nursed it
tenderly; but poverty tempted the shepherd to conceal the rich prize he
had found: therefore he left that part of the country, that no one
might know where he got his riches, and with part of Perdita's jewels
he bought herds of sheep, and became a wealthy shepherd. He brought up
Perdita as his own child, and she knew not she was any other than a
shepherd's daughter.

The little Perdita grew up a lovely maiden; and though she had no
better education than that of a shepherd's daughter, yet so did the
natural graces she inherited from her royal mother shine forth in her
untutored mind, that no one from her behaviour would have known she had
not been brought up in her father's court.

Polixenes, the king of Bohemia, had an only son, whose name was
Florizel. As this young prince was hunting near the shepherd's
dwelling, he saw the old man's supposed daughter; and the beauty,
modesty, and queen-like deportment of Perdita caused him instantly to
fall in love with her. He soon, under the name of Doricles, and in the
disguise of a private gentleman, became a constant visitor at the old
shepherd's house. Florizel's frequent absences from court alarmed
Polixenes; and setting people to watch his son, he discovered his love
for the shepherd's fair daughter.

Polixenes then called for Camillo, the faithful Camillo, who had
preserved his life from the fury of Leontes, and desired that he would
accompany him to the house of the shepherd, the supposed father of
Perdita.

Polixenes and Camillo, both in disguise, arrived at the old shepherd's
dwelling while they were celebrating the feast of sheep-shearing; and
though they were strangers, yet at the sheep-shearing every guest being
made welcome, they were invited to walk in, and join in the general
festivity.

Nothing but mirth and jollity was going forward. Tables were spread,
and great preparations were making for the rustic feast. Some lads and
lasses were dancing on the green before the house, while others of the
young men were buying ribands, gloves, and such toys, of a pedlar at
the door.

While this busy scene was going forward, Florizel and Perdita sat
quietly in a retired corner, seemingly more pleased with the
conversation of each other, than desirous of engaging in the sports and
silly amusements of those around them.

The king was so disguised that it was impossible his son could know
him: he therefore advanced near enough to hear the conversation. The
simple yet elegant manner in which Perdita conversed with his son did
not a little surprise Polixenes: he said to Camillo: 'This is the
prettiest low-born lass I ever saw; nothing she does or says but looks
like something greater than herself, too noble for this place.'

Pamillo replied: 'Indeed she is the very queen of curds and cream.'

'Pray, my good friend,' said the king to the old shepherd, 'what fair
swain is that talking with your daughter?' 'They call him Doricles,'
replied the shepherd. 'He says he loves my daughter; and, to speak
truth, there is not a kiss to choose which loves the other best. If
young Doricles can get her, she shall bring him that he little dreams
of'; meaning the remainder of Perdita's jewels; which, after he had
bought herds of sheep with part of them, he had carefully hoarded up
for her marriage portion.

Polixenes then addressed his son. 'How now, young man!' said he: 'your
heart seems full of something that takes off your mind from feasting.
When I was young, I used to load my love with presents; but you have
let the pedlar go, and have bought your lass no toy.'

The young prince, who little thought he was talking to the king his
father, replied: 'Old sir, she prizes not such trifles; the gifts which
Perdita expects from me are locked up in my heart.' Then turning to
Perdita, he said to her: 'O hear me, Perdita, before this ancient
gentleman, who it seems was once himself a lover; he shall hear what I
profess.' Florizel then called upon the old stranger to be a witness to
a solemn promise of marriage which he made to Perdita, saying to
Polixenes: 'I pray you, mark our contract.'

'Mark your divorce, young sir,' said the king, discovering himself.
Polixenes then reproached his son for daring to contract himself to
this low-born maiden, calling Perdita 'shepherd's brat, sheep-hook,'
and other disrespectful names; and threatening, if ever she suffered
his son to see her again, he would put her, and the old shepherd her
father, to a cruel death.

The king then left them in great wrath, and ordered Camillo to follow
him with prince Florizel.

When the king had departed, Perdita, whose royal nature was roused by
Polixenes' reproaches, said: 'Though we are all undone, I was not much
afraid; and once or twice I was about to speak, and tell him plainly
that the selfsame sun which shines upon his palace, hides not his face
from our cottage, but looks on both alike.' Then sorrowfully she said:
'But now I am awakened from this dream, I will queen it no further.
Leave me, sir; I will go milk my ewes and weep.'

The kind-hearted Camillo was charmed with the spirit and propriety of
Perdita's behaviour; and perceiving that the young prince was too
deeply in love to give up his mistress at the command of his royal
father, he thought of a way to befriend the lovers, and at the same
time to execute a favourite scheme he had in his mind.

Camillo had long known that Leontes, the king of Sicily, was become a
true penitent; and though Camillo was now the favoured friend of king
Polixenes, he could not help wishing once more to see his late royal
master and his native home. He therefore proposed to Florizel and
Perdita that they should accompany him to the Sicilian court, where he
would engage Leontes should protect them, till, through his mediation,
they could obtain pardon from Polixenes, and his consent to their
marriage.

To this proposal they joyfully agreed; and Camillo, who conducted
everything relative to their flight, allowed the old shepherd to go
along with them.

The shepherd took with him the remainder of Perdita's jewels, her baby
clothes, and the paper which he had found pinned to her mantle.

After a prosperous voyage, Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the old
shepherd, arrived in safety at the court of Leontes. Leontes, who still
mourned his dead Hermione and his lost child, received Camillo with
great kindness, and gave a cordial welcome to prince Florizel. But
Perdita, whom Florizel introduced as his princess, seemed to engross
all Leontes' attention: perceiving a resemblance between her and his
dead queen Hermione, his grief broke out afresh, and he said, such a
lovely creature might his own daughter have been, if he had not so
cruelly destroyed her. 'And then, too,' said he to Florizel, 'I lost
the society and friendship of your grave father, whom I now desire more
than my life once again to look upon.'

When the old shepherd heard how much notice the king had taken of
Perdita, and that he had lost a daughter, who was exposed in infancy,
he fell to comparing the time when he found the little Perdita, with
the manner of its exposure, the jewels and other tokens of its high
birth; from all which it was impossible for him not to conclude that
Perdita and the king's lost daughter were the same.

Florizel and Perdita, Camillo and the faithful Paulina, were present
when the old shepherd related to the king the manner in which he had
found the child, and also the circumstance of Antigonus' death, he
having seen the bear seize upon him. He showed the rich mantle in which
Paulina remembered Hermione had wrapped the child; and he produced a
jewel which she remembered Hermione had tied about Perdita's neck, and
he gave up the paper which Paulina knew to be the writing of her
husband; it could not be doubted that Perdita was Leontes' own
daughter: but oh! the noble struggles of Paulina, between sorrow for
her husband's death, and joy that the oracle was fulfilled, in the
king's heir, his long-lost daughter being found. When Leontes heard
that Perdita was his daughter, the great sorrow that he felt that
Hermione was not living to behold her child, made him that he could say
nothing for a long time, but 'O thy mother, thy mother!'

Paulina interrupted this joyful yet distressful scene, with saying to
Leontes, that she had a statue newly finished by that rare Italian
master, Julio Romano, which was such a perfect resemblance of the
queen, that would his majesty be pleased to go to her house and look
upon it, he would be almost ready to think it was Hermione herself.
Thither then they all went; the king anxious to see the semblance of
his Hermione, and Perdita longing to behold what the mother she never
saw did look like.

When Paulina drew back the curtain which concealed this famous statue,
so perfectly did it resemble Hermione, that all the king's sorrow was
renewed at the sight: for a long time he had no power to speak or move.

'I like your silence, my liege,' said Paulina, 'it the more shows your
wonder. Is not this statue very like your queen?'

At length the king said: 'O, thus she stood, even with such majesty,
when I first wooed her. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so aged as
this statue looks.' Paulina replied: 'So much the more the carver's
excellence, who has made the statue as Hermione would have looked had
she been living now. But let me draw the curtain, sire, lest presently
you think it moves.'

The king then said: 'Do not draw the curtain; would I were dead! See,
Camillo, would you not think it breathed? Her eye seems to have motion
in it.' 'I must draw the curtain, my liege,' said Paulina. 'You are so
transported, you will persuade yourself the statue lives.' 'O, sweet
Paulina,' said Leontes, 'make me think so twenty years together! Still
methinks there is an air comes from her. What fine chisel could ever
yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, for I will kiss her.' 'Good my
lord, forbear!' said Paulina. 'The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; you
will stain your own with oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?' 'No,
not these twenty years,' said Leontes.

Perdita, who all this time had been kneeling, and beholding in silent
admiration the statue of her matchless mother, said now: 'And so long
could I stay here, looking upon my dear mother.'

'Either forbear this transport,' said Paulina to Leontes, 'and let me
draw the curtain; or prepare yourself for more amazement. I can make
the statue move indeed; ay, and descend from off the pedestal, and take
you by the hand. But then you will think, which I protest I am not,
that I am assisted by some wicked powers.'

'What you can make her do,' said the astonished king, 'I am content to
hear; for it is as easy to make her speak as move.'

Paulina then ordered some slow and solemn music, which she had prepared
for the purpose, to strike up; and, to the amazement of all the
beholders, the statue came down from off the pedestal, and threw its
arms around Leontes' neck. The statue then began to speak, praying for
blessings on her husband, and on her child, the newly-found Perdita.

No wonder that the statue hung upon Leontes' neck, and blessed her
husband and her child. No wonder; for the statue was indeed Hermione
herself, the real, the living queen.

Paulina had falsely reported to the king the death of Hermione,
thinking that the only means to preserve her royal mistress's life; and
with the good Paulina, Hermione had lived ever since, never choosing
Leontes should know she was living, till she heard Perdita was found;
for though she had long forgiven the injuries which Leontes had done to
herself, she could not pardon his cruelty to his infant daughter.

His dead queen thus restored to life, his lost daughter found, the
long-sorrowing Leontes could scarcely support the excess of his own
happiness.

Nothing but congratulations and affectionate speeches were heard on all
sides. Now the delighted parents thanked prince Florizel for loving
their lowly-seeming daughter; and now they blessed the good old
shepherd for preserving their child. Greatly did Camillo and Paulina
rejoice that they had lived to see so good an end of all their faithful
services.

And as if nothing should be wanting to complete this strange and
unlooked-for joy, king Polixenes himself now entered the palace.

When Polixenes first missed his son and Camillo, knowing that Camillo
had long wished to return to Sicily, he conjectured he should find the
fugitives here; and, following them with all speed, he happened to just
arrive at this, the happiest moment of Leontes' life.

Polixenes took a part in the general joy; he forgave his friend Leontes
the unjust jealousy he had conceived against him, and they once more
loved each other with all the warmth of their first boyish friendship.
And there was no fear that Polixenes would now oppose his son's
marriage with Perdita. She was no 'sheep-hook' now, but the heiress of
the crown of Sicily.

Thus have we seen the patient virtues of the long-suffering Hermione
rewarded. That excellent lady lived many years with her Leontes and her
Perdita, the happiest of mothers and of queens.




MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING


There lived in the palace at Messina two ladies, whose names were Hero
and Beatrice. Hero was the daughter, and Beatrice the niece, of
Leonato, the governor of Messina.

Beatrice was of a lively temper, and loved to divert her cousin Hero,
who was of a more serious disposition, with her sprightly sallies.
Whatever was going forward was sure to make matter of mirth for the
light-hearted Beatrice.

At the time the history of these ladies commences some young men of
high rank in the army, as they were passing through Messina on their
return from a war that was just ended, in which they had distinguished
themselves by their great bravery, came to visit Leonato. Among these
were Don Pedro, the prince of Arragon; and his friend Claudio, who was
a lord of Florence; and with them came the wild and witty Benedick, and
he was a lord of Padua.

These strangers had been at Messina before, and the hospitable governor
introduced them to his daughter and his niece as their old friends and
acquaintance.

Benedick, the moment he entered the room, began a lively conversation
with Leonato and the prince. Beatrice, who liked not to be left out of
any discourse, interrupted Benedick with saying: 'I wonder that you
will still be talking, signior Benedick: nobody marks you.' Benedick
was just such another rattle-brain as Beatrice, yet he was not pleased
at this free salutation; he thought it did not become a well-bred lady
to be so flippant with her tongue; and he remembered, when he was last
at Messina, that Beatrice used to select him to make her merry jests
upon. And as there is no one who so little likes to be made a jest of
as those who are apt to take the same liberty themselves, so it was
with Benedick and Beatrice; these two sharp wits never met in former
times but a perfect war of raillery was kept up between them, and they
always parted mutually displeased with each other. Therefore when
Beatrice stopped him in the middle of his discourse with telling him
nobody marked what he was saying, Benedick, affecting not to have
observed before that she was present, said: 'What, my dear lady
Disdain, are you yet living?' And now war broke out afresh between
them, and a long jangling argument ensued, during which Beatrice,
although she knew he had so well approved his valour in the late war,
said that she would eat all he had killed there: and observing the
prince take delight in Benedick's conversation, she called trim 'the
prince's jester.' This sarcasm sunk deeper into the mind of Benedick
than all Beatrice had said before. The hint she gave him that he was a
coward, by saying she would eat all he had killed, he did not regard,
knowing himself to be a brave man; but there is nothing that great wits
so much dread as the imputation of buffoonery, because the charge comes
sometimes a little too near the truth: therefore Benedick perfectly
hated Beatrice when she called him 'the prince's jester.'

The modest lady Hero was silent before the noble guests; and while
Claudio was attentively observing the improvement which time had made
in her beauty, and was contemplating the exquisite graces of her fine
figure (for she was an admirable young lady), the prince was highly
amused with listening to the humorous dialogue between Benedick and
Beatrice; and he said in a whisper to Leonato: 'This is a
pleasant-spirited young lady. She were an excellent wife for Benedick.'
Leonato replied to this suggestion: 'O, my lord, my lord, if they were
but a week married, they would talk themselves mad.' But though Leonato
thought they would make a discordant pair, the prince did not give up
the idea of matching these two keen wits together.

When the prince returned with Claudio from the palace, he found that
the marriage he had devised between Benedick and Beatrice was not the
only one projected in that good company, for Claudio spoke in such
terms of Hero, as made the prince guess at what was passing in his
heart; and he liked it well, and he said to Claudio: 'Do you affect
Hero?' To this question Claudio replied: 'O my lord, when I was last at
Messina, I looked upon her with a soldier's eye, that liked, but had no
leisure for loving; but now, in this happy time of peace, thoughts of
war have left their places vacant in my mind, and in their room come
thronging soft and delicate thoughts, all prompting me how fair young
Hero is, reminding me that I liked her before I went to the wars.'
Claudio's confession of his love for Hero so wrought upon the prince,
that he lost no time in soliciting the consent of Leonato to accept of
Claudio for a son-in-law. Leonato agreed to this proposal, and the
prince found no great difficulty in persuading the gentle Hero herself
to listen to the suit of the noble Claudio, who was a lord of rare
endowments, and highly accomplished, and Claudio, assisted by his kind
prince, soon prevailed upon Leonato to fix an early day for the
celebration of his marriage with Hero.

Claudio was to wait but a few days before he was to be married to his
fair lady; yet he complained of the interval being tedious, as indeed
most young men are impatient when they are waiting for the
accomplishment of any event they have set their hearts upon: the
prince, therefore, to make the time seem short to him, proposed as a
kind of merry pastime that they should invent some artful scheme to
make Benedick and Beatrice fall in love with each other. Claudio
entered with great satisfaction into this whim of the prince, and
Leonato promised them his assistance, and even Hero said she would do
any modest office to help her cousin to a good husband.

The device the prince invented was, that the gentlemen should make
Benedick believe that Beatrice was in love with him, and that Hero
should make Beatrice believe that Benedick was in love with her.

The prince, Leonato, and Claudio began their operations first: and
watching upon an opportunity when Benedick was quietly seated reading
in an arbour, the prince and his assistants took their station among
the trees behind the arbour, so near that Benedick could not choose but
hear all they said; and after some careless talk the prince said: 'Come
hither, Leonato. What was it you told me the other day that your niece
Beatrice was in love with signior Benedick? I did never think that lady
would have loved any man.' 'No, nor I neither, my lord.' answered
Leonato. 'It is most wonderful that she should so dote on Benedick,
whom she in all outward behaviour seemed ever to dislike.' Claudio
confirmed all this with saying that Hero had told him Beatrice was so
in love with Benedick, that she would certainly die of grief, if he
could not be brought to love her; which Leonato and Claudio seemed to
agree was impossible, he having always been such a railer against all
fair ladies, and in particular against Beatrice.

The prince affected to hearken to all this with great compassion for
Beatrice, and he said: 'It were good that Benedick were told of this.'
'To what end?' said Claudio; 'he would but make sport of it, and
torment the poor lady worse.' 'And if he should,' said the prince, 'it
were a good deed to hang him; for Beatrice is an excellent sweet lady,
and exceeding wise in everything but in loving Benedick.' Then the
prince motioned to his companions that they should walk on, and leave
Benedick to meditate upon what he had overheard.

Benedick had been listening with great eagerness to this conversation;
and he said to himself when he heard Beatrice loved him: 'Is it
possible? Sits the wind in that corner?' And when they were gone, he
began to reason in this manner with himself: 'This can be no trick!
they were very serious, and they have the truth from Hero, and seem to
pity the lady. Love me! Why it must be requited! I did never think to
marry. But when I said I should die a bachelor, I did not think I
should live to be married. They say the lady is virtuous and fair. She
is so. And wise in everything but loving me. Why, that is no great
argument of her folly. But here comes Beatrice. By this day, she is a
fair lady. I do spy some marks of love in her.' Beatrice now approached
him, and said with her usual tartness: 'Against my will I am sent to
bid you come in to dinner.' Benedick, who never felt himself disposed
to speak so politely to her before, replied: 'Fair Beatrice, I thank
you for your pains': and when Beatrice, after two or three more rude
speeches, left him, Benedick thought he observed a concealed meaning of
kindness under the uncivil words she uttered, and he said aloud: 'If I
do not take pity on her, I am a villain. If I do not love her, I am a
Jew. I will go get her picture.'

The gentleman being thus caught in the net they had spread for him, it
was now Hero's turn to play her part with Beatrice; and for this
purpose she sent for Ursula and Margaret, two gentlewomen who attended
upon her, and she said to Margaret: 'Good Margaret, run to the parlour;
there you will kind my cousin Beatrice talking with the prince and
Claudio. Whisper in her ear, that I and Ursula are walking in the
orchard, and that our discourse is all of her. Bid her steal into that
pleasant arbour, where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun, like
ungrateful minions, forbid the sun to enter.' This arbour, into which
Hero desired Margaret to entice Beatrice, was the very same pleasant
arbour where Benedick had so lately been an attentive listener.

'I will make her come, I warrant, presently,' said Margaret.

Hero, then taking Ursula with her into the orchard, said to her: 'Now,
Ursula, when Beatrice comes, we will walk up and down this alley, and
our talk must be only of Benedick, and when I name him, let it be your
part to praise him more than ever man did merit. My talk to you must be
how Benedick is in love with Beatrice. Now begin; for look where
Beatrice like a lapwing runs close by the ground, to hear our
conference.' They then began; Hero saying, as if in answer to something
which Ursula had said: 'No, truly, Ursula. She is too disdainful; her
spirits are as coy as wild birds of the rock.' 'But are you sure,' said
Ursula, 'that Benedick loves Beatrice so entirely?' Hero replied: 'So
says the prince, and my lord Claudio, and they entreated me to acquaint
her with it; but I persuaded them, if they loved Benedick, never to let
Beatrice know of it.' 'Certainly,' replied Ursula, 'it were not good
she knew his love, lest she made sport of it.' 'Why, to say truth,'
said Hero, 'I never yet saw a man, how wise soever, or noble, young, or
rarely featured, but she would dispraise him.' 'Sure, sure, such
carping is not commendable,' said Ursula. 'No,' replied Hero, 'but who
dare tell her so? If I should speak, she would mock me into air.' 'O!
you wrong your cousin,' said Ursula: 'she cannot be so much without
true judgment, as to refuse so rare a gentleman as signior Benedick.'
'He hath an excellent good name,' said Hero: 'indeed, he is the first
man in Italy, always excepting my dear Claudio.' And now, Hero giving
her attendant a hint that it was time to change the discourse, Ursula
said: 'And when are you to be married, madam?' Hero then told her, that
she was to be married to Claudio the next day, and desired she would go
in with her, and look at some new attire, as she wished to consult with
her on what she would wear on the morrow. Beatrice, who had been
listening with breathless eagerness to this dialogue, when they went
away, exclaimed: 'What fire is in mine ears? Can this be true?
Farewell, contempt and scorn, and maiden pride, adieu! Benedick, love
on! I will requite you, taming my wild heart to your loving hand.'

It must have been a pleasant sight to see these old enemies converted
into new and loving friends, and to behold their first meeting after
being cheated into mutual liking by the merry artifice of the
good-humoured prince. But a sad reverse in the fortunes of Hero must
now be thought of. The morrow, which was to have been her wedding-day,
brought sorrow on the heart of Hero and her good father Leonato.

The prince had a half-brother, who came from the wars along with him to
Messina. This brother (his name was Don John) was a melancholy,
discontented man, whose spirits seemed to labour in the contriving of
villanies. He hated the prince his brother, and he hated Claudio,
because he was the prince's friend, and determined to prevent Claudio's
marriage with Hero, only for the malicious pleasure of making Claudio
and the prince unhappy; for he knew the prince had set his heart upon
this marriage, almost as much as Claudio himself; and to effect this
wicked purpose, he employed one Borachio, a man as bad as himself, whom
he encouraged with the offer of a great reward. This Borachio paid his
court to Margaret, Hero's attendant; and Don John, knowing this,
prevailed upon him to make Margaret promise to talk with him from her
lady's chamber window that night, after Hero was asleep, and also to
dress herself in Hero's clothes, the better to deceive Claudio into the
belief that it was Hero; for that was the end he meant to compass by
this wicked plot.

Don John then went to the prince and Claudio, and told them that Hero
was an imprudent lady, and that she talked with men from her chamber
window at midnight. Now this was the evening before the wedding, and he
offered to take them that night, where they should themselves hear Hero
discoursing with a man from her window; and they consented to go along
with him, and Claudio said: 'If I see anything to-night why I should
not marry her, to-morrow in the congregation, where I intended to wed
her, there will I shame her.' The prince also said: 'And as I assisted
you to obtain her, I will join with you to disgrace her.'

When Don John brought them near Hero's chamber that night, they saw
Borachio standing under the window, and they saw Margaret looking out
of Hero's window, and heard her talking with Borachio: and Margaret
being dressed in the same clothes they had seen Hero wear, the prince
and Claudio believed it was the lady Hero herself.

Nothing could equal the anger of Claudio, when he had made (as he
thought) this discovery. All his love for the innocent Hero was at once
converted into hatred, and he resolved to expose her in the church, as
he had said he would, the next day; and the prince agreed to this,
thinking no punishment could be too severe for the naughty lady, who
talked with a man from her window the very night before she was going
to be married to the noble Claudio.

The next day, when they were all met to celebrate the marriage, and
Claudio and Hero were standing before the priest, and the priest, or
friar, as he was called, was proceeding to pronounce the marriage
ceremony, Claudio, in the most passionate language, proclaimed the
guilt of the blameless Hero, who, amazed at the strange words he
uttered, said meekly: 'Is my lord well, that he does speak so wide?'

Leonato, in the utmost horror, said to the prince: 'My lord, why speak
not you?' 'What should I speak?' said the prince; 'I stand dishonoured,
that have gone about to link my dear friend to an unworthy woman.
Leonato, upon my honour, myself, my brother, and this grieved Claudio,
did see and hear her last night at midnight talk with a man at her
chamber window.'

Benedick, in astonishment at what he heard, said: 'This looks not like
a nuptial.'

'True, O God!' replied the heart-struck Hero; and then this hapless
lady sunk down in a fainting fit, to all appearance dead. The prince
and Claudio left the church, without staying to see if Hero would
recover, or at all regarding the distress into which they had thrown
Leonato. So hard-hearted had their anger made them.

Benedick remained, and assisted Beatrice to recover Hero from her
swoon, saying: 'How does the lady?' 'Dead, I think,' replied Beatrice
in great agony, for she loved her cousin; and knowing her virtuous
principles, she believed nothing of what she had heard spoken against
her. Not so the poor old father; he believed the story of his child's
shame, and it was piteous to hear him lamenting over her, as she lay
like one dead before him, wishing she might never more open her eyes.

But the ancient friar was a wise man, and full of observation on human
nature, and he had attentively marked the lady's countenance when she
heard herself accused, and noted a thousand blushing shames to start
into her face, and then he saw an angel-like whiteness bear away those
blushes, and in her eye he saw a fire that did belie the error that the
prince did speak against her maiden truth, and he said to the sorrowing
father: 'Call me a fool; trust not my reading, nor my observation;
trust not my age, my reverence, nor my calling, if this sweet lady lie
not guiltless here under some biting error.'

When Hero had recovered from the swoon into which she had fallen, the
friar said to her: 'Lady, what man is he you are accused of?' Hero
replied: 'They know that do accuse me; I know of none': then turning to
Leonato, she said: 'O my father, if you can prove that any man has ever
conversed with me at hours unmeet, or that I yesternight changed words
with any creature, refuse me, hate me, torture me to death.'

'There is,' said the friar, 'some strange misunderstanding in the
prince and Claudio'; and then he counselled Leonato, that he should
report that Hero was dead; and he said that the death-like swoon in
which they had left Hero would make this easy of belief; and he also
advised him that he should put on mourning, and erect a monument for
her, and do all rites that appertain to a burial. 'What shall become of
this?' said Leonato; 'What will this do?' The friar replied: 'This
report of her death shall change slander into pity: that is some good;
but that is not all the good I hope for. When Claudio shall hear she
died upon hearing his words, the idea of her life shall sweetly creep
into his imagination. Then shall he mourn, if ever love had interest in
his heart, and wish that he had not so accused her; yea, though he
thought his accusation true.'

Benedick now said: 'Leonato, let the friar advise you; and though you
know how well I love the prince and Claudio, yet on my honour I will
not reveal this secret to them.'

Leonato, thus persuaded, yielded; and he said sorrowfully: 'I am so
grieved, that the smallest twine may lead me.' The kind friar then led
Leonato and Hero away to comfort and console them, and Beatrice and
Benedick remained alone; and this was the meeting from which their
friends, who contrived the merry plot against them, expected so much
diversion; those friends who were now overwhelmed with affliction, and
from whose minds all thoughts of merriment seemed for ever banished.

Benedick was the first who spoke, and he said: 'Lady Beatrice, have you
wept all this while?' 'Yea, and I will weep a while longer,' said
Beatrice. 'Surely,' said Benedick, 'I do believe your fair cousin is
wronged.' 'Ah!' said Beatrice, 'how much might that man deserve of me
who would right her!' Benedick then said: 'Is there any way to show
such friendship? I do love nothing in the world so well as you: is not
that strange?' 'It were as possible,' said Beatrice, 'for me to say I
loved nothing in the world so well as you; but believe me not, and yet
I lie not. I confess nothing, nor I deny nothing. I am sorry for my
cousin.' 'By my sword,' said Benedick, 'you love me, and I protest I
love you. Come, bid me do anything for you.' 'Kill Claudio,' said
Beatrice. 'Ha! not for the wide world,' said Benedick; for he loved his
friend Claudio, and he believed he had been imposed upon. 'Is not
Claudio a villain, that has slandered, scorned, and dishonoured my
cousin?' said Beatrice: 'O that I were a man!' 'Hear me, Beatrice!'
said Benedick. But Beatrice would hear nothing in Claudio's defence;
and she continued to urge on Benedick to revenge her cousin's wrongs:
and she said: 'Talk with a man out of the window; a proper saying!
Sweet Hero! she is wronged; she is slandered; she is undone. O that I
were a man for Claudio's sake! or that I had any friend, who would be a
man for my sake! but valour is melted into courtesies and compliments.
I cannot be a man with wishing, therefore I will die a woman with
grieving.' 'Tarry, good Beatrice,' said Benedick; 'by this hand I love
you.' 'Use it for my love some other way than swearing by it,' said
Beatrice. 'Think you on your soul that Claudio has wronged Hero?' asked
Benedick. 'Yea,' answered Beatrice; 'as sure as I have a thought, or a
soul.' 'Enough,' said Benedick; 'I am engaged; I will challenge him. I
will kiss your hand, and so leave you. By tints hand, Claudio shall
render me a dear account! As you hear from me, so think of me. Go,
comfort your cousin.'

While Beatrice was thus powerfully pleading with Benedick, and working
his gallant temper by the spirit of her angry words, to engage in the
cause of Hero, and fight even with his dear friend Claudio, Leonato was
challenging the prince and Claudio to answer with their swords the
injury they had done his child, who, he affirmed, had died for grief.
But they respected his age and his sorrow, and they said: 'Nay, do not
quarrel with us, good old man.' And now came Benedick, and he also
challenged Claudio to answer with his sword the injury he had done to
Hero; and Claudio and the prince said to each other: 'Beatrice has set
him on to do this.' Claudio nevertheless must have accepted this
challenge of Benedick, had not the justice of Heaven at the moment
brought to pass a better proof of the innocence of Hero than the
uncertain fortune of a duel.

While the prince and Claudio were yet talking of the challenge of
Benedick, a magistrate brought Borachio as a prisoner before the
prince. Borachio had been overheard talking with one of his companions
of the mischief he had been employed by Don John to do.

Borachio made a full confession to the prince in Claudio's hearing,
that it was Margaret dressed in her lady's clothes that he had talked
with from the window, whom they had mistaken for the lady Hero herself;
and no doubt continued on the minds of Claudio and the prince of the
innocence of Hero. If a suspicion had remained it must have been
removed by the flight of Don John, who, funding his villanies were
detected, fled from Messina to avoid the just anger of his brother.

The heart of Claudio was sorely grieved when he found he had falsely
accused Hero, who, he thought, died upon hearing his cruel words; and
the memory of his beloved Hero's image came over him, in the rare
semblance that he loved it first; and the prince asking him if what he
heard did not run like iron through his soul, he answered, that he felt
as if he had taken poison while Borachio was speaking.

And the repentant Claudio implored forgiveness of the old man Leonato
for the injury he had done his child; and promised, that whatever
penance Leonato would lay upon him for his fault in believing the false
accusation against his betrothed wife, for her dear sake he would
endure it.

The penance Leonato enjoined him was, to marry the next morning a
cousin of Hero's, who, he said, was now his heir, and in person very
like Hero. Claudio, regarding the solemn promise he made to Leonato,
said, he would marry this unknown lady, even though she were an Ethiop:
but his heart was very sorrowful, and he passed that night in tears,
and in remorseful grief, at the tomb which Leonato had erected for Hero.

When the morning came, the prince accompanied Claudio to the church,
where the good friar, and Leonato and his niece, were already
assembled, to celebrate a second nuptial; and Leonato presented to
Claudio his promised bride; and she wore a mask, that Claudio might not
discover her face. And Claudio said to the lady in the mask: 'Give me
your hand, before this holy friar; I am your husband, if you will marry
me.' 'And when I lived I was your other wife,' said this unknown lady;
and, taking off her mask, she proved to be no niece (as was pretended),
but Leonato's very daughter, the lady Hero herself. We may be sure that
this proved a most agreeable surprise to Claudio, who thought her dead,
so that he could scarcely for joy believe his eyes; and the prince, who
was equally amazed at what he saw, exclaimed: 'Is not this Hero, Hero
that was dead?' Leonato replied: 'She died, my lord, but while her
slander lived.' The friar promised them an explanation of this seeming
miracle, after the ceremony was ended; and was proceeding to marry
them, when he was interrupted by Benedick, who desired to be married at
the same time to Beatrice. Beatrice making some demur to this match,
and Benedick challenging her with her love for him, which he had
learned from Hero, a pleasant explanation took place; and they found
they had both been tricked into a belief of love, which had never
existed, and had become lovers in truth by the power of a false jest:
but the affection, which a merry invention had cheated them into, was
grown too powerful to be shaken by a serious explanation; and since
Benedick proposed to marry, he was resolved to think nothing to the
purpose that the world could say against it; and he merrily kept up the
jest, and swore to Beatrice, that he took her but for pity, and because
he heard she was dying of love for him; and Beatrice protested, that
she yielded but upon great persuasion, and partly to save his life, for
she heard he was in a consumption. So these two mad wits were
reconciled, and made a match of it, after Claudio and Hero were
married; and to complete the history, Don John, the contriver of the
villainy, was taken in his flight, and brought back to Messina; and a
brave punishment it was to this gloomy, discontented man, to see the
joy and feastings which, by the disappointment of his plots, took place
in the palace in Messina.




AS YOU LIKE IT


During the time that France was divided into provinces (or dukedoms as
they were called) there reigned in one of these provinces an usurper,
who had deposed and banished his elder brother, the lawful duke.

The duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, retired with a few
faithful followers to the forest of Arden; and here the good duke lived
with his loving friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile
for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched the false usurper;
and custom soon made the life of careless ease they led here more sweet
to them than the pomp and uneasy splendour of a courtier's life. Here
they lived like the old Robin Hood of England, and to this forest many
noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet the time
carelessly, as they did who lived in the golden age. In the summer they
lay along under the fine shade of the large forest trees, marking the
playful sports of the wild deer; and so fond were they of these poor
dappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest,
that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply themselves
with venison for their food. When the cold winds of winter made the
duke feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure it
patiently, and say: 'These chilling winds which blow upon my body are
true counsellors; they do not flatter, but represent truly to me my
condition; and though they bite sharply, their tooth is nothing like so
keen as that of unkindness and ingratitude. I find that howsoever men
speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from
it; like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is taken from the head
of the venomous and despised toad.' In this manner did the patient duke
draw a useful moral from everything that he saw; and by the help of
this moralizing turn, in that life of his, remote from public haunts,
he could find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in
stones, and good in everything.

The banished duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom the
usurper, duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained in
his court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A strict
friendship subsisted between these ladies, which the disagreement
between their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia striving by
every kindness in her power to make amends to Rosalind for the
injustice of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind; and
whenever the thoughts of her father's banishment, and her own
dependence on the false usurper, made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's
whole care was to comfort and console her.

One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind manner to Rosalind,
saying: 'I pray you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry,' a messenger
entered from the duke, to tell them that if they wished to see a
wrestling match, which was just going to begin, they must come
instantly to the court before the palace; and Celia, thinking it would
amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it.

In those times wrestling, which is only practiced now by country
clowns, was a favourite sport even in the courts of princes, and before
fair ladies and princesses. To this wrestling match, therefore, Celia
and Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove a very
tragical sight; for a large and powerful man, who had been long
practiced in the art of wrestling, and had slain many men in contests
of this kind, was just going to wrestle with a very young man, who,
from his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders all
thought would certainly be killed.

When the duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said: 'How now, daughter and
niece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You will take little
delight in it, there is such odds in the men: in pity to this young
man, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak to him, ladies,
and see if you can move him.'

The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane office, and first
Celia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from the
attempt; and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with such
feeling consideration for, the danger he was about to undergo, that
instead of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his purpose,
all his thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his courage in
this lovely lady's eyes. He refused the request of Celia and Rosalind
in such graceful and modest words, that they felt still more concern
for him; he concluded his refusal with saying: 'I am sorry to deny such
fair and excellent ladies anything. But let your fair eyes and gentle
wishes go with me to my trial, wherein if I be conquered there is one
shamed that was never gracious; if I am killed, there is one dead that
is willing to die; I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to
lament me; the world no injury, for in it I have nothing; for I only
fill up a place in the world which may be better supplied when I have
made it empty.'

And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished the young stranger
might not be hurt; but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless state
which he said he was in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind think
that he was like herself, unfortunate; and she pitied him so much, and
so deep an interest she took in his danger while he was wrestling, that
she might almost be said at that moment to have fallen in love with him.

The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair and noble ladies
gave him courage and strength, so that he performed wonders; and in the
end completely conquered his antagonist, who was so much hurt, that for
a while he was unable to speak or move.

The duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill shown by
this young stranger; and desired to know his name and parentage,
meaning to take him under his protection.

The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the youngest
son of Sir Roland de Boys.

Sir Rowland de Boys, the father of Orlando, had been dead some years;
but when he was living, he had been a true subject and dear friend of
the banished duke; therefore, when Frederick heard Orlando was the son
of his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave young
man was changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill
humour. Hating to hear the very name of any of his brother's friends,
and yet still admiring the valour of the youth, he said, as he went
out, that he wished Orlando had been the son of any other man.

Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite was the son of
her father's old friend; and she said to Celia: 'My father loved Sir
Rowland de Boys, and if I had known this young man was his son, I would
have added tears to my entreaties before he should have ventured.'

The ladies then went up to him; and seeing him abashed by the sudden
displeasure shown by the duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words to
him; and Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back to speak some
more civil things to the brave young son of her father's old friend;
and taking a chain from off her neck, she said: 'Gentleman, wear this
for me. I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you a more
valuable present.'

When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still of Orlando,
Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen in love with the handsome
young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind: 'Is it possible you should
fall in love so suddenly?' Rosalind replied: 'The duke, my father,
loved his father dearly.' 'But,' said Celia, 'does it therefore follow
that you should love his son dearly? for then I ought to hate him, for
my father hated his father; yet I do not hate Orlando.'

Frederick being enraged at the sight of Sir Rowland de Boys' son, which
reminded him of the many friends the banished duke had among the
nobility, and having been for some time displeased with his niece,
because the people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for her
good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against her; and
while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered the
room, and with looks full of anger ordered Rosalind instantly to leave
the palace, and follow her father into banishment; telling Celia, who
in vain pleaded for her, that he had only suffered Rosalind to stay
upon her account. 'I did not then,' said Celia, 'entreat you to let her
stay, for I was too young at that time to value her; but now that I
know her worth, and that we so long have slept together, rose at the
same instant, learned, played, and eat together, I cannot live out of
her company.' Frederick replied: 'She is too subtle for you; her
smoothness, her very silence, and her patience speak to the people, and
they pity her. You are a fool to plead for her, for you will seem more
bright and virtuous when she is gone; therefore open not your lips in
her favour, for the doom which I have passed upon her is irrevocable.'

When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let Rosalind
remain with her, she generously resolved to accompany her; and leaving
her father's palace that night, she went along with her friend to seek
Rosalind's father, the banished duke, in the forest of Arden.

Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for two
young ladies to travel in the rich clothes they then wore; she
therefore proposed that they should disguise their rank by dressing
themselves like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a still
greater protection if one of them was to be dressed like a man: and so
it was quickly agreed on between them, that as Rosalind was the
tallest, she should wear the dress of a young countryman, and Celia
should be habited like a country lass, and that they should say they
were brother and sister, and Rosalind said she would be called
Ganymede, and Celia chose the name of Aliena.

In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray their
expenses, these fair princesses set out on their long travel; for the
forest of Arden was a long way off, beyond the boundaries of the duke's
dominions.

The Lady Rosalind (or Ganymede as she must now be called) with her
manly garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The faithful
friendship Celia had shown in accompanying Rosalind so many weary
miles, made the new brother, in recompense for this true love, exert a
cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganymede, the rustic and
stout-hearted brother of the gentle village maiden, Aliena.

When at last they came to the forest of Arden, they no longer found the
convenient inns and good accommodations they had met with on the road;
and being in want of food and rest, Ganymede, who had so merrily
cheered his sister with pleasant speeches and happy remarks all the
way, now owned to Aliena that he was so weary, he could find in his
heart to disgrace his man's apparel, and cry like a woman; and Aliena
declared she could go no farther; and then again Ganymede tried to
recollect that it was a man's duty to comfort and console a woman, as
the weaker vessel; and to seem courageous to his new sister; he said:
'Come, have a good heart, my sister Aliena; we are now at the end of
our travel, in the forest of Arden.' But feigned manliness and forced
courage would no longer support them; for though they were in the
forest of Arden, they knew not where to find the duke: and here the
travel of these weary ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for
they might have lost themselves, and perished for want of food; but
providentially, as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying with
fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman chanced to pass that
way, and Ganymede once more tried to speak with a manly boldness,
saying: 'Shepherd, if love or gold can in this desert place procure us
entertainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest ourselves; for
this young maid, my sister, is much fatigued with travelling, and
faints for want of food.'

The man replied that he was only a servant to a shepherd, and that his
master's house was just going to be sold, and therefore they would find
but poor entertainment; but that if they would go with him, they should
be welcome to what there was. They followed the man, the near prospect
of relief giving them fresh strength; and bought the house and sheep of
the shepherd, and took the man who conducted them to the shepherd's
house to wait on them; and being by this means so fortunately provided
with a neat cottage, and well supplied with provisions, they agreed to
stay here till they could learn in what part of the forest the duke
dwelt.

When they were rested after the fatigue of their journey, they began to
like their new way of life, and almost fancied themselves the shepherd
and shepherdess they feigned to be: yet sometimes Ganymede remembered
he had once been the same lady Rosalind who had so dearly loved the
brave Orlando, because he was the son of old Sir Rowland, her father's
friend; and though Ganymede thought that Orlando was many miles
distant, even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it soon
appeared that Orlando was also in the forest of Arden: and in this
manner this strange event came to pass.

Orlando was the youngest son of Sir Rowland de Boys, who, when he died,
left him (Orlando being then very young) to the care of his eldest
brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his brother a
good education, and provide for him as became the dignity of their
ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother; and disregarding the
commands of his dying father, he never put his bother to school, but
kept him a home untaught and entirely neglected. But in his nature and
in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled his
excellent father, that without any advantages of education he seemed
like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care; and Oliver so
envied the fine person and dignified manners of his untutored brother,
that at last he wished to destroy him, and to effect this he set on
people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous wrestler, who, as has
been before related, had killed so many men. Now, it was this cruel
brother's neglect of him which made Orlando say he wished to die, being
so friendless.

When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, his brother proved
victorious, his envy and malice knew no bounds, and he swore he would
burn the chamber where Orlando slept. He was overheard making this vow
by one that had been an old and faithful servant to their father, and
that loved Orlando because he resembled Sir Rowland. This old man went
out to meet him when he returned from the duke's palace, and when he
saw Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in made him break out
into these passionate exclamations: 'O my gentle master, my sweet
master, O you memory of old Sir Rowland! why are you virtuous? why are
you gentle, strong, and valiant? and why would you be so fond to
overcome the famous wrestler? Your praise is come too swiftly home
before you.' Orlando, wondering what all this meant, asked him what was
the matter. And then the old man told him how his wicked brother,
envying the love all people bore him, and now hearing the fame he had
gained by his victory in the duke's palace, intended to destroy him, by
setting fire to his chamber that night; and in conclusion, advised him
to escape the danger he was in by instant flight; and knowing Orlando
had no money, Adam (for that was the good old man's name) had brought
out with him his own little hoard, and he said: 'I have five hundred
crowns, the thrifty hire I saved under your father, and laid by to be
provision for me when my old limbs should become unfit for service;
take that, and He that cloth the ravens feed be comfort to my age! Here
is the gold; all this I give to you: let me be your servant; though I
look old I will do the service of a younger man in all your business
and necessities.' 'O good old man!' said Orlando, 'how well appears in
you the constant service of the old world! You are not for the fashion
of these times. We will go along together, and before your youthful
wages are spent, I shall light upon some means for both our
maintenance.'

Together then this faithful servant and his loved master set out; and
Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain what course to pursue, till
they came to the forest of Arden, and there they found themselves in
the same distress for want of food that Ganymede and Aliena had been.
They wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till they were almost
spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said: 'O my dear master, I
die for want of food, I can go no farther!' He then laid himself down,
thinking to make that place his grave, and bade his dear master
farewell. Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, took his old servant
up in his arms, and carried him under the shelter of some pleasant
trees; and he said to him: 'Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs
here awhile, and do not talk of dying!'

Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened to
arrive at that part of the forest where the duke was; and he and his
friends were just going to eat their dinner, this royal duke being
seated on the grass, under no other canopy than the shady covert of
some large trees.

Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his sword, intending to
take their meat by force, and said: 'Forbear and eat no more; I must
have your food!' The duke asked him, if distress had made him so bold,
or if he were a rude despiser of good manners? On this Orlando said, he
was dying with hunger; and then the duke told him he was welcome to sit
down and eat with them. Orlando hearing him speak so gently, put up his
sword, and blushed with shame at the rude manner in which he had
demanded their food. 'Pardon me, I pray you,' said he: 'I thought that
all things had been savage here, and therefore I put on the countenance
of stern command; but whatever men you are, that in this desert, under
the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours of
time; if ever you have looked on better days; if ever you have been
where bells have knolled to church; if you have ever sat at any good
man's feast; if ever from your eyelids you have wiped a tear, and know
what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches now move you to do
me human courtesy!' The duke replied: 'True it is that we are men (as
you say) who have seen better days, and though we have now our
habitation in this wild forest, we have lived in towns and cities, and
have with holy bell been knolled to church, have sat at good men's
feasts, and from our eyes have wiped the drops which sacred pity has
engendered; therefore sit you down, and take of our refreshment as much
as will minister to your wants.' 'There is an old poor man,' answered
Orlando, 'who has limped after me many a weary step in pure love,
oppressed at once with two sad infirmities, age and hunger; till he be
satisfied, I must not touch a bit.' 'Go, find him out, and bring him
hither,' said the duke; 'we will forbear to eat till you return.' Then
Orlando went like a doe to kind its fawn and give it food; and
presently returned, bringing Adam in his arms; and the duke said: 'Set
down your venerable burthen; you are both welcome'; and they fed the
old man, and cheered his heart, and he revived, and recovered his
health and strength again.

The duke inquired who Orlando was; and when he found that he was the
son of his old friend, Sir Rowland de Boys, he took him under his
protection, and Orlando and his old servant lived with the duke in the
forest.

Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after Ganymede and Aliena
came there, and (as has been before 'elated) bought the shepherd's
cottage.

Ganymede and Aliena were strangely surprised to find the name of
Rosalind carved on the trees, and love-sonnets, fastened to them, all
addressed to Rosalind; and while they were wondering how this could be,
they met Orlando, and they perceived the chain which Rosalind had given
him about his neck.

Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair princess Rosalind,
who, by her noble condescension and favour, had so won his heart that
he passed his whole time in carving her name upon the trees, and
writing sonnets in praise of her beauty: but being much pleased with
the graceful air of this pretty shepherd-youth, he entered into
conversation with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganymede to
his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none of the dignified deportment
of that noble lady; for Ganymede assumed the forward manners often seen
in youths when they are between boys and men, and with much archness
and humour talked to Orlando of a certain lover, 'who,' said he,
'haunts our forest, and spoils our young trees with carving Rosalind
upon their barks; and he hangs odes upon hawthorns, and elegies on
brambles, all praising this same Rosalind. If I could find this lover,
I would give him some good counsel that would soon cure him of his
love.'

Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, and
asked Ganymede to give him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy
Ganymede proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should
come every day to the cottage where he and his sister Aliena dwelt:
'And then,' said Ganymede, 'I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and you
shall feign to court me in the same manner as you would do if I was
Rosalind, and then I will imitate the fantastic ways of whimsical
ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of your love; and this
is the way I propose to cure you.' Orlando had no great faith in the
remedy, yet he agreed to come every day to Ganymede's cottage, and
feign a playful courtship; and every day Orlando visited Ganymede and
Aliena, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganymede his Rosalind, and
every day talked over all the fine words and flattering compliments
which young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. It
does not appear, however, that Ganymede made any progress in curing
Orlando of his love for Rosalind.

Though Orlando thought all this was but a sportive play (not dreaming
that Ganymede was his very Rosalind), yet the opportunity it gave him
of saying all the fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy
almost as well as it did Ganymede's, who enjoyed the secret jest in
knowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed to the right person.

In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young people;
and the good-natured Aliena, seeing it made Ganymede happy, let him
have his own way, and was diverted at the mock-courtship, and did not
care to remind Ganymede that the Lady Rosalind had not yet made herself
known to the duke her father, whose place of resort in the forest they
had learnt from Orlando. Ganymede met the duke one day, and had some
talk with him, and the duke asked of what parentage he came. Ganymede
answered that he came of as good parentage as he did, which made the
duke smile, for he did not suspect the pretty shepherd-boy came of
royal lineage. Then seeing the duke look well and happy, Ganymede was
content to put off all further explanation for a few days longer.

One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a man lying
asleep on the ground, and a large green snake had twisted itself about
his neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided away among the
bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a lioness lie
crouching, with her head on the ground, with a cat-like watch, waiting
until the sleeping man awaked (for it is said that lions will prey on
nothing that is dead or sleeping). It seemed as if Orlando was sent by
Providence to free the man from the danger of the snake and lioness;
but when Orlando looked in the man's face, he perceived that the
sleeper who was exposed to this double peril, was his own brother
Oliver, who had so cruelly used him, and had threatened to destroy him
by fire; and he was almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry
lioness; but brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature soon
overcame his first anger against his brother; and he drew his sword,
and attacked the lioness, and slew her, and thus preserved his
brother's life both from the venomous snake and from the furious
lioness; but before Orlando could conquer the lioness, she had torn one
of his arms with her sharp claws.

While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver awaked, and
perceiving that his brother Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated,
was saving him from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own
life, shame and remorse at once seized him, and he repented of his
unworthy conduct, and besought with many tears his brother's pardon for
the injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent,
and readily forgave him: they embraced each other; and from that hour
Oliver loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, though he had
come to the forest bent on his destruction.

The wound in Orlando's arm having bled very much, he found himself too
weak to go to visit Ganymede, and therefore he desired his brother to
go and tell Ganymede, 'whom,' said Orlando, 'I in sport do call my
Rosalind,' the accident which had befallen him.

Thither then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and Aliena how Orlando
had saved his life: and when he had finished the story of Orlando's
bravery, and his own providential escape, he owned to them that he was
Orlando's brother, who had so cruelly used him; and then he told them
of their reconciliation.

The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offences made such a
lively impression on the kind heart of Aliena, that she instantly fell
in love with him; and Oliver observing how much she pitied the distress
he told her he felt for his fault, he as suddenly fell in love with
her. But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of Aliena and
Oliver, he was no less busy with Ganymede, who hearing of the danger
Orlando had been in, and that he was wounded by the lioness, fainted;
and when he recovered, he pretended that he had counterfeited the swoon
in the imaginary character of Rosalind, and Ganymede said to Oliver:
'Tell your brother Orlando how well I counterfeited a swoon.' But
Oliver saw by the paleness of his complexion that he did really faint,
and much wondering at the weakness of the young man, he said: 'Well, if
you did counterfeit, take a good heart, and counterfeit to be a man.'
'So I do,' replied Ganymede, truly, 'but I should have been a woman by
right.'

Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he returned
back to his brother, he had much news to tell him; for besides the
account of Ganymede's fainting at the hearing that Orlando was wounded,
Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the fair shepherdess
Aliena, and that she had lent a favourable ear to his suit, even in
this their first interview: and he talked to his brother, as of a thing
almost settled, that he should marry Aliena, saying, that he so well
loved her, that he would live here as a shepherd, and settle his estate
and house at home upon Orlando.

'You have my consent,' said Orlando. 'Let your wedding be to-morrow,
and I will invite the duke and his friends. Go and persuade your
shepherdess to this: she is now alone, for look, here comes her
brother.' Oliver went to Aliena; and Ganymede, whom Orlando had
perceived approaching, came to inquire after the health of his wounded
friend.

When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over the sudden love which had
taken place between Oliver and Aliena, Orlando said he had advised his
brother to persuade his fair shepherdess to be married on the morrow,
and then he added how much he could wish to be married on the same day
to his Rosalind.

Ganymede, who well approved of this arrangement, said that if Orlando
really loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he should have his
wish; for on the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind appear in her
own person, and also that Rosalind should be willing to marry Orlando.

This seemingly wonderful event, which, as Ganymede was the lady
Rosalind, he could so easily perform, he pretended he would bring to
pass by the aid of magic, which he said he had learnt of an uncle who
was a famous magician.

The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubting what he heard,
asked Ganymede if he spoke in sober meaning. 'By my life I do,' said
Ganymede; 'therefore put on your best clothes, and bid the duke and
your friends to your wedding; for if you desire to be married to-morrow
to Rosalind, she shall be here.'

The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Aliena, they
came into the presence of the duke, and with them also came Orlando.

They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and as yet
only one of the brides appearing, there was much of wondering and
conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganymede was making a jest of
Orlando.

The duke, hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be brought
in this strange way, asked Orlando if he believed the shepherd-boy
could really do what he had promised; and while Orlando was answering
that he knew not what to think, Ganymede entered, and asked the duke,
if he brought his daughter, whether he would consent to her marriage
with Orlando. 'That I would,' said the duke, 'if I had kingdoms to give
with her.' Ganymede then said to Orlando: 'And you say you will marry
her if I bring her here.' 'That I would,' said Orlando, 'if I were king
of many kingdoms.'

Ganymede and Aliena then went out together, and Ganymede throwing off
his male attire, and being once more dressed in woman's apparel,
quickly became Rosalind without the power of magic; and Aliena changing
her country garb for her own rich clothes, was with as little trouble
transformed into the lady Celia.

While they were gone, the duke said to Orlando, that he thought the
shepherd Ganymede very like his daughter Rosalind; and Orlando said, he
also had observed the resemblance.

They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosalind and
Celia in their own clothes entered; and no longer pretending that it
was by the power of magic that she came there, Rosalind threw herself
on her knees before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed so
wonderful to all present that she should so suddenly appear, that it
might well have passed for magic; but Rosalind would no longer trifle
with her father, and told him the story of her banishment, and of her
dwelling in the forest as a shepherd-boy, her cousin Celia passing as
her sister.

The duke ratified the consent he had already given to the marriage; and
Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and Celia, were married at the same time.
And though their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest
with any of the parade or splendour usual on such occasions, yet a
happier wedding-day was never passed: and while they were eating their
venison under the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if nothing
should be wanting to complete the felicity of this good duke and the
true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the duke the
joyful news, that his dukedom was restored to him.

The usurper, enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and hearing
that every day men of great worth resorted to the forest of Arden to
join the lawful duke in his exile, much envying' that his brother
should be so highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the head
of a large force, and advanced towards the forest, intending to seize
his brother, and put him with all his faithful followers to the sword;
but, by a wonderful interposition of Providence, this bad brother was
converted from his evil intention; for just as he entered the skirts of
the wild forest, he was met by an old religious man, a hermit, with
whom he had much talk, and who in the end completely turned his heart
from his wicked design. Thenceforward he became a true penitent, and
resolved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder of
his days in a religious house. The first act of his newly-conceived
penitence was to send a messenger to his brother (as has been related)
to offer to restore to him his dukedom, which he had usurped so long,
and with it the lands and revenues of his friends, the faithful
followers of his adversity.

This joyful news, as unexpected as it was welcome, came opportunely to
heighten the festivity and rejoicings at the wedding of the princesses.
Celia complimented her cousin on this good fortune which had happened
to the duke, Rosalind's father, and wished her joy very sincerely,
though she herself was no longer heir to the dukedom, but by this
restoration which her father had made, Rosalind was now the heir: so
completely was the love of these two cousins unmixed with anything of
jealousy or of envy.

The duke had now an opportunity of rewarding those true friends who had
stayed with him in his banishment; and these worthy followers, though
they had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased
to return in peace and prosperity to the palace of their lawful duke.




THE TWO GENTLEMEN OF VERONA


There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen, whose names were
Valentine and Proteus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted friendship
had long subsisted. They pursued their studies together, and their
hours of leisure were always passed in each other's company, except
when Proteus visited a lady he was in love with; and these visits to
his mistress, and this passion of Proteus for the fair Julia, were the
only topics on which these two friends disagreed; for Valentine, not
being himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing his
friend for ever talking of his Julia, and then he would laugh at
Proteus, and in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love, and
declare that no such idle fancies should ever enter his head, greatly
preferring (as he said) the free and happy life he led, to the anxious
hopes and fears of the lover Proteus.

One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him that they must for a
time be separated, for that he was going to Milan. Proteus, unwilling
to part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon Valentine
not to leave him: but Valentine said: 'Cease to persuade me, my loving
Proteus. I will not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth in idleness at
home. Home-keeping youths have ever homely wits. If your affection were
not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured Julia, I would
entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders of the world abroad;
but since you are a lover, love on still, and may your love be
prosperous!'

They parted with mutual expressions of unalterable friendship. 'Sweet
Valentine, adieu!' said Proteus; 'think on me, when you see some rare
object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your
happiness.'

Valentine began his journey that same day towards Milan; and when his
friend had left him, Proteus sat down to write a letter to Julia, which
he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress.

Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of a
noble spirit, and she thought it did not become her maiden dignity too
easily to be won; therefore she affected to be insensible of his
passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit.

And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not receive it,
and chid her maid for taking letters from Proteus, and ordered her to
leave the room. But she so much wished to see what was written in the
letter, that she soon called in her maid again; and when Lucetta
returned, she said: 'What o'clock is it?' Lucetta, who knew her
mistress more desired to see the letter than to know the time of day,
without answering her question, again offered the rejected letter.
Julia, angry that her maid should thus take the liberty of seeming to
know what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces, and threw it on
the floor, ordering her maid once more out of the room. As Lucetta was
retiring, she stopped to pick up the fragments of the torn letter; but
Julia, who meant not so to part with them, said, in pretended anger:
'Go, get you gone, and let the papers lie, you would be fingering them
to anger me.'

Julia then began to piece together as well as she could the torn
fragments. She first made out these words: 'Love-wounded Proteus'; and
lamenting over these and such like loving words, which she made out
though they were all torn asunder, or, she said wounded (the expression
'Love-wounded Proteus' giving her that idea), she talked to these kind
words, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till
their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several piece,
to make amends.

In this manner she went on talking with a pretty ladylike childishness,
till finding herself unable to make out the whole, and vexed at her own
ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words, as she called
them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever done
before.

Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer to
his letter; and while he was reading it, he exclaimed: 'Sweet love,
sweet lines, sweet life!' In the midst of his raptures he was
interrupted by his father. 'How now!' said the old gentleman; 'what
letter are you reading there?'

'My lord,' replied Proteus, 'it is a letter from my friend Valentine,
at Milan.'

'Lend me the letter,' said his father: 'let me see what news.'

'There are no news, my lord,' said Proteus, greatly alarmed, 'but that
he writes how well beloved he is of the duke of Milan, who daily graces
him with favours; and how he wishes me with him, the partner of his
fortune.'

'And how stand you affected to his wish?' asked the father.

'As one relying on your lordship's will, and not depending on his
friendly wish,' said Proteus.

Now it had happened that Proteus' father had just been talking with a
friend on this very subject: his friend had said, he wondered his
lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most men
were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad; 'some,' said he, 'to
the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to discover islands far
away, and some to study in foreign universities; and there is his
companion Valentine, he is gone to the duke of Milan's court. Your son
is fit for any of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage to
him in his riper age not to have travelled in his youth.'

Proteus' father thought the advice of his friend was very good, and
upon Proteus telling him that Valentine 'wished him with him, the
partner of his fortune,' he at once determined to send his son to
Milan; and without giving Proteus any reason for this sudden
resolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to
command his son, not reason with him, he said: 'My will is the same as
Valentine's wish'; and seeing his son look astonished, he added: 'Look
not amazed, that I so suddenly resolve you shall spend some time in the
duke of Milan's court; for what I will I will, and there is an end.
To-morrow be in readiness to go. Make no excuses; for I am peremptory.'

Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, who
never suffered him to dispute his will; and he blamed himself for
telling his father an untruth about Julia's letter, which had brought
upon him the sad necessity of leaving her.

Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus for so long a time,
she no longer pretended indifference; and they bade each other a
mournful farewell, with many vows of love and constancy. Proteus and
Julia exchanged rings, which they both promised to keep for ever in
remembrance of each other; and thus, taking a sorrowful leave, Proteus
set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend Valentine.

Valentine was in reality what Proteus had feigned to his father, in
high favour with the duke of Milan; and another event had happened to
him, of which Proteus did not even dream, for Valentine had given up
the freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was become as
passionate a lover as Proteus.

She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine was the lady
Silvia, daughter of the duke of Milan, and she also loved him; but they
concealed their love from the duke, because although he showed much
kindness for Valentine, and invited him every day to his palace, yet he
designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier whose name was
Thurio. Silvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense
and excellent qualities of Valentine.

These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit to
Silvia, and Valentine was entertaining Silvia with turning everything
Thurio said into ridicule, when the duke himself entered the room, and
told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Proteus' arrival.
Valentine said: 'If I had wished a thing, it would have been to have
seen him here!' And then he highly praised Proteus to the duke, saying:
'My lord, though I have been a truant of my time, yet hath my friend
made use and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in person and
in mind, in all good grace to grace a gentleman.'

'Welcome him then according to his worth,' said the duke. 'Silvia, I
speak to you, and you, Sir Thurio; for Valentine, I need not bid him do
so.' They were here interrupted by the entrance of Proteus, and
Valentine introduced him to Silvia, saying: 'Sweet lady, entertain him
to be my fellow-servant to your ladyship.'

When Valentine and Proteus had ended their visit, and were alone
together, Valentine said: 'Now tell me how all does from whence you
came? How does your lady, and how thrives your love?' Proteus replied:
'My tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not in a love
discourse.'

'Ay, Proteus,' returned Valentine, 'but that life is altered now. I
have done penance for condemning love. For in revenge of my contempt of
love, love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. O gentle Proteus,
Love is a mighty lord, and hath so humbled me, that I confess there is
no woe like his correction, nor so such joy on earth as in his service.
I now like no discourse except it be of love. Now I can break my fast,
dine, sup, and sleep, upon the very name of love.'

This acknowledgment of the change which love had made in the
disposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Proteus. But
'friend' Proteus must be called no longer, for the same all-powerful
deity Love, of whom they were speaking (yea, even while they were
talking of the change he had made in Valentine), was working in the
heart of Proteus; and he, who had till this time been a pattern of true
love and perfect friendship, was now, in one short interview with
Silvia, become a false friend and a faithless lover; for at the first
sight of Silvia all his love for Julia vanished away like a dream, nor
did his long friendship for Valentine deter him from endeavouring to
supplant him in her affections; and although, as it will always be,
when people of dispositions naturally good become unjust, he had many
scruples before he determined to forsake Julia, and become the rival of
Valentine; yet he at length overcame his sense of duty, and yielded
himself up, almost without remorse, to his new unhappy passion.

Valentine imparted to him in confidence the whole history of his love,
and how carefully they had concealed it from the duke her father, and
told him, that, despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent, he
had prevailed upon Silvia to leave her father's palace that night, and
go with him to Mantua; then he showed Proteus a ladder of ropes, by
help of which he meant to assist Silvia to get out of one of the
windows of the palace after it was dark.

Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets, it
is hardly possible to be believed, but so it was, that Proteus resolved
to go to the duke, and disclose the whole to him.

This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the duke,
such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal what he was
going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the duke had shown him,
and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that which else no
worldly good should draw from him. He then told all he had heard from
Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes, and the manner in which
Valentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak.

The duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he
preferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would conceal
an unjust action, highly commended him, and promised him not to let
Valentine know from whom he had learnt this intelligence, but by some
artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purpose
the duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon
saw hurrying towards the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped
within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope-ladder.

The duke upon this stopped him, saying: 'Whither away so fast,
Valentine?' 'May it please your grace,' said Valentine, 'there is a
messenger that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am going
to deliver them.' Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no better
success in the event than the untruth Proteus told his father.

'Be they of much import?' said the duke.

'No more, my lord,' said Valentine, 'than to tell my father I am well
and happy at your grace's court.'

'Nay then,' said the duke, 'no matter; stay with me a while. I wish
your counsel about some affairs that concern me nearly.' He then told
Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him,
saying that Valentine knew he wished to match his daughter with Thurio,
but that she was stubborn and disobedient to his commands, 'neither
regarding,' said he, 'that she is my child, nor fearing me as if I were
her father. And I may say to thee, this pride of hers has drawn my love
from her. I had thought my age should have been cherished by her
childlike duty. I now am resolved to take a wife, and turn her out to
whosoever will take her in. Let her beauty be her wedding dower, for me
and my possessions she esteems not.'

Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer: 'And what
would your grace have me do in all this?'

'Why,' said the duke, 'the lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy,
and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of
courtship is much changed since I was young; now I would willingly have
you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo.'

Valentine gave him a general idea of the modes of courtship then
practiced by young men, when they wished to win a fair lady's love,
such as presents, frequent visits, and the like.

The duke replied to this, that the lady did refuse a present which he
sent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father, that no man
might have access to her by day.

'Why then,' said Valentine, 'you must visit her by night.'

'But at night,' said the artful duke, who was now coming to the drift
of his discourse, 'her doors are fast locked.'

Valentine then unfortunately proposed that the duke should go into the
lady's chamber at night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying he would
procure him one tatting for that purpose; and in conclusion advised him
to conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as that which he now
wore. 'Lend me your cloak,' said the duke, who had feigned this long
story on purpose to have a presence to get off the cloak; so upon
saying these words, he caught hold of Valentine's cloak, and throwing
it back, he discovered not only the ladder of ropes, but also a letter
of Silvia's, which he instantly opened and read; and this letter
contained a full account of their intended elopement. The duke, after
upbraiding Valentine for his ingratitude in thus returning the favour
he had shown him, by endeavouring to steal away his daughter, banished
him from the court and city of Milan for ever; and Valentine was forced
to depart that night, without even seeing Silvia.

While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at Verona was
regretting the absence of Proteus; and her regard for him at last so
far overcame her sense of propriety, that she resolved to leave Verona,
and seek her lover at Milan; and to secure herself from danger on the
road, she dressed her maiden Lucetta and herself in men's clothes, and
they set out in this disguise, and arrived at Milan soon after
Valentine was banished from that city through the treachery of Proteus.

Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at an inn;
and her thoughts being all on her dear Proteus, she entered into
conversation with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking by
that means to learn some news of Proteus.

The host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentleman (as he
took her to be), who from his appearance he concluded was of high rank,
spoke so familiarly to him; and being a good-natured man, he was sorry
to see him look so melancholy; and to amuse his young guest, he offered
to take him to hear some fine music, with which, he said, a gentleman
that evening was going to serenade his mistress.

The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was, that she did not well
know what Proteus would think of the imprudent step she had taken; for
she knew he had loved her for her noble maiden pride and dignity of
character, and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem: and
this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance.

She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him, and hear the
music; for she secretly hoped she might meet Proteus by the way.

But when she came to the palace whither the host conducted her, a very
different effect was produced to what the kind host intended; for
there, to her heart's sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant
Proteus, serenading the lady Silvia with music, and addressing
discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Silvia
from a window talk with Proteus, and reproach him for forsaking his own
true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine; and then
Silvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music and his
fine speeches; for she was a faithful lady to her banished Valentine,
and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend Proteus.

Though Julia was in despair at what she had just witnessed, yet did she
still love the truant Proteus; and hearing that he had lately parted
with a servant, she contrived with the assistance of her host, the
friendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a page; and Proteus
knew not she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and presents to
her rival Silvia, and he even sent by her the very ring she gave him as
a parting gift at Verona.

When she went to that lady with the ring, she was most glad to find
that Silvia utterly rejected the suit of Proteus; and Julia, or the
page Sebastian as she was called, entered into conversation with Silvia
about Proteus' first love, the forsaken lady Julia. She putting in (as
one may say) a good word for herself, said she knew Julia; as well she
might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke; telling how fondly
Julia loved her master Proteus, and how his unkind neglect would grieve
her: and then she with a pretty equivocation went on: 'Julia is about
my height, and of my complexion, the colour of her eyes and hair the
same as mine': and indeed Julia looked a most beautiful youth in her
boy's attire. Silvia was moved to pity this lovely lady, who was so
sadly forsaken by the man she loved; and when Julia offered the ring
which Proteus had sent, refused it, saying: 'The more shame for him
that he sends me that ring; I will not take it; for I have often heard
him say his Julia gave it to him. I love thee, gentle youth, for
pitying her, poor lady! Here is a purse; I give it you for Julia's
sake.' These comfortable words coming from her kind rival's tongue
cheered the drooping heart of the disguised lady.

But to return to the banished Valentine; who scarce knew which way to
bend his course, being unwilling to return home to his father a
disgraced and banished man: as he was wandering over a lonely forest,
not far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear
treasure, the lady Silvia, he was set upon by robbers, who demanded his
money.

Valentine told them that he was a man crossed by adversity, that he was
going into banishment, and that he had no money, the clothes he had on
being all his riches.

The robbers, hearing that he was a distressed man, and being struck
with his noble air and manly behaviour, told him if he would live with
them, and be their chief, or captain, they would put themselves under
his command; but that if he refused to accept their offer, they would
kill him.

Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said he would
consent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did no
outrage on women or poor passengers.

Thus the noble Valentine became, like Robin Hood, of whom we read in
ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed banditti; and in this
situation he was found by Silvia, and in this manner it came to pass.

Silvia, to avoid a marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted upon
her no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of following
Valentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover had taken
refuge; but in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived in
the forest among the robbers, bearing the name of their captain, but
taking no part in their depredations, and using the authority which
they had imposed upon him in no other way than to compel them to show
compassion to the travellers they robbed.

Silvia contrived to effect her escape from her father's palace in
company with a worthy old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, whom she
took along with her for protection on the road. She had to pass through
the forest where Valentine and the banditti dwelt; and one of these
robbers seized on Silvia, and would also have taken Eglamour, but he
escaped.

The robber who had taken Silvia, seeing the terror he was in, bid her
not be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to a cave where
his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their captain
had an honourable mind, and always showed humanity to women. Silvia
found little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as a
prisoner before the captain of a lawless banditti. 'O Valentine,' she
cried, 'this I endure for thee!'

But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain, he was
stopped by Proteus, who, still attended by Julia in the disguise of a
page, having heard of the flight of Silvia, had traced her steps to
this forest. Proteus now rescued her from the hands of the robber; but
scarce had she time to thank him for the service he had done her,
before he began to distress her afresh with his love suit; and while he
was rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, and his page (the
forlorn Julia) was standing beside him in great anxiety of mind,
fearing lest the great service which Proteus had just done to Silvia
should win her to show him some favour, they were all strangely
surprised with the sudden appearance of Valentine, who, having heard
his robbers had taken a lady prisoner, came to console and relieve her.

Proteus was courting Silvia, and he was so much ashamed of being caught
by his friend, that he was all at once seized with penitence and
remorse; and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the injuries he had
done to Valentine, that Valentine, whose nature was noble and generous,
even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored him to his
former place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of heroism he
said: 'I freely do forgive you; and all the interest I have in Silvia,
I give it up to you.' Julia, who was standing beside her master as a
page, hearing this strange offer, and fearing Proteus would not be able
with this new-found virtue to refuse Silvia, fainted, and they were all
employed in recovering her: else would Silvia have been offended at
being thus made over to Proteus, though she could scarcely think that
Valentine would long persevere in this overstrained and too generous
act of friendship. When Julia recovered from the fainting kit, she
said: 'I had forgot, my master ordered me to deliver this ring to
Silvia.' Proteus, looking upon the ring, saw that it was the one he
gave to Julia, in return for that which he received from her, and which
he had sent by the supposed page to Silvia. 'How is this?' said he,
'this is Julia's ring: how came you by it, boy?' Julia answered: 'Julia
herself did give it me, and Julia herself hath brought it hither.'

Proteus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly perceived that the
page Sebastian was no other than the lady Julia herself; and the proof
she had given of her constancy and true love so wrought in him, that
his love for her returned into his heart, and he took again his own
dear lady, and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the lady Silvia to
Valentine, who had so well deserved her.

Proteus and Valentine were expressing their happiness in their
reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies when they were
surprised with the sight of the duke of Milan and Thurio, who came
there in pursuit of Silvia.

Thurio first approached, and attempted to seize Silvia, saying: 'Silvia
is mine.' Upon this Valentine said to him in a very spirited manner:
'Thurio, keep back: if once again you say that Silvia is yours, you
shall embrace your death. Here she stands, take but possession of her
with a torch! I dare you but to breathe upon my love.' Hearing this
threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew back, and said he cared
not for her, and that none but a fool would fight for a girl who loved
him not.

The duke, who was a very brave man himself, said now in great anger:
The more base and degenerate in you to take such means for her as you
have done, and leave her on such slight conditions.' Then turning to
Valentine, he said: 'I do applaud your spirit Valentine, and think you
worthy of an empress's love. You shall have Silvia, for you have well
deserved her.' Valentine then with great humility kissed the duke's
hand, and accepted the noble present which he had made him of his
daughter with becoming thankfulness: taking occasion of this joyful
minute to entreat the good-humoured duke to pardon the thieves with
whom he had associated in the forest, assuring him, that when reformed
and restored to society, there would be found among them many good, and
fit for great employment; for the most of them had been banished, like
Valentine, for state offences, rather than for any black crimes they
had been guilty of. To this the ready duke consented: and now nothing
remained but that Proteus, the false friend, was ordained, by way of
penance for his love-prompted faults, to be present at the recital of
the whole story of his loves and falsehoods before the duke; and the
shame of the recital to his awakened conscience was judged sufficient
punishment: which being done, the lovers, all four, returned back to
Milan, and their nuptials were solemnized in the presence of the duke,
with high triumphs and feasting.




THE MERCHANT OF VENICE


Shylock, the Jew, lived at Venice: he was an usurer, who had amassed an
immense fortune by lending money at great interest to Christian
merchants. Shylock, being a hard-hearted man, exacted the payment of
the money he lent with such severity that he was much disliked by all
good men, and particularly by Antonio, a young merchant of Venice; and
Shylock as much hated Antonio, because he used to lend money to people
in distress, and would never take any interest for the money he lent;
therefore there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and the
generous merchant Antonio. Whenever Antonio met Shylock on the Rialto
(or Exchange), he used to reproach him with his usuries and hard
dealings, which the Jew would bear with seeming patience, while he
secretly meditated revenge.

Antonio was the kindest man that lived, the best conditioned, and had
the most unwearied spirit in doing courtesies; indeed, he was one in
whom the ancient Roman honour more appeared than in any that drew
breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fellow-citizens; but
the friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart was Bassanio, a
noble Venetian, who, having but a small patrimony, had nearly exhausted
his little fortune by living in too expensive a manner for his slender
means, as young men of high rank with small fortunes are too apt to do.
Whenever Bassanio wanted money, Antonio assisted him; and it seemed as
if they had but one heart and one purse between them.

One day Bassanio came to Antonio, and told him that he wished to repair
his fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he dearly loved,
whose father, that was lately dead, had left her sole heiress to a
large estate; and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit at her
house, when he thought he had observed this lady had sometimes from her
eyes sent speechless messages, that seemed to say he would be no
unwelcome suitor; but not having money to furnish himself with an
appearance befitting the lover of so rich an heiress, he besought
Antonio to add to the many favours he had shown him, by lending him
three thousand ducats.

Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend; but
expecting soon to have some ships come home laden with merchandise, he
said he would go to Shylock, the rich money-lender, and borrow the
money upon the credit of those ships.

Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock, and Antonio asked the
Jew to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest he should
require, to be paid out of the merchandise contained in his ships at
sea. On this, Shylock thought within himself: 'If I can once catch him
on the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him; he hates our
Jewish nation; he lends out money gratis, and among merchants he rails
at me and my well-earned bargains, which he calls interest. Cursed be
my tribe if I forgive him!' Antonio finding he was musing within
himself and did not answer, and being impatient for the money, said:
'Shylock, do you hear? will you lend the money?' To this question the
Jew replied: 'Signior Antonio, on the Rialto many a time and often you
have railed at me about my monies and my usuries, and I have borne it
with a patient shrug, for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe; and
then you have called me unbeliever, cut-throat dog, and spit upon my
Jewish garments, and spurned at me with your foot, as if I was a cur.
Well then, it now appears you need my help; and you come to me, and
say, Shylock, lend me monies. Has a dog money? Is it possible a cur
should lend three thousand ducats? Shall I bend low and say, Fair sir,
you spit upon me on Wednesday last, another time you called me dog, and
for these courtesies I am to lend you monies.' Antonio replied: 'I am
as like to call you so again, to spit on you again, and spurn you too.
If you will lend me this money, lend it not to me as to a friend, but
rather lend it to me as to an enemy, that, if I break, you may with
better face exact the penalty.' 'Why, look you,' said Shylock, 'how you
storm! I would be friends with you, and have your love. I will forget
the shames you have put upon me. I will supply your wants, and take no
interest for my money.' This seemingly kind offer greatly surprised
Antonio; and then Shylock, still pretending kindness, and that all he
did was to gain Antonio's love, again said he would lend him the three
thousand ducats, and take no interest for his money; only Antonio
should go with him to a lawyer, and there sign in merry sport a bond,
that if he did not repay the money by a certain day, he would forfeit a
pound of flesh, to be cut off from any part of his body that Shylock
pleased.

'Content,' said Antonio: 'I will sign to this bond, and say there is
much kindness in the Jew.'

Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a bond for him; but still
Antonio insisted that he would sign it, for that before the day of
payment came, his ships would return laden with many times the value of
the money.

Shylock, hearing this debate, exclaimed: 'O, father Abraham, what
suspicious people these Christians are! Their own hard dealings teach
them to suspect the thoughts of others. I pray you tell me this,
Bassanio: if he should break this day, what should I gain by the
exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man,
is not so estimable, nor profitable neither, as the flesh of mutton or
beef. I say, to buy his favour I offer this friendship: if he will take
it, so; if not, adieu.'

At last, against the advice of Bassanio, who, notwithstanding all the
Jew had said of his kind intentions, did not like his friend should run
the hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake, Antonio signed the
bond, thinking it really was (as the Jew said) merely in sport.

The rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near Venice, at a
place called Belmont: her name was Portia, and in the graces of her
person and her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia, of whom we
read, who was Cato's daughter, and the wife of Brutus.

Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his friend Antonio, at
the hazard of his life, set out for Belmont with a splendid train, and
attended by a gentleman of the name of Gratiano.

Bassanio proving successful in his suit, Portia in a short time
consented to accept of him for a husband.

Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune, and that his high
birth and noble ancestry was all that he could boast of; she, who loved
him for his worthy qualities, and had riches enough not to regard
wealth in a husband, answered with a graceful modesty, that she would
wish herself a thousand times more fair, and ten thousand times more
rich, to be more worthy of him; and then the accomplished Portia
prettily dispraised herself, and said she was an unlessoned girl,
unschooled, unpractised, yet not so old but that she could learn, and
that she would commit her gentle spirit to be directed and governed by
him in all things; and she said: 'Myself and what is mine, to you and
yours is now converted. But yesterday, Bassanio, I was the lady of this
fair mansion, queen of myself, and mistress over these servants; and
now this house, these servants, and myself, are yours, my lord; I give
them with this ring'; presenting a ring to Bassanio.

Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the gracious
manner in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his
humble fortunes, that he could not express his joy and reverence to the
dear lady who so honoured him, by anything but broken words of love and
thankfulness; and taking the ring, he vowed never to part with it.

Gratiano and Nerissa, Portia's waiting-maid, were in attendance upon
their lord and lady, when Portia so gracefully promised to become the
obedient wife of Bassanio; and Gratiano, wishing Bassanio and the
generous lady joy, desired permission to be married at the same time.

'With all my heart, Gratiano,' said Bassanio, 'if you can get a wife.

Gratiano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting
gentlewoman Nerissa, and that she had promised to be his wife, if her
lady married Bassanio. Portia asked Nerissa if this was true. Nerissa
replied: 'Madam, it is so, if you approve of it.' Portia willingly
consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said: 'Then our wedding-feast shall be
much honoured by your marriage, Gratiano.'

The happiness of these lovers was sadly crossed at this moment by the
entrance of a messenger, who brought a letter from Antonio containing
fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Antonio's letter, Portia feared it
was to tell him of the death of some dear friend, he looked so pale;
and inquiring what was the news which had so distressed him, he said:
'O sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever
blotted paper; gentle lady, when I first imparted my love to you, I
freely told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins; but I should have
told you that I had less than nothing, being in debt.' Bassanio then
told Portia what has been here related, of his borrowing the money of
Antonio, and of Antonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of the
bond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound of flesh, if it
was not repaid by a certain day: and then Bassanio read Antonio's
letter: the words of which were: 'Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all
lost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it is
impossible I should live, I could wish to see you at my death;
notwithstanding use your pleasure; if your love for me do not persuade
you to come, let not my letter.' 'O, my dear love,' said Portia,
'despatch all business, and begone; you shall have gold to pay the
money twenty times over, before this kind friend shall lose a hair by
my Bassanio's fault; and as you are so dearly bought, I will dearly
love you.' Portia then said she would be married to Bassanio before he
set out, to give him a legal right to her money; and that same day they
were married, and Gratiano was also married to Nerissa; and Bassanio
and Gratiano, the instant they were married, set out in great haste for
Venice, where Bassanio found Antonio in prison.

The day of payment being past, the cruel Jew would not accept of the
money which Bassanio offered him, but insisted upon having a pound of
Antonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause before
the duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the event
of the trial.

When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to him, and
bade him bring his dear friend along with him when he returned; yet she
feared it would go hard with Antonio, and when she was left alone, she
began to think and consider within herself, if she could by any means
be instrumental in saving the life of her dear Bassanio's friend; and
notwithstanding when she wished to honour her Bassanio, she had said to
him with such a meek and wifelike grace, that she would submit in all
things to be governed by his superior wisdom, yet being now called
forth into action by the peril of her honoured husband's friend, she
did nothing doubt her own powers, and by the sole guidance of her own
true and perfect judgment, at once resolved to go herself to Venice,
and speak in Antonio's defence.

Portia had a relation who was a counsellor in the law; to this
gentleman, whose name was Bellario, she wrote, and stating the case to
him, desired his opinion, and that with his advice he would also send
her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger returned, he
brought letters from Bellario of advice how to proceed, and also
everything necessary for her equipment.

Portia dressed herself and her maid Nerissa in men's apparel, and
putting on the robes of a counsellor, she took Nerissa along with her
as her clerk; and setting out immediately, they arrived at Venice on
the very day of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard before
the duke and senators of Venice in the senate-house, when Portia
entered this high court of justice, and presented a letter from
Bellario, in which that learned counsellor wrote to the duke, saying,
he would have come himself to plead for Antonio, but that he was
prevented by sickness, and he requested that the learned young doctor
Balthasar (so he called Portia) might be permitted to plead in his
stead. This the duke granted, much wondering at the youthful appearance
of the stranger, who was prettily disguised by her counsellor's robes
and her large wig.

And now began this important trial. Portia looked around her, and she
knew the merciless Jew; and she saw Bassanio, but he knew her not in
her disguise. He was standing beside Antonio, in an agony of distress
and fear for his friend.

The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave this
tender lady courage, and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had
undertaken to perform: and first of all she addressed herself to
Shylock; and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian law to have
the forfeit expressed in the bond, she spoke so sweetly of the noble
quality of merry, as would have softened any heart but the unfeeling
Shylock's; saying, that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon
the place beneath; and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him
that gave, and him that received it, and how it became monarchs better
than their crowns, being an attribute of God Himself; and that earthly
power came nearest to God's, in proportion as mercy tempered justice;
and she bid Shylock remember that as we all pray for mercy, that same
prayer should teach us to show mercy. Shylock only answered her by
desiring to have the penalty forfeited in the bond. 'Is he not able to
pay the money?' asked Portia. Bassanio then offered the Jew the payment
of the three thousand ducats as many times over as he should desire;
which Shylock refusing, and still insisting upon having a pound of
Antonio's flesh, Bassanio begged the learned young counsellor would
endeavour to wrest the law a little, to save Antonio's life. But Portia
gravely answered, that laws once established must never be altered.
Shylock hearing Portia say that the law might not be altered, it seemed
to him that she was pleading in his favour, and he said: 'A Daniel is
come to judgment! O wise young judge, how I do honour you! How much
elder are you than your looks!'

Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond; and when she
had read it, she said: 'This bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew may
lawfully claim a pound of flesh, to be by him cut off nearest Antonio's
heart.' Then she said to Shylock: 'Be merciful: take the money, and bid
me tear the bond.' But no mercy would the cruel Shylock show; and he
said: 'By my soul I swear, there is no power in the tongue of men to
alter me.' 'Why then, Antonio,' said Portia, 'you must prepare your
bosom for the knife': and while Shylock was sharpening a long knife
with great eagerness to cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to
Antonio: 'Have you anything to say?' Antonio with a calm resignation
replied, that he had but little to say, for that he had prepared his
mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio: 'Give me your hand, Bassanio!
Fare you well! Grieve not that I am fallen into this misfortune for
you. Commend me to your honourable wife, and tell her how I have loved
you!' Bassanio in the deepest affliction replied: 'Antonio, I am
married to a wife, who is as dear to me as life itself; but life
itself, my wife, and all the world, are not esteemed with me above your
life; I would lose all, I would sacrifice all to this devil here, to
deliver you.'

Portia hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at all
offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so true a
friend as Antonio in these strong terms, yet could not help answering:
'Your wife would give you little thanks, if she were present, to hear
you make this offer.' And then Gratiano, who loved to copy what his
lord did, thought he must make a speech like Bassanio's, and he said,
in Nerissa's hearing, who was writing in her clerk's dress by the side
of Portia: 'I have a wife, whom I protest I love; I wish she were in
heaven, if she could but entreat some power there to change the cruel
temper of this currish Jew.' 'It is well you wish this behind her back,
else you would have but an unquiet house,' said Nerissa.

Shylock now cried out impatiently: 'We trifle time; I pray pronounce
the sentence.' And now all was awful expectation in the court, and
every heart was full of grief for Antonio.

Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh; and she said
to the Jew: 'Shylock, you must have some surgeon by, lest he bleed to
death.' Shylock, whose whole intent was that Antonio should bleed to
death, said: 'It is not so named in the bond.' Portia replied: 'It is
not so named in the bond, but what of that? It were good you did so
much for charity.' To this all the answer Shylock would make was: 'I
cannot find it; it is not in the bond.' 'Then,' said Portia, 'a pound
of Antonio's flesh is shine. The law allows it, and the court awards
it. And you may cut this flesh from off his breast. The law allows it
and the court awards it.' Again Shylock exclaimed: 'O wise and upright
judge! A Daniel is come to judgment!' And then he sharpened his long
knife again, and looking eagerly on Antonio, he said: 'Come, prepare!'

'Tarry a little, Jew,' said Portia; 'there is something else. This bond
here gives you no drop of blood; the words expressly are 'a pound of
flesh.' If in the cutting off the pound of flesh you shed one drop of
Christian blood, your lands and goods are by the law to be confiscated
to the state of Venice.' Now as it was utterly impossible for Shylock
to cut off the pound of flesh without shedding some of Antonio's blood,
this wise discovery of Portia's, that it was flesh and not blood that
was named in the bond, saved the life of Antonio; and all admiring the
wonderful sagacity of the young counsellor, who had so happily thought
of this expedient, plaudits resounded from every part of the
senate-house; and Gratiano exclaimed, in the words which Shylock had
used: 'O wise and upright judge! mark, Jew, a Daniel is come to
judgment!'

Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said with a
disappointed look, that he would take the money; and Bassanio, rejoiced
beyond measure at Antonio's unexpected deliverance, cried out: 'Here is
the money!' But Portia stopped him, saying: 'Softly; there is no haste;
the Jew shall have nothing but the penalty: therefore prepare, Shylock,
to cut off the flesh; but mind you shed no blood: nor do not cut off
more nor less than just a pound; be it more or less by one poor
scruple, nay if the scale turn but by the weight of a single hair, you
are condemned by the laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth is
forfeited to the senate.' 'Give me my money, and let me go,' said
Shylock. 'I have it ready,' said Bassanio: 'here it is.'

Shylock was going to take the money, when Portia again stopped him,
saying: 'Tarry, Jew; I have yet another hold upon you. By the laws of
Venice, your wealth is forfeited to the state, for having conspired
against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at the
mercy of the duke; therefore, down on your knees, and ask him to pardon
you.'

The duke then said to Shylock: 'That you may see the difference of our
Christian spirit, I pardon you your life before you ask it; half your
wealth belongs to Antonio, the other half comes to the state.'

The generous Antonio then said that he would give up his share of
Shylock's wealth, if Shylock would sign a deed to make it over at his
death to his daughter and her husband; for Antonio knew that the Jew
had an only daughter who had lately married against his consent to a
young Christian, named Lorenzo, a friend of Antonio's, which had so
offended Shylock, that he had disinherited her.

The Jew agreed to this: and being thus disappointed in his revenge, and
despoiled of his riches, he said: 'I am ill. Let me go home; send the
deed after me, and I will sign over half my riches to my daughter.'
'Get thee gone, then,' said the Duke, 'and sign it; and if you repent
your cruelty and turn Christian, the state will forgive you the fine of
the other half of your riches.'

The duke now released Antonio, and dismissed the court. He then highly
praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counsellor, and invited
him home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont before her
husband, replied: 'I humbly thank your grace, but I must away
directly.' The duke said he was sorry he had not leisure to stay and
dine with him; and turning to Antonio, he added: 'Reward this
gentleman; for in my mind you are much indebted to him.'

The duke and his senators left the court; and then Bassanio said to
Portia: 'Most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Antonio have by your
wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you
will accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew.' 'And we
shall stand indebted to you over and above,' said Antonio, 'in love and
service evermore.'

Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money; but upon
Bassanio still pressing her to accept of some reward, she said: 'Give
me your gloves; I will wear them for your sake'; and then Bassanio
taking off his gloves, she espied the ring which she had given him upon
his finger: now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to get from him to
make a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio again, that made her ask
him for his gloves; and she said, when she saw the ring, 'and for your
love I will take this ring from you.' Bassanio was sadly distressed
that the counsellor should ask him for the only thing he could not part
with, and he replied in great confusion, that he could not give him
that ring, because it was his wife's gift, and he had vowed never to
part with it; but that he would give him the most valuable ring in
Venice, and find it out by proclamation. On this Portia affected to be
affronted, and left the court, saying: 'You teach me, sir, how a beggar
should be answered.'

'Dear Bassanio,' said Antonio, 'let him have the ring; let my love and
the great service he has done for me be valued against your wife's
displeasure,' Bassanio, ashamed to appear so ungrateful, yielded, and
sent Gratiano after Portia with the ring; and then the clerk Nerissa,
who had also given Gratiano a ring, she begged his ring, and Gratiano
(not choosing to be outdone in generosity by his lord) gave it to her.
And there was laughing among these ladies to  think, when they got
home, how they would tax their husbands with giving away their rings,
and swear that they had given them as a present to some woman.

Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind which never
fails to attend the consciousness of having performed a good action;
her cheerful spirits enjoyed everything she saw: the moon never seemed
to shine so bright before; and when that pleasant moon was hid behind a
cloud, then a light which she saw from her house at Belmont as well
pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Nerissa: 'That light we see
is burning in my hall; how far that little candle throws its beams, so
shines a good deed in a naughty world'; and hearing the sound of music
from her house, she said: 'Methinks that music sounds much sweeter than
by day.'

And now Portia and Nerissa entered the house, and dressing themselves
in their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their husbands, who
soon followed them with Antonio; and Bassanio presenting his dear
friend to the lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of that
lady were hardly over, when they perceived Nerissa and her husband
quarrelling in a corner of the room. 'A quarrel already?' said Portia.
'What is the matter?' Gratiano replied: 'Lady, it is about a paltry
gilt ring that Nerissa gave me, with words upon it like the poetry on a
cutler's knife; Love me, and leave me not.'

'What does the poetry or the value of the ring signify?' said Nerissa.
'You swore to me when I gave it to you, that you would keep it till the
hour of death; and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk. I
know you gave it to a woman.' 'By this hand,' replied Gratiano, 'I gave
it to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, no higher than
yourself; he was clerk to the young counsellor that by his wise
pleading saved Antonio's life: this prating boy begged it for a fee,
and I could not for my life deny him.' Portia said: 'You were to blame,
Gratiano, to part with your wife's first gift. I gave my lord Bassanio
a ring, and I am sure he would not part with it for all the world.'
Gratiano, in excuse for his fault, now said: 'My lord Bassanio gave his
ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk, that took
some pains in writing, he begged my ring.'

Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bassanio for
giving away her ring; and she said, Nerissa had taught her what to
believe, and that she knew some woman had the ring. Bassanio was very
unhappy to have so offended his dear lady, and he said with great
earnestness: 'No, by my honour, no woman had it, but a civil doctor,
who refused three thousand ducats of me, and begged the ring, which
when I denied him, he went displeased away. What could I do, sweet
Portia? I was so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I
was forced to send the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady; had you
been there, I think you would have begged the ring of me to give the
worthy doctor.'

'Ah!' said Antonio, 'I am the unhappy cause of these quarrels.'

Portia bid Antonio not to grieve at that, for that he was welcome
notwithstanding; and then Antonio said: 'I once did lend my body for
Bassanio's sake; and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring, I
should have now been dead. I dare be bound again, my soul upon the
forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith with you.' 'Then you
shall be his surety,' said Portia; 'give him this ring, and bid him
keep it better than the other.'

When Bassanio looked at this ring, he was strangely surprised to find
it was the same he gave away; and then Portia told him how she was the
young counsellor, and Nerissa was her clerk; and Bassanio found, to his
unspeakable wonder and delight, that it was by the noble courage and
wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life was saved.

And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him letters which by some
chance had fallen into her hands, which contained an account of
Antonio's ships, that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in the
harbour. So these tragical beginnings of this rich merchant's story
were all forgotten in the unexpected good fortune which ensued; and
there was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings, and
the husbands that did not know their own wives Gratiano merrily
swearing, in a sort of rhyming speech, that

  ... while he lived, he'd fear no other thing
  So sore, as keeping safe Nerissa's ring.




CYMBELINE


During the time of Augustus Caesar, emperor of Rome, there reigned in
England (which was then called Britain) a king whose name was Cymbeline.

Cymbeline's first wife died when his three children (two sons and a
daughter) were very young. Imogen, the eldest of these children, was
brought up in her father's court; but by a strange chance the two sons
of Cymbeline were stolen out of their nursery, when the eldest was but
three years of age, and the youngest quite an infant; and Cymbeline
could never discover what was become of them, or by whom they were
conveyed away.

Cymbeline was twice married: his second wife was a wicked, plotting
woman, and a cruel stepmother to Imogen, Cymbeline's daughter by his
first wife.

The queen, though she hated Imogen, yet wished her to marry a son of
her own by a former husband (she also having been twice married): for
by this means she hoped upon the death of Cymbeline to place the crown
of Britain upon the head of her son Cloten; for she knew that, if the
king's sons were not found, the princess Imogen must be the king's
heir. But this design was prevented by Imogen herself, who married
without the consent or even knowledge of her father or the queen.

Posthumus (for that was the name of Imogen's husband) was the best
scholar and most accomplished gentleman of that age. His father died
fighting in the wars for Cymbeline, and soon after his birth his mother
died also for grief at the loss of her husband.

Cymbeline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, took Posthumus
(Cymbeline having given him that name, because he was born after his
father's death), and educated him in his own court.

Imogen and Posthumus were both taught by the same masters, and were
playfellows from their infancy; they loved each other tenderly when
they were children, and their affection continuing to increase with
their years, when they grew up they privately married.

The disappointed queen soon learnt this secret, for she kept spies
constantly in watch upon the actions of her daughter-in-law, and she
immediately told the king of the marriage of Imogen with Posthumus.

Nothing could exceed the wrath of Cymbeline, when he heard that his
daughter had been so forgetful of her high dignity as to marry a
subject.  He commanded Posthumus to leave Britain, and banished him
from his native country for ever.

The queen, who pretended to pity Imogen for the grief she suffered at
losing her husband, offered to procure them a private meeting before
Posthumus set out on his journey to Rome, which place he had chosen for
his residence in his banishment: this seeming kindness she showed, the
better to succeed in her future designs in regard to her son Cloten;
for she meant to persuade Imogen, when her husband was gone, that her
marriage was not lawful, being contracted without the consent of the
king.

Imogen and Posthumus took a most affectionate leave of each other.
Imogen gave her husband a diamond ring, which had been her mother's,
and Posthumus promised never to part with the ring; and he fastened a
bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she would preserve
with great care, as a token of his love; they then bid each other
farewell, with many vows of everlasting love and fidelity.

Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her father's court, and
Posthumus arrived at Rome, the place he had chosen for his banishment.

Posthumus fell into company at Rome with some gay young men of
different nations, who were talking freely of ladies: each one praising
the ladies of his own country, and his own mistress. Posthumus, who had
ever his own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, the fair
Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise, and constant lady in the world.

One of those gentlemen, whose name was Iachimo, being offended that a
lady of Britain should be so praised above the Roman ladies, his
country-women, provoked Posthumus by seeming to doubt the constancy of
his so highly-praised wife; and at length, after much altercation,
Posthumus consented to a proposal of Iachimo's, that he (Iachimo)
should go to Britain, and endeavour to gain the love of the married
Imogen. They then laid a wager, that if Iachimo did not succeed in this
wicked design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money; but if he could
win Imogen's favour, and prevail upon her to give him the bracelet
which Posthumus had so earnestly desired she would keep as a token of
his love, then the wager was to terminate with Posthumus giving to
Iachimo the ring, which was Imogen's love present when she parted with
her husband. Such firm faith had Posthumus in the fidelity of Imogen,
that he thought he ran no hazard in this trial of her honour.

Iachimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance, and a courteous
welcome from Imogen, as a friend of her husband; but when he began to
make professions of love to her, she repulsed him with disdain, and he
soon found that he could have no hope of succeeding in his
dishonourable design.

The desire Iachimo had to win the wager made him now have recourse to a
stratagem to impose upon Posthumus, and for this purpose he bribed some
of Imogen's attendants, and was by them conveyed into her bedchamber,
concealed in a large trunk, where he remained shut up till Imogen was
retired to rest, and had fallen asleep; and then getting out of the
trunk, he examined the chamber with great attention, and wrote down
everything he saw there, and particularly noticed a mole which he
observed upon Imogen's neck, and then softly unloosing the bracelet
from her arm, which Posthumus had given to her, he retired into the
chest again; and the next day he set off for Rome with great
expedition, and boasted to Posthumus that Imogen had given him the
bracelet, and likewise permitted him to pass a night in her chamber:
and in this manner Iachimo told his false tale: 'Her bedchamber,' said
he, 'was hung with tapestry of silk and silver, the story was the proud
Cleopatra when she met her Anthony, a piece of work most bravely
wrought.'

'This is true,' said Posthumus; 'but this you might have heard spoken
of without seeing.'

'Then the chimney,' said Iachimo, 'is south of the chamber, and the
chimney-piece is Diana bathing; never saw I figures livelier expressed.'

'This is a thing you might have likewise heard,' said Posthumus, 'for
it is much talked of.'

Iachimo as accurately described the roof of the chamber; and added: 'I
had almost forgot her andirons; they were two winking Cupids made of
silver, each on one foot standing.' He then took out the bracelet, and
said: 'Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me this. 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.' He last
of all described the mole he had observed upon her neck.

Posthumus, who had heard the whole of this artful recital in an agony
of doubt, now broke out into the most passionate exclamations against
Imogen. He delivered up the diamond ring to Iachimo, which he had
agreed to forfeit to him, if he obtained the bracelet from Imogen.

Posthumus then in a jealous rage wrote to Pisanio, a gentleman of
Britain, who was one of Imogen's attendants, and had long been a
faithful friend to Posthumus; and after telling him what proof he had
of his wife's disloyalty, he desired Pisanio would take Imogen to
Milford-Haven, a seaport of Wales, and there kill her. And at the same
time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imogen desiring her to go with
Pisanio, for that finding he could live no longer without seeing her,
though he was forbidden upon pain of death to return to Britain, he
would come to Milford-Haven, at which place he begged she would meet
him. She, good unsuspecting lady, who loved her husband above all
things, and desired more than her life to see him, hastened her
departure with Pisanio, and the same night she received the letter she
set out.

When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisanio, who, though faithful
to Posthumus, was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, disclosed
to Imogen the cruel order he had received.

Imogen, who, instead of meeting a loving and beloved husband, found
herself doomed by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted beyond
measure.

Pisanio persuaded her to take comfort, and wait with patient fortitude
for the time when Posthumus should see and repent his injustice: in the
meantime, as she refused in her distress to return to her father's
court, he advised her to dress herself in boy's clothes for more
security in travelling; to which device she agreed, and thought in that
disguise she would go over to Rome, and see her husband, whom, though
he had used her so barbarously, she could not forget to love.

When Pisanio had provided her with her new apparel, he left her to her
uncertain fortune, being obliged to return to court; but before he
departed he gave her a phial of cordial, which he said the queen had
given him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders.

The queen, who hated Pisanio because he was a friend to Imogen and
Posthumus, gave him this phial, which she supposed contained poison,
she having ordered her physician to give her some poison, to try its
effects (as she said) upon animals; but the physician, knowing her
malicious disposition, would not trust her with real poison, but gave
her a drug which would do no other mischief than causing a person to
sleep with every appearance of death for a few hours. This mixture,
which Pisanio thought a choice cordial, he gave to Imogen, desiring
her, if she found herself ill upon the road, to take it; and so, with
blessings and prayers for her safety and happy deliverance from her
undeserved troubles, he left her.

Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the dwelling of her two
brothers, who had been stolen away in their infancy. Bellarius, who
stole them away, was a lord in the court of Cymbeline, and having been
falsely accused to the king of treason, and banished from the court, in
revenge he stole away the two sons of Cymbeline, and brought them up in
a forest, where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole them through
revenge, but he soon loved them as tenderly as if they had been his own
children, educated them carefully, and they grew up fine youths, their
princely spirits leading them to bold and daring actions; and as they
subsisted by hunting, they were active and hardy, and were always
pressing their supposed father to let them seek their fortune in the
wars.

At the cave where these youths dwelt it was Imogen's fortune to arrive.
She had lost her way in a large forest, through which her road lay to
Milford-Haven (from which she meant to embark for Rome); and being
unable to find any place where she could purchase food, she was with
weariness and hunger almost dying; for it is not merely putting on a
man's apparel that will enable a young lady, tenderly brought up, to
bear the fatigue of wandering about lonely forests like a man. Seeing
this cave, she entered, hoping to find someone within of whom she could
procure food. She found the cave empty, but looking about she
discovered some cold meat, and her hunger was so pressing, that she
could not wait for an invitation, but sat down and began to eat. 'Ah,'
said she, talking to herself, 'I see a man's life is a tedious one; how
tired am I! for two nights together I have made the ground my bed: my
resolution helps me, or I should be sick. When Pisanio showed me
Milford-Haven from the mountain top, how near it seemed!' Then the
thoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate came across her, and she
said: 'My dear Posthumus, thou art a false one!'

The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting with their reputed
father, Bellarius, were by this time returned home. Bellarius had given
them the names of Polydore and Cadwal, and they knew no better, but
supposed that Bellarius was their father; but the real names of these
princes were Guiderius and Arviragus.

Bellarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen, stopped them,
saying: 'Come not in yet; it eats our victuals, or I should think it
was a fairy.'

'What is the matter, sir?' said the young men. 'By Jupiter,' said
Bellarius again, 'there is an angel in the cave, or if not, an earthly
paragon.' So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel.

She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the cave, and
addressed them in these words: 'Good masters, do not harm me; before I
entered your cave, I had thought to have begged or bought what I have
eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had found
gold strewed on the floor. Here is money for my meat, which I would
have left on the board when I had made my meal, and parted with prayers
for the provider.' They refused her money with great earnestness. 'I
see you are angry with me,' said the timid Imogen; 'but, sirs, if you
kill me for my fault, know that I should have died if I had not made
it.'

'Whither are you bound?' asked Bellarius, 'and what is your name?'

'Fidele is my name,' answered Imogen. 'I have a kinsman, who is bound
for Italy; he embarked at Milford-Haven, to whom being going, almost
spent with hunger, I am fallen into this offence.'

'Prithee, fair youth,' said old Bellarius, 'do not think us churls, nor
measure our good minds by this rude place we live in. You are well
encountered; it is almost night. You shall have better cheer before you
depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome.'

The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen to their cave
with many kind expressions, saying they would love her (or, as they
said, him) as a brother; and they entered the cave, where (they having
killed venison when they were hunting) Imogen delighted them with her
neat housewifery, assisting them in preparing their supper; for though
it is not the custom now for young women of high birth to understand
cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful art; and, as
her brothers prettily express

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