ACT V.-SCENE III. What comfort to this great decay may come, To him our absolute power : - You, to your rights ; Lear. And my poor fool is hang'd! No, no, no life: Edg. Look up, my lord. 797 | Edg. Edg. O, he is gone, indeed. Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long: He but usurp'd his life Alb. Bear them from hence.- -Our present business Is general woe. Friends of my soul, you twain [To KENT and EDGAR. Rule in this realm, and the gor'd state sustain. Alb. The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we, that are young, Shall never see so much, nor live so long. [Exeunt, with a dead march. THE tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated among the dramas of Shakspeare. There is perhaps no play which keeps the attention so strongly fixed; which so much agitates our passions, and interests our curiosity. The artful involutions of distinct interests, the striking oppositions of contrary characters, the sudden changes of fortune, and the quick succession of events, fill the mind with a perpetual tumult of indignation, pity, and hope. There is no scene which does not contribute to the aggravation of the distress or conduct of the action, and scarce a fine which does not conduce to the progress of the scene. So powerful is the current of the poet's imagination, that the mind which once ventures within it, is hurried irresistibly along. On the seeming improbability of Lear's conduct, it may be observed, that he is represented according to histories at that time vulgarly received as true. And, perhaps, if we turn our thoughts upon the barbarity and ignorance of the age to which this story is referred, it will appear not so unlikely as while we estimate Lear's manners by our own. Such preference of one daughter to another, or resignation of dominion on such conditions, would be yet credible, if told of a petty prince of Guinea or Madagascar. Shakspeare, indeed, by the mention of his earls and dukes, has given us the idea of times more civilized, and of life regulated by softer manners; and the truth is, that though be so nicely discriminates, and so minutely describes the characters of men, he commonly neglects and confounds the characters of ages, by mingling customs ancient and modern, English and foreign. My learned friend, Mr. Warton, (afterwards Dr. Joseph Warton, who has in The Adventurer very minutely criticised this play, remarks, that the instances of cruelty are too savage and shocking, and that the intervention of Edmund destroys the simplicity of the story. These objections may, I think, be answered, by repeating, that the cruelty of the daughters is an historical fact, to which the poet has added little, having only drawn it into a series of dialogue and action. But I am not able to apologise with equal plausibility for the extrusion of Gloster's eyes, which seems an act too horrid to be endured in dramatic exhibition, and such as must always compel the mind to relieve its distresses by incredulity. Yet let it be remembered that our author well knew what would please the audience for which he wrote. The injury done by Edmund to the simplicity of the action is abundantly recompensed by the addition of variety, by the art with which he is made to co-operate with the chief design, and the opportunity which he gives the poet of combining perfidy with jer6dy, and connecting the wicked son with the wicked d.aughters, to impress this important moral that villany is never a; a stop, that crimes lead to crimes, and at last terminate in ruin. But though this moral be incidentally enforced, Shakspeare has suffered the virtue of Cordelia to perish in a just cause, contrary to the natural ideas of justice, to the hope of the reader. and, what is yet more strange, to the faith of chronicles. Yet this conduct is justified by The Spectator, who blames Tate for giving Cordelia success and happiness in his alteration, and declares, that in his opinion, the Tragedy has lost half its beauty Dennis has remarked, whether justly or not, that, to secure the favourable reception of Cato, the town was poisoned with much false and abominable criticism, and that endeavours had been used to discredit and decry poetical justice. A play in which the wicked prosper, and the virtuous miscarry, may doubtless be good, because it is a just representation of the common events of human life; but since all reasonable beings naturally love justice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the observation of justice makes a play worse; or, that if other excellencies are equal, the audience will not always rise better pleased from the final triumph of persecuted virtue. In the present case the public has decided. Cordelia, from the time of Tate, has always retired with victory and felicity. And, if my sensations could add any thing to the general suffrage, I might relate, I was many years ago so shocked by Cordelia's death, that I know not whether I ever endured to read again the last scenes of the play till I undertook to revise them as an editor. There is another controversy among the critics concerning this play. It is disputed whether the predominant image in Lear's disordered mind be the loss of his kingdom or the cruelty of his daughters. Mr Murphy, a very judicious critic, has evinced by induction of particular passages, that the cruelty of his daughters is the primary source of his distress, and that the loss of royalty affects him only as a secondary and subordinate evil. He observes, with great justness, that Lear would move our compassion but little, did we not rather con sider the injured father than the degraded king. The story of this play, except the episode of Edmund, which is derived, I think, from Sidney, is taken originally from Geoffry of Monmouth, whom Holiushed generally copied; but perhaps immediately from an old historical ballad. My reason for believing that the play was posterior to the ballad, rather than the ballad to the play, is, that the ballad has nothing of Shakspeare's nocturnal tempest, which is too striking to have been omitted, and that it follows the chronicle; it has the rudiments of the play, but none of its amplifications: it first hinted Lear's madness, but did not array it in circumstances. The writer of the ballad added something to the history, which is a proof that he would have added more, if more had occurred to his mind, and more must have occurred if he had seen Shak. speare.-JOHNSON. ROMEO AND JULIET. Or this play there were four quarto editions published during the life of the author, the first of which was published in 1597. The original author of the story was Luigi da Porto, a gentleman of Vicenza, who died in 1529. His novel did not appear till some years after his death, being first printed at Venice in 1535, under the title of La Giulietta. The story had been dramatized in this country, before 1562, for ip that year Arthur Brooke published his poem, called The Tragical Hystory of Romeus and Juliet, and in his advertisement to the reader says, that he had seen" the same argument PERSONS REPRESENted. ESCALUS, Prince of Verona. PARIS, a young nobleman, kinsman to the Prince. An old Man, uncle to Capulet. ROMEO, Son to Montague. SAMPSON, GREGORY, servants to Capulet. Lady MONTAGUE, wife to Montague. Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, relations Attendants. SCENE, during the greater part of the Play, in PROLOGUE. Two households, both alike in dignity, In fair Verona, where we lay our scene, A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life; Do, with their death, bury their parents' strife. Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage; ACT I. SCENE I-A public Place. Enter SAMPSON and GREGORY, armed with Sam. Gregory, o'my word, we'll not carry coals. lately set forth on the stage with more commendation than I ca look for." To this obsolete play, and Brooke's poem, Shak speare was most probably indebted for those rade materials which he has rendered so valuable by his exquisite skill and management in the tragedy before us. Breval says in the Iravels, that on a strict inquiry into the histories of Verona, he found that Shakspeare had varied very little from the truth, either in the names, characters, or other circumstances. Malone supposes this play to have been writ ten in 1596. Sam. I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw. Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of the collar. Sam. I strike quickly, being moved. Gre. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. Sam. A dog of the house of Montague moves me Gre. To move is to stir; and to be valiant, is— to stand to it: therefore, if thou art mov'd, thou run'st away. Sam. A dog of that house shall move me to stand: I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's. Gre. That shews thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall. Sam. True; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall:-therefore I will push Montague's men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall. Gre. The quarrel is between our masters, and us their men. Sam. 'Tis all one, I will shew myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids; I will cut off their heads. Gre. The heads of the maids? Sam. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maiden heads; take it in what sense thou wilt. Gre. They must take it in sense, that feel it. Sam. Me they shall feel, while I am able to stand: and 'tis known I am a pretty piece of flesh. Gre. 'Tis well, thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John. Draw thy tool; here comes twof the house of the Montagues. Enter ABRAM and Balthasar. Sam. My naked weapon is out; quarrel, I will back thee. Gre. How? turn thy back, and run? Sam. Fear me not. Gre. No, marry: I fear thee! Sam. Let us take the law of our sides; les bca begin. Gre. I will frown, as I pass by; and let them take it as they list. Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will bite my thumb & Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir? Sam. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir. Gre. Do you quarrel, sir? Abr. Quarrel, sir? no, sir. Sam. If you do, sir, I am for you; I serve as good a man as you. Abr. No better. Sum. Well, 1. Enter BENVOLIO, at a distance. Gre. Say-better; here comes one of my master's kinsmen. Sam. Yes, better, sir. Abr. You lie. Sam. Draw, if you be men.-Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. [They fight. Ben. Part, fools; put up your swords; you know not what you do. [Beats down their swords. Enter TYBALT. Tub. What, art thou drawn among these hartless Turn thee, Benvolio, look upon thy death. [hinds? Ben. 1 do but keep the peace; put up thy sword, Or manage it to part these men with me. Tub. What, drawn, and talk of peace? I hate the As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee: [wold. Have at thee, coward. [They fight Enter several partizans of both houses, who join the fray; then enter Citizens, with clubs. 1 Cat Clubs, bills, and partizans! strike! beat them down! nie go. Lu. Mon. Thou sha; not stir one foot to seek a foe. Enter PRINCE, with Attendants. Prin. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace, Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace. Ben Hiere were the servants of your adversary, Till the prince came, who parted either part. Mom. Many a morning hath he there been seen, Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause? Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn of him. Ben. Have you impórtun'd him by any means? Mon. Both by myself, and many other friends: But he, his own affections' counsellor, Is to himself--I will not say, how trueBut to himself so secret and so close, So far from sounding and discovery, As is the bud bit with an envious worm, Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air, Or dedicate his beauty to the sun. Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow, We would as willingly give cure, as know. Enter ROMEO, at a distance. Ben. See, where he comes: So please you, step Ben. Good morrow, cousin. Ben. But new struck nine. Is the day so young? Ah me! sad hours seem long. Rom. Out of her favour, where I am in love. Ben. Alas, that love, so gentle in his view, Should be so tyrannous and rough in proof! Rom. Alas, that love, whose view is muffled still, Should, without eyes, see pathways to bis will! Where shall we dine?-O me!-What fray was here? Yet tell me not, for I have heard it all. Here's much to do with hate, but more with love:- This love feel I, that feel no love in this. No, coz, I rather weep. At thy good heart's oppression. Ben. Soft, I will go along ; But sadly tell me, who. And pity 'tis, you liv'd at odds so long. Cap. But saying o'er what I have said before: Par. Younger than she are happy mothers made Groan? why, no; Rom. Bid a sick man in sadness makes his will:- Ben. I aim'd so near, when I suppos'd you lov'd. Ben. A right fair mark, fair coz, is soonest hit. From love's weak childish bow she lives unharm'd. She hath forsworn to love; and, in that vow, Ben. Be rul'd by me, forget to think of her. Rom. 'Tis the way SCENE II.-1 Street. [Exeunt. Enter CAPULET, PARIS, and Servant. Cap. And Montague is bound as well as I, a penalty alike; and 'tis not hard, I think, For men so old as we to keep the peace. Par. Of honourable reckoning are you both; My house and welcome on their pleasure stay. [Exeunt CAPULET and PARIS. Serv. Find them out, whose names are written here? It is written-that the shoemaker should meddle with his yard, and the taylor with his last, the fisher with his pencil, and the painter with his nets; but I am sent to find those persons, whose names are here writ, and can never find what names the writing person hath here writ. I must to the learned :-ID good time. Enter BENVOLIO and ROMEO. Ben. Tut, man! one fire burns out another's burn- One desperate grief cures with another's languish Rom. For your broken shin. Ben. Why, Romeo, art thou mad? Rom. Not mad, but bound more than a madman is: (low. Shut up [Reads. Signior Martino, and his wife and daughters: County Anselme, and his beauteous sisters; the lady widow of Vitruvio; Signior Placentio, and his lovely nieces; Mercutio, and his brother Valentine; Mira uncle Capulet, his wife and daughters; My fair eve Rosaline; Livia; Signior Valentio, and his cousin Tybalt; Lucio, and the lively Helena. Rom. Indeed, I should have asked you that before. Serv. Now I'll tell you without asking: My master is the great rich Capulet; and if you be not of the house of Montagues, I pray, come and crush a cup of wine. Rest you merry. [Exit. Ben. At this same ancient feast of Capulet's Rom. When the devout religion of mine eye SCENE III-A Room in Capulet's House. Jul. Your mother. Madam, I am here. What is your will? [awhile, La. Cap. This is the matter :-Nurse, give leave We must talk in secret.-Nurse, come back again; I have remember'd me, thou shalt hear our counsel. Thou know'st, my daughter's of a pretty age. Nurse. 'Faith, I can tell her age unto an hour. La. Cap. She's not fourteen Nurse. I'll lay fourteen of my teeth, And yet, to my teen be it spoken, I have but four, She is not fourteen-How long is it now To Laminas-tide? La. Cap. A fortnight, and odd days. Nurse. Even or odd, of all days in the year, Come Lammas-eve at night, shall she be fourteen. Susan and she,-God rest all Christian souls!— Were of an age.-Well, Susan is with God; She was too good for me: But, as I said, On Lammas-eve at night shall she be fourteen; That shall she, marry; I remember it well. "Tis since the earthquake now eleven years; And she was wean'd,-I never shall forget it,Of all the days of the year, upon that day: For I had then laid wormwood to my dug, Sitting in the sun under the dove-house wall, My lord and you were then at Mantua :-Nay, I do bear a brain :-but, as I said, When it did taste the wormwood on the nipple Of my dug, and felt it bitter, pretty fool! To see it tetchy, and fall out with the dug. And since that time it is eleven years: For then she could stand alone; nay, by the rood, La. Cap. Enough of this; I pray thee, hold thy Jul. And stint thou too, I pray thee, nurse, say I. Nurse. Peace, I have done. God mark thee to his grace! Thou wast the prettiest babe that ere I nurs'd La. Cap. Marry, that marry is the very theme Jul. It is an honour that I dream not of. Are made already mothers: by my count, Nurse. A man, young lady! lady, such a man, As all the world-Why, he's a man of wax. La. Cap. Verona's summer hath not such a flower. And see how one another lends content; This precious book of love, this unbound lover, Nurse. No less? nay, bigger; women grow by men Enter a Servant. Serv. Madam, the guests are come, supper served |