Plays and Poems

Our true intent is. All for your deright,

We are not here. That you should here repent you,
The actors are at hand; and, by their show,
You shall know all that you are like to know.

The. This fellow doth not stand upon points. Lys. He hath rid his prologue like a rough colt; he knows not the stop. A good moral, my lord: it is not enough to speak, but to speak true.

Hip. Indeed he hath played on his prologue like a child on a recorder; a sound, but not in government.

The. His speech was like a tangled chain; nothing impaired, but ali disordered. Who is next?

Enter PYRAMUS and THISBE, Wall, Moonshine,
and Lion, as in dumb-show.

Prol. Gentles, perchance you wonder at this show;
But wonder on, till truth make all things plain.
This man is Pyramus, if you would know;

This beauteous lady Thisby is, certain.

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This man, with lime and rough-cast, doth present
Wall, that vile Wall, which did these lovers sunder;
And through Wall's chink, poor souls, they are

content

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To whisper, at the which let no man wonder.
This man, with lanthorn, dog, and bush of thorn,
Presenteth Moonshine; for, if you will know,
By moonshine did these lovers think no scorn
To meet at Ninus' tomb, there, there to woo.
This grisly beast, which Lion hight by name,
The trusty Thisby, coming first by night,
Did scare away, or rather did affright;
And, as she fled, her mantle she did fall,
Which Lion vile with bloody mouth did stain.
Anon comes Puramus, sweet youth and tall,

And finds his trusty Thisby's mantle slain :
Whereat with blade, with bloody blameful blade,
He bravely broach'd his boiling bloody breast;
And Thisby, tarrying in mulberry shade,

His dagger drew, and died. For all the rest, 150
Let Lion, Moonshine, Wall, and lovers twain,
At large discourse, while here they do remain.

Exeunt Prologue, THISBE, Lion, and
Moonshine,

The. I wonder if the lion be to speak.
Dem. No wonder, my lord: one lion may,
when many asses do.

Wall. In this same interlude it doth befall
That I, one Snout by name, present a wall;
And such a wall, as I would have you think,
That had in it a crannied hole or chink,
Through which the lovers, Pyramus and Thisby, 160

Did whisper often very secretly.

The. Pyramus draws near the wall: silence!
Enter PYRAMUS.

Pyr. O grim-look'd night! O night with hue so
black !

O night, which ever art when day is not !
O night! O night! alack, alack, alack 1
I fear my Thisby's promise is forgot.
And thou, O wall! O sweet! O lovely wall!
That stand'st between her father's ground and
mine;

eyne.

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Thou wall, O wall! O sweet and lovely wall!
Show me thy chink to blink through with mine
Wall holds up his fingers.
Thanks, courteous wall: Jove shield thee well for this!
But what see 1? No Thisby do I see.
O wicked wall! through whom I see no bliss ;
Curs'd be thy stones for thus deceiving me!
The. The wall, methinks, being sensible, should
curse again.

Pyr. No, in truth, sir, he should not. 'Deceiving me,' is Thisby's cue: she is to enter now, and I am to spy her through the wall. You shall see, it will fall pat as I told you.

she comes.

Enter THISBE.

Yonder

Thisby!

This. My love! thou art my love, I think.
Pyr. Think what thou wilt, I am thy lover's grace ;

And, like Limander, am I trusty still.

This. And I like Helen, till the Fates me kill. 200
Pyr. Not Shajalus to Procrus was so true.
This. As Shafalus to Procrus, I to you.
Pyr. O! kiss me through the hole of this vile wall.
This. I kiss the wall's hole, not your lips at all.
Pyr. Wilt thou at Ninny's tomb meet me straight-
way?

This. 'Tide life, 'tide death, I come without delay.
Exeunt PYRAMUS and THISBE.

Wall. Thus have I, Wall, my part discharged so ;
Exit.

And, being done, thus Wall away doth yo.

The. Now is the mural down between the two

neighbours.

210

Dem. No remedy, my lord, when walls are so wilful to hear without warning.

Hip. This is the silliest stuff that e'er I heard. The. The best in this kind are but shadows, and the worst are no worse, if imagination amend them.

Hip. It must be your imagination then, and not theirs.

The. If we imagine no worse of them than they of themselves, they may pass for excellent men.

This loam, this rough-cast, and this stone doth show Here come two noble beasts in, a man and a lion.

That I am that same wall; the truth is so;

And this the cranny is, right and sinister,
Through which the fearful lovers are to whisper.

Enter Lion and Moonshine.

Lion. You, ladies, you, whose gentle hearts do fear The smallest monstrous mouse that creeps on floor, The. Would you desire lime and hair to speak | May now perchance both quake and tremble here, When lion rough in wildest rage doth roar,

better?

Dem. The very best at a beast, my lord, that e'er I saw.

Lys. This lion is a very fox for his valour. The. True; and a goose for his discretion. Dem. Not so, my lord; for his valour cannot carry his discretion, and the fox carries the goose. The. His discretion, I am sure, cannot carry his valour, for the goose carries not the fox. It is well: leave it to his discretion, and let us listen to the moon.

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Dem. Why, all these should be in the lantern; for all these are in the moon. But, silence! here comes Thisbe.

Now die, die, die, die, die.

Dem. No die, but an ace, for him; for he is but one.

312

Lys. Less than an ace, man, for he is dead; he is nothing.

The. With the help of a surgeon he might yet recover, and yet prove an ass.

Hip. How chance Moonshine is gone before Thisbe comes back and finds her lover!

The. She will find him by starlight. Here she comes; and her passion ends the play. *20

Re-enter THISBE.

Hip. Methinks she should not use a long one for such a Pyramus: I hope she will be brief. Dem. A mote will turn the balance, which Pyramus, which Thisbe, is the better: he for a This. This is old Ninny's tomb. Where is my love? man, God warrant us; she for a woman, God

Enter THISBE.

The lion roars.

Lion. Oh

Dem. Well roared, Lion.

The. Well run, Thisbe.

THISBE runs off.

bless us.

Lys. She hath spied him already with those sweet eyes. Dem. And thus she moans, videlicet:

270

Asleep, my love?

What, dead, my dove?

O Pyramus, arise!

Speak, speak! Quile dumb?

Dead, dead! A tomb

Must cover thy sweet eyes.

These lily lips,

This cherry nose,

These yellow cowslip cheeks,

Are gone, are gone.

Lovers, make moan!

Ilis eyes were green as leeks.

O Sisters Three,

Come, come to me,

With hands as pale as milk;

Lay them in gore,
Since you have shore

With shears his thread of silk.

Tongue, not a word :
Come, trusty sword ;

300

340

The. No epilogue, I pray you for your play needs no excuse. Never excuse; for when the players are all dead, there need none to be blamed. Marry, if he that writ it had played Pyramus, and hanged himself in Thisbe's garter, it would have been a fine tragedy: and so it is, truly, and very notably discharged. But come, your Bergomask: let your epilogue alone.

370

A dance. The iron tongue of midnight hath told twelve ; Lovers, to bed; 'tis almost fairy time. I fear we shall out-sleep the coming morn As much as we this night have overwatch'd. This palpable-gross play hath well beguil'd The heavy gait of night. Sweet friends, to bed.

A fortnight hold we this solemnity,

In nightly revels, and new jollity.

Enter PUCK.

Puck. Now the hungry lion roars,

Exeunt.

And the wolf behowls the moon;

380

Whilst the heavy ploughman snores,
All with weary task fordone.
Now the wasted brands do glow,
Whilst the screech-owl, screeching
loud,

Puts the wretch that lies in woe
In remembrance of a shroud.

Now it is the time of night

That the graves, all gaping wide,
Every one lets forth his sprite,
In the church-way paths to glide :
And we fairies, that do run

By the triple Hecate's team,
From the presence of the sun,
Following darkness like a dream,
Now are frolic; not a monse
Shall disturb this hallow'd house:
I am sent with broom before,
To sweep the dust behind the door.

390

Through the house give glimmering

light

By the dead and drowsy fire;

Every elf and fairy sprite

Hop as light as bird from brier;
And this ditty after me
Sing, and dance it trippingly.

Tita. First, rehearse your song by rote,
To each word a warbling note:
Hand in hand, with fairy grace,
Will we sing, and bless this place.

400

Song and dance.

Obe. Now, until the break of day,

Through this house each fairy stray.
To the best bride-bed will we,
Which by us shall blessed be;
And the issue there create
Ever shall be fortunate.

So shall all the couples three
Ever true and loving be;
And the blots of Nature's hand
Shall not in their issue stand:
Never mole, hare-lip, nor scar,
Nor mark prodigious, such as are
Despised in nativity,

Shall upon their children be.
With this field-dew consecrate,
Every fairy take his gait,

410

420

And each several chamber bless, Through this palace with sweet peace; And the owner of it blest,

Ever shall in safety rest.

Trip away;

Make no stay;

Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, Gaoler, Servants
to Portia, and other Attendants.

SCENE.-Partly at Venice, and partly at Belmont, the seat of Portia, on the Continent.

ACT I.

SCENE I. Venice. A Street.

Enter ANTONIO, SALARINO, and SALANIO,
Ant. In sooth, I know not why I am so sad :
It wearies me; you say it wearies vou;
But how I caught it, found it, or came by it,
What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born,
I am to learn ;

And such a want-wit sadness makes of me,
That I have much ado to know myself.

Salar. Your mind is tossing on the ocean;
There, where your argosies with portly sail.
Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, 10
Or, as it were, the pageants of the sea,
Do overpeer the petty traffickers,
That court'sy to them, do them reverence,
As they fly by them with their woven wings.
Salan. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth,
The better part of my affections would

Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still
Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind,
Peering in maps for ports, and piers, and roads:
And every object that might make me fear
Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt
Would make me sad.

Salar.

And, in a word. but even now worth this, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the

thought

To think on this, and shall I lack the thought
That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad?
But tell not me: I know Antonio
Is sad to think upon his merchandise.

Ant. Believe me, no: I thank my fortune for it, My ventures are not in one bottom trusted, Nor to one place; nor is my whole estate Upon the fortune of this present year: Therefore my merchandise makes me not sad.

Salar. Why, then you are in love.
Ant.

Fie, fie! Salar. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad,

Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy For you to laugh, and leap, and say you are

Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time:
Some that will evermore peep through their eyes
And laugh like parrots at a bag-piper;
And other of such vinegar aspect
That they 'll not show their teeth in wav of smile.
Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.

Enter BASSANIO, LORENZO, and GRATIAΝΟ. Salan. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman.

Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well:
We leave you now with better company.
Salar. I would have stay'd till I had made

My wind, cooling my broth, Would blow me to an ague, when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run But I should think of shallows and of flats. And see my wealthy Andrew, dock'd in sand, Vailing her high-top lower than her ribs To kiss her burial. Should I go to church And see the holy edifice of stone, And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks,

If worthier friends had not prevented me. Ant. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it, your own business calls on you, And you embrace the occasion to depart. Salar. Good morrow, my good lords.

you merry.

Bass. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? | Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd
say, when?

You grow exceeding strange: must it be so ?
Salar. We'll make our leisures to attend on
yours.
Exeunt SALARINO and SALANIO.
Lor. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found
Antonio,

We two will leave you; but at dinner-time,
I pray you, have in mind where we must meet.
Bass. I will not fail you.

Gra. You look not well, Signior Antonio;
You have too much respect upon the world:
They lose it that do buy it with much care:
Believe me, you are marvellously chang'd.

Ant. I hold the world but as the world, Gratiano;
A stage where every man must play a part,
And mine a sad one.

Than my heart cool with mortifying groans.
Why should a man, whose blood is warm within,
Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster?
Sleep when he wakes, and creep into the jaundice
By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio,
I love thee, and it is my love that speaks,
There are a sort of men whose visages
Do cream and mantle like a standing pond,
And do a wilful stillness entertain,

With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion
Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit;
As who should say, 'I am Sir Oracle,
And, when I ope my lips let no dog bark!'
0! my Antonio, I do know of these,
That therefore only are reputed wise

For saying nothing; when, I am very sure,

If they should speak, would almost damn those ears
Which, hearing them, would call their brothers

fools.

From such a noble rate; but my chief care
Is to come fairly off from the great debts
Wherein my time, something too prodigal,
Hath left me gaged. To you, Antonio,
I owe the most, in money and in love;
And from your love I have a warranty
To unburden all my plots and purposes
How to get clear of all the debts I owe.

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Ant. I pray you, good Bassanio, let me know it;
And if it stand, as you yourself still do,
Within the eye of honour, be assur'd,
My purse, my person, my extremest means,
Lie all unlock'd to your occasions.

140

Bass. In my school-days, when I had lost one
shaft,

I shot his fellow of the self-same flight
The self-same way with more advised watch,
To find the other forth, and by adventuring both,
I oft found both. I urge this childhood proof,
Because what follows is pure innocence.
I owe you much, and, like a wilful youth,
That which I owe is lost; but if you please
To shoot another arrow that self way
Which you did shoot the first, I do not doubt, 150
As I will watch the aim, or to find both,
Or bring your latter hazard back again,
And thankfully rest debtor for the first.

Ant. You know me well, and herein spend but
time

To wind about my love with circumstance;
And, out of doubt, you do me now more wrong
In making question of my uttermost
Than if you had made waste of all I have:
Then do but say to me what I should do
That in your knowledge may by me be done, 160
And I am prest unto it; therefore speak.
Bass. In Belmont is a lady richly left,
And she is fair, and, fairer than that word,
Of wondrous virtues: sometimes from her eyes
I did receive fair speechless messages :
Her name is Portia; nothing undervalued
To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia:

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