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Title: A motley jest : Shakespearean diversions
Author: Adams, Oscar Fay
Language: English
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A Motley Jest
SHAKESPEAREAN
DIVERSIONS
By Oscar Fay Adams
AUTHOR OF “A DICTIONARY OF AMERICAN AUTHORS,” “THE
STORY OF JANE AUSTEN’S LIFE,” “SICUT PATRIBUS
AND OTHER VERSE,” ETC.; AMERICAN EDITOR
OF THE HENRY IRVING SHAKESPEARE,
ETC.
[Illustration: Colophon
LEGE
QUID
LEGAS]
BOSTON
Sherman, French & Company
1909
Copyright 1909
SHERMAN, FRENCH & COMPANY
TO THE
OLD CAMBRIDGE SHAKESPEARE ASSOCIATION
THIS
LITTLE VOLUME
IS
GRATEFULLY INSCRIBED
PREFATORY NOTE
The Sixth Act of _The Merchant of Venice_ was first printed in the
_Cornhill Booklet_ for March, 1903. The _Shakespearean Fantasy_ now
appears for the first time in print.
CONTENTS
I
A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY 1
II
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE 49
ACT SIXTH.
NOTE BY WILLIAM J. ROLFE, LITT.D. 63
I
A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY
A SHAKESPEAREAN FANTASY
SCENE I.
_An island in the Middle Seas. A cave is seen on the right
and before it, under a palm tree_, CALIBAN _is discovered
sleeping_.
[_Enter_ TRINCULO _and_ STEPHANO, _quarreling_.
TRINCULO. Since the day when the old gentleman they call
Prospero took it into his bald pate to disappear into air along
with a most goodly company beside, there’s not a bottle to be found
i’ this isle, as I am a good Christian, and, what is more, a good
Christian man’s son.
STEPHANO. Bottle me no bottles, Trinculo. Had we ne’er shared a
bottle betwixt us we had not been left to bide by ourselves in this
whoreson isle in the hard service of the man-monster, Caliban, but
might be in fair Naples at this very hour.
TRINCULO. Sagely said, Master Stephano. Thou wast ever wise
enow i’ the tail o’ the event. An’ thou could’st have looked it thus
wisely i’ the mouth, thou hadst been a made man, Stephano, a made
man, and a householder, to boot.
STEPHANO. By mine head, a scurvy trick o’ the King to give us
over to a dog’s life in this heathen isle with a man-monster for a
master, and none other company beside.
TRINCULO. More wisdom from that mouth of thine, most sage
STEPHANO. Thou art indeed become a second Socrates for sober
conclusions.
CALIBAN [_awaking_] What, Trinculo! Get me some food, I say, or
thy bones shall pay thy jape. Get thee hence at once, for a mighty
hunger is come upon me and I would eat. [_To_ STEPHANO] Sing thou,
and caper nimbly the while.
STEPHANO [_sings and dances clumsily_]
A lass I had,
A lass I had,
But I’ve a lass no longer.
She’s dead and cold
In churchyard mould
Grim Death he was the stronger.
ARIEL [_invisible_] _sings_.
In churchyard mould
She lieth cold:
From her dust the violets spring.
To her dark bed
Have fairies sped
To sing her welcoming.
CALIBAN [_alarmed_] Methinks like music have I heard before
When Prospero I did serve. And it should bode
Damn’d Prospero’s return then were I slave
Again, doing his will in everything.
STEPHANO. What is this same that sings i’ the air without lips
or body?
TRINCULO [_returning with food which he places before_ CALIBAN]
Master Nobody is at his ancient tricks. An’ he be a devil, he hath an
angel’s voice.
CALIBAN. Retire ye both, for I would be alone.
[_Exeunt_ TRINCULO and STEPHANO.
ARIEL _plays softly on a tabor, scatters poppy
leaves and departs, leaving_ CALIBAN _asleep_.
SCENE II.
_A room in the palace at Naples._
[_Enter_ FERDINAND _and_ MIRANDA.
FERDINAND. Admir’d Miranda, you are sad, and sad
Am I you should be sad. Then will you not
Declare what canker eats your tender rose
That I may kill ’t, or what untoward care
Weighs down your spirit, that I may kiss ’t away?
MIRANDA. O, my sweet prince, my husband Ferdinand,
In truth I am not well, and yet I am,
And yet again I am not. What say I?
It is no fever of the blood, no pain
That speaks in sharp besetment which doth ail
Me now. Not these, and yet ’tis somewhat, still,
And when I bid it down ’twill not away.
FERDINAND. O lov’d Miranda, ope thy soul to me.
MIRANDA. ’Tis silly, sooth, too simple for your ear
To heed ’t, and I unworthy of your love
To waste a single thought on it. O teach
Me to forget it utterly.
FERDINAND. O sweet,
And so I will, when I do know what is ’t
Thou would’st forget.
MIRANDA. And will you then forgive?
FERDINAND. I will, and yet I’m sure it is no fault
Needing forgiveness.
MIRANDA. You shall hear. In brief,
Since you will have the truth, I fain would see
Once more that isle where I beheld you first.
Might I behold it once again and but
For once, I then were satisfied, so you
Were by my side beholding it likewise.
FERDINAND. Would I might bear thee hence within this hour,
For that dear isle I love because of thee.
But our philosophers declare the spot
Was but enchantment rais’d by wizard spells
And sunk in ocean’s maw when Prospero,
Thy father, will’d it; never yet laid down
Good solid earth and rock on mortal map
And chart. How this may be I know not, yet
Our sailors swear that no such isle there is
And truly they should know their own realm best.
MIRANDA. I’m sure ’twas no enchantment.
FERDINAND. Save the maid
Who dwelt upon ’t, for she did cast a spell
About me when these eyes did first behold
Her there, and naught can take ’t away.
MIRANDA. Nay, now,
You jest, sweet sir.
FERDINAND. No jest, I swear to thee.
ARIEL [_sings_]
Where, O where,
Is the isle so fair?
’Tis far to the east,
’Tis far to the west;
’Tis here, ’tis there,
That isle so fair:
O where, O where?
’Tis everywhere,
That isle so fair.
MIRANDA. ’Tis Ariel’s voice, my Ferdinand, but whence--
[_sleeps._
FERDINAND [_drowsily_] The voice we heard upon the isle long since.
Sweet sound, with poppies curiously mix’d--
[_sleeps._
SCENE III.
_The island in the Middle Seas._
FERDINAND _and_ MIRANDA _discovered sleeping on
a grassy mound. Soft music heard._
FERDINAND [_awaking_] With poppies mix’d--O, I did dream--but where
Am I? ’Tis strange, and yet not strange. This place
I do remember. Here Miranda saw
I first--
MIRANDA [_awaking_]
How say you, husband, I have slept,
And all I look on now is chang’d, and yet
Not so, for surely here I dwelt of old
With Prospero, my father.
FERDINAND. ’Tis naught else
But the same place, and we transported hence
Perchance as playthings of some kindly god,
Hearing thy tale and loving thee.
MIRANDA. Sweet prince,
My Ferdinand, then do we wake indeed,
Or is’t enchantment, and a sleep?
FERDINAND. I deem
It truth, and be it thus, or not, in truth
’Tis pleasant seeming, and we twain will fleet
The time as happily as when each knew
The other first.
[CALIBAN _approaches, groveling_
CALIBAN [_aside_] O Setebos, ’tis she,
Damn’d Prospero’s daughter.--Mistress, if it be
Thou’rt come to rule the isle I’ll serve thee well,
And Prospero be absent. Him I fear
As I do dread the awesome thunderstone.
FERDINAND. Lo! here come other of his company.
[TRINCULO _and_ STEPHANO _approach_.
TRINCULO. Behold us, gentles, two as unhappy wights as ever ’scaped a
hanging, or death by attorney.
STEPHANO. He speaks very true, as ’t were, now and then, and we two
honest men from Naples be now in most wretched case--slaves to the
man-monster, Caliban.
_Thunder heard._ CALIBAN, STEPHANO _and_ TRINCULO _disperse by
several ways and_ FERDINAND _and_ MIRANDA _retire to a cave
near by_.
SCENE IV.
_Another part of the same._
[_Enter_ PROSPERO.
PROSPERO. My charms yet hold, though long disus’d, for I
Pitying Miranda’s melancholy plight
By magic of mine art have hither brought
Duke Ferdinand and her that so the twain
Belov’d may live their first joys o’er again.
Here shall they speed the time a full month’s space,
In such wise as they list, and then, at whiles,
Will I for their beguilement cause to pass
Before their eyes, when they shall sit at ease,
Weary of wandering o’er the mazy isle,
Figures of men and women, such, forsooth,
As Master Shakescene writ of in his plays.
These in their habit as they liv’d in those
Same plays I’ll re-create for their delight,
Peopling a mimic world with mimic folk,
And making so this desert populous.
[_Exit._
SCENE V.
_Another part of the same._
_A grassy space shaded by palms, before a cave at whose
entrance_ FERDINAND _and_ MIRANDA _are discovered playing
chess_.
MIRANDA. O Ferdinand, the play was mine.
FERDINAND. I thought
’Twas mine, but it shall e’en be as you will;
I’ll take it back.
MIRANDA. Indeed, you should not, prince,
For whatso’er you do it seemeth right
To me, and now I see I did mistake.
Good sooth, I will not have it back. I say,
I will not have it back--but what are these
Tending their steps this way? a halting pair.
[_Enter_ NURSE _and_ PETER.
NURSE. Peter!
PETER. Anon.
NURSE. Take my cloak, Peter. Truly the sun’s heat hath made me
all of a quiver, as they say. Marry I would e’en taste a little food
before I go a step more. I’ll warrant you we are many a mile from
Verona by this.
PETER. A good mile, I take it, for I was never in this place
before that I wot of.
NURSE. Say’st thou so, Peter?
PETER. Marry, that do I, and will answer to ’t before any of
womankind, and any of mankind too, that be less lusty than I.
NURSE. Peter!
PETER. Anon.
NURSE. Some food, Peter, and presently.
PETER. Here be strange fruits whose use I know not. A serving
man of the young county Paris’s did to my knowing eat an apple that
was brought from afar in a ship’s stomach, being a lusty youth and
tall and much given to victual, and he did swell to bursting and
died thereof while one might count thirteen by the clock. He made a
fearsome dead body, as the saying is.
NURSE. Peter.
PETER. Anon.
NURSE. Thou shalt taste these fruits for me singly and in order,
good Peter, and if no such harm come to thee as thou pratest of, then
will I eat likewise.
PETER. Nay, but nurse, good nurse, good lady nurse--
NURSE. Hold thy peace, thou scurvy knave. Would’st suffer me to
go nigh to death for lack of food and thou stand by the while like a
jack o’ the clock when his hour has struck? Out upon thee, and do my
pleasure quickly.
[_Enter_ MERCUTIO _and_ ROMEO.
MERCUTIO. Here’s fine matter toward. Thy Juliet’s nurse, and her
man Peter, quarrelling.
NURSE. God ye good den, gentlemen.
MERCUTIO. God ye good morrow, most ancient, and most fair
ancient lady. Thy five wits, meseems, are gone far astray the whiles.
NURSE. Is it but good morrow? I had sworn ’twere long past
noon, but, indeed, in this strange place, as one may say, there’s no
telling so simple a circumstance as the time of day.
ROMEO. Many things there be of which there’s no telling, such as
the number of times a maid will say no, when her mind is to say yes;
how many days the wind will sit i’ the east when one would desire
fair weather; and how many years the toothless grandsire will wither
out a young man’s revenue.
NURSE. That is all very wisely said, good sir. Are you that he
they call the young Romeo?
MERCUTIO. He is rightly called Romeo, but as for his youth, if
knavery be not left out of the count, why then was Methusaleh a very
babe to him, a suckling babe.
NURSE. Say you so? Then will I tell my lady Juliet so much, an’
I can come by her in this heathen place.
MERCUTIO. Most ancient lady, yon Romeo would deceive the devil
himself.
NURSE. Beshrew my heart. Then were my young mistress (who, to
be sure, is no kind of a devil at all, saving your presences), led
straight to a fool’s paradise. She shall know, and presently, what a
piece of man he is.
MERCUTIO [_seeing_ MIRANDA _and_ FERDINAND.
O Romeo the young; young Romeo,
Forget thy Juliet but a space, for here
A lady is, fairer than Juliet, [_pointing to_ MIRANDA]
And mine eyes serve me truly.
ROMEO. O how rare
One pearl’s esteem’d until another’s found,
While that becomes the chief, till straight a third
Shines forth. So is’t with me. When Rosaline
I saw no lesser she might then with her
Compare. Next Juliet came athwart my sight,
And her I lov’d, forgetting Rosaline.
But now is Capulet’s young daughter sped
From forth my heart and in her place this fair
Unknown in Juliet’s stead is worshipped.
[_He seems about to approach_ MIRANDA, _but
is withheld by_ MERCUTIO.
MERCUTIO. Inconstant Romeo, have a care. For me,
I think her wed, and that the husband there,
May have a word to change with thee.
ROMEO. Prate not
To me of husbands, my Mercutio--
MERCUTIO. Have peace, rash Romeo, thou--But who comes here?
[_Enter_ OPHELIA, _strewing flowers_.
Poor, tearful lady! See, she weeps, and smiles
Aweeping, wrings her hand, and smiles again.
ROMEO. She makes as if to speak to us, poor soul.
OPHELIA. This is All Hallow Eve. They say to-night each Jill
may see her Jack that is to come. But these be idle tales to juggle
us poor maids, withal, for I no Jack have found. Cophetua, they say,
was a king who was wed to a beggar maid; a pretty tale is’t not?
But there’s no truth in’t; there be no such happenings now, for my
love was a prince indeed, but we were never wed, and now he is gone.
[_Weeps_] He was a goodly youth to look on, but he is dead by this
and burns in hell. [_Sings_]
He is dead who wronged the maid;
He is dead, perdy.
In the grave his bones are laid,
Hey, and woe is me.
O my love was tall and fine;
Fair he was to see.
As light doth from a jewel shine,
His eyes shined on me.
I cry your pardon, good people all. But there’s something lost, I
think, and ’twill not be found for all my searching.
[_Enter_ HAMLET.
HAMLET. The fair Ophelia. Sweet maid, do you not know me?
OPHELIA. No, forsooth; I did never see you before, and yet
methinks your eye hath a trick of Prince Hamlet’s in it. But that’s
all one, for the Lord Hamlet is dead, and they say his soul is in
hell for cozening us poor maids. [_Sings_]
He is dead that wronged the maid;
He is dead, perdy.
MIRANDA. I scarce can see for weeping. Would there were
But somewhat I might do to ease her pain.
FERDINAND. Her woe, me thinketh, is long past its cure.
But look! here comes a sadder wight than she.
[_Enter_ CONSTANCE, _with hair unbound_.
CONSTANCE [_to_ OPHELIA] Thy wits are all disorder’d as mine own:
Then might we play at grief as who should know
The worst, but mine’s the heavier. You do mourn
A lover faithless, I a son whose face,
So sweet and gracious, made the world for me;
Perpetual solace to my widowhood.
OPHELIA. I do not know you, but you weep and so do I, and surely
that doth make us sisters in grief, and so because of that I’ll follow
you whither you list, and you will let me.
CONSTANCE. Come then, and such cold comfort as I may
I’ll share with you, but sorrow’s cure is not
For us. Your lover groans in hell; my son,
My Arthur, lies within some oubliette,
Far down beneath the gracious day, dog’s food
His only meat, and cries on me, his mother.
Then may I well make friends with stubborn grief,
Since grief alone the heavens have spar’d to me.
OPHELIA. Sad lady, I will go with you, weep when you weep, and
be your humble pensioner in grief.
HAMLET [_advancing_] Ophelia, stay a little! What! not know
Me yet? Doth recollection show thee naught
Familiar in these eyes, this face, this form?
What, faded quite, my love and me, from out
Thy memory as the summer shower when past
Is quick forgot with one short hour of sun?
OPHELIA. Love? I know what that doth signify. Is not love what
we poor maids are fool’d with? Thus have they told me, and therefore
I’ll not listen to you, for indeed I never saw you before, that I
remember, and yet there’s something not so strange lurks within your
speech. But go your ways, sweet sir. My Hamlet he is dead, and so I
care for none of mankind now. [_Sings_]
He is dead, perdy.
[_Exeunt_ CONSTANCE _and_ OPHELIA.
HAMLET. Alas, poor maid, I lov’d thee truly once
And still had lov’d, and so had wedded thee
With all due rites, but that my father’s ghost
Did stride between to part us evermore.
[_Sad music heard_]
[_Exit_ HAMLET _slowly_.
_Enter_ LAUNCE _leading a dog_.
LAUNCE. What a very dog is this my Crab here for a stony-hearted
cur! Why but now there met us two distressed females weeping their
hearts out at their eyes, and sighing, moreover, as ’twould move a
very Turk to pity, and yet this cur took no more note on ’t than they
had been two sticks or stones. Why, the Woman of Samaria would have
plucked out her hair in pity of the twain, nay, so would I have done
the same in her stead,--yet what say I, for there’s not so much hair
on my head as my mother’s brass kettle has of its cover. A vengeance
on ’t, now where was I? O, truly, I was e’en at the Woman of Samaria.
Now, good sirs, and gentles all, the Woman of Samaria had for ruth
plucked out her hair, but did not my dog Crab, who by your leaves is
as hairy a dog as goes on one-and-twenty toes, shed even one hair
in sorrow for the twain: not e’en the smallest hair on ’s nose. And
the matter of the meeting was on this wise. This small stone, with
the crack in ’t, is the maid, she with the flowers; and I think
there be a crack in her wits, but no matter for that; this stone, a
something bigger, ay, and with a crack in ’t, too, shall be the lady
with her hair all unbound; this tree shall be the dog; nay, that’s
not so neither, for I am the tree and the tree is me, and this stick
is the dog, and thus it is. Now doth the small stone weep as ’twere
a fountain gone astray, and may not speak for weeping; now doth the
something bigger stone weep too, yet with a difference, and she doth
not speak for weeping either, and truly I did weep likewise and no
more could speak for my weeping than the poor distressed females
might, yet there came all the while no word of comfort from this
dog’s mouth, not even one tear from his lids. Pray God, gentles all,
there be no such hard hearts among any of you, or ’twere ten thousand
pities. ’Tis an ill thing to have a sour nature like my dog Crab’s,
and no good comes on ’t.
NURSE. Beshrew my heart, and that is so. My Mistress Juliet hath
the tenderest and the most pitiful heart that lives in a maid’s body,
I do think, for she will weep by the hour together if she but behold
a fly caught by the wings in a spider’s web.
MERCUTIO [_to_ ROMEO] No, Juliet, but a Niobe. Eh, man?
ROMEO. Prate not of Juliet now, for I do love
Another way from her.
MERCUTIO. O, Romeo,
Once yet again I tell thee; have a care!
[_Enter_ FALSTAFF.
FALSTAFF. This were a goodly place enow, and there were sack to
be had.
TRINCULO [_aside_] The fat fellow is verily in the right on’t,
but since the old gentleman Prospero did give us here the sack
there’s no sack here for the wishing.
FALSTAFF [_calls_] Francis.
TRINCULO. I think there be none here by that name.
FALSTAFF. ’Tis no matter for the name; the play ’s the thing,
the name is mere hollowness and sound. Here, you fellow with the dog,
you whoreson shaveling of a man, what is thy name?
LAUNCE. They call me Launce, an’ it doth please you, sir.
FALSTAFF. How if I do not please? Marry, and what is _then_ thy
name? Answer to that.
LAUNCE. I could never i’ the world tell that, sir, and no
more, indeed, sir, could my dog Crab that’s here, who, saving your
presence, is the most hard-hearted cur alive.
FALSTAFF. No exceptions, good Launce; exceptions are the devil’s
counters, therefore, beware of exceptions. But hark you, good man
Launce. Fetch me here some sack, and let it o’erflow the tankard,
too, for I’ve a thirst upon me such as Hercules came most honestly by
after his twelve labours.
LAUNCE. Please you, sir, I do not know the meanings of sack and
Hercules. I did never see either of the gentlemen you speak of.
FALSTAFF. ’Tis no matter for Hercules, but, God’s pity for ’t,
to be unacquainted with sack is to have lived as a dead man liveth.
Sack, good Launce, is the prince of roystering blades; the pearl
of price; the nonpareil of the world, the--nay, there’s no fit
comparison to be made. Ambrosia and nectar together were but ashes i’
the mouth to ’t.
TRINCULO [_coming forward_] You speak nothing aside the matter,
sir, as I’m a true man. There’s nought to be named i’ the world
before sack, and herein, of all places i’ the world, there’s no inn,
no sack, no sack within. So you’ll e’en have to stomach that, though
you’ve small stomach to’t.
FALSTAFF. Small stomach, say you? An’ you denominate this belly
of mine a small stomach, there’s no truth in your tongue.
TRINCULO. And no sack in your stomach, either.
LAUNCE. These be as fine words as ever I heard.
FALSTAFF. Now, Sir Shaveling, and who bade you to speak?
LAUNCE. None, sir. I speak but when I have a mind, sir, and I am
silent when I have a mind, likewise.
FALSTAFF. Have a mind to silence and let bigger men speak for
you.
LAUNCE. Then I can tell who will do all the tongue-wagging, sir,
for I spy none here that is bigger i’ the girth than yourself.
FALSTAFF. As for the girth, Shaveling, that cometh of sack.
TRINCULO. And pillage of the larder, too, or I’m no true woman’s
son.
FALSTAFF. No inn within this heathen isle, no sack within the
inn! Is this a fit place to bring a good Christian knight? ’Twere
enough to make a man of my sanguine and fiery composition turn
Muscovite on the instant, for your Muscovite, as I take it, is a most
ungodly knave, and an infidel to boot, and without a moderate deal of
sack, such as is needful for a man of my kidney, how is Christendom
to be kept on its legs? What gives the justice discretion? Why,
sack! What gives the lover whereby to gain the hand of his mistress?
Why, sack! What gives the young man a merry heart and the old man a
sanguine favour? Why, sack! What gives the soldier courage in the day
of battle? Why, sack! Marry, then, he that hath his bellyful of sack
hath discretion, courage, a ruddy visage, a merry heart and a nimble
tongue.
LAUNCE [_aside_] The discretion that cometh with what he calls
sack is e’en but a scurvy kind of discretion, to my thinking, for all
of the stout gentleman’s saying. Here’s Crab, my dog, and he be not
so niggard of his tongue, could tell so much as that comes to, on any
day i’ the week.
FALSTAFF. What be these folk that forswear sack? Why, lean
anatomies with not so much blood in their bodies as would suffice
for a flea’s breakfast. The skin hangs upon their bones for all the
world like a loose garment. You may feel the wind blow through their
bodies. ’Twere a simple abuse of terms to call such starvelings men:
your poor forked radish would become the name better.
MIRANDA. This stout knight hath a nimble wit, in sooth,
But yet he doth not please me, for his eye
Bespeaks wanton desires, intemperate loves,
That ill do company his thin grey hairs.
_Soft music heard._
[_Exeunt_ FALSTAFF, LAUNCE, MERCUTIO,
ROMEO, NURSE _and_ PETER _by twos. A
mist arises, and after a little vanishes._
TRINCULO. A murrain light on all unsociable folk. They might
have bidden us to be of their company, methinks.
STEPHANO. Why, man, these are but ghosts come from nowhere. By
the bones of my dead grandsire, I’ve small mind to turn myself into
a ghost even thereby to leave this isle and Caliban’s hard service.
But, look you, Prospero’s daughter and her prince are stayed behind;
an’ they be not ghosts of the same feather I marvel where they have
bestowed themselves on this isle since Prospero forsook it.
CALIBAN. Will you be ever talking, fool? [_beats him_] take that,
And make your tongue a prisoner to your teeth.
STEPHANO _runs away, crying out loudly the while_.
[_Enter the_ FOOL _and_ LEAR.
FOOL. Good nuncle, here be Christian folk; let’s bide. The night
cometh when a rotten thatch, even, is a more comfortable blanket than
a skyful of little stars.
LEAR [_pointing to_ MIRANDA] What, in Goneril’s palace? Did
she not with her own hands push her old father out of door? [_To_
MIRANDA] Nay, mistress daughter; I’ll not bide with you. A million
murrains light upon thy unnatural head; ten million plagues burn in
thy blood; a million pains lurk in thy wretched bones, thou piece of
painted earth whom ’twere foul shame to call a woman.
MIRANDA [_affrighted_] O Ferdinand, what means this strange old man?
There burns a direful lustre in his eye
And I do fear some certain harm from him.
FERDINAND. Sweet, do not so. He is but mad o’er some
Past wrong, and ’tis the quality of such
To take the true for false, and thus cry out
On him that’s near, the guilty one not by.
See, he is faint and old, and cannot harm.
FOOL. Good nuncle, methinks the sun hath made of thee a very owl,
for she whom thou callest upon so loudly is not so eld by twenty
summers as thy daughter Goneril.
LEAR. ’Tis no matter for that. She is a woman and the daughter of
a woman, therefore she will spin foul lies for her pleasure and bid
her father out of sight when he is old.
FOOL. Fathers that give away all their substance ere they be dead
and rotten are like to see strange things come to pass. An’ thy bald
crown had been worthy thy golden one it had worn thy golden one still
and thou wert warm in thy palace.
LEAR. This daughter! O this daughter, Goneril.
_Enter_ KING RICHARD II.
KING RICHARD. He lieth in his throat that swears I am
No king. ’Tis Bolingbroke doth wear the crown
He pluck’d from me, but there’s no power can wash
Away a king’s anointing. I put it by,
Being constrain’d, but that constraining told
Not of my will but my necessity.
FOOL. Lo! here’s another wight that has given away his crown.
[_To_ RICHARD] Art thou a king, too?
KING RICHARD. I am, and England was my sovereignty.
FOOL. Then thou liest abominably, for a king that lacks wit to
keep his crown on ’s head is no king, and that’s a true saying.
LEAR. Wert thou a king, indeed? Why so was I.
And hadst thou daughters, black, unnatural?
KING RICHARD. Nor daughters nor no sons have I to call
Me father.
LEAR. Then by so much art thou blest.
Forget not that, poor man that wast a king.
KING RICHARD. My kingdom was both daughter and my son,
And e’en as Judas sold his master Christ,
So did my kingdom chaffer for my crown,
And so deliver’d me to Bolingbroke.
FOOL. Is’t he that hath thy crown?
KING RICHARD. ’Tis he, my sometime subject, Bolingbroke:
He hath my crown and kingdom both, and I
Of all sad monarchs most disconsolate.
FOOL. Then have we here a pair of kings lacking both crowns and
kingdoms to wear ’em in. These be but evil times for kings or fools
either; and to my thinking there’s not so great a difference betwixt
a fool and a king, save that the fool may chance be the wiser man of
the two. Of a surety there was little wit a going begging when these
twain put their golden crowns from off their simple skulls. Though
I’m but a fool, and no wise man, I were but a fool indeed were I to
change places with a king.
_Enter_ KING HENRY VI.
KING HENRY. What sayest thou of kings? Kings are but men,
Cool’d by the same wind as their subjects are,
And blister’d by the self-same burning sun.
O happiest are the common folk who toil
Afield by day, eat scanty fare, and sleep
Anight unvex’d by cares of state or plots
Of traitorous nobles envious of a crown.
FOOL. What do I say of kings? Marry, I say they were best to
watch well their daughters and their kingdoms; it needs no fool to
say so much as that. Prithee, art thou a king of the same mould as
these thou beholdest here in this place?
KING HENRY. At scarce nine months was I anointed king.
FOOL. Truly, thou serv’st a tender apprenticeship to thy
business and I marvel the less at thy present having. [_To_ LEAR]
Good nuncle, here’s yet another king out at the elbows, one, belike,
that shook his rattle as ’t were a sceptre, and wore his porringer on
’s head where his crown should have been.
LEAR [_to_ KING HENRY] And thou, too, wert a king?
KING HENRY. I was, but now
Am I a king no longer. Edward of March
Usurps my title and my crown. There come
No suitors unto me, a shadow prince
Mated with Madge of Anjou, strong where I
Am weak, for she loves war, and weak where I
Am strong, for I am joined to content
Which she, poor soul, wots little of.
KING RICHARD. O let
Us make a compact with this same content;
As which shall joy the most in it, that thus
The hours shall fleet unhinder’d o’er our heads
As o’er the shepherd’s gazing on his flock
From out the hawthorn shade. Or what say you,
Were it not fitter pastime to bewail
Our loss of crown and kingdom morn by morn,
Evening by evening, till at last we died
Of grief?
KING HENRY. Wiser it were to strive to find
What comfort’s left to us.
KING RICHARD. Why, so we will.
Come, fool, be thou our numbering clock and tell
Item by item all that’s left to us
Unhappy kings, brothers in wretchedness.
LEAR. A plague upon ye both that will not curse
The authors of your woes, that will not vex
The heavens with prayers for their undoing. Curse
On curse I’ll heap upon the heads of those
She wolves, my daughters, sprung from out my loins;
The kingdom’s ruin and their father’s bane.
[_Exit raving._
FOOL. Farewell to you both, for I must after him that’s such
an eager spendthrift of his curses, and may each of you come upon a
kingdom to your mind--when the sun shall smite in January.
[_Exit_ FOOL.
KING HENRY. A more than common grief look’d from his eye
That roll’d so wildly in his head; pray God
We keep our wits, whatever else be lost
To us.
KING RICHARD. And I might see proud Bolingbroke
In such a case as his that parted now,
I deem that I could die full willingly.
KING HENRY. Would I were dead, an’ it were God’s good will;
But whilst I live I ne’er will còntrive aught
Of evil ’gainst mine enemy, nor wish
Him ill, for so weighs woe the heavier
On him invoking. Our good captain Christ
Did bid us to the smiter turn the cheek
That’s smitten yet again, nor harm him not
For all the mischiefs he doth put on us.
[_Soft music heard._
KING RICHARD. How softly steals sweet music on the soul,
Shutting its doors to misery and pain,
Closing the senses ’gainst all foes without,
Turning the hard couch unto airy down,
Dissolving time in melting harmonies.
O I could list forever to its sound,
But it, or something stronger, masters me.
[_Sleeps._
KING HENRY. Poor, changeful-hearted man that wast a king,
Led captive by each wayward quick caprice,
Unhappy fate call’d thee unto a throne
As it did me; our kingdoms suffer’d for’t.
Enjoy thy sleep by music underpropt,
Till waking show thee as thou wert before,
A crownless monarch weeping for thy crown.
[_Exit_ KING HENRY.
MIRANDA. My heart is full of pity for these kings
Wanting their crowns.
FERDINAND. Those crowns had still been worn
Had they known truly what it is to be
A king. O, my Miranda, only such
That are compos’d of strength and gentleness
In fair proportion mix’d, should e’er essay
The sceptre. He that may not rule himself
Is of all monarchs least significant.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE VI.
_A glade in another part of the island with_ FERDINAND _and_
MIRANDA _observed seated at the upper end thereof. Nearer
at hand a group of Athenian citizens. Enter_ BOTTOM,
_wearing an ass’s head_.
BOTTOM. Masters, you will marvel to behold me here, but the
very truth of the matter is that I did fall asleep, and being asleep
I did dream, and as I did lie a-dreaming I was in a manner translated
to this place, which methinks is an island, for I did espy much water
anear as I was brought hither. But, masters, I do marvel much to look
upon you here also.
FRANCIS FLUTE. Methinks, friend Bottom, you are not the sole
wight in Athens esteemed worthy translation.
ROBIN STARVELING. How an’ we be not translated either?
PETER QUINCE. Robin Starveling speaks well and to the centre
of the matter. Know then, good bully Bottom, we are translated as
yourself, but methinks you have lost more in the translating than
have we; is’t not e’en so, masters all?
ALL. Right, good Peter Quince.
BOTTOM. I have lost nothing that should cause you envy, good
friends all, and so I assure you. [_Brays loudly_] What say you then
to my voice? Is my voice perished?
TOM SNOUT. No, Nick Bottom.
BOTTOM. I thank you, good Tom Snout, and to show you that I
am the same Nick Bottom, however my visage may appear altered, for
travel doth greatly age a man, as they say, you shall hear me wake
the echoes once again.
[_Brays a second time, more loudly._
QUINCE. Methinks your voice, good Bottom, has lost somewhat of
sweetness.
BOTTOM. That’s all one, good Peter Quince, for the simple
truth of the matter is that you have no such delicate ear for fine
harmonies as I am endow’d with.
[_Strokes his ears._
QUINCE. It doth seem so on more properer consideration, and I
had an ear that were the parallax of yours ’twere pity of my life.
ALL. Indeed, an’ ’twere but pity of your life, Peter Quince.
BOTTOM. How say you, masters, shall not we spread ourselves?
[_All sit down._
MIRANDA. O Ferdinand, be these all mortal like
Ourselves? More surely I did never spy
So hideously strange a being such
As he who hath the ass’s head.
FERDINAND. Nor I.
Belike he hath incurr’d some wizard’s spite
And, all unwitting, wears this semblance till
The wizard’s anger shall be spent. But see,
His fellows play upon his ignorance
And of his strange beguilement make their sport.
BOTTOM. Since it is conceded by all of you that I have lost
nothing by translation, doth it not follow, moreover, that I have
somewhat gained by that same adventure?
FLUTE. In good truth you have gained by somewhat, Nick Bottom.
BOTTOM. I were an ass, indeed, an’ I had not.
SNUG. And twice an ass, moreover, should he be that would go
about to steal it from you.
BOTTOM. Methinks that I could munch a savoury salad of thistles
with much stomach to’t.
QUINCE. Your thistles be a thought too biting for my stomach.
BOTTOM. ’Tis but likely. I was ever a choice feeder. But,
masters, was there not some matter toward, or have you assembled
yourselves but to greet me, and, as ’twere, fittingly?
QUINCE. You speak quite to the matter, good Bottom. That is
indeed the true end of our beginning. To behold your winsome visage
in this unwonted place is great joy to us simple mechanicals, yet we
be nevertheless bold to proclaim to you that to shave were not amiss
to one of your condition. For but bethink you, and you were to come
amongst ladies thus grievously beset with hair would shame us all.
SNUG. Mayhap in this strange part of the world ’twould be
thought matter for a hanging, and that were, indeed, a most serious
business, to my thinking.
QUINCE. But an’ we talk of ladies and hangings, moreover, hither
comes a monstrous little lady, as ’twere on the instant.
_Enter_ TITANIA, _with her train_.
TITANIA. Where stays the gentle mortal I adore,
Whose voice unto mine ear makes harmonies
Celestial, and whose amiable face
Enthralls my heart in loving servitude?
PEASEBLOSSOM. Yonder he bides.
MOTH. ’Mong others of his kind.
COBWEB. Alike, yet different.
MUSTARDSEED. Chief mortal seen.
TITANIA [_espying_ BOTTOM] What angel can compare unto my love?
Beauty itself, beholding thee, might swoon
For envy, and the eldest sage would yield
His place to thee on th’ instant. O my love!
[_Winds her arms about his neck._
Thou shalt dwell with me ever. Oberon
To thee is but a gaping pig, and thou
To him the nonpareil of beauteous youth.
BOTTOM. Good mistress atomy, though you show somewhat spare of
flesh you are yet of a right comely countenance (and mine eyes do
tell me aught without spectacles), and you can speak to the point
upon occasion, as the present moment doth signify most auspiciously.
TITANIA. O I could list unto thy silver tongue Till Time itself
wax’d eld and perished.
BOTTOM. How say you, masters? Hath not mistress atomy a shrewd
manner of observation an’ she singles me out from the company of my
fellows thus compellingly?
QUINCE. O bully Bottom, you are, as I take it, the simple wonder
of our age.
ALL. Right, master Quince. Nick Bottom is become a very marvel.
TITANIA. Fain would I hear thy heavenly note again.
Sing, wondrous mortal, while I link mine arms
About thy peerless form, or garlands twine
Of dewy flowers to hang about thy neck,
That neck, of all necks most incomparable.
BOTTOM [_sings_]
Upon the hay
Cophetua
Did waste the hours in sighing.
The beggar maid
Unto him said,
Good sir, are you a dying?
TITANIA. That voice would make the nightingale asham’d.
[_Kisses him_
Now must thou leave thy fellows in this place
And speed along with me unto my court,
Where we’ll abide in loving dalliance
Until thy mortal part’s with spirit mix’d.
Peaseblossom! Cobweb! Moth! and Mustardseed!
PEASEBLOSSOM. Ready.
COBWEB. And I.
MOTH. And I.
MUSTARDSEED. And I.
ALL. Your hest,
Our queen, is still our duty and delight.
TITANIA. Attend us to the court, and evermore
Give special heed unto this gentleman,
Anticipate his ev’ry wish and feed
Him with the choicest cates the isle doth yield.
[_Exeunt_ TITANIA _and_ BOTTOM, _attended by
train_.
QUINCE. Were this but told in Athens, now, ’twere not believed
by aught, but we accredited liars all of the first water, and so
esteemed.
ALL. ’Twere indeed but so, and truly, Peter Quince.
QUINCE. Therefore I hold that (an’ we once more come by our own
firesides in Athens), we were best make no words of the happenings we
have beheld but now, lest we be cried upon in the public streets as
those that be counted no true men.
ALL. That were to shame us, every mother’s son.
QUINCE. Why you speak the very gizzard of the matter, my masters
all, and we will be silent in such wise as I did perpetuate, and as
for Nick Bottom, let his goblin mistress do with him as she listeth,
for methinks we are well rid of his company, being, for ourselves,
nothing loose-minded but sober, virtuous citizens all.
ALL. That are we, Peter Quince, and we thank God for’t.
_Enter_ PUCK, _unperceived, who tweaks_ QUINCE
_violently by the nose and exits_.
QUINCE. O masters, which of you--
_Is suddenly twitched aside by_ PUCK. _Re-enters
with a lion’s head on his shoulders._
ALL. God defends us, Peter Quince.
QUINCE. Masters, it ill becomes you as sober citizens of Athens
to treat one of yourselves thus unseemly. Am not I a simple workman
like the rest of you? Is it not my very own voice that you hear but
now? [_Roars._
ALL. God for his mercy.
[_Exeunt all but_ QUINCE.
QUINCE. These be strange manners; an’ I were a very lion, though
being of a truth of a most lamblike perdition, they could not have
fled from me with greater speeding. I will e’en after them to taste
the reason of their knavery.
_Enter_ PUCK.
PUCK. Now will I set these patches by the ears,
Making such monsters of their simple selves
As severally shall fright them when they see
Each in the other’s fearful eyeball glass’d.
[_Exit_ PUCK.
_Re-enter_ QUINCE.
QUINCE. And I can spy but one of my neighbours in this
predestinated place I’ll be hanged.
_Re-enter_ STARVELING, _with an owl’s head_.
QUINCE. Bless us, Robin Starveling, what wizardry do I spy in
you?
STARVELING. Wizardry, an’ you call it, Peter Quince? Look to
your own head an’ you would find out wizardry. There’s naught strange
in me.
_Re-enter_ SNUG, _with a bear’s head_.
QUINCE _and_ STARVELING. Save us, good Snug, how art thou
transmogrified!
SNUG. Not so, neither, neighbours both. I am but Snug the
joiner, as you might behold him of any working day, but you twain,
methinks, are most marvellously encountered.
QUINCE _and_ STARVELING. Speak for yourself, Master Snug: we are
the same as you have known us ever.
QUINCE. That is, I am the same, but Master Starveling is quite
other than the simple man he was.
STARVELING. Thou liest, Peter Quince. I am but plain Robin
Starveling, but you are become a very monster.
_Re-enter_ SNOUT, _with a deer’s head and horns_.
QUINCE. Good masters three, you are enchanted, and pity o’ my
life it is. ’Tis I alone that doth remain as much mankind as I was
ever.
SNOUT. An’ you count yourself the proper likeness of a man you
are most horribly mistook, and so it is, Peter Quince.
_Re-enter_ FLUTE, _with the head of a crocodile_.
FLUTE. O neighbours all, what behold I here? What sorcerer has
thus exorcised upon you? O could you be spy upon yourselves to know
how unlike you are to plain citizens like me.
QUINCE. A plain man, say you. Forsooth, yours is a very fearful
manner of plainness, Francis Flute. But look at me, masters all, and
you would gaze upon a plain man.
STARVELING. Nay, look on me, in his stead.
SNOUT. Not so, but on me.
SNUG. These be liars, every mother’s son. Look upon me, I say,
Francis Flute.
FLUTE. Masters, hear but the simple truth. You are all of you
deceived and have suffered most horrible enchantment, every mother’s
son of you but me. Heaven help you, neighbours, and undo the spell
that each and every one may become as I am.
[_Gnashes his jaws fearfully._
ALL. That were most dire affliction of any that be in the varsal
world, Francis Flute.
FLUTE. And you were not something other than simple mankind I
could try conclusions with you that speak thus enviously. Indeed, I
am something that way toward, but now.
[_Exeunt Omnes, fighting._
_Enter_ PUCK.
PUCK. Thus have I put the simple senses all
Of these rude knaves sorely distraught, for each
Doth fear the other, deeming him the prey
Of dark enchantment, while himself believes
Himself none other than he was at first
Lord, how simple mortals be,
And it much doth pleasure me
To behold them all distraught;
Each in fairy toils is caught,
There to bide at my good will,
Roaring, growling, fighting still.
[_Exit_ PUCK.
FERDINAND. How like you this, Miranda? Hath not he,
The gamesome elf, made merry mischief so
’Mongst these dull wits that scarce may they once more
Regain their sometime selves and liberty.
MIRANDA. ’Twas merry, sooth, yet I could wish the spell
Dissolv’d that made them fearsome to themselves,
And enemies that once were friends. He that
Hath friends hath treasure, more than wealth of Ind,
And he that hath not still is poor indeed,
Though all the gold of Ophir ’long’d to him.
_Enter_ JAQUES, _laughing_.
JAQUES. Though I be sworn to sadness it doth make
Me gladsome ’gainst my disposition
To note the antics of these greasy fools
Of Athens, pent within the glade where I,
All unobserv’d, have play’d the spy upon
’Em this full hour. How like these fustian churls
Be to their fellows of the scepter’d throne,
The ermine robe, the ’broider’d chasuble.
’Tis habit makes the man, the wearer’s naught.
The fool, when he is naked, shows as sage
As the philosopher so furnished;
The lout’s bare hide’s no worser than the king’s,
And, when their pride is fondly touch’d, all men
Are brothers. Did not each Athenian wight
Beholding all his fellows in their guise
Most strange and horrible, yet deem himself
Perch’d high above the reach of wizardry,
And sole possessor of a countenance
Such as is worn ’mongst ordinary folk?
My sides do ache with mirth when I bethink
Me of these simple churls, and of their kin
By Adam, in high places set, how each,
No matter what his state, doth ne’er perceive
Himself glass’d in his fellow’s eye, but paints
Instead a portrait in fair colours mix’d,
Calls it his likeness, and would have the world,
That knows him what he is, declare its truth
Both in the general and particular.
This globe is peopl’d with philosophers
And fools, methinks, by which I mean the wise
Are the sole wearers of the motley coat
And all men else do owe the cap and bells.
The lover is a fool who doth proclaim
His mistress is perfection; the maid,
Who thinks her swain compact of truth; the king,
Who stakes his crown upon a battle’s point;
The soldier, who for glory gives his life
And dies, a forfeit to’t; the tonsur’d saint,
Who vows to heaven that which ’longs to men.
O, I could moralize upon this theme
An hour by the clock, with still grave matter left
For melancholy contemplation.
[_Exit_ JAQUES.
MIRANDA. Yon sober suited wight, meseems, doth make
A play of sadness.
FERDINAND. So, in sooth, he doth.
His wisdom rings but hollowly, and all
His speech declares a studied wilfulness
Such as we note in him who acts a part
That finds no smallest likeness in himself.
_Soft music heard, followed by a dance of elves._
[_Exeunt_ FERDINAND _and_ MIRANDA.
SCENE VII.
_Still another part of the island._
_Enter_ PROSPERO.
PROSPERO. Now have I ’complish’d that I did intend,--
Dispers’d Miranda’s sadness utterly,
And, for a brief space, made the airy dreams
Of Master Shakescene take on form again
As erst in other lands and climes, that so
These married lovers might be entertain’d
Full pleasingly, and gather from the hours
Spent in this isle of summer, honey’d sweets
For fond remembrance in the tide of time.
My Ariel! What, Ariel, I say! [_Enter_ ARIEL.
Thanks, gentle Ariel, who hast again
Done all my bidding. But for thee my art
Had halted ere its best. Once more receive
My thanks, who am much bound to thee.
ARIEL. This time,
Good master Prospero, I serv’d for love
Not duty, and I count your thanks reward
In fullest measure. And there be nothing else
You would of me, then, Prospero, adieu.
PROSPERO. Adieu, gentlest of spirits, Ariel.
[_Exit_ ARIEL.
_Thunder heard and_ PROSPERO _vanishes_.
SCENE VIII.
_A room in the palace at Naples._
[_Enter_ FERDINAND _and_ MIRANDA.
MIRANDA. O Ferdinand, my love, last night I slept
And sleeping dream’d, and in my dream I saw
The isle where first you knew me, where we told
Each to the other our fond loves. Methought
I was by you companion’d and the hours
Did move to music while there pass’d before
Our wond’ring eyes, as for our sole delight,
A many folk, strange sorted, who did talk
Together, and at whiles as ’twere a play
And we beholding it. ’Twas wondrous strange.
FERDINAND. O, my Miranda, sure some power we wot
Not of doth play with us as we at chess
Do move the pieces this way first and that,
Because our will is to’t. Know then that I
Did dream the fellow unto yours (if it
In very truth were that and nothing more).
Like you, I vis’ted that sweet spot, with you
Beside the while, and did behold, as on
A stage a company of players strut
Their hour or two, a band of merry folk
With some that wept and cried out upon fate.
Who knoweth, my Miranda, what doth hap
To us when we do sleep? At whiles we note
In slumber tokens of a life apart
From this, alike, yet not alike, and who
May say how far the spirit wanders when
The body sleeps?
MIRANDA. Would all my dreams were like
To this we’ve wak’d from, for ’twas sweet, yet sad,
And not so sad but that ’twas sweet the more.
I would it were to dream again.
FERDINAND. Who knows,
Sweet Saint Miranda, but it will return?
_Soft music again heard._
[_Exeunt_ FERDINAND _and_ MIRANDA.
II
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE:
ACT SIXTH
THE MERCHANT OF VENICE:
ACT SIXTH
SCENE I.
_Venice. A street._
_Enter_ SHYLOCK, _followed by a rabble of shouting citizens_.
FIRST CITIZEN. Shylock, how speeds thy business at the court?
Where is the pound of flesh thou covetest?
SECOND CITIZEN. How likest thou the judge from Padua?
THIRD CITIZEN. Eh, Jew, an upright judge! thou hast my lord
The duke to thank for thy poor life. Had I
But been thy judge a halter had been thine,
And thou had’st swung in’t, yet, beshrew my life,
’Twere pity that good Christian hemp were stretch’d
To hang a misbegotten knave like thee.
FOURTH CITIZEN. Shylock, thou infidel, thou should’st have had
The lash on thine old back ten score of times
Ere they had suffer’d thee from out the court.
FIFTH CITIZEN. A beating shall he have, e’en now, the knave.
[_Beats_ SHYLOCK.
SHYLOCK [_striking about him angrily_] Aye! kill me, dogs of
Christians, an’ ye will!
Meseems the Jew hath no more leave to tread
The stones on Christian streets; he may not breathe
The air a Christian breathes, nor gaze uncheck’d
Upon the Christian’s sky; he hath no part
Or lot in anything that is, unless
A Christian please to nod the head. I hate
Ye, brood of Satan that ye are! May all
The plagues of Egypt fall upon ye, dogs
Of Christians; all the pains--
FOURTH CITIZEN. Nay, gentle Jew,
’Tis said thou must become a Christian, straight;
Old Shylock, turn perforce, a “Christian dog!”
Now, greybeard infidel, how lik’st thou this?
SHYLOCK. Eternal torments blister him that asks.
[_Exit_ SHYLOCK, _raving_.
SECOND CITIZEN. A sweet-fac’d Christian will our Shylock make.
I would that I might be his cònfessor,
To lay such swingeing penance on the knave
As scarce would leave him space to sup his broth
Amid the pauses of his punishment.
[_Exeunt citizens, with shouts._
SCENE II.
_Venice. A Room, in_ SHYLOCK’S _House_.
[_Enter_ SHYLOCK _and_ TUBAL.
TUBAL. How now, Shylock! What bitter woe looks from thy face?
What has chanced to thee in the Christian’s court to make thee thus
distraught?
SHYLOCK. O Tubal, Tubal, there dwells no more pity in the
Christian breast than there abides justice therein. I stood for
justice and mine own, before them all; before that smiling,
smooth-faced judge from Padua, and with those false smiles of his he
turned against me the sharp edge of the law. He forbade the shedding
of one drop of the merchant Antonio’s blood--naming therefor some
ancient law, musty for centuries, and that still had gathered dust
till it would serve to bait the Jew with--and so I lost my revenge
upon Antonio. More than that, good Tubal, I lost everything I had to
lose.
TUBAL. Lost everything! Now, by our ancient prophets, this is
woe indeed.
SHYLOCK. Aye, good Tubal. The half my goods are now adjudged
Antonio’s; the other half, upon my death, goes to the knave, Lorenzo;
that same he that lately stole my ducats and my daughter.
TUBAL. And merry havoc will he and thy daughter Jessica make of
thy treasure, Shylock.
SHYLOCK. But there is greater woe to come, good Tubal. To
save this poor remainder of a life have I this day sworn to turn a
Christian.
TUBAL. Thou, turn Christian! O monstrous deed! Our synagogue
will be put to everlasting shame for this. Nay, good Shylock, it must
not be. It must not be.
SHYLOCK. Have I not said that I am sworn on pain of life? They
would e’en have had my life almost in the open court had I not so
sworn. But hear me, Tubal; I will not die till that I have bethought
me of some secret, sure revenge upon Antonio, or failing this, upon
the taunting, sneering fool they call Gratiano, whom I do loathe
e’en as I loathe Antonio. Moreover I would gladly do some deadly hurt
unto the accursed Paduan judge, an’ it might be so.
TUBAL. Then wilt thou still be Hebrew at the heart, good Shylock?
SHYLOCK. How else while yet I bear remembrance of my wrongs?
Have not many of our chosen people done this selfsame thing for
ducats or for life? Kissed the cross before men’s eyes, but spurned
it behind their backs? As I shall do, erewhile. But, O good Tubal,
the apples of Sodom were as sweet morsels in the mouth unto this that
I must do.
TUBAL. Hebrew at heart, albeit Christian of countenance.
Ay, Shylock, it is well. It is well.
[_Exeunt._
SCENE III.
_Venice. Interior of Saint Mark’s._
_Organ music heard. Enter a company of noble Venetians with
the_ DUKE _and his train, accompanied by_ BASSANIO, PORTIA,
ANTONIO, GRATIANO, NERISSA _and others. Following these,
at a little distance, appear_ LORENZO _and_ JESSICA, _the
latter gorgeously attired. The company pauses before the
font._ SHYLOCK _enters from the left, led forward by a
priest. His gaberdine has been exchanged for the Christian
habit, and in his hand is placed a crucifix._
DUKE. Old Shylock, art thou well content to do
As thus we have ordain’d, which is, that thou
Renounce thine ancient Jewish faith, repent
Thy sins, and take the holy, solemn vows
A Christian takes when on his brow the drops
Baptismal glister, and be nam’d anew
After the Christian custom of our land?
SHYLOCK. Most noble duke, I am content, and do
Hereby renounce my nation and my faith,
And, which is more, raze out of mind the name
That I have borne these three-score heavy years,
Since it is thy command.
DUKE. Cristofero
Shalt thou be call’d hereafter. Now, good priest,
Thine office do with ceremonies meet,
And make this greybeard Jew a Christian straight.
_Solemn music heard, after which_ SHYLOCK _is baptized by the
priest_, ANTONIO _at the command of the_ DUKE _standing
godfather to the Jew, who makes the required responses in a
low voice. While he is still kneeling the company converse in
an undertone._
GRATIANO. I much mislike this new made Christian’s face
Nor would I trust Cristofero for all
His Christian name and meekly mutter’d vows.
PORTIA. Nay, Gratiano, question not the heart
Nor rudely draw aside the veil that speech
Hangs ever ’fore the spirit. Who may say
That e’en the best among us keeps a faith
Loyal to every smallest clause, or does
Not slip at whiles amid the thousand small
Requirements of the law. And yet, we do
Implore a gentle sentence on these sins
Of ours, a pardon that shall make us whole.
If, for ourselves, then trebly for the Jew
New come, bewilder’d, to our Christian creed.
ANTONIO. There will be space enow to doubt the Jew
Turn’d Christian, Gratiano, when he shall
Give cause for doubt. ’Twere scantest charity
Till then, to bear with him, as we do bear
Ourselves unto our fellow Christians all.
A bitter lesson hath he lately conn’d,
And he were mad indeed that should neglect
To profit by’t.
GRATIANO. Belike, belike ’tis thus,
But yet I do not like Cristofero’s looks;
I’ll not be argu’d out of that, i’ faith,
And say’t again, I much mislike his favour.
NERISSA. Peace, Gratiano, dost not note the duke
Commands to silence, and would speak once more?
Thou wilt be ever talking, as thy wont.
DUKE. Cristofero, thou bear’st a Christian name
From this day forth. Then look to’t that thou dost
In all things as a Christian, not as Jew.
SHYLOCK. In all things as a Christian. Yes. [_Aside_] Why that’s
Revenge! Revenge!
DUKE. So must thou quit thy house
In Jewry, dwell mid Christian folk, and go
With Christian folk to church on holy days,
And wear henceforth the cross thou did’st disdain.
Dost hearken unto us, Cristofero?
SHYLOCK. I hear but to obey, dread duke; and thank
Thee for thy clemency to me, once Jew,
But now, within this very selfsame hour,
A gasping new born Christian, all unschool’d
In duties other Christians know full well,
Yet earnest still, to act the Christian’s part,
With hope to better his ensample set.
GRATIANO [_aside to_ BASSANIO] For all thy gentle Portia saith but
now, I like not such smooth terms from out those lips.
BASSANIO [_aside_] Peace, Gratiano, let him say his say,
He cannot now do aught to injure thee.
[_Exeunt_ DUKE _and train with_ ANTONIO _and
friends_. LORENZO _and_ JESSICA _come forward_.
JESSICA. How now, good father Cristofero; what a pair of
Christians are we both. Only there’s this difference betwixt us, good
father. I am a Christian for love of a husband and you have turned a
Christian for love of your ducats.
SHYLOCK. Ungrateful daughter; Why did’st thou go forth from my
house by night and rob thy grey-haired father of his treasure?
JESSICA. Why? That’s most easy of answer. Why, because I desired
a Christian husband and there was no coming by my desire save by
secret flight from your most gloomy chambers; and since neither my
Christian husband nor your daughter Jessica could by any kind of
contriving live upon air alone, we had, perforce, to take with us
some of your ducats for the bettering our condition. Speak thou for
me, Lorenzo. Was it not e’en so?
LORENZO. Old man, I am sorry for that I was forced to take from
you your daughter and your ducats against your good pleasure, but I
must tell you that I loved her as myself [_Aside_] nay, much more, my
Jessica,--and by reason of this great love of mine, and because of
your exceeding hatred towards all Christians did I take her from your
house. And since, moreover, as the maid very truly says, there’s no
living i’ the world without the means to live, because of this did
we make shift to take with us from your house such means, as well
advised you would not have your daughter lack for food and suitable
apparel, and since we are now Christians all, what matters it?
SHYLOCK [_slowly_] Ay, what matters it? We are now Christians
all, as thou sayest, and, I remember me that I have heard it said
it is a Christian’s duty to forgive all who have wronged him.
Therefore I forgive you, Jessica--for robbing your old father; and
you, Lorenzo, I forgive--for stealing my daughter. You are each
well mated. But I would be alone a while. Go, good Jessica. Go, son
Lorenzo.
[_Exeunt_ LORENZO _and_ JESSICA.
SHYLOCK [_alone_] A curse pursue the twain where’er they go.
A Christian-Jewish curse, since that should be
Weightier than either singly. Would that I
Might see them dead before me, while I live,--
Such love I bear my daughter, and my son.
[_Gazes about the church._
These be the images of Christian saints
Whom I must bend the knee before when men
Look on. And here the Virgin; here the Christ.
Now must I kneel; a hundred eyes perchance,
Peer at me through the gloom. A hundred eyes
May see me kneel, yet shall they not perceive
The scorner of the Christian hid within
The humble figure of the man who kneels.
Now, by the prophets, whom I reverence,
And by these Christian saints whom I do scorn,
I swear to nourish my revenge till those
I deepest hate are dead, or sham’d before
Their fellows. But how this may be, I know
Not yet, for all the way were dark as night
Before me, save that my revenge burns red.
[_Choir heard chanting in a distant chapel._
[_Rises from his knees._
Good fellow Christians, it may hap the Jew
Turn’d Christian, shall yet do a harm to ye.
Behind Cristofero’s mask is still the face
Of Shylock; in his breast the heart unchang’d.
[_Choir heard chanting_ Judica me Deus.
Yea, my good fellow Christians, I do thank
Ye for that word, and hug it to my heart.
Henceforth it shall be mine, when I do pray,
Not to thy Christ, but unto Israel’s God!
“Give sentence with me, O my God; defend
My cause against the hosts that wrought me ill.”
[_Choir in the distance, responding_ Amen.
[_Exit_ SHYLOCK.
NOTE BY WILLIAM J. ROLFE, LITT.D.
It is a tribute of no slight significance to Shakespeare’s skill
in the delineation of character that we instinctively regard the
personages in his mimic world as real men and women, and are not
satisfied to think of them only as they appear on the stage. We like
to follow them after they have left the scene, and to speculate
concerning their subsequent history. The commentators on _Much Ado_,
for instance, are not willing to dismiss Benedick and Beatrice
when the play closes without discussing the question whether they
probably “lived happily ever after.” Some, like Mrs. Jameson and
the poet Campbell, have their misgivings about the future of the
pair, fearing that “poor Benedick” will not escape the “predestinate
scratched face” which he himself had predicted for the man who should
woo and win that “infernal Até in good apparel,” as he called her;
while others, like Verplanck, Charles Cowden-Clarke, Furnivall, and
Gervinus, believe that their married life will be of “the brightest
and sunniest.”
Some have gone back of the beginning of the plays, like Mrs.
Cowden-Clarke in her _Girlhood of Shakespeare’s Heroines_, and
Lady Martin (Helena Faucit) in her paper on Ophelia in _Some of
Shakespeare’s Female Characters_.
Others, like Mr. Adams, have made the experiment of continuing a
play of Shakespeare in dramatic form. Ernest Renan, in France, and
Mr. C. P. Cranch, in this country, have both done this in the case
of _The Tempest_, mainly with the view of following out the possible
adventures of Caliban after Prospero had left him to his own devices.
These and similar sequels to the plays are nowise meant as attempts
to “improve” Shakespeare (like Nahum Tate’s version of _Lear_, that
held the stage for a hundred and sixty years) and sundry other
perversions of the plays in the eighteenth century, which have damned
their presumptuous authors to everlasting infamy. They are what
Renan, in his preface, calls his _Caliban_,--“an idealist’s fancy
sketch, a simple fantasy of the imagination.”
Mr. Adams’s Sixth Act of _The Merchant of Venice_ is an experiment
of the same kind; not, as certain captious critics have regarded it,
a foolhardy attempt to rival Shakespeare. It was originally written
for an evening entertainment of the “Old Cambridge Shakespeare
Association.” No one in that cultivated company misunderstood the
author’s aim, and all heartily enjoyed it. I believe that it will
give no less pleasure to the larger audience to whom it is now
presented in print.
Transcriber’s Note:
Words may have multiple spelling variations or inconsistent
hyphenation in the text. These have been left unchanged. Obsolete
words, alternative spellings, and misspelled words were not corrected.
Words and phrases in italics are surrounded by underscores, _like
this_. Obvious printing errors, such as backwards, reversed, upside
down, or partially printed letters and punctuation, were corrected.
Final stops missing at the end of sentences and abbreviations were
added. Duplicate words at line endings were removed. Right-aligned
stage directions were adjusted so that all are preceded by an open
bracket.
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