Part 3 out of 3
This jest is dry to me. Fair gentle sweet,
Your wit makes wise things foolish:when we greet,
With eyes best seeing, heaven's fiery eye,
By light we lose light: your capacity
Is of that nature that to your huge store
Wise things seem foolish and rich things but poor.
This proves you wise and rich, for in my eye-
I am a fool, and full of poverty.
But that you take what doth to you belong,
It were a fault to snatch words from my tongue.
O! am yours, and all that I possess.
All the fool mine?
I cannot give you less.
Which of the visors was it that you wore?
Where? when? what visor? why demand you this?
There, then, that visor; that superfluous case
That hid the worse,and show'd the better face.
We are descried: they'll mock us now downright.
Let us confess, and turn it to a jest.
Amaz'd, my lord? Why looks your Highness sad?
Help! hold his brows! he'll swound. Why look you pale?
Sea-sick, I think, coming from Muscovy.
Thus pour the stars down plagues for perjury.
Can any face of brass hold longer out?--
Here stand I, lady; dart thy skill at me;
Bruise me with scorn, confound me with a flout;
Thrust thy sharp wit quite through my ignorance;
Cut me to pieces with thy keen conceit;
And I will wish thee never more to dance,
Nor never more in Russian habit wait.
O! never will I trust to speeches penn'd,
Nor to the motion of a school-boy's tongue,
Nor never come in visor to my friend,
Nor woo in rime, like a blind harper's song.
Taffeta phrases, silken terms precise,
Three-pil'd hyperboles, spruce affectation,
Figures pedantical; these summer-flies
Have blown me full of maggot ostentation:
I do forswear them; and I here protest,
By this white glove,--how white the hand, God knows!--
Henceforth my wooing mind shall be express'd
In russet yeas, and honest kersey noes;
And, to begin, wench,--so God help me, la!--
My love to thee is sound, sans crack or flaw.
Sans 'sans,' I pray you.
Yet I have a trick
Of the old rage: bear with me, I am sick;
I'll leave it by degrees. Soft! let us see:
Write 'Lord have mercy on us' on those three;
They are infected; in their hearts it lies;
They have the plague, and caught it of your eyes:
These lords are visited; you are not free,
For the Lord's tokens on you do I see.
No, they are free that gave these tokens to us.
Our states are forfeit; seek not to undo us.
It is not so. For how can this be true,
That you stand forfeit, being those that sue?
Peace! for I will not have to do with you.
Nor shall not, if I do as I intend.
Speak for yourselves: my wit is at an end.
Teach us, sweet madam, for our rude transgression
Some fair excuse.
The fairest is confession.
Were not you here but even now, disguis'd?
Madam, I was.
And were you well advis'd?
I was, fair madam.
When you then were here,
What did you whisper in your lady's ear?
That more than all the world I did respect her.
When she shall challenge this, you will reject her.
Upon mine honour, no.
Peace! peace! forbear;
Your oath once broke, you force not to forswear.
Despise me when I break this oath of mine.
I will; and therefore keep it. Rosaline,
What did the Russian whisper in your ear?
Madam, he swore that he did hold me dear
As precious eyesight, and did value me
Above this world; adding thereto, moreover,
That he would wed me, or else die my lover.
God give thee joy of him! The noble lord
Most honourably doth uphold his word.
What mean you, madam? by my life, my troth,
I never swore this lady such an oath.
By heaven, you did; and, to confirm it plain,
You gave me this: but take it, sir, again.
My faith and this the princess I did give;
I knew her by this jewel on her sleeve.
Pardon me, sir, this jewel did she wear;
And Lord Berowne, I thank him, is my dear.
What, will you have me, or your pearl again?
Neither of either; I remit both twain.
I see the trick on't: here was a consent,
Knowing aforehand of our merriment,
To dash it like a Christmas comedy.
Some carry-tale, some please-man, some slight zany,
Some mumble-news, some trencher-knight, some Dick,
That smiles his cheek in years, and knows the trick
To make my lady laugh when she's dispos'd,
Told our intents before; which once disclos'd,
The ladies did change favours, and then we,
Following the signs, woo'd but the sign of she.
Now, to our perjury to add more terror,
We are again forsworn, in will and error.
Much upon this it is: [To BOYET.] and might not you
Forestall our sport, to make us thus untrue?
Do not you know my lady's foot by the squire,
And laugh upon the apple of her eye?
And stand between her back, sir, and the fire,
Holding a trencher, jesting merrily?
You put our page out: go, you are allow'd;
Die when you will, a smock shall be your shroud.
You leer upon me, do you? There's an eye
Wounds like a leaden sword.
Hath this brave manage, this career, been run.
Lo! he is tilting straight! Peace! I have done.
Welcome, pure wit! thou part'st a fair fray.
O Lord, sir, they would know
Whether the three Worthies shall come in or no?
BEROWNE. What, are there but three?
No, sir; but it is vara fine,
For every one pursents three.
And three times thrice is nine.
Not so, sir; under correction, sir,
I hope it is not so.
You cannot beg us, sir, I can assure you, sir; we know what we
I hope, sir, three times thrice, sir,--
Is not nine.
Under correction, sir, we know whereuntil it doth amount.
By Jove, I always took three threes for nine.
O Lord, sir! it were pity you should get your living by
How much is it?
O Lord, sir, the parties themselves, the actors, sir, will
show whereuntil it doth amount: for mine own part, I am, as they
say, but to parfect one man in one poor man, Pompion the Great,
Art thou one of the Worthies?
It pleased them to think me worthy of Pompion the Great;
for mine own part, I know not the degree of the Worthy; but I am
to stand for him.
Go, bid them prepare.
We will turn it finely off, sir; we will take some care.
Berowne, they will shame us; let them not approach.
We are shame-proof, my lord, and 'tis some policy
To have one show worse than the king's and his company.
I say they shall not come.
Nay, my good lord, let me o'errule you now.
That sport best pleases that doth least know how;
Where zeal strives to content, and the contents
Die in the zeal of those which it presents;
Their form confounded makes most form in mirth,
When great things labouring perish in their birth.
A right description of our sport, my lord.
Anointed, I implore so much expense of thy royal sweet
breath as will utter a brace of words.
[Converses apart with the KING, and delivers a paper to him.]
Doth this man serve God?
Why ask you?
He speaks not like a man of God his making.
That is all one, my fair, sweet, honey monarch; for, I
protest, the schoolmaster is exceeding fantastical; too-too vain,
too-too vain: but we will put it, as they say, to fortuna de la
guerra. I wish you the peace of mind, most royal couplement!
Here is like to be a good presence of Worthies. He presents
Hector of Troy; the swain, Pompey the Great; the parish curate,
Alexander; Armado's page, Hercules; the pedant, Judas
And if these four Worthies in their first show thrive,
These four will change habits and present the other five.
There is five in the first show.
You are deceived, 'tis not so.
The pedant, the braggart, the hedge-priest, the fool, and
Abate throw at novum, and the whole world again
Cannot pick out five such, take each one in his vein.
The ship is under sail, and here she comes amain.
[Enter COSTARD, armed for POMPEY.]
'I Pompey am'--
You lie, you are not he.
'I Pompey am'--
With libbard's head on knee.
Well said, old mocker: I must needs be friends with thee.
'I Pompey am, Pompey surnam'd the Big'--
It is 'Great,' sir; 'Pompey surnam'd the Great,
That oft in field, with targe and shield, did make my foe to
And travelling along this coast, I here am come by chance,
And lay my arms before the legs of this sweet lass of France.
If your ladyship would say 'Thanks, Pompey,' I had done.
Great thanks, great Pompey.
'Tis not so much worth; but I hope I was perfect.
I made a little fault in 'Great.'
My hat to a halfpenny, Pompey proves the best Worthy.
[Enter SIR NATHANIEL armed, for ALEXANDER.]
'When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander;
By east, west, north, and south, I spread my conquering might:
My scutcheon plain declares that I am Alisander'--
Your nose says, no, you are not; for it stands to right.
Your nose smells 'no' in this, most tender-smelling knight.
The conqueror is dismay'd. Proceed, good Alexander.
'When in the world I liv'd, I was the world's commander;'--
Most true; 'tis right, you were so, Alisander.
Pompey the Great,--
Your servant, and Costard.
Take away the conqueror, take away Alisander.
[To Sir Nathaniel.] O! sir, you have overthrown Alisander
the conqueror! You will be scraped out of the painted cloth for
this; your lion, that holds his poll-axe sitting on a
close-stool, will be given to Ajax: he will be the ninth Worthy.
A conqueror, and afeard to speak! Run away for shame, Alisander.
[Nathaniel retires.] There, an't shall please you: a foolish mild
man; an honest man, look you, and soon dashed! He is a marvellous
good neighbour, faith, and a very good bowler; but for
Alisander,--alas! you see how 'tis--a little o'erparted. But
there are Worthies a-coming will speak their mind in some other
Stand aside, good Pompey.
[Enter HOLOFERNES armed, for JUDAS; and MOTH armed, for
'Great Hercules is presented by this imp,
Whose club kill'd Cerberus, that three-headed canis;
And when he was a babe, a child, a shrimp,
Thus did he strangle serpents in his manus.
Quoniam he seemeth in minority,
Ergo I come with this apology.'
Keep some state in thy exit, and vanish.--[MOTH retires.]
'Judas I am.'--
Not Iscariot, sir.
'Judas I am, ycliped Maccabaeus.'
Judas Maccabaeus clipt is plain Judas.
A kissing traitor. How art thou prov'd Judas?
'Judas I am.'--
The more shame for you, Judas.
What mean you, sir?
To make Judas hang himself.
Begin, sir; you are my elder.
Well follow'd: Judas was hanged on an elder.
I will not be put out of countenance.
Because thou hast no face.
What is this?
The head of a bodkin.
A death's face in a ring.
The face of an old Roman coin, scarce seen.
The pommel of Caesar's falchion.
The carved-bone face on a flask.
Saint George's half-cheek in a brooch.
Ay, and in a brooch of lead.
Ay, and worn in the cap of a tooth-drawer.
And now, forward; for we have put thee in countenance.
You have put me out of countenance.
False: we have given thee faces.
But you have outfaced them all.
An thou wert a lion we would do so.
Therefore, as he is an ass, let him go.
And so adieu, sweet Jude! nay, why dost thou stay?
For the latter end of his name.
For the ass to the Jude? give it him:--Jud-as, away!
This is not generous, not gentle, not humble.
A light for Monsieur Judas! It grows dark, he may stumble.
Alas! poor Maccabaeus, how hath he been baited.
[Enter ARMADO armed, for HECTOR.]
Hide thy head, Achilles: here comes Hector in arms.
Though my mocks come home by me, I will now be merry.
Hector was but a Troyan in respect of this.
But is this Hector?
I think Hector was not so clean-timber'd.
His leg is too big for Hector's.
More calf, certain.
No; he is best indued in the small.
This cannot be Hector.
He's a god or a painter; for he makes faces.
'The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,
Gave Hector a gift,'--
A gilt nutmeg.
Stuck with cloves.
'The armipotent Mars, of lances the almighty,
Gave Hector a gift, the heir of Ilion;
A man so breath'd that certain he would fight ye,
From morn till night, out of his pavilion.
I am that flower,'--
Sweet Lord Longaville, rein thy tongue.
I must rather give it the rein, for it runs against Hector.
Ay, and Hector's a greyhound.
The sweet war-man is dead and rotten; sweet chucks, beat
not the bones of the buried; when he breathed, he was a man. But
I will forward with my device. [To the PRINCESS.] Sweet royalty,
bestow on me the sense of hearing.
Speak, brave Hector; we are much delighted.
I do adore thy sweet Grace's slipper.
[Aside to DUMAIN.] Loves her by the foot.
[Aside to BOYET.] He may not by the yard.
'This Hector far surmounted Hannibal,'--
The party is gone; fellow Hector, she is gone; she is two
months on her way.
What meanest thou?
Faith, unless you play the honest Troyan, the poor wench
is cast away: she's quick; the child brags in her belly already;
Dost thou infamonize me among potentates? Thou shalt die.
Then shall Hector be whipped for Jaquenetta that is quick by
him, and hanged for Pompey that is dead by him.
Most rare Pompey!
Greater than great, great, great, great Pompey! Pompey the
Pompey is moved. More Ates, more Ates! Stir them on! stir
Hector will challenge him.
Ay, if a' have no more man's blood in his belly than will
sup a flea.
By the north pole, I do challenge thee.
I will not fight with a pole, like a northern man: I'll
slash; I'll do it by the sword. I bepray you, let me borrow my
Room for the incensed Worthies!
I'll do it in my shirt.
Most resolute Pompey!
Master, let me take you a buttonhole lower. Do you not see
Pompey is uncasing for the combat? What mean you? You will lose
Gentlemen and soldiers, pardon me; I will not combat in my shirt.
You may not deny it: Pompey hath made the challenge.
Sweet bloods, I both may and will.
What reason have you for 't?
The naked truth of it is: I have no shirt; I go woolward
True, and it was enjoined him in Rome for want of linen;
since when, I'll be sworn, he wore none but a dish-clout of
Jaquenetta's, and that a' wears next his heart for a favour.
[Enter MONSIEUR MARCADE, a messenger.]
God save you, madam!
But that thou interrupt'st our merriment.
I am sorry, madam; for the news I bring
Is heavy in my tongue. The king your father--
Dead, for my life!
Even so: my tale is told.
Worthies away! the scene begins to cloud.
For mine own part, I breathe free breath. I have seen the
day of wrong through the little hole of discretion, and I will
right myself like a soldier.
How fares your Majesty?
Boyet, prepare: I will away to-night.
Madam, not so: I do beseech you stay.
Prepare, I say. I thank you, gracious lords,
For all your fair endeavours; and entreat,
Out of a new-sad soul, that you vouchsafe
In your rich wisdom to excuse or hide
The liberal opposition of our spirits,
If over-boldly we have borne ourselves
In the converse of breath; your gentleness
Was guilty of it. Farewell, worthy lord!
A heavy heart bears not a nimble tongue.
Excuse me so, coming so short of thanks
For my great suit so easily obtain'd.
The extreme parts of time extremely forms
All causes to the purpose of his speed,
And often at his very loose decides
That which long process could not arbitrate:
And though the mourning brow of progeny
Forbid the smiling courtesy of love
The holy suit which fain it would convince;
Yet, since love's argument was first on foot,
Let not the cloud of sorrow justle it
From what it purpos'd; since, to wail friends lost
Is not by much so wholesome-profitable
As to rejoice at friends but newly found.
I understand you not: my griefs are double.
Honest plain words best pierce the ear of grief;
And by these badges understand the king.
For your fair sakes have we neglected time,
Play'd foul play with our oaths. Your beauty, ladies,
Hath much deform'd us, fashioning our humours
Even to the opposed end of our intents;
And what in us hath seem'd ridiculous,--
As love is full of unbefitting strains;
All wanton as a child, skipping and vain;
Form'd by the eye, and, therefore, like the eye,
Full of strange shapes, of habits and of forms,
Varying in subjects, as the eye doth roll
To every varied object in his glance:
Which parti-coated presence of loose love
Put on by us, if, in your heavenly eyes,
Have misbecom'd our oaths and gravities,
Those heavenly eyes that look into these faults
Suggested us to make. Therefore, ladies,
Our love being yours, the error that love makes
Is likewise yours: we to ourselves prove false,
By being once false for ever to be true
To those that make us both,--fair ladies, you:
And even that falsehood, in itself a sin,
Thus purifies itself and turns to grace.
We have receiv'd your letters, full of love;
Your favours, the ambassadors of love;
And, in our maiden council, rated them
At courtship, pleasant jest, and courtesy,
As bombast and as lining to the time;
But more devout than this in our respects
Have we not been; and therefore met your loves
In their own fashion, like a merriment.
Our letters, madam, show'd much more than jest.
So did our looks.
We did not quote them so.
Now, at the latest minute of the hour,
Grant us your loves.
A time, methinks, too short
To make a world-without-end bargain in.
No, no, my lord, your Grace is perjur'd much,
Full of dear guiltiness; and therefore this:
If for my love,--as there is no such cause,--
You will do aught, this shall you do for me:
Your oath I will not trust; but go with speed
To some forlorn and naked hermitage,
Remote from all the pleasures of the world;
There stay until the twelve celestial signs
Have brought about the annual reckoning.
If this austere insociable life
Change not your offer made in heat of blood,
If frosts and fasts, hard lodging and thin weeds,
Nip not the gaudy blossoms of your love,
But that it bear this trial, and last love,
Then, at the expiration of the year,
Come, challenge me, challenge me by these deserts;
And, by this virgin palm now kissing thine,
I will be thine; and, till that instant, shut
My woeful self up in a mournful house,
Raining the tears of lamentation
For the remembrance of my father's death.
If this thou do deny, let our hands part,
Neither intitled in the other's heart.
If this, or more than this, I would deny,
To flatter up these powers of mine with rest,
The sudden hand of death close up mine eye!
Hence ever then my heart is in thy breast.
And what to me, my love? and what to me?
You must he purged too, your sins are rack'd;
You are attaint with faults and perjury;
Therefore, if you my favour mean to get,
A twelvemonth shall you spend, and never rest,
But seek the weary beds of people sick.
But what to me, my love? but what to me?
A wife! A beard, fair health, and honesty;
With three-fold love I wish you all these three.
O! shall I say I thank you, gentle wife?
No so, my lord; a twelvemonth and a day
I'll mark no words that smooth-fac'd wooers say.
Come when the King doth to my lady come;
Then, if I have much love, I'll give you some.
I'll serve thee true and faithfully till then.
Yet swear not, lest ye be forsworn again.
What says Maria?
At the twelvemonth's end
I'll change my black gown for a faithful friend.
I'll stay with patience; but the time is long.
The liker you; few taller are so young.
Studies my lady? mistress, look on me;
Behold the window of my heart, mine eye,
What humble suit attends thy answer there.
Impose some service on me for thy love.
Oft have I heard of you, my Lord Berowne,
Before I saw you; and the world's large tongue
Proclaims you for a man replete with mocks;
Full of comparisons and wounding flouts,
Which you on all estates will execute
That lie within the mercy of your wit:
To weed this wormwood from your fruitful brain,
And therewithal to win me, if you please,--
Without the which I am not to be won,--
You shall this twelvemonth term, from day to day,
Visit the speechless sick, and still converse
With groaning wretches; and your task shall be,
With all the fierce endeavour of your wit
To enforce the pained impotent to smile.
To move wild laughter in the throat of death?
It cannot be; it is impossible:
Mirth cannot move a soul in agony.
Why, that's the way to choke a gibing spirit,
Whose influence is begot of that loose grace
Which shallow laughing hearers give to fools.
A jest's prosperity lies in the ear
Of him that hears it, never in the tongue
Of him that makes it: then, if sickly ears,
Deaf'd with the clamours of their own dear groans,
Will hear your idle scorns, continue then,
And I will have you and that fault withal;
But if they will not, throw away that spirit,
And I shall find you empty of that fault,
Right joyful of your reformation.
A twelvemonth! well, befall what will befall,
I'll jest a twelvemonth in an hospital.
[To the King.] Ay, sweet my lord; and so I take my leave.
No, madam; we will bring you on your way.
Our wooing doth not end like an old play:
Jack hath not Jill; these ladies' courtesy
Might well have made our sport a comedy.
Come, sir, it wants a twelvemonth and a day,
And then 'twill end.
That's too long for a play.
Sweet Majesty, vouchsafe me,--
Was not that not Hector?
The worthy knight of Troy.
I will kiss thy royal finger, and take leave. I am a
votary: I have vowed to Jaquenetta to hold the plough for her
sweet love three yeasr. But, most esteemed greatness, will you
hear the dialogue that the two learned men have compiled in
praise of the owl and the cuckoo? It should have followed in the
end of our show.
Call them forth quickly; we will do so.
[Enter HOLOFERNES, NATHANIEL, MOTH, COSTARD, and others.]
This side is Hiems, Winter; this Ver, the Spring; the one
maintained by the owl, the other by the cuckoo. Ver, begin.
When daisies pied and violets blue
And lady-smocks all silver-white
And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue
Do paint the meadows with delight,
The cuckoo then on every tree
Mocks married men, for thus sings he,
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When shepherds pipe on oaten straws,
And merry larks are ploughmen's clocks,
When turtles tread, and rooks and daws,
And maidens bleach their summer smocks,
The cuckoo then, on every tree,
Mocks married men, for thus sings he:
Cuckoo, cuckoo: O, word of fear,
Unpleasing to a married ear!
When icicles hang by the wall,
And Dick the shepherd blows his nail,
And Tom bears logs into the hall,
And milk comes frozen home in pail,
When blood is nipp'd, and ways be foul,
Then nightly sings the staring owl:
Tu-whit, tu-who--a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
When all aloud the wind doth blow,
And coughing drowns the parson's saw,
And birds sit brooding in the snow,
And Marian's nose looks red and raw,
When roasted crabs hiss in the bowl,
Then nightly sings the staring owl:
Tu-whit, to-who--a merry note,
While greasy Joan doth keel the pot.
The words of Mercury are harsh after the songs of Apollo.
You that way: we this way.