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.