LUCIO. Some report a sea-maid spawned him; some, that he was begot between two stockfishes. But it is certain that when he makes water, his urine is congealed ice; that I know to be true. And he is a motion ungenerative; that's infallible.


DUKE. You are pleasant, sir, and speak apace.


LUCIO. Why, what a ruthless thing is this in him, for the rebellion of a codpiece to take away the life of a man! Would the Duke that is absent have done this? Ere he would have hanged a man for the getting a hundred bastards, he would have paid for the nursing a thousand. He had some feeling of the sport; he knew the service, and that instructed him to mercy.


DUKE. I never heard the absent Duke much detected for women; he was not inclined that way.


DUKE. 'Tis not possible.


LUCIO. Who, not the Duke? Yes, your beggar of fifty; and his use was to put a ducat in her clack-dish. The Duke had crotchets in him. He would be drunk too, that let me inform you.


DUKE. You do him wrong, surely.


LUCIO. Sir, I was an inward of his. A shy fellow was the Duke; and I believe I know the cause of his withdrawing.


DUKE. What, I prithee, might be the cause?


LUCIO. No, pardon. 'Tis a secret must be locked within the teeth and the lips. But this I can let you understand: the greater file of the subject held the Duke to be wise.


DUKE. Wise? Why, no question but he was.


LUCIO. A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.


DUKE. Either this is envy in you, folly, or mistaking. The very stream of his life, and the business he hath helmed, must upon a warranted need give him a better proclamation. Let him be but testimonied in his own bringings-forth, and he shall appear to the envious a scholar, a statesman, and a soldier. Therefore you speak unskilfully. Or, if your knowledge be more, it is much darkened in your malice.


LUCIO. Sir, I know him, and I love him.


DUKE. Love talks with better knowledge, and knowledge with dearer love.


LUCIO. Come, sir, I know what I know.


DUKE. I can hardly believe that, since you know not what you speak. But, if ever the Duke return, as our prayers are he may, let me desire you to make your answer before him. If it be honest you have spoke, you have courage to maintain it. I am bound to call upon you, and I pray you your name?


LUCIO. Sir, my name is Lucio, well known to the Duke.


DUKE. He shall know you better, sir, if I may live to report you.


LUCIO. I fear you not.


DUKE. O, you hope the Duke will return no more; or you imagine me too unhurtful an opposite. But indeed, I can do you little harm. You'll forswear this again.


LUCIO. I'll be hanged first! Thou art deceived in me, friar. But no more of this. Canst thou tell if Claudio die tomorrow or no?


DUKE. Why should he die, sir?


LUCIO. Why? For filling a bottle with a tun-dish. I would the Duke we talk of were returned again. This ungenitured agent will unpeople the province with continency. Sparrows must not build in his house-eaves because they are lecherous. The Duke yet would have dark deeds darkly answered. He would never bring them to light. Would he were returned! Marry, this Claudio is condemned for untrussing. Farewell, good friar, I prithee pray for me. The Duke, I say to thee again, would eat mutton on Fridays. He's now past it; yet, and, I say to thee, he would mouth with a beggar though she smelt brown bread and garlic. Say that I said so. Farewell.


DUKE. No might nor greatness in mortality Can censure 'scape. Back-wounding calumny The whitest virtue strikes. What king so strong Can tie the gall up in the slanderous tongue? But who comes here?


Enter Escalus, Provost and Officers with Mistress Overdone, a Bawd.


ESCALUS. Go, away with her to prison.


BAWD. Good my lord, be good to me. Your honour is accounted a merciful man, good my lord.


ESCALUS. Double and treble admonition, and still forfeit in the same kind? This would make mercy swear and play the tyrant.


PROVOST. A bawd of eleven years' continuance, may it please your honour.


BAWD. My lord, this is one Lucio's information against me. Mistress Kate Keepdown was with child by him in the Duke's time; he promised her marriage. His child is a year and a quarter old come Philip and Jacob. I have kept it myself; and see how he goes about to abuse me.


ESCALUS. That fellow is a fellow of much license. Let him be called before us. Away with her to prison. Go to, no more words.


[Exeunt Officers with Bawd.]


Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered; Claudio must die tomorrow. Let him be furnished with divines, and have all charitable preparation. If my brother wrought by my pity, it should not be so with him.


PROVOST. So please you, this friar hath been with him, and advised him for th' entertainment of death.


ESCALUS. Good even, good father.


DUKE. Bliss and goodness on you!


ESCALUS. Of whence are you?


DUKE. Not of this country, though my chance is now To use it for my time. I am a brother Of gracious order, late come from the See In special business from his Holiness.


ESCALUS. What news abroad i' th' world?


DUKE. None, but that there is so great a fever on goodness that the dissolution of it must cure it. Novelty is only in request, and as it is as dangerous to be aged in any kind of course as it is virtuous to be constant in any undertaking. There is scarce truth enough alive to make societies secure; but security enough to make fellowships accursed. Much upon this riddle runs the wisdom of the world. This news is old enough, yet it is every day's news. I pray you, sir, of what disposition was the Duke?


ESCALUS. One that, above all other strifes, contended especially to know himself.


DUKE. What pleasure was he given to?


ESCALUS. Rather rejoicing to see another merry, than merry at anything which professed to make him rejoice. A gentleman of all temperance. But leave we him to his events, with a prayer they may prove prosperous, and let me desire to know how you find Claudio prepared. I am made to understand that you have lent him visitation.


DUKE. He professes to have received no sinister measure from his judge, but most willingly humbles himself to the determination of justice. Yet had he framed to himself, by the instruction of his frailty, many deceiving promises of life, which I, by my good leisure, have discredited to him, and now he is resolved to die.


ESCALUS. You have paid the heavens your function, and the prisoner the very debt of your calling. I have laboured for the poor gentleman to the extremest shore of my modesty, but my brother justice have I found so severe that he hath forced me to tell him he is indeed Justice.


DUKE. If his own life answer the straitness of his proceeding, it shall become him well; wherein if he chance to fail, he hath sentenced himself.


ESCALUS. I am going to visit the prisoner. Fare you well.


DUKE. Peace be with you.


He who the sword of heaven will bear Should be as holy as severe, Pattern in himself to know, Grace to stand, and virtue go; More nor less to others paying Than by self-offences weighing. Shame to him whose cruel striking Kills for faults of his own liking! Twice treble shame on Angelo, To weed my vice, and let his grow! O, what may man within him hide, Though angel on the outward side! How may likeness, made in crimes, Make practice on the times, To draw with idle spiders' strings Most ponderous and substantial things! Craft against vice I must apply. With Angelo tonight shall lie His old betrothed but despised. So disguise shall, by th' disguised, Pay with falsehood false exacting, And perform an old contracting.


SCENE I. A room in Mariana's house.


SONG Take, O take those lips away, That so sweetly were forsworn, And those eyes, the break of day, Lights that do mislead the morn. But my kisses bring again, Bring again; Seals of love, but sealed in vain, Sealed in vain.


MARIANA. Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away; Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice Hath often stilled my brawling discontent.


[Exit Boy.]


I cry you mercy, sir, and well could wish You had not found me here so musical. Let me excuse me, and believe me so, My mirth it much displeased, but pleased my woe.


DUKE. 'Tis good; though music oft hath such a charm To make bad good and good provoke to harm. I pray you tell me, hath anybody inquired for me here today? Much upon this time have I promised here to meet.


MARIANA. You have not been inquired after. I have sat here all day.


DUKE. I do constantly believe you. The time is come even now. I shall crave your forbearance a little. Maybe I will call upon you anon for some advantage to yourself.


MARIANA. I am always bound to you.


DUKE. Very well met, and welcome. What is the news from this good deputy?


ISABELLA. He hath a garden circummured with brick, Whose western side is with a vineyard backed; And to that vineyard is a planched gate That makes his opening with this bigger key. This other doth command a little door Which from the vineyard to the garden leads; There have I made my promise, upon the Heavy middle of the night to call on him.


DUKE. But shall you on your knowledge find this way?


ISABELLA. I have ta'en a due and wary note upon't; With whispering and most guilty diligence, In action all of precept, he did show me The way twice o'er.


DUKE. Are there no other tokens Between you 'greed concerning her observance?


ISABELLA. No, none, but only a repair i' th' dark, And that I have possessed him my most stay Can be but brief, for I have made him know I have a servant comes with me along, That stays upon me; whose persuasion is I come about my brother.


DUKE. 'Tis well borne up. I have not yet made known to Mariana A word of this.—What ho, within! Come forth.


I pray you be acquainted with this maid; She comes to do you good.


ISABELLA. I do desire the like.


DUKE. Do you persuade yourself that I respect you?


MARIANA. Good friar, I know you do, and have found it.


DUKE. Take, then, this your companion by the hand, Who hath a story ready for your ear. I shall attend your leisure; but make haste. The vaporous night approaches.


MARIANA. Will't please you walk aside?


DUKE. O place and greatness, millions of false eyes Are stuck upon thee; volumes of report Run with these false, and most contrarious quest Upon thy doings; thousand escapes of wit Make thee the father of their idle dream And rack thee in their fancies.


Enter Mariana and Isabella.


Welcome; how agreed?


ISABELLA. She'll take the enterprise upon her, father, If you advise it.


DUKE. It is not my consent, But my entreaty too.


ISABELLA. Little have you to say When you depart from him, but, soft and low, "Remember now my brother."


MARIANA. Fear me not.


DUKE. Nor, gentle daughter, fear you not at all. He is your husband on a pre-contract. To bring you thus together 'tis no sin, Sith that the justice of your title to him Doth flourish the deceit. Come, let us go; Our corn's to reap, for yet our tithe's to sow.


SCENE II. A room in the prison.


Enter Provost and Pompey.


PROVOST. Come hither, sirrah. Can you cut off a man's head?


POMPEY. If the man be a bachelor, sir, I can; but if he be a married man, he's his wife's head, and I can never cut off a woman's head.


PROVOST. Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a direct answer. Tomorrow morning are to die Claudio and Barnardine. Here is in our prison a common executioner, who in his office lacks a helper; if you will take it on you to assist him, it shall redeem you from your gyves; if not, you shall have your full time of imprisonment, and your deliverance with an unpitied whipping; for you have been a notorious bawd.


POMPEY. Sir, I have been an unlawful bawd time out of mind, but yet I will be content to be a lawful hangman. I would be glad to receive some instruction from my fellow-partner.


PROVOST. What ho, Abhorson! Where's Abhorson, there?


PROVOST. Sirrah, here's a fellow will help you tomorrow in your execution. If you think it meet, compound with him by the year, and let him abide here with you; if not, use him for the present, and dismiss him. He cannot plead his estimation with you; he hath been a bawd.


ABHORSON. A bawd, sir? Fie upon him, he will discredit our mystery.


PROVOST. Go to, sir; you weigh equally. A feather will turn the scale.


POMPEY. Pray, sir, by your good favour—for surely, sir, a good favour you have, but that you have a hanging look—do you call, sir, your occupation a mystery?


POMPEY. Painting, sir, I have heard say, is a mystery; and your whores, sir, being members of my occupation, using painting, do prove my occupation a mystery. But what mystery there should be in hanging, if I should be hanged, I cannot imagine.


ABHORSON. Sir, it is a mystery.


POMPEY. Proof.


ABHORSON. Every true man's apparel fits your thief. If it be too little for your thief, your true man thinks it big enough; if it be too big for your thief, your thief thinks it little enough. So every true man's apparel fits your thief.


PROVOST. Are you agreed?


POMPEY. Sir, I will serve him; for I do find your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd. He doth oftener ask forgiveness.


PROVOST. You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe tomorrow four o'clock.


ABHORSON. Come on, bawd. I will instruct thee in my trade. Follow.


POMPEY. I do desire to learn, sir; and I hope, if you have occasion to use me for your own turn, you shall find me yare. For truly, sir, for your kindness I owe you a good turn.


PROVOST. Call hither Barnardine and Claudio.


[Exeunt Abhorson and Pompey.]


Th' one has my pity; not a jot the other, Being a murderer, though he were my brother.


Look, here's the warrant, Claudio, for thy death. 'Tis now dead midnight, and by eight tomorrow Thou must be made immortal. Where's Barnardine?


CLAUDIO. As fast locked up in sleep as guiltless labour When it lies starkly in the traveller's bones. He will not wake.


PROVOST. Who can do good on him? Well, go, prepare yourself. [Knocking within.] But hark, what noise? Heaven give your spirits comfort!


[Exit Claudio. Knock within.]


By and by!— I hope it is some pardon or reprieve For the most gentle Claudio.


Welcome, father.


DUKE. The best and wholesom'st spirits of the night Envelop you, good Provost! Who called here of late?


PROVOST. None, since the curfew rung.


DUKE. They will then, ere't be long.


PROVOST. What comfort is for Claudio?


DUKE. There's some in hope.


PROVOST. It is a bitter deputy.


DUKE. Not so, not so. His life is paralleled Even with the stroke and line of his great justice. He doth with holy abstinence subdue That in himself which he spurs on his power To qualify in others. Were he mealed with that Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous; But this being so, he's just.


[Knocking within. Provost goes to the door.]


Now are they come. This is a gentle provost. Seldom when The steeled gaoler is the friend of men.


How now? What noise? That spirit's possessed with haste That wounds th' unsisting postern with these strokes.


PROVOST. There he must stay until the officer Arise to let him in. He is called up.


DUKE. Have you no countermand for Claudio yet, But he must die tomorrow?


DUKE. As near the dawning, Provost, as it is, You shall hear more ere morning.


PROVOST. Happily You something know, yet I believe there comes No countermand. No such example have we. Besides, upon the very siege of justice Lord Angelo hath to the public ear Professed the contrary.


This is his Lordship's man.


DUKE. And here comes Claudio's pardon.


MESSENGER. My lord hath sent you this note, and by me this further charge: that you swerve not from the smallest article of it, neither in time, matter, or other circumstance. Good morrow; for, as I take it, it is almost day.


PROVOST. I shall obey him.


DUKE. [Aside.] This is his pardon, purchased by such sin For which the pardoner himself is in. Hence hath offence his quick celerity, When it is borne in high authority. When vice makes mercy, mercy's so extended That for the fault's love is th' offender friended. Now, sir, what news?


PROVOST. I told you: Lord Angelo, belike thinking me remiss in mine office, awakens me with this unwonted putting-on; methinks strangely, for he hath not used it before.


DUKE. Pray you, let's hear.


PROVOST. [Reads.] Whatsoever you may hear to the contrary, let Claudio be executed by four of the clock, and in the afternoon, Barnardine. For my better satisfaction, let me have Claudio's head sent me by five. Let this be duly performed, with a thought that more depends on it than we must yet deliver. Thus fail not to do your office, as you will answer it at your peril. What say you to this, sir?


DUKE. What is that Barnardine who is to be executed in th' afternoon?


PROVOST. A Bohemian born, but here nursed up and bred; one that is a prisoner nine years old.


DUKE. How came it that the absent Duke had not either delivered him to his liberty, or executed him? I have heard it was ever his manner to do so.


PROVOST. His friends still wrought reprieves for him; and indeed, his fact till now in the government of Lord Angelo, came not to an undoubtful proof.


DUKE. It is now apparent?


PROVOST. Most manifest, and not denied by himself.


DUKE. Hath he borne himself penitently in prison? How seems he to be touched?


PROVOST. A man that apprehends death no more dreadfully but as a drunken sleep; careless, reckless, and fearless of what's past, present, or to come; insensible of mortality and desperately mortal.


DUKE. He wants advice.


PROVOST. He will hear none. He hath evermore had the liberty of the prison; give him leave to escape hence, he would not. Drunk many times a day, if not many days entirely drunk. We have very oft awaked him, as if to carry him to execution, and showed him a seeming warrant for it. It hath not moved him at all.


DUKE. More of him anon. There is written in your brow, Provost, honesty and constancy; if I read it not truly, my ancient skill beguiles me. But in the boldness of my cunning I will lay myself in hazard. Claudio, whom here you have warrant to execute, is no greater forfeit to the law than Angelo who hath sentenced him. To make you understand this in a manifested effect, I crave but four days' respite, for the which you are to do me both a present and a dangerous courtesy.


PROVOST. Pray, sir, in what?


DUKE. In the delaying death.


PROVOST. Alack, how may I do it? Having the hour limited, and an express command, under penalty, to deliver his head in the view of Angelo? I may make my case as Claudio's, to cross this in the smallest.


DUKE. By the vow of mine order, I warrant you, if my instructions may be your guide. Let this Barnardine be this morning executed, and his head borne to Angelo.


PROVOST. Angelo hath seen them both, and will discover the favour.


DUKE. O, death's a great disguiser, and you may add to it. Shave the head and tie the beard, and say it was the desire of the penitent to be so bared before his death. You know the course is common. If anything fall to you upon this, more than thanks and good fortune, by the saint whom I profess, I will plead against it with my life.


PROVOST. Pardon me, good father; it is against my oath.


DUKE. Were you sworn to the Duke, or to the Deputy?


PROVOST. To him and to his substitutes.


DUKE. You will think you have made no offence if the Duke avouch the justice of your dealing?


PROVOST. But what likelihood is in that?


DUKE. Not a resemblance, but a certainty. Yet since I see you fearful, that neither my coat, integrity, nor persuasion, can with ease attempt you, I will go further than I meant, to pluck all fears out of you. Look you, sir, here is the hand and seal of the Duke. You know the character, I doubt not, and the signet is not strange to you.


PROVOST. I know them both.


DUKE. The contents of this is the return of the Duke; you shall anon over-read it at your pleasure, where you shall find within these two days he will be here. This is a thing that Angelo knows not; for he this very day receives letters of strange tenour, perchance of the Duke's death, perchance entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, th' unfolding star calls up the shepherd. Put not yourself into amazement how these things should be. All difficulties are but easy when they are known. Call your executioner, and off with Barnardine's head. I will give him a present shrift, and advise him for a better place. Yet you are amazed; but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn.


SCENE III. Another room in the same.


POMPEY. I am as well acquainted here as I was in our house of profession. One would think it were Mistress Overdone's own house, for here be many of her old customers. First, here's young Master Rash; he's in for a commodity of brown paper and old ginger, nine score and seventeen pounds; of which he made five marks ready money. Marry, then ginger was not much in request, for the old women were all dead. Then is there here one Master Caper, at the suit of Master Three-pile the mercer, for some four suits of peach-coloured satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we here young Dizie, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starve-lackey, the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that killed lusty Pudding, and Master Forthright the tilter, and brave Master Shoe-tie the great traveller, and wild Half-can that stabbed Pots, and I think forty more, all great doers in our trade, and are now "for the Lord's sake."


ABHORSON. Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither.


POMPEY. Master Barnardine! You must rise and be hanged, Master Barnardine.


ABHORSON. What ho, Barnardine!


BARNARDINE. [Within.] A pox o' your throats! Who makes that noise there? What are you?


POMPEY. Your friends, sir; the hangman. You must be so good, sir, to rise and be put to death.


BARNARDINE. [Within.] Away, you rogue, away; I am sleepy.


ABHORSON. Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too.


POMPEY. Pray, Master Barnardine, awake till you are executed, and sleep afterwards.


ABHORSON. Go in to him, and fetch him out.


POMPEY. He is coming, sir, he is coming. I hear his straw rustle.


ABHORSON. Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?


POMPEY. Very ready, sir.


BARNARDINE. How now, Abhorson? What's the news with you?


ABHORSON. Truly, sir, I would desire you to clap into your prayers; for, look you, the warrant's come.


BARNARDINE. You rogue, I have been drinking all night; I am not fitted for't.


POMPEY. O, the better, sir; for he that drinks all night and is hanged betimes in the morning may sleep the sounder all the next day.


ABHORSON. Look you, sir, here comes your ghostly father. Do we jest now, think you?


DUKE. Sir, induced by my charity, and hearing how hastily you are to depart, I am come to advise you, comfort you, and pray with you.


BARNARDINE. Friar, not I. I have been drinking hard all night, and I will have more time to prepare me, or they shall beat out my brains with billets. I will not consent to die this day, that's certain.


DUKE. O, sir, you must; and therefore I beseech you Look forward on the journey you shall go.


BARNARDINE. I swear I will not die today for any man's persuasion.


DUKE. But hear you—


BARNARDINE. Not a word. If you have anything to say to me, come to my ward, for thence will not I today.


DUKE. Unfit to live or die. O gravel heart! After him, fellows; bring him to the block.


PROVOST. Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner?


DUKE. A creature unprepared, unmeet for death; And to transport him in the mind he is Were damnable.


PROVOST. Here in the prison, father, There died this morning of a cruel fever One Ragozine, a most notorious pirate, A man of Claudio's years; his beard and head Just of his colour. What if we do omit This reprobate till he were well inclined, And satisfy the Deputy with the visage Of Ragozine, more like to Claudio?


DUKE. O, 'tis an accident that heaven provides! Dispatch it presently; the hour draws on Prefixed by Angelo. See this be done, And sent according to command, whiles I Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die.


PROVOST. This shall be done, good father, presently. But Barnardine must die this afternoon; And how shall we continue Claudio, To save me from the danger that might come If he were known alive?


DUKE. Let this be done: Put them in secret holds, both Barnardine and Claudio. Ere twice the sun hath made his journal greeting To yonder generation, you shall find Your safety manifested.


DUKE. Quick, dispatch, and send the head to Angelo.


Now will I write letters to Angelo, The Provost, he shall bear them, whose contents Shall witness to him I am near at home; And that by great injunctions I am bound To enter publicly. Him I'll desire To meet me at the consecrated fount, A league below the city; and from thence, By cold gradation and well-balanced form. We shall proceed with Angelo.


PROVOST. Here is the head; I'll carry it myself.


DUKE. Convenient is it. Make a swift return; For I would commune with you of such things That want no ear but yours.


ISABELLA. [Within.] Peace, ho, be here!


DUKE. The tongue of Isabel. She's come to know If yet her brother's pardon be come hither. But I will keep her ignorant of her good, To make her heavenly comforts of despair When it is least expected.


ISABELLA. Ho, by your leave!


DUKE. Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.


ISABELLA. The better, given me by so holy a man. Hath yet the Deputy sent my brother's pardon?


DUKE. He hath released him, Isabel, from the world. His head is off, and sent to Angelo.


ISABELLA. Nay, but it is not so.


DUKE. It is no other. Show your wisdom, daughter, in your close patience.


ISABELLA. O, I will to him and pluck out his eyes!


DUKE. You shall not be admitted to his sight.


ISABELLA. Unhappy Claudio! Wretched Isabel! Injurious world! Most damned Angelo!


DUKE. This nor hurts him nor profits you a jot. Forbear it, therefore; give your cause to heaven. Mark what I say, which you shall find By every syllable a faithful verity. The Duke comes home tomorrow;—nay, dry your eyes. One of our convent, and his confessor, Gives me this instance. Already he hath carried Notice to Escalus and Angelo, Who do prepare to meet him at the gates, There to give up their power. If you can, pace your wisdom In that good path that I would wish it go, And you shall have your bosom on this wretch, Grace of the Duke, revenges to your heart, And general honour.


ISABELLA. I am directed by you.


DUKE. This letter, then, to Friar Peter give; 'Tis that he sent me of the Duke's return. Say, by this token, I desire his company At Mariana's house tonight. Her cause and yours I'll perfect him withal, and he shall bring you Before the Duke; and to the head of Angelo Accuse him home and home. For my poor self, I am combined by a sacred vow, And shall be absent. Wend you with this letter. Command these fretting waters from your eyes With a light heart; trust not my holy order, If I pervert your course.—Who's here?


LUCIO. Good even. Friar, where is the Provost?


DUKE. Not within, sir.


LUCIO. O pretty Isabella, I am pale at mine heart to see thine eyes so red. Thou must be patient. I am fain to dine and sup with water and bran. I dare not for my head fill my belly. One fruitful meal would set me to't. But they say the Duke will be here tomorrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother. If the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived.


DUKE. Sir, the Duke is marvellous little beholding to your reports; but the best is, he lives not in them.


LUCIO. Friar, thou knowest not the Duke so well as I do. He's a better woodman than thou tak'st him for.


DUKE. Well, you'll answer this one day. Fare ye well.


LUCIO. Nay, tarry, I'll go along with thee. I can tell thee pretty tales of the Duke.


DUKE. You have told me too many of him already, sir, if they be true; if not true, none were enough.


LUCIO. I was once before him for getting a wench with child.


DUKE. Did you such a thing?


LUCIO. Yes, marry, did I; but I was fain to forswear it. They would else have married me to the rotten medlar.


DUKE. Sir, your company is fairer than honest. Rest you well.


LUCIO. By my troth, I'll go with thee to the lane's end. If bawdy talk offend you, we'll have very little of it. Nay, friar, I am a kind of burr; I shall stick.


ESCALUS. Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other.


ANGELO. In most uneven and distracted manner. His actions show much like to madness; pray heaven his wisdom be not tainted. And why meet him at the gates and redeliver our authorities there?


ANGELO. And why should we proclaim it in an hour before his entering, that if any crave redress of injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street?


ESCALUS. He shows his reason for that: to have a dispatch of complaints, and to deliver us from devices hereafter, which shall then have no power to stand against us.


ANGELO. Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaimed. Betimes i' th' morn I'll call you at your house. Give notice to such men of sort and suit As are to meet him.


ESCALUS. I shall, sir. Fare you well.


ANGELO. Good night. This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant And dull to all proceedings. A deflowered maid; And by an eminent body that enforced The law against it! But that her tender shame Will not proclaim against her maiden loss, How might she tongue me! Yet reason dares her no, For my authority bears so credent bulk That no particular scandal once can touch But it confounds the breather. He should have lived, Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense, Might in the times to come have ta'en revenge By so receiving a dishonoured life With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had lived. Alack, when once our grace we have forgot, Nothing goes right; we would, and we would not.


SCENE V. Fields without the town.


Enter Duke, in his own habit, and Friar Peter.


DUKE. These letters at fit time deliver me. The Provost knows our purpose and our plot. The matter being afoot, keep your instruction And hold you ever to our special drift, Though sometimes you do blench from this to that As cause doth minister. Go call at Flavius' house, And tell him where I stay. Give the like notice To Valencius, Rowland, and to Crassus, And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate. But send me Flavius first.


FRIAR PETER. It shall be speeded well.


DUKE. I thank thee, Varrius, thou hast made good haste. Come, we will walk. There's other of our friends Will greet us here anon. My gentle Varrius.


SCENE VI. Street near the city gate.


Enter Isabella and Mariana.


ISABELLA. To speak so indirectly I am loath; I would say the truth, but to accuse him so That is your part; yet I am advised to do it, He says, to veil full purpose.


MARIANA. Be ruled by him.


ISABELLA. Besides, he tells me that, if peradventure He speak against me on the adverse side, I should not think it strange, for 'tis a physic That's bitter to sweet end.


MARIANA. I would Friar Peter—


ISABELLA. O, peace, the friar is come.


FRIAR PETER. Come, I have found you out a stand most fit, Where you may have such vantage on the Duke He shall not pass you. Twice have the trumpets sounded. The generous and gravest citizens Have hent the gates, and very near upon The Duke is entering. Therefore hence, away.


SCENE I. A public place near the city gate.


Enter at several doors Duke, Varrius, Lords; Angelo, Escalus, Lucio, Provost, Officers and Citizens.


DUKE. My very worthy cousin, fairly met. Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.


ANGELO and ESCALUS. Happy return be to your royal grace!


DUKE. Many and hearty thankings to you both. We have made inquiry of you, and we hear Such goodness of your justice that our soul Cannot but yield you forth to public thanks, Forerunning more requital.


ANGELO. You make my bonds still greater.


DUKE. O, your desert speaks loud, and I should wrong it To lock it in the wards of covert bosom, When it deserves with characters of brass A forted residence 'gainst the tooth of time And rasure of oblivion. Give me your hand And let the subject see, to make them know That outward courtesies would fain proclaim Favours that keep within.—Come, Escalus, You must walk by us on our other hand. And good supporters are you.


FRIAR PETER. Now is your time. Speak loud, and kneel before him.


ISABELLA. Justice, O royal Duke! Vail your regard Upon a wronged—I would fain have said, a maid. O worthy prince, dishonour not your eye By throwing it on any other object Till you have heard me in my true complaint, And given me justice, justice, justice, justice!


DUKE. Relate your wrongs. In what? By whom? Be brief. Here is Lord Angelo shall give you justice. Reveal yourself to him.


ISABELLA. O worthy Duke, You bid me seek redemption of the devil. Hear me yourself, for that which I must speak Must either punish me, not being believed, Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O hear me, here!


ANGELO. My lord, her wits, I fear me, are not firm. She hath been a suitor to me for her brother, Cut off by course of justice.


ISABELLA. By course of justice!


ANGELO. And she will speak most bitterly and strange.


ISABELLA. Most strange, but yet most truly will I speak. That Angelo's forsworn, is it not strange? That Angelo's a murderer, is't not strange? That Angelo is an adulterous thief, An hypocrite, a virgin-violator, Is it not strange and strange?


DUKE. Nay, it is ten times strange.


ISABELLA. It is not truer he is Angelo Than this is all as true as it is strange. Nay, it is ten times true, for truth is truth To th' end of reckoning.


DUKE. Away with her. Poor soul, She speaks this in th' infirmity of sense.


ISABELLA. O Prince, I conjure thee, as thou believ'st There is another comfort than this world, That thou neglect me not with that opinion That I am touched with madness. Make not impossible That which but seems unlike. 'Tis not impossible But one, the wicked'st caitiff on the ground, May seem as shy, as grave, as just, as absolute, As Angelo; even so may Angelo, In all his dressings, characts, titles, forms, Be an arch-villain. Believe it, royal Prince, If he be less, he's nothing; but he's more, Had I more name for badness.


DUKE. By mine honesty, If she be mad, as I believe no other, Her madness hath the oddest frame of sense, Such a dependency of thing on thing, As e'er I heard in madness.


ISABELLA. O gracious Duke, Harp not on that; nor do not banish reason For inequality; but let your reason serve To make the truth appear where it seems hid, And hide the false seems true.


DUKE. Many that are not mad Have, sure, more lack of reason. What would you say?


ISABELLA. I am the sister of one Claudio, Condemned upon the act of fornication To lose his head; condemned by Angelo. I, in probation of a sisterhood, Was sent to by my brother; one Lucio As then the messenger.


LUCIO. That's I, an't like your Grace. I came to her from Claudio and desired her To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo For her poor brother's pardon.


ISABELLA. That's he, indeed.


DUKE. You were not bid to speak.


LUCIO. No, my good lord, Nor wished to hold my peace.


DUKE. I wish you now, then; Pray you take note of it; and when you have A business for yourself, pray heaven you then Be perfect.


LUCIO. I warrant your honour.


DUKE. The warrant's for yourself. Take heed to it.


ISABELLA. This gentleman told somewhat of my tale.


LUCIO. Right.


DUKE. It may be right, but you are i' the wrong To speak before your time.—Proceed.


ISABELLA. I went To this pernicious caitiff deputy.


DUKE. That's somewhat madly spoken.


ISABELLA. Pardon it; The phrase is to the matter.


DUKE. Mended again. The matter; proceed.


ISABELLA. In brief, to set the needless process by: How I persuaded, how I prayed and kneeled, How he refelled me, and how I replied— For this was of much length—the vile conclusion I now begin with grief and shame to utter. He would not, but by gift of my chaste body To his concupiscible intemperate lust, Release my brother; and after much debatement, My sisterly remorse confutes mine honour, And I did yield to him. But the next morn betimes, His purpose surfeiting, he sends a warrant For my poor brother's head.


DUKE. This is most likely!


ISABELLA. O, that it were as like as it is true!


DUKE. By heaven, fond wretch, thou know'st not what thou speak'st, Or else thou art suborned against his honour In hateful practice. First, his integrity Stands without blemish; next, it imports no reason That with such vehemency he should pursue Faults proper to himself. If he had so offended, He would have weighed thy brother by himself, And not have cut him off. Someone hath set you on. Confess the truth, and say by whose advice Thou cam'st here to complain.


ISABELLA. And is this all? Then, O you blessed ministers above, Keep me in patience, and with ripened time Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace from woe, As I, thus wronged, hence unbelieved go.


DUKE. I know you'd fain be gone. An officer! To prison with her! Shall we thus permit A blasting and a scandalous breath to fall On him so near us? This needs must be a practice. Who knew of your intent and coming hither?


ISABELLA. One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.


[Exeunt Officer with Isabella.]


DUKE. A ghostly father, belike. Who knows that Lodowick?


LUCIO. My lord, I know him. 'Tis a meddling friar. I do not like the man. Had he been lay, my lord, For certain words he spake against your Grace In your retirement, I had swinged him soundly.


DUKE. Words against me? This's a good friar, belike. And to set on this wretched woman here Against our substitute! Let this friar be found.


LUCIO. But yesternight, my lord, she and that friar, I saw them at the prison. A saucy friar, A very scurvy fellow.


FRIAR PETER. Blessed be your royal Grace! I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard Your royal ear abused. First hath this woman Most wrongfully accused your substitute, Who is as free from touch or soil with her As she from one ungot.


DUKE. We did believe no less. Know you that Friar Lodowick that she speaks of?


FRIAR PETER. I know him for a man divine and holy, Not scurvy, nor a temporary meddler, As he's reported by this gentleman; And, on my trust, a man that never yet Did, as he vouches, misreport your Grace.


LUCIO. My lord, most villainously; believe it.


FRIAR PETER. Well, he in time may come to clear himself; But at this instant he is sick, my lord, Of a strange fever. Upon his mere request, Being come to knowledge that there was complaint Intended 'gainst Lord Angelo, came I hither To speak, as from his mouth, what he doth know Is true and false; and what he with his oath And all probation will make up full clear Whensoever he's convented. First, for this woman, To justify this worthy nobleman, So vulgarly and personally accused, Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes, Till she herself confess it.


DUKE. Good friar, let's hear it. Do you not smile at this, Lord Angelo? O heaven, the vanity of wretched fools! Give us some seats.—Come, cousin Angelo, In this I'll be impartial. Be you judge Of your own cause.


Is this the witness, friar? First let her show her face, and after speak.


MARIANA. Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face Until my husband bid me.


DUKE. What, are you married?


MARIANA. No, my lord.


DUKE. A widow, then?


MARIANA. Neither, my lord.


DUKE. Why, you are nothing then, neither maid, widow, nor wife?


LUCIO. My lord, she may be a punk; for many of them are neither maid, widow, nor wife.


DUKE. Silence that fellow. I would he had some cause to prattle for himself.


LUCIO. Well, my lord.


MARIANA. My lord, I do confess I ne'er was married, And I confess besides, I am no maid. I have known my husband; yet my husband Knows not that ever he knew me.


LUCIO. He was drunk, then, my lord; it can be no better.


DUKE. For the benefit of silence, would thou wert so too.


DUKE. This is no witness for Lord Angelo.


MARIANA. Now I come to't, my lord. She that accuses him of fornication In self-same manner doth accuse my husband, And charges him, my lord, with such a time When I'll depose I had him in mine arms With all th' effect of love.


ANGELO. Charges she more than me?


MARIANA. Not that I know.


DUKE. No? You say your husband.


MARIANA. Why, just, my lord, and that is Angelo, Who thinks he knows that he ne'er knew my body, But knows, he thinks, that he knows Isabel's.


ANGELO. This is a strange abuse. Let's see thy face.


MARIANA. My husband bids me; now I will unmask. [Unveiling.] This is that face, thou cruel Angelo, Which once thou swor'st was worth the looking on. This is the hand which, with a vowed contract, Was fast belocked in thine. This is the body That took away the match from Isabel And did supply thee at thy garden-house In her imagined person.


DUKE. Know you this woman?


LUCIO. Carnally, she says.


LUCIO. Enough, my lord.


ANGELO. My lord, I must confess I know this woman; And five years since there was some speech of marriage Betwixt myself and her; which was broke off, Partly for that her promised proportions Came short of composition; but in chief For that her reputation was disvalued In levity. Since which time of five years I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her, Upon my faith and honour.


MARIANA. Noble Prince, As there comes light from heaven and words from breath, As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue, I am affianced this man's wife as strongly As words could make up vows. And, my good lord, But Tuesday night last gone, in's garden-house, He knew me as a wife. As this is true, Let me in safety raise me from my knees, Or else for ever be confixed here, A marble monument!


ANGELO. I did but smile till now. Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice. My patience here is touched. I do perceive These poor informal women are no more But instruments of some more mightier member That sets them on. Let me have way, my lord, To find this practice out.


DUKE. Ay, with my heart; And punish them to your height of pleasure. Thou foolish friar, and thou pernicious woman, Compact with her that's gone, think'st thou thy oaths, Though they would swear down each particular saint, Were testimonies against his worth and credit, That's sealed in approbation? You, Lord Escalus, Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains To find out this abuse, whence 'tis derived. There is another friar that set them on; Let him be sent for.


FRIAR PETER. Would he were here, my lord; for he indeed Hath set the women on to this complaint. Your Provost knows the place where he abides, And he may fetch him.


DUKE. Go, do it instantly.


And you, my noble and well-warranted cousin, Whom it concerns to hear this matter forth, Do with your injuries as seems you best In any chastisement. I for a while Will leave you; but stir not you till you have Well determined upon these slanderers.


ESCALUS. My lord, we'll do it throughly.


Signior Lucio, did not you say you knew that Friar Lodowick to be a dishonest person?


LUCIO. Cucullus non facit monachum, honest in nothing but in his clothes, and one that hath spoke most villainous speeches of the Duke.


ESCALUS. We shall entreat you to abide here till he come, and enforce them against him. We shall find this friar a notable fellow.


LUCIO. As any in Vienna, on my word.


ESCALUS. Call that same Isabel here once again. I would speak with her.


Pray you, my lord, give me leave to question; you shall see how I'll handle her.


LUCIO. Not better than he, by her own report.


LUCIO. Marry, sir, I think, if you handled her privately, she would sooner confess; perchance, publicly, she'll be ashamed.


Enter at several doors Duke as a friar, Provost and Isabella with Officers.


ESCALUS. I will go darkly to work with her.


LUCIO. That's the way; for women are light at midnight.


ESCALUS. [To Isabella.] Come on, mistress, here's a gentlewoman denies all that you have said.


LUCIO. My lord, here comes the rascal I spoke of, here with the Provost.


ESCALUS. In very good time. Speak not you to him till we call upon you.


ESCALUS. Come, sir, did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? They have confessed you did.


DUKE. 'Tis false.


ESCALUS. How! Know you where you are?


DUKE. Respect to your great place; and let the devil Be sometime honoured for his burning throne. Where is the Duke? 'Tis he should hear me speak.


ESCALUS. The Duke's in us; and we will hear you speak. Look you speak justly.


DUKE. Boldly, at least. But, O, poor souls, Come you to seek the lamb here of the fox, Good night to your redress! Is the Duke gone? Then is your cause gone too. The Duke's unjust Thus to retort your manifest appeal, And put your trial in the villain's mouth Which here you come to accuse.


LUCIO. This is the rascal; this is he I spoke of.


ESCALUS. Why, thou unreverend and unhallowed friar, Is't not enough thou hast suborned these women To accuse this worthy man, but, in foul mouth, And in the witness of his proper ear, To call him villain? And then to glance from him To th' Duke himself, to tax him with injustice? Take him hence! To th' rack with him! We'll touse you Joint by joint, but we will know his purpose. What! Unjust?


DUKE. Be not so hot. The Duke Dare no more stretch this finger of mine than he Dare rack his own. His subject am I not, Nor here provincial. My business in this state Made me a looker-on here in Vienna, Where I have seen corruption boil and bubble Till it o'errun the stew. Laws for all faults, But faults so countenanced that the strong statutes Stand like the forfeits in a barber's shop, As much in mock as mark.


ESCALUS. Slander to the state! Away with him to prison!


ANGELO. What can you vouch against him, Signior Lucio? Is this the man that you did tell us of?


LUCIO. 'Tis he, my lord. Come hither, goodman Baldpate. Do you know me?


DUKE. I remember you, sir, by the sound of your voice. I met you at the prison, in the absence of the Duke.


LUCIO. O did you so? And do you remember what you said of the Duke?


DUKE. Most notedly, sir.


LUCIO. Do you so, sir? And was the Duke a fleshmonger, a fool, and a coward, as you then reported him to be?


DUKE. You must, sir, change persons with me ere you make that my report. You indeed spoke so of him, and much more, much worse.


LUCIO. O thou damnable fellow! Did not I pluck thee by the nose for thy speeches?


DUKE. I protest I love the Duke as I love myself.


ANGELO. Hark how the villain would close now, after his treasonable abuses!


ESCALUS. Such a fellow is not to be talked withal. Away with him to prison! Where is the provost? Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough upon him. Let him speak no more. Away with those giglets too, and with the other confederate companion!


[The Provost lays hands on the Duke.]


DUKE. Stay, sir, stay a while.


ANGELO. What, resists he? Help him, Lucio.


LUCIO. Come, sir, come, sir, come, sir. Foh, sir! Why, you bald-pated lying rascal! You must be hooded, must you? Show your knave's visage, with a pox to you! Show your sheep-biting face, and be hanged an hour! Will't not off?


[Pulls off the friar's hood and discovers the Duke.]


DUKE. Thou art the first knave that e'er mad'st a duke. First, Provost, let me bail these gentle three. [To Lucio.] Sneak not away, sir, for the friar and you Must have a word anon.—Lay hold on him.


LUCIO. This may prove worse than hanging.


DUKE. [To Escalus.] What you have spoke I pardon. Sit you down. We'll borrow place of him. [To Angelo.] Sir, by your leave. Hast thou or word, or wit, or impudence, That yet can do thee office? If thou hast, Rely upon it till my tale be heard, And hold no longer out.


ANGELO. O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness To think I can be undiscernible, When I perceive your Grace, like power divine, Hath looked upon my passes. Then, good Prince, No longer session hold upon my shame, But let my trial be mine own confession. Immediate sentence then, and sequent death Is all the grace I beg.


DUKE. Come hither, Mariana. Say, wast thou e'er contracted to this woman?


ANGELO. I was, my lord.


DUKE. Go, take her hence and marry her instantly. Do you the office, friar; which consummate, Return him here again.—Go with him, Provost.


[Exeunt Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter and Provost.]


ESCALUS. My lord, I am more amazed at his dishonour Than at the strangeness of it.


DUKE. Come hither, Isabel. Your friar is now your prince. As I was then Advertising and holy to your business, Not changing heart with habit, I am still Attorneyed at your service.


ISABELLA. O, give me pardon, That I, your vassal, have employed and pained Your unknown sovereignty.


DUKE. You are pardoned, Isabel. And now, dear maid, be you as free to us. Your brother's death, I know, sits at your heart, And you may marvel why I obscured myself, Labouring to save his life, and would not rather Make rash remonstrance of my hidden power Than let him so be lost. O most kind maid, It was the swift celerity of his death, Which I did think with slower foot came on, That brained my purpose. But peace be with him. That life is better life, past fearing death, Than that which lives to fear. Make it your comfort, So happy is your brother.


Enter Angelo, Mariana, Friar Peter and Provost.


DUKE. For this new-married man approaching here, Whose salt imagination yet hath wronged Your well-defended honour, you must pardon For Mariana's sake. But as he adjudged your brother, Being criminal in double violation Of sacred chastity and of promise-breach Thereon dependent, for your brother's life, The very mercy of the law cries out Most audible, even from his proper tongue, "An Angelo for Claudio, death for death." Haste still pays haste, and leisure answers leisure; Like doth quit like, and measure still for measure. Then, Angelo, thy fault's thus manifested, Which, though thou wouldst deny, denies thee vantage. We do condemn thee to the very block Where Claudio stooped to death, and with like haste. Away with him.


MARIANA. O my most gracious lord, I hope you will not mock me with a husband.


DUKE. It is your husband mocked you with a husband. Consenting to the safeguard of your honour, I thought your marriage fit. Else imputation, For that he knew you, might reproach your life, And choke your good to come. For his possessions, Although by confiscation they are ours, We do instate and widow you with all To buy you a better husband.


MARIANA. O my dear lord, I crave no other, nor no better man.


DUKE. Never crave him; we are definitive.


DUKE. You do but lose your labour. Away with him to death. [To Lucio.] Now, sir, to you.


MARIANA. O my good lord.—Sweet Isabel, take my part; Lend me your knees, and all my life to come I'll lend you all my life to do you service.


DUKE. Against all sense you do importune her. Should she kneel down in mercy of this fact, Her brother's ghost his paved bed would break, And take her hence in horror.


MARIANA. Isabel, Sweet Isabel, do yet but kneel by me; Hold up your hands, say nothing. I'll speak all. They say best men are moulded out of faults, And, for the most, become much more the better For being a little bad. So may my husband. O Isabel, will you not lend a knee?


DUKE. He dies for Claudio's death.


ISABELLA. [Kneeling.] Most bounteous sir, Look, if it please you, on this man condemned As if my brother lived. I partly think A due sincerity governed his deeds Till he did look on me. Since it is so, Let him not die. My brother had but justice, In that he did the thing for which he died. For Angelo, His act did not o'ertake his bad intent, And must be buried but as an intent That perished by the way. Thoughts are no subjects; Intents but merely thoughts.


MARIANA. Merely, my lord.


DUKE. Your suit's unprofitable. Stand up, I say. I have bethought me of another fault. Provost, how came it Claudio was beheaded At an unusual hour?


PROVOST. It was commanded so.


DUKE. Had you a special warrant for the deed?


PROVOST. No, my good lord, it was by private message.


DUKE. For which I do discharge you of your office. Give up your keys.


PROVOST. Pardon me, noble lord. I thought it was a fault, but knew it not; Yet did repent me after more advice. For testimony whereof, one in the prison That should by private order else have died, I have reserved alive.


DUKE. What's he?


PROVOST. His name is Barnardine.


DUKE. I would thou hadst done so by Claudio. Go fetch him hither, let me look upon him.


ESCALUS. I am sorry one so learned and so wise As you, Lord Angelo, have still appeared, Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood And lack of tempered judgement afterward.


ANGELO. I am sorry that such sorrow I procure, And so deep sticks it in my penitent heart That I crave death more willingly than mercy; 'Tis my deserving, and I do entreat it.


Enter Provost with Barnardine, Claudio (muffled) and Juliet.


DUKE. Which is that Barnardine?


PROVOST. This, my lord.


DUKE. There was a friar told me of this man. Sirrah, thou art said to have a stubborn soul That apprehends no further than this world, And squar'st thy life according. Thou'rt condemned; But, for those earthly faults, I quit them all, And pray thee take this mercy to provide For better times to come. Friar, advise him; I leave him to your hand.—What muffled fellow's that?


PROVOST. This is another prisoner that I saved, Who should have died when Claudio lost his head; As like almost to Claudio as himself.


DUKE. [To Isabella.] If he be like your brother, for his sake Is he pardoned; and for your lovely sake, Give me your hand and say you will be mine. He is my brother too. But fitter time for that. By this Lord Angelo perceives he's safe; Methinks I see a quick'ning in his eye. Well, Angelo, your evil quits you well. Look that you love your wife, her worth worth yours. I find an apt remission in myself. And yet here's one in place I cannot pardon. [To Lucio.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward, One all of luxury, an ass, a madman. Wherein have I so deserved of you That you extol me thus?


LUCIO. Faith, my lord, I spoke it but according to the trick. If you will hang me for it, you may, but I had rather it would please you I might be whipped.


DUKE. Whipped first, sir, and hanged after. Proclaim it, Provost, round about the city, If any woman wronged by this lewd fellow, As I have heard him swear himself there's one Whom he begot with child—let her appear, And he shall marry her. The nuptial finished, Let him be whipped and hanged.


LUCIO. I beseech your Highness, do not marry me to a whore. Your highness said even now I made you a duke; good my lord, do not recompense me in making me a cuckold.


DUKE. Upon mine honour, thou shalt marry her. Thy slanders I forgive, and therewithal Remit thy other forfeits.—Take him to prison, And see our pleasure herein executed.


LUCIO. Marrying a punk, my lord, is pressing to death, whipping, and hanging.


DUKE. Slandering a prince deserves it.


[Exeunt Officers with Lucio.]


She, Claudio, that you wronged, look you restore. Joy to you, Mariana! Love her, Angelo. I have confessed her, and I know her virtue. Thanks, good friend Escalus, for thy much goodness; There's more behind that is more gratulate. Thanks, Provost, for thy care and secrecy; We shall employ thee in a worthier place. Forgive him, Angelo, that brought you home The head of Ragozine for Claudio's. Th' offence pardons itself. Dear Isabel, I have a motion much imports your good; Whereto if you'll a willing ear incline, What's mine is yours, and what is yours is mine. So, bring us to our palace, where we'll show What's yet behind that's meet you all should know.


ACT I Scene I. Venice. A street. Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. Scene III. Venice. A public place.


ACT II Scene I. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. Scene II. Venice. A street. Scene III. The same. A room in Shylock's house. Scene IV. The same. A street. Scene V. The same. Before Shylock's house. Scene VI. The same. Scene VII. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. Scene VIII. Venice. A street. Scene IX. Belmont. A room in Portia's house.


ACT III Scene I. Venice. A street. Scene II. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. Scene III. Venice. A street. Scene IV. Belmont. A room in Portia's house. Scene V. The same. A garden.


ACT IV Scene I. Venice. A court of justice. Scene II. The same. A street.


ACT V Scene I. Belmont. The avenue to Portia's house.


THE DUKE OF VENICE THE PRINCE OF MOROCCO, suitor to Portia THE PRINCE OF ARRAGON, suitor to Portia ANTONIO, a merchant of Venice BASSANIO, his friend, suitor to Portia GRATIANO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SOLANIO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio SALARINO, friend to Antonio and Bassanio LORENZO, in love with Jessica SHYLOCK, a rich Jew TUBAL, a Jew, his friend LAUNCELET GOBBO, a clown, servant to Shylock OLD GOBBO, father to Launcelet LEONARDO, servant to Bassanio BALTHAZAR, servant to Portia STEPHANO, servant to Portia SALERIO, a messenger from Venice


PORTIA, a rich heiress NERISSA, her waiting-woman JESSICA, daughter to Shylock


Magnificoes of Venice, Officers of the Court of Justice, a Gaoler, Servants and other Attendants


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


SCENE I. Venice. A street.


ANTONIO. In sooth I know not why I am so sad, It wearies me, you say it wearies you; But how I caught it, found it, or came by it, What stuff 'tis made of, whereof it is born, I am to learn. And such a want-wit sadness makes of me, That I have much ado to know myself.


SALARINO. Your mind is tossing on the ocean, There where your argosies, with portly sail Like signiors and rich burghers on the flood, Or as it were the pageants of the sea, Do overpeer the petty traffickers That curtsy to them, do them reverence, As they fly by them with their woven wings.


SOLANIO. Believe me, sir, had I such venture forth, The better part of my affections would Be with my hopes abroad. I should be still Plucking the grass to know where sits the wind, Peering in maps for ports, and piers and roads; And every object that might make me fear Misfortune to my ventures, out of doubt Would make me sad.


SALARINO. My wind cooling my broth Would blow me to an ague when I thought What harm a wind too great might do at sea. I should not see the sandy hour-glass run But I should think of shallows and of flats, And see my wealthy Andrew dock'd in sand, Vailing her high top lower than her ribs To kiss her burial. Should I go to church And see the holy edifice of stone And not bethink me straight of dangerous rocks, Which, touching but my gentle vessel's side, Would scatter all her spices on the stream, Enrobe the roaring waters with my silks, And, in a word, but even now worth this, And now worth nothing? Shall I have the thought To think on this, and shall I lack the thought That such a thing bechanc'd would make me sad? But tell not me, I know Antonio Is sad to think upon his merchandise.


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


SALARINO. Why then you are in love.


SALARINO. Not in love neither? Then let us say you are sad Because you are not merry; and 'twere as easy For you to laugh and leap and say you are merry Because you are not sad. Now, by two-headed Janus, Nature hath fram'd strange fellows in her time: Some that will evermore peep through their eyes, And laugh like parrots at a bagpiper. And other of such vinegar aspect That they'll not show their teeth in way of smile Though Nestor swear the jest be laughable.


SOLANIO. Here comes Bassanio, your most noble kinsman, Gratiano, and Lorenzo. Fare ye well. We leave you now with better company.


SALARINO. I would have stay'd till I had made you merry, If worthier friends had not prevented me.


ANTONIO. Your worth is very dear in my regard. I take it your own business calls on you, And you embrace th' occasion to depart.


SALARINO. Good morrow, my good lords.


BASSANIO. Good signiors both, when shall we laugh? Say, when? You grow exceeding strange. Must it be so?


SALARINO. We'll make our leisures to attend on yours.


[Exeunt Salarino and Solanio.]


LORENZO. My Lord Bassanio, since you have found Antonio, We two will leave you, but at dinner-time I pray you have in mind where we must meet.


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


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


GRATIANO. Let me play the fool, With mirth and laughter let old wrinkles come, And let my liver rather heat with wine Than my heart cool with mortifying groans. Why should a man whose blood is warm within Sit like his grandsire cut in alabaster? Sleep when he wakes? And creep into the jaundice By being peevish? I tell thee what, Antonio, (I love thee, and 'tis my love that speaks): There are a sort of men whose visages Do cream and mantle like a standing pond, And do a wilful stillness entertain, With purpose to be dress'd in an opinion Of wisdom, gravity, profound conceit, As who should say, "I am Sir Oracle, And when I ope my lips, let no dog bark." O my Antonio, I do know of these That therefore only are reputed wise For saying nothing; when, I am very sure, If they should speak, would almost damn those ears Which, hearing them, would call their brothers fools. I'll tell thee more of this another time. But fish not with this melancholy bait For this fool gudgeon, this opinion. Come, good Lorenzo. Fare ye well a while. I'll end my exhortation after dinner.


LORENZO. Well, we will leave you then till dinner-time. I must be one of these same dumb wise men, For Gratiano never lets me speak.


GRATIANO. Well, keep me company but two years moe, Thou shalt not know the sound of thine own tongue.


ANTONIO. Fare you well. I'll grow a talker for this gear.


GRATIANO. Thanks, i' faith, for silence is only commendable In a neat's tongue dried, and a maid not vendible.


ANTONIO. Is that anything now?


BASSANIO. Gratiano speaks an infinite deal of nothing, more than any man in all Venice. His reasons are as two grains of wheat hid in two bushels of chaff: you shall seek all day ere you find them, and when you have them they are not worth the search.


ANTONIO. Well, tell me now what lady is the same To whom you swore a secret pilgrimage, That you today promis'd to tell me of?


BASSANIO. 'Tis not unknown to you, Antonio, How much I have disabled mine estate By something showing a more swelling port Than my faint means would grant continuance. Nor do I now make moan to be abridg'd From such a noble rate, but my chief care Is to come fairly off from the great debts Wherein my time, something too prodigal, Hath left me gag'd. To you, Antonio, I owe the most in money and in love, And from your love I have a warranty To unburden all my plots and purposes How to get clear of all the debts I owe.


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


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


ANTONIO. You know me well, and herein spend but time To wind about my love with circumstance; And out of doubt you do me now more wrong In making question of my uttermost Than if you had made waste of all I have. Then do but say to me what I should do That in your knowledge may by me be done, And I am prest unto it. Therefore, speak.


BASSANIO. In Belmont is a lady richly left, And she is fair, and, fairer than that word, Of wondrous virtues. Sometimes from her eyes I did receive fair speechless messages: Her name is Portia, nothing undervalu'd To Cato's daughter, Brutus' Portia. Nor is the wide world ignorant of her worth, For the four winds blow in from every coast Renowned suitors, and her sunny locks Hang on her temples like a golden fleece, Which makes her seat of Belmont Colchos' strond, And many Jasons come in quest of her. O my Antonio, had I but the means To hold a rival place with one of them, I have a mind presages me such thrift That I should questionless be fortunate.


ANTONIO. Thou know'st that all my fortunes are at sea; Neither have I money nor commodity To raise a present sum, therefore go forth Try what my credit can in Venice do; That shall be rack'd even to the uttermost, To furnish thee to Belmont to fair Portia. Go presently inquire, and so will I, Where money is, and I no question make To have it of my trust or for my sake.


SCENE II. Belmont. A room in Portia's house.


Enter Portia with her waiting-woman Nerissa.


PORTIA. By my troth, Nerissa, my little body is aweary of this great world.


NERISSA. You would be, sweet madam, if your miseries were in the same abundance as your good fortunes are. And yet, for aught I see, they are as sick that surfeit with too much as they that starve with nothing. It is no mean happiness, therefore, to be seated in the mean. Superfluity come sooner by white hairs, but competency lives longer.


PORTIA. Good sentences, and well pronounc'd.


NERISSA. They would be better if well followed.


PORTIA. If to do were as easy as to know what were good to do, chapels had been churches, and poor men's cottages princes' palaces. It is a good divine that follows his own instructions; I can easier teach twenty what were good to be done than to be one of the twenty to follow mine own teaching. The brain may devise laws for the blood, but a hot temper leaps o'er a cold decree; such a hare is madness the youth, to skip o'er the meshes of good counsel the cripple. But this reasoning is not in the fashion to choose me a husband. O me, the word "choose"! I may neither choose who I would nor refuse who I dislike, so is the will of a living daughter curb'd by the will of a dead father. Is it not hard, Nerissa, that I cannot choose one, nor refuse none?


NERISSA. Your father was ever virtuous, and holy men at their death have good inspirations. Therefore the lott'ry that he hath devised in these three chests of gold, silver, and lead, whereof who chooses his meaning chooses you, will no doubt never be chosen by any rightly but one who you shall rightly love. But what warmth is there in your affection towards any of these princely suitors that are already come?


PORTIA. I pray thee over-name them, and as thou namest them, I will describe them, and according to my description level at my affection.


NERISSA. First, there is the Neapolitan prince.


PORTIA. Ay, that's a colt indeed, for he doth nothing but talk of his horse, and he makes it a great appropriation to his own good parts that he can shoe him himself. I am much afeard my lady his mother play'd false with a smith.


NERISSA. Then is there the County Palatine.


PORTIA. He doth nothing but frown, as who should say "And you will not have me, choose." He hears merry tales and smiles not. I fear he will prove the weeping philosopher when he grows old, being so full of unmannerly sadness in his youth. I had rather be married to a death's-head with a bone in his mouth than to either of these. God defend me from these two!


NERISSA. How say you by the French lord, Monsieur Le Bon?


PORTIA. God made him, and therefore let him pass for a man. In truth, I know it is a sin to be a mocker, but he! why, he hath a horse better than the Neapolitan's, a better bad habit of frowning than the Count Palatine. He is every man in no man. If a throstle sing, he falls straight a-cap'ring. He will fence with his own shadow. If I should marry him, I should marry twenty husbands. If he would despise me, I would forgive him, for if he love me to madness, I shall never requite him.


NERISSA. What say you then to Falconbridge, the young baron of England?


PORTIA. You know I say nothing to him, for he understands not me, nor I him: he hath neither Latin, French, nor Italian, and you will come into the court and swear that I have a poor pennyworth in the English. He is a proper man's picture; but alas, who can converse with a dumb-show? How oddly he is suited! I think he bought his doublet in Italy, his round hose in France, his bonnet in Germany, and his behaviour everywhere.


NERISSA. What think you of the Scottish lord, his neighbour?


PORTIA. That he hath a neighbourly charity in him, for he borrowed a box of the ear of the Englishman, and swore he would pay him again when he was able. I think the Frenchman became his surety, and seal'd under for another.


NERISSA. How like you the young German, the Duke of Saxony's nephew?


PORTIA. Very vilely in the morning when he is sober, and most vilely in the afternoon when he is drunk: when he is best, he is a little worse than a man, and when he is worst, he is little better than a beast. And the worst fall that ever fell, I hope I shall make shift to go without him.


NERISSA. If he should offer to choose, and choose the right casket, you should refuse to perform your father's will, if you should refuse to accept him.


PORTIA. Therefore, for fear of the worst, I pray thee set a deep glass of Rhenish wine on the contrary casket, for if the devil be within and that temptation without, I know he will choose it. I will do anything, Nerissa, ere I will be married to a sponge.


NERISSA. You need not fear, lady, the having any of these lords. They have acquainted me with their determinations, which is indeed to return to their home, and to trouble you with no more suit, unless you may be won by some other sort than your father's imposition, depending on the caskets.


PORTIA. If I live to be as old as Sibylla, I will die as chaste as Diana, unless I be obtained by the manner of my father's will. I am glad this parcel of wooers are so reasonable, for there is not one among them but I dote on his very absence. And I pray God grant them a fair departure.


NERISSA. Do you not remember, lady, in your father's time, a Venetian, a scholar and a soldier, that came hither in company of the Marquis of Montferrat?


PORTIA. Yes, yes, it was Bassanio, as I think, so was he call'd.


NERISSA. True, madam. He, of all the men that ever my foolish eyes look'd upon, was the best deserving a fair lady.


PORTIA. I remember him well, and I remember him worthy of thy praise.


SERVINGMAN. The four strangers seek for you, madam, to take their leave. And there is a forerunner come from a fifth, the Prince of Morocco, who brings word the Prince his master will be here tonight.


PORTIA. If I could bid the fifth welcome with so good heart as I can bid the other four farewell, I should be glad of his approach. If he have the condition of a saint and the complexion of a devil, I had rather he should shrive me than wive me. Come, Nerissa. Sirrah, go before. Whiles we shut the gate upon one wooer, another knocks at the door.


Enter Bassanio with Shylock the Jew.


SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats, well.


BASSANIO. Ay, sir, for three months.


SHYLOCK. For three months, well.


BASSANIO. For the which, as I told you, Antonio shall be bound.


SHYLOCK. Antonio shall become bound, well.


BASSANIO. May you stead me? Will you pleasure me? Shall I know your answer?


SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats for three months, and Antonio bound.


BASSANIO. Your answer to that.


SHYLOCK. Antonio is a good man.


BASSANIO. Have you heard any imputation to the contrary?


SHYLOCK. Ho, no, no, no, no: my meaning in saying he is a good man is to have you understand me that he is sufficient. Yet his means are in supposition: he hath an argosy bound to Tripolis, another to the Indies. I understand, moreover, upon the Rialto, he hath a third at Mexico, a fourth for England, and other ventures he hath squandered abroad. But ships are but boards, sailors but men; there be land-rats and water-rats, water-thieves and land-thieves—I mean pirates—and then there is the peril of waters, winds, and rocks. The man is, notwithstanding, sufficient. Three thousand ducats. I think I may take his bond.


BASSANIO. Be assured you may.


SHYLOCK. I will be assured I may. And that I may be assured, I will bethink me. May I speak with Antonio?


BASSANIO. If it please you to dine with us.


SHYLOCK. Yes, to smell pork, to eat of the habitation which your prophet, the Nazarite, conjured the devil into. I will buy with you, sell with you, talk with you, walk with you, and so following; but I will not eat with you, drink with you, nor pray with you. What news on the Rialto? Who is he comes here?


BASSANIO. This is Signior Antonio.


SHYLOCK. [Aside.] How like a fawning publican he looks! I hate him for he is a Christian, But more for that in low simplicity He lends out money gratis, and brings down The rate of usance here with us in Venice. If I can catch him once upon the hip, I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him. He hates our sacred nation, and he rails, Even there where merchants most do congregate, On me, my bargains, and my well-won thrift, Which he calls interest. Cursed be my tribe If I forgive him!


BASSANIO. Shylock, do you hear?


SHYLOCK. I am debating of my present store, And by the near guess of my memory I cannot instantly raise up the gross Of full three thousand ducats. What of that? Tubal, a wealthy Hebrew of my tribe, Will furnish me. But soft! how many months Do you desire? [To Antonio.] Rest you fair, good signior, Your worship was the last man in our mouths.


ANTONIO. Shylock, albeit I neither lend nor borrow By taking nor by giving of excess, Yet to supply the ripe wants of my friend, I'll break a custom. [To Bassanio.] Is he yet possess'd How much ye would?


SHYLOCK. Ay, ay, three thousand ducats.


ANTONIO. And for three months.


SHYLOCK. I had forgot, three months, you told me so. Well then, your bond. And let me see, but hear you, Methought you said you neither lend nor borrow Upon advantage.


SHYLOCK. When Jacob graz'd his uncle Laban's sheep,— This Jacob from our holy Abram was As his wise mother wrought in his behalf, The third possessor; ay, he was the third.


ANTONIO. And what of him? Did he take interest?


SHYLOCK. No, not take interest, not, as you would say, Directly interest; mark what Jacob did. When Laban and himself were compromis'd That all the eanlings which were streak'd and pied Should fall as Jacob's hire, the ewes being rank In end of autumn turned to the rams, And when the work of generation was Between these woolly breeders in the act, The skilful shepherd pill'd me certain wands, And in the doing of the deed of kind, He stuck them up before the fulsome ewes, Who then conceiving did in eaning time Fall parti-colour'd lambs, and those were Jacob's. This was a way to thrive, and he was blest; And thrift is blessing if men steal it not.


ANTONIO. This was a venture, sir, that Jacob serv'd for, A thing not in his power to bring to pass, But sway'd and fashion'd by the hand of heaven. Was this inserted to make interest good? Or is your gold and silver ewes and rams?


SHYLOCK. I cannot tell; I make it breed as fast. But note me, signior.


ANTONIO. Mark you this, Bassanio, The devil can cite Scripture for his purpose. An evil soul producing holy witness Is like a villain with a smiling cheek, A goodly apple rotten at the heart. O, what a goodly outside falsehood hath!


SHYLOCK. Three thousand ducats, 'tis a good round sum. Three months from twelve, then let me see the rate.


ANTONIO. Well, Shylock, shall we be beholding to you?


SHYLOCK. Signior Antonio, many a time and oft In the Rialto you have rated me About my moneys and my usances. Still have I borne it with a patient shrug, (For suff'rance is the badge of all our tribe.) You call me misbeliever, cut-throat dog, And spet upon my Jewish gaberdine, And all for use of that which is mine own. Well then, it now appears you need my help. Go to, then, you come to me, and you say "Shylock, we would have moneys." You say so: You that did void your rheum upon my beard, And foot me as you spurn a stranger cur Over your threshold, moneys is your suit. What should I say to you? Should I not say "Hath a dog money? Is it possible A cur can lend three thousand ducats?" Or Shall I bend low and, in a bondman's key, With bated breath and whisp'ring humbleness, Say this: "Fair sir, you spet on me on Wednesday last; You spurn'd me such a day; another time You call'd me dog; and for these courtesies I'll lend you thus much moneys"?


ANTONIO. I am as like to call thee so again, To spet on thee again, to spurn thee too. If thou wilt lend this money, lend it not As to thy friends, for when did friendship take A breed for barren metal of his friend? But lend it rather to thine enemy, Who if he break, thou mayst with better face Exact the penalty.


SHYLOCK. Why, look you how you storm! I would be friends with you, and have your love, Forget the shames that you have stain'd me with, Supply your present wants, and take no doit Of usance for my moneys, and you'll not hear me, This is kind I offer.


BASSANIO. This were kindness.


SHYLOCK. This kindness will I show. Go with me to a notary, seal me there Your single bond; and in a merry sport, If you repay me not on such a day, In such a place, such sum or sums as are Express'd in the condition, let the forfeit Be nominated for an equal pound Of your fair flesh, to be cut off and taken In what part of your body pleaseth me.


ANTONIO. Content, in faith, I'll seal to such a bond, And say there is much kindness in the Jew.


BASSANIO. You shall not seal to such a bond for me, I'll rather dwell in my necessity.


ANTONIO. Why, fear not, man, I will not forfeit it, Within these two months, that's a month before This bond expires, I do expect return Of thrice three times the value of this bond.


SHYLOCK. O father Abram, what these Christians are, Whose own hard dealings teaches them suspect The thoughts of others. Pray you, tell me this, If he should break his day, what should I gain By the exaction of the forfeiture? A pound of man's flesh, taken from a man, Is not so estimable, profitable neither, As flesh of muttons, beefs, or goats. I say, To buy his favour, I extend this friendship. If he will take it, so. If not, adieu, And for my love I pray you wrong me not.


ANTONIO. Yes, Shylock, I will seal unto this bond.


SHYLOCK. Then meet me forthwith at the notary's, Give him direction for this merry bond, And I will go and purse the ducats straight, See to my house left in the fearful guard Of an unthrifty knave, and presently I'll be with you.


ANTONIO. Hie thee, gentle Jew.


[Exit Shylock.]


This Hebrew will turn Christian; he grows kind.


BASSANIO. I like not fair terms and a villain's mind.


ANTONIO. Come on; in this there can be no dismay; My ships come home a month before the day.


SCENE I. Belmont. A room in Portia's house.


Flourish of cornets. Enter the Prince of Morocco, a tawny Moor all in white, and three or four followers accordingly, with Portia, Nerissa and their train.


PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Mislike me not for my complexion, The shadowed livery of the burnish'd sun, To whom I am a neighbour, and near bred. Bring me the fairest creature northward born, Where Phœbus' fire scarce thaws the icicles, And let us make incision for your love To prove whose blood is reddest, his or mine. I tell thee, lady, this aspect of mine Hath fear'd the valiant; by my love I swear The best-regarded virgins of our clime Have lov'd it too. I would not change this hue, Except to steal your thoughts, my gentle queen.


PORTIA. In terms of choice I am not solely led By nice direction of a maiden's eyes; Besides, the lott'ry of my destiny Bars me the right of voluntary choosing. But if my father had not scanted me And hedg'd me by his wit to yield myself His wife who wins me by that means I told you, Yourself, renowned Prince, then stood as fair As any comer I have look'd on yet For my affection.


PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Even for that I thank you. Therefore I pray you lead me to the caskets To try my fortune. By this scimitar That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, That won three fields of Sultan Solyman, I would o'erstare the sternest eyes that look, Outbrave the heart most daring on the earth, Pluck the young sucking cubs from the she-bear, Yea, mock the lion when he roars for prey, To win thee, lady. But, alas the while! If Hercules and Lichas play at dice Which is the better man, the greater throw May turn by fortune from the weaker hand: So is Alcides beaten by his rage, And so may I, blind Fortune leading me, Miss that which one unworthier may attain, And die with grieving.


PORTIA. You must take your chance, And either not attempt to choose at all, Or swear before you choose, if you choose wrong Never to speak to lady afterward In way of marriage. Therefore be advis'd.


PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Nor will not. Come, bring me unto my chance.


PORTIA. First, forward to the temple. After dinner Your hazard shall be made.


PRINCE OF MOROCCO. Good fortune then, To make me blest or cursed'st among men!


SCENE II. Venice. A street.


Enter Launcelet Gobbo, the clown, alone.


LAUNCELET. Certainly my conscience will serve me to run from this Jew my master. The fiend is at mine elbow and tempts me, saying to me "Gobbo, Launcelet Gobbo, good Launcelet" or "good Gobbo," or "good Launcelet Gobbo, use your legs, take the start, run away." My conscience says "No; take heed, honest Launcelet, take heed, honest Gobbo" or, as aforesaid, "honest Launcelet Gobbo, do not run, scorn running with thy heels." Well, the most courageous fiend bids me pack. "Fia!" says the fiend, "away!" says the fiend. "For the heavens, rouse up a brave mind," says the fiend, "and run." Well, my conscience, hanging about the neck of my heart, says very wisely to me "My honest friend Launcelet, being an honest man's son"—or rather an honest woman's son, for indeed my father did something smack, something grow to, he had a kind of taste;—well, my conscience says "Launcelet, budge not." "Budge," says the fiend. "Budge not," says my conscience. "Conscience," say I, "you counsel well." "Fiend," say I, "you counsel well." To be ruled by my conscience, I should stay with the Jew my master, who, (God bless the mark) is a kind of devil; and, to run away from the Jew, I should be ruled by the fiend, who (saving your reverence) is the devil himself. Certainly the Jew is the very devil incarnation, and, in my conscience, my conscience is but a kind of hard conscience, to offer to counsel me to stay with the Jew. The fiend gives the more friendly counsel. I will run, fiend, my heels are at your commandment, I will run.


Enter Old Gobbo with a basket.


GOBBO. Master young man, you, I pray you; which is the way to Master Jew's?


LAUNCELET. [Aside.] O heavens, this is my true-begotten father, who being more than sand-blind, high-gravel blind, knows me not. I will try confusions with him.


GOBBO. Master young gentleman, I pray you, which is the way to Master Jew's?


LAUNCELET. Turn up on your right hand at the next turning, but at the next turning of all on your left; marry, at the very next turning, turn of no hand, but turn down indirectly to the Jew's house.


GOBBO. Be God's sonties, 'twill be a hard way to hit. Can you tell me whether one Launcelet, that dwells with him, dwell with him or no?


LAUNCELET. Talk you of young Master Launcelet? [Aside.] Mark me now, now will I raise the waters. Talk you of young Master Launcelet?


GOBBO. No master, sir, but a poor man's son, his father, though I say't, is an honest exceeding poor man, and, God be thanked, well to live.


LAUNCELET. Well, let his father be what he will, we talk of young Master Launcelet.


GOBBO. Your worship's friend, and Launcelet, sir.


LAUNCELET. But I pray you, ergo, old man, ergo, I beseech you, talk you of young Master Launcelet?


GOBBO. Of Launcelet, an't please your mastership.


LAUNCELET. Ergo, Master Launcelet. Talk not of Master Launcelet, father, for the young gentleman, according to Fates and Destinies, and such odd sayings, the Sisters Three and such branches of learning, is indeed deceased, or, as you would say in plain terms, gone to heaven.


GOBBO. Marry, God forbid! The boy was the very staff of my age, my very prop.


LAUNCELET. [Aside.] Do I look like a cudgel or a hovel-post, a staff or a prop? Do you know me, father?


GOBBO. Alack the day! I know you not, young gentleman, but I pray you tell me, is my boy, God rest his soul, alive or dead?


LAUNCELET. Do you not know me, father?


GOBBO. Alack, sir, I am sand-blind, I know you not.


LAUNCELET. Nay, indeed, if you had your eyes, you might fail of the knowing me: it is a wise father that knows his own child. Well, old man, I will tell you news of your son. Give me your blessing, truth will come to light, murder cannot be hid long, a man's son may, but in the end truth will out.


GOBBO. Pray you, sir, stand up, I am sure you are not Launcelet my boy.


LAUNCELET. Pray you, let's have no more fooling about it, but give me your blessing. I am Launcelet, your boy that was, your son that is, your child that shall be.


GOBBO. I cannot think you are my son.


LAUNCELET. I know not what I shall think of that; but I am Launcelet, the Jew's man, and I am sure Margery your wife is my mother.


GOBBO. Her name is Margery, indeed. I'll be sworn if thou be Launcelet, thou art mine own flesh and blood. Lord worshipped might he be, what a beard hast thou got! Thou hast got more hair on thy chin than Dobbin my fill-horse has on his tail.


LAUNCELET. It should seem, then, that Dobbin's tail grows backward. I am sure he had more hair on his tail than I have on my face when I last saw him.


GOBBO. Lord, how art thou changed! How dost thou and thy master agree? I have brought him a present. How 'gree you now?


LAUNCELET. Well, well. But for mine own part, as I have set up my rest to run away, so I will not rest till I have run some ground. My master's a very Jew. Give him a present! Give him a halter. I am famished in his service. You may tell every finger I have with my ribs. Father, I am glad you are come, give me your present to one Master Bassanio, who indeed gives rare new liveries. If I serve not him, I will run as far as God has any ground. O rare fortune, here comes the man! To him, father; for I am a Jew, if I serve the Jew any longer.


Enter Bassanio with Leonardo and a follower or two.


BASSANIO. You may do so, but let it be so hasted that supper be ready at the farthest by five of the clock. See these letters delivered, put the liveries to making, and desire Gratiano to come anon to my lodging.


LAUNCELET. To him, father.


GOBBO. God bless your worship!


BASSANIO. Gramercy, wouldst thou aught with me?


GOBBO. Here's my son, sir, a poor boy.


LAUNCELET. Not a poor boy, sir, but the rich Jew's man, that would, sir, as my father shall specify.


GOBBO. He hath a great infection, sir, as one would say, to serve.


LAUNCELET. Indeed the short and the long is, I serve the Jew, and have a desire, as my father shall specify.


GOBBO. His master and he (saving your worship's reverence) are scarce cater-cousins.


LAUNCELET. To be brief, the very truth is that the Jew, having done me wrong, doth cause me, as my father, being I hope an old man, shall frutify unto you.


GOBBO. I have here a dish of doves that I would bestow upon your worship, and my suit is—


LAUNCELET. In very brief, the suit is impertinent to myself, as your worship shall know by this honest old man, and though I say it, though old man, yet poor man, my father.


BASSANIO. One speak for both. What would you?


GOBBO. That is the very defect of the matter, sir.


BASSANIO. I know thee well; thou hast obtain'd thy suit. Shylock thy master spoke with me this day, And hath preferr'd thee, if it be preferment To leave a rich Jew's service to become The follower of so poor a gentleman.


LAUNCELET. The old proverb is very well parted between my master Shylock and you, sir: you have "the grace of God", sir, and he hath "enough".


BASSANIO. Thou speak'st it well. Go, father, with thy son. Take leave of thy old master, and inquire My lodging out. [To a Servant.] Give him a livery More guarded than his fellows'; see it done.


LAUNCELET. Father, in. I cannot get a service, no! I have ne'er a tongue in my head! [Looking on his palm.] Well, if any man in Italy have a fairer table which doth offer to swear upon a book, I shall have good fortune; go to, here's a simple line of life. Here's a small trifle of wives, alas, fifteen wives is nothing; eleven widows and nine maids is a simple coming-in for one man. And then to scape drowning thrice, and to be in peril of my life with the edge of a feather-bed; here are simple 'scapes. Well, if Fortune be a woman, she's a good wench for this gear. Father, come; I'll take my leave of the Jew in the twinkling.


[Exeunt Launcelet and Old Gobbo.]


BASSANIO. I pray thee, good Leonardo, think on this. These things being bought and orderly bestow'd, Return in haste, for I do feast tonight My best esteem'd acquaintance; hie thee, go.


GRATIANO. Where's your master?


LEONARDO. Yonder, sir, he walks.


GRATIANO. I have suit to you.


GRATIANO. You must not deny me, I must go with you to Belmont.


BASSANIO. Why, then you must. But hear thee, Gratiano, Thou art too wild, too rude, and bold of voice, Parts that become thee happily enough, And in such eyes as ours appear not faults; But where thou art not known, why there they show Something too liberal. Pray thee, take pain To allay with some cold drops of modesty Thy skipping spirit, lest through thy wild behaviour I be misconst'red in the place I go to, And lose my hopes.


GRATIANO. Signior Bassanio, hear me. If I do not put on a sober habit, Talk with respect, and swear but now and then, Wear prayer-books in my pocket, look demurely, Nay more, while grace is saying, hood mine eyes Thus with my hat, and sigh, and say "amen"; Use all the observance of civility Like one well studied in a sad ostent To please his grandam, never trust me more.


BASSANIO. Well, we shall see your bearing.


GRATIANO. Nay, but I bar tonight, you shall not gauge me By what we do tonight.


BASSANIO. No, that were pity. I would entreat you rather to put on Your boldest suit of mirth, for we have friends That purpose merriment. But fare you well, I have some business.


GRATIANO. And I must to Lorenzo and the rest, But we will visit you at supper-time.


SCENE III. The same. A room in Shylock's house.


Enter Jessica and Launcelet.


JESSICA. I am sorry thou wilt leave my father so. Our house is hell, and thou, a merry devil, Didst rob it of some taste of tediousness. But fare thee well, there is a ducat for thee, And, Launcelet, soon at supper shalt thou see Lorenzo, who is thy new master's guest. Give him this letter, do it secretly. And so farewell. I would not have my father See me in talk with thee.


LAUNCELET. Adieu! tears exhibit my tongue, most beautiful pagan, most sweet Jew! If a Christian do not play the knave and get thee, I am much deceived. But, adieu! These foolish drops do something drown my manly spirit. Adieu!


JESSICA. Farewell, good Launcelet.


Alack, what heinous sin is it in me To be ashamed to be my father's child! But though I am a daughter to his blood, I am not to his manners. O Lorenzo, If thou keep promise, I shall end this strife, Become a Christian and thy loving wife.


SCENE IV. The same. A street.


LORENZO. Nay, we will slink away in supper-time, Disguise us at my lodging, and return All in an hour.


GRATIANO. We have not made good preparation.


SALARINO. We have not spoke us yet of torch-bearers.


SOLANIO. 'Tis vile, unless it may be quaintly order'd, And better in my mind not undertook.


LORENZO. 'Tis now but four o'clock, we have two hours To furnish us.


Enter Launcelet with a letter.


Friend Launcelet, what's the news?


LAUNCELET. And it shall please you to break up this, it shall seem to signify.


LORENZO. I know the hand, in faith 'tis a fair hand, And whiter than the paper it writ on Is the fair hand that writ.


GRATIANO. Love news, in faith.


LORENZO. Whither goest thou?


LAUNCELET. Marry, sir, to bid my old master the Jew to sup tonight with my new master the Christian.


LORENZO. Hold here, take this. Tell gentle Jessica I will not fail her, speak it privately. Go, gentlemen,


Will you prepare you for this masque tonight? I am provided of a torch-bearer.


SALARINO. Ay, marry, I'll be gone about it straight.


SOLANIO. And so will I.


LORENZO. Meet me and Gratiano At Gratiano's lodging some hour hence.


GRATIANO. Was not that letter from fair Jessica?


LORENZO. I must needs tell thee all. She hath directed How I shall take her from her father's house, What gold and jewels she is furnish'd with, What page's suit she hath in readiness. If e'er the Jew her father come to heaven, It will be for his gentle daughter's sake; And never dare misfortune cross her foot, Unless she do it under this excuse, That she is issue to a faithless Jew. Come, go with me, peruse this as thou goest; Fair Jessica shall be my torch-bearer.


SCENE V. The same. Before Shylock's house.


Enter Shylock the Jew and Launcelet his man that was the clown.


SHYLOCK. Well, thou shalt see, thy eyes shall be thy judge, The difference of old Shylock and Bassanio.— What, Jessica!—Thou shalt not gormandize As thou hast done with me;—What, Jessica!— And sleep, and snore, and rend apparel out. Why, Jessica, I say!


LAUNCELET. Why, Jessica!


SHYLOCK. Who bids thee call? I do not bid thee call.


LAUNCELET. Your worship was wont to tell me I could do nothing without bidding.


JESSICA. Call you? What is your will?


SHYLOCK. I am bid forth to supper, Jessica. There are my keys. But wherefore should I go? I am not bid for love, they flatter me. But yet I'll go in hate, to feed upon The prodigal Christian. Jessica, my girl, Look to my house. I am right loath to go; There is some ill a-brewing towards my rest, For I did dream of money-bags tonight.


LAUNCELET. I beseech you, sir, go. My young master doth expect your reproach.


LAUNCELET. And they have conspired together. I will not say you shall see a masque, but if you do, then it was not for nothing that my nose fell a-bleeding on Black Monday last at six o'clock i' th' morning, falling out that year on Ash-Wednesday was four year in th' afternoon.


SHYLOCK. What, are there masques? Hear you me, Jessica, Lock up my doors, and when you hear the drum And the vile squealing of the wry-neck'd fife, Clamber not you up to the casements then, Nor thrust your head into the public street To gaze on Christian fools with varnish'd faces, But stop my house's ears, I mean my casements. Let not the sound of shallow fopp'ry enter My sober house. By Jacob's staff I swear I have no mind of feasting forth tonight. But I will go. Go you before me, sirrah. Say I will come.


LAUNCELET. I will go before, sir. Mistress, look out at window for all this. There will come a Christian by Will be worth a Jewess' eye.


SHYLOCK. What says that fool of Hagar's offspring, ha?


JESSICA. His words were "Farewell, mistress," nothing else.


SHYLOCK. The patch is kind enough, but a huge feeder, Snail-slow in profit, and he sleeps by day More than the wild-cat. Drones hive not with me, Therefore I part with him, and part with him To one that I would have him help to waste His borrowed purse. Well, Jessica, go in. Perhaps I will return immediately: Do as I bid you, shut doors after you, "Fast bind, fast find." A proverb never stale in thrifty mind.


JESSICA. Farewell, and if my fortune be not crost, I have a father, you a daughter, lost.


SCENE VI. The same.


Enter the masquers, Gratiano and Salarino.


GRATIANO. This is the penthouse under which Lorenzo Desired us to make stand.


SALARINO. His hour is almost past.


GRATIANO. And it is marvel he out-dwells his hour, For lovers ever run before the clock.


SALARINO. O ten times faster Venus' pigeons fly To seal love's bonds new-made than they are wont To keep obliged faith unforfeited!


GRATIANO. That ever holds: who riseth from a feast With that keen appetite that he sits down? Where is the horse that doth untread again His tedious measures with the unbated fire That he did pace them first? All things that are, Are with more spirit chased than enjoy'd. How like a younger or a prodigal The scarfed bark puts from her native bay, Hugg'd and embraced by the strumpet wind! How like the prodigal doth she return With over-weather'd ribs and ragged sails, Lean, rent, and beggar'd by the strumpet wind!


SALARINO. Here comes Lorenzo, more of this hereafter.


LORENZO. Sweet friends, your patience for my long abode. Not I but my affairs have made you wait. When you shall please to play the thieves for wives, I'll watch as long for you then. Approach. Here dwells my father Jew. Ho! who's within?


Enter Jessica above, in boy's clothes.


JESSICA. Who are you? Tell me, for more certainty, Albeit I'll swear that I do know your tongue.


LORENZO. Lorenzo, and thy love.


JESSICA. Lorenzo certain, and my love indeed, For who love I so much? And now who knows But you, Lorenzo, whether I am yours?


LORENZO. Heaven and thy thoughts are witness that thou art.


JESSICA. Here, catch this casket; it is worth the pains. I am glad 'tis night, you do not look on me, For I am much asham'd of my exchange. But love is blind, and lovers cannot see The pretty follies that themselves commit, For if they could, Cupid himself would blush To see me thus transformed to a boy.


LORENZO. Descend, for you must be my torch-bearer.


JESSICA. What! must I hold a candle to my shames? They in themselves, good sooth, are too too light. Why, 'tis an office of discovery, love, And I should be obscur'd.


LORENZO. So are you, sweet, Even in the lovely garnish of a boy. But come at once, For the close night doth play the runaway, And we are stay'd for at Bassanio's feast.


JESSICA. I will make fast the doors, and gild myself With some moe ducats, and be with you straight.


[Exit above.]


GRATIANO. Now, by my hood, a gentle, and no Jew.


LORENZO. Beshrew me but I love her heartily, For she is wise, if I can judge of her, And fair she is, if that mine eyes be true, And true she is, as she hath prov'd herself. And therefore, like herself, wise, fair, and true, Shall she be placed in my constant soul.


What, art thou come? On, gentlemen, away! Our masquing mates by this time for us stay.


[Exit with Jessica and Salarino.]


ANTONIO. Who's there?


ANTONIO. Fie, fie, Gratiano! where are all the rest? 'Tis nine o'clock, our friends all stay for you. No masque tonight, the wind is come about; Bassanio presently will go aboard. I have sent twenty out to seek for you.