Quotes by William Shakespeare

It is not very strange; for my uncle is King of Denmark, and those that would make mouths at him while my father lived, give twenty, forty, fifty, a hundred ducats apiece for his picture in little. ’Sblood, there is something in this more than natural, if philosophy could find it out. [_Flourish of trumpets within._] GUILDENSTERN. There are the players. HAMLET. Gentlemen, you are welcome to Elsinore. Your hands, come. The appurtenance of welcome is fashion and ceremony. Let me comply with you in this garb, lest my extent to the players, which I tell you must show fairly outward, should more appear like entertainment than yours. You are welcome. But my uncle-father and aunt-mother are deceived. GUILDENSTERN. In what, my dear lord? HAMLET. I am but mad north-north-west. When the wind is southerly, I know a hawk from a handsaw. Enter Polonius. POLONIUS. Well be with you, gentlemen. HAMLET. Hark you, Guildenstern, and you too, at each ear a hearer. That great baby you see there is not yet out of his swaddling clouts. ROSENCRANTZ. Happily he’s the second time come to them; for they say an old man is twice a child. HAMLET. I will prophesy he comes to tell me of the players. Mark it.—You say right, sir: for a Monday morning ’twas so indeed. POLONIUS. My lord, I have news to tell you. HAMLET. My lord, I have news to tell you. When Roscius was an actor in Rome— POLONIUS. The actors are come hither, my lord. HAMLET. Buzz, buzz. POLONIUS. Upon my honour. HAMLET. Then came each actor on his ass— POLONIUS. The best actors in the world, either for tragedy, comedy, history, pastoral, pastoral-comical, historical-pastoral, tragical-historical, tragical-comical-historical-pastoral, scene individable, or poem unlimited. Seneca cannot be too heavy, nor Plautus too light, for the law of writ and the liberty. These are the only men. HAMLET. O Jephthah, judge of Israel, what a treasure hadst thou! POLONIUS. What treasure had he, my lord? HAMLET. Why— ’One fair daughter, and no more, The which he loved passing well.’ POLONIUS. [_Aside._] Still on my daughter.

Goodman Verges, sir, speaks a little off the matter: an old man, sir, and his wits are not so blunt as, God help, I would desire they were; but, in faith, honest as the skin between his brows. VERGES. Yes, I thank God, I am as honest as any man living, that is an old man and no honester than I. DOGBERRY. Comparisons are odorous: palabras, neighbour Verges. LEONATO. Neighbours, you are tedious. DOGBERRY. It pleases your worship to say so, but we are the poor Duke’s officers; but truly, for mine own part, if I were as tedious as a king, I could find in my heart to bestow it all of your worship. LEONATO. All thy tediousness on me! ah? DOGBERRY. Yea, and ’twere a thousand pound more than ’tis; for I hear as good exclamation on your worship, as of any man in the city, and though I be but a poor man, I am glad to hear it. VERGES. And so am I. LEONATO. I would fain know what you have to say. VERGES. Marry, sir, our watch tonight, excepting your worship’s presence, ha’ ta’en a couple of as arrant knaves as any in Messina. DOGBERRY. A good old man, sir; he will be talking; as they say, ‘when the age is in, the wit is out.’ God help us! it is a world to see! Well said, i’ faith, neighbour Verges: well, God’s a good man; and two men ride of a horse, one must ride behind. An honest soul, i’ faith, sir; by my troth he is, as ever broke bread; but God is to be worshipped: all men are not alike; alas! good neighbour. LEONATO. Indeed, neighbour, he comes too short of you. DOGBERRY. Gifts that God gives. LEONATO. I must leave you. DOGBERRY. One word, sir: our watch, sir, have indeed comprehended two aspicious persons, and we would have them this morning examined before your worship. LEONATO. Take their examination yourself, and bring it me: I am now in great haste, as may appear unto you. DOGBERRY. It shall be suffigance. LEONATO. Drink some wine ere you go: fare you well. Enter a Messenger. MESSENGER. My lord, they stay for you to give your daughter to her husband. LEONATO. I’ll wait upon them: I am ready. [Exeunt Leonato and Messenger.] DOGBERRY. Go, good partner, go get you to Francis Seacoal; bid him bring his pen and inkhorn to the gaol: we are now to examination these men.

DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM LORD HASTINGS, the Lord Chamberlain LORD STANLEY, the Earl of Derby EARL RIVERS, brother to Queen Elizabeth LORD GREY, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage MARQUESS OF DORSET, son of Queen Elizabeth by her former marriage SIR THOMAS VAUGHAN SIR WILLIAM CATESBY SIR RICHARD RATCLIFFE LORD LOVELL DUKE OF NORFOLK EARL OF SURREY HENRY, EARL OF RICHMOND, afterwards KING HENRY VII. EARL OF OXFORD SIR JAMES BLUNT SIR WALTER HERBERT SIR WILLIAM BRANDON CHRISTOPHER URSWICK, a priest THOMAS ROTHERHAM, ARCHBISHOP OF YORK CARDINAL BOURCHIER, ARCHBISHOP OF CANTERBURY John Morton, BISHOP OF ELY SIR ROBERT BRAKENBURY, Lieutenant of the Tower SIR JAMES TYRREL Another Priest LORD MAYOR OF LONDON SHERIFF OF WILTSHIRE Lords, and other Attendants; two Gentlemen, a Pursuivant, Scrivener, Citizens, Murderers, Messengers, Ghosts, Soldiers, &c. SCENE: England ACT I SCENE I. London. A street Enter Richard, Duke of Gloucester, alone. RICHARD. Now is the winter of our discontent Made glorious summer by this son of York; And all the clouds that loured upon our house In the deep bosom of the ocean buried. Now are our brows bound with victorious wreaths, Our bruised arms hung up for monuments, Our stern alarums changed to merry meetings, Our dreadful marches to delightful measures. Grim-visaged war hath smoothed his wrinkled front; And now, instead of mounting barbed steeds To fright the souls of fearful adversaries, He capers nimbly in a lady’s chamber To the lascivious pleasing of a lute. But I, that am not shaped for sportive tricks, Nor made to court an amorous looking-glass; I, that am rudely stamped, and want love’s majesty To strut before a wanton ambling nymph; I, that am curtailed of this fair proportion, Cheated of feature by dissembling nature, Deformed, unfinished, sent before my time Into this breathing world scarce half made up, And that so lamely and unfashionable That dogs bark at me as I halt by them— Why, I, in this weak piping time of peace, Have no delight to pass away the time, Unless to spy my shadow in the sun, And descant on mine own deformity.

Thy ignominy sleep with thee in the grave, But not remember’d in thy epitaph! [_Sees Falstaff on the ground._] What, old acquaintance, could not all this flesh Keep in a little life? Poor Jack, farewell! I could have better spared a better man. O, I should have a heavy miss of thee If I were much in love with vanity. Death hath not struck so fat a deer today, Though many dearer, in this bloody fray. Embowell’d will I see thee by and by, Till then in blood by noble Percy lie. [_Exit._] Falstaff rises up. FALSTAFF. Embowell’d! If thou embowel me today, I’ll give you leave to powder me and eat me too tomorrow. ’Sblood, ’twas time to counterfeit, or that hot termagant Scot had paid me scot and lot too. Counterfeit? I lie, I am no counterfeit. To die, is to be a counterfeit, for he is but the counterfeit of a man who hath not the life of a man: but to counterfeit dying, when a man thereby liveth, is to be no counterfeit, but the true and perfect image of life indeed. The better part of valour is discretion, in the which better part I have saved my life. Zounds, I am afraid of this gunpowder Percy, though he be dead. How if he should counterfeit too, and rise? By my faith, I am afraid he would prove the better counterfeit. Therefore I’ll make him sure, yea, and I’ll swear I killed him. Why may not he rise as well as I? Nothing confutes me but eyes, and nobody sees me. Therefore, sirrah, with a new wound in your thigh, come you along with me. [_Takes Hotspur on his back._] Enter Prince Henry and Lancaster. PRINCE. Come, brother John, full bravely hast thou flesh’d Thy maiden sword. LANCASTER. But soft, whom have we here? Did you not tell me this fat man was dead? PRINCE. I did; I saw him dead, Breathless and bleeding on the ground.—Art thou alive? Or is it fantasy that plays upon our eyesight? I prithee, speak, we will not trust our eyes Without our ears. Thou art not what thou seem’st. FALSTAFF. No, that’s certain, I am not a double man. But if I be not Jack Falstaff, then am I a Jack. There is Percy!

Scene III. A street. Scene IV. Olivia’s garden. ACT IV Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Scene II. A Room in Olivia’s House. Scene III. Olivia’s Garden. ACT V Scene I. The Street before Olivia’s House. Dramatis Personæ ORSINO, Duke of Illyria. VALENTINE, Gentleman attending on the Duke CURIO, Gentleman attending on the Duke VIOLA, in love with the Duke. SEBASTIAN, a young Gentleman, twin brother to Viola. A SEA CAPTAIN, friend to Viola ANTONIO, a Sea Captain, friend to Sebastian. OLIVIA, a rich Countess. MARIA, Olivia’s Woman. SIR TOBY BELCH, Uncle of Olivia. SIR ANDREW AGUECHEEK. MALVOLIO, Steward to Olivia. FABIAN, Servant to Olivia. CLOWN, Servant to Olivia. PRIEST Lords, Sailors, Officers, Musicians, and other Attendants. SCENE: A City in Illyria; and the Sea-coast near it. ACT I. SCENE I. An Apartment in the Duke’s Palace. Enter Orsino, Duke of Illyria, Curio, and other Lords; Musicians attending. DUKE. If music be the food of love, play on, Give me excess of it; that, surfeiting, The appetite may sicken and so die. That strain again, it had a dying fall; O, it came o’er my ear like the sweet sound That breathes upon a bank of violets, Stealing and giving odour. Enough; no more; ’Tis not so sweet now as it was before. O spirit of love, how quick and fresh art thou, That notwithstanding thy capacity Receiveth as the sea, nought enters there, Of what validity and pitch soever, But falls into abatement and low price Even in a minute! So full of shapes is fancy, That it alone is high fantastical. CURIO. Will you go hunt, my lord? DUKE. What, Curio? CURIO. The hart. DUKE. Why so I do, the noblest that I have. O, when mine eyes did see Olivia first, Methought she purg’d the air of pestilence; That instant was I turn’d into a hart, And my desires, like fell and cruel hounds, E’er since pursue me. How now? what news from her? Enter Valentine. VALENTINE. So please my lord, I might not be admitted, But from her handmaid do return this answer: The element itself, till seven years’ heat, Shall not behold her face at ample view; But like a cloistress she will veiled walk, And water once a day her chamber round With eye-offending brine: all this to season A brother’s dead love, which she would keep fresh And lasting in her sad remembrance.

’Tis not ten years gone Since Richard and Northumberland, great friends, Did feast together, and in two years after Were they at wars. It is but eight years since This Percy was the man nearest my soul, Who like a brother toil’d in my affairs And laid his love and life under my foot, Yea, for my sake, even to the eyes of Richard Gave him defiance. But which of you was by— [_To Warwick_.] You, cousin Nevil, as I may remember— When Richard, with his eye brimful of tears, Then check’d and rated by Northumberland, Did speak these words, now proved a prophecy? “Northumberland, thou ladder by the which My cousin Bolingbroke ascends my throne” Though then, God knows, I had no such intent, But that necessity so bow’d the state That I and greatness were compell’d to kiss— “The time shall come,” thus did he follow it, “The time will come, that foul sin, gathering head, Shall break into corruption”—so went on, Foretelling this same time’s condition And the division of our amity. WARWICK. There is a history in all men’s lives Figuring the natures of the times deceased; The which observed, a man may prophesy, With a near aim, of the main chance of things As yet not come to life, who in their seeds And weak beginning lie intreasured. Such things become the hatch and brood of time; And by the necessary form of this King Richard might create a perfect guess That great Northumberland, then false to him, Would of that seed grow to a greater falseness, Which should not find a ground to root upon, Unless on you. KING. Are these things then necessities? Then let us meet them like necessities; And that same word even now cries out on us. They say the bishop and Northumberland Are fifty thousand strong. WARWICK. It cannot be, my lord. Rumour doth double, like the voice and echo, The numbers of the feared. Please it your Grace To go to bed. Upon my soul, my lord, The powers that you already have sent forth Shall bring this prize in very easily. To comfort you the more, I have received A certain instance that Glendower is dead.

Upon our first, he sent out to suppress His nephew’s levies, which to him appear’d To be a preparation ’gainst the Polack; But better look’d into, he truly found It was against your Highness; whereat griev’d, That so his sickness, age, and impotence Was falsely borne in hand, sends out arrests On Fortinbras; which he, in brief, obeys, Receives rebuke from Norway; and in fine, Makes vow before his uncle never more To give th’assay of arms against your Majesty. Whereon old Norway, overcome with joy, Gives him three thousand crowns in annual fee, And his commission to employ those soldiers So levied as before, against the Polack: With an entreaty, herein further shown, [_Gives a paper._] That it might please you to give quiet pass Through your dominions for this enterprise, On such regards of safety and allowance As therein are set down. KING. It likes us well; And at our more consider’d time we’ll read, Answer, and think upon this business. Meantime we thank you for your well-took labour. Go to your rest, at night we’ll feast together:. Most welcome home. [_Exeunt Voltemand and Cornelius._] POLONIUS. This business is well ended. My liege and madam, to expostulate What majesty should be, what duty is, Why day is day, night night, and time is time Were nothing but to waste night, day and time. Therefore, since brevity is the soul of wit, And tediousness the limbs and outward flourishes, I will be brief. Your noble son is mad. Mad call I it; for to define true madness, What is’t but to be nothing else but mad? But let that go. QUEEN. More matter, with less art. POLONIUS. Madam, I swear I use no art at all. That he is mad, ’tis true: ’tis true ’tis pity; And pity ’tis ’tis true. A foolish figure, But farewell it, for I will use no art. Mad let us grant him then. And now remains That we find out the cause of this effect, Or rather say, the cause of this defect, For this effect defective comes by cause. Thus it remains, and the remainder thus. Perpend, I have a daughter—have whilst she is mine— Who in her duty and obedience, mark, Hath given me this. Now gather, and surmise. [_Reads._] _To the celestial, and my soul’s idol, the most beautified Ophelia_— That’s an ill phrase, a vile phrase; ‘beautified’ is a vile phrase: but you shall hear. [_Reads._] _these; in her excellent white bosom, these, &c.

[_To Warwick_] Yet I confess that often ere this day, When I have heard your king’s desert recounted, Mine ear hath tempted judgment to desire. KING LEWIS. Then, Warwick, thus: our sister shall be Edward’s. And now forthwith shall articles be drawn Touching the jointure that your king must make, Which with her dowry shall be counterpoised. Draw near, Queen Margaret, and be a witness That Bona shall be wife to the English king. PRINCE EDWARD. To Edward, but not to the English king. QUEEN MARGARET. Deceitful Warwick, it was thy device By this alliance to make void my suit. Before thy coming Lewis was Henry’s friend. KING LEWIS. And still is friend to him and Margaret. But if your title to the crown be weak, As may appear by Edward’s good success, Then ’tis but reason that I be released From giving aid which late I promised. Yet shall you have all kindness at my hand That your estate requires and mine can yield. WARWICK. Henry now lives in Scotland, at his ease, Where, having nothing, nothing can he lose. And as for you yourself, our quondam queen, You have a father able to maintain you, And better ’twere you troubled him than France. QUEEN MARGARET. Peace, impudent and shameless Warwick, Proud setter up and puller down of kings! I will not hence till with my talk and tears, Both full of truth, I make King Lewis behold Thy sly conveyance and thy lord’s false love; For both of you are birds of selfsame feather. [_Post blowing a horn within._] KING LEWIS. Warwick, this is some post to us or thee. Enter the Post. POST. My lord ambassador, these letters are for you. Sent from your brother, Marquess Montague. These from our king unto your Majesty. And, madam, these for you, from whom I know not. [_They all read their letters._] OXFORD. I like it well that our fair Queen and mistress Smiles at her news while Warwick frowns at his. PRINCE EDWARD. Nay, mark how Lewis stamps as he were nettled. I hope all’s for the best. KING LEWIS. Warwick, what are thy news?

In the secret parts of Fortune? O, most true; she is a strumpet. What’s the news? ROSENCRANTZ. None, my lord, but that the world’s grown honest. HAMLET. Then is doomsday near. But your news is not true. Let me question more in particular. What have you, my good friends, deserved at the hands of Fortune, that she sends you to prison hither? GUILDENSTERN. Prison, my lord? HAMLET. Denmark’s a prison. ROSENCRANTZ. Then is the world one. HAMLET. A goodly one; in which there are many confines, wards, and dungeons, Denmark being one o’ th’ worst. ROSENCRANTZ. We think not so, my lord. HAMLET. Why, then ’tis none to you; for there is nothing either good or bad but thinking makes it so. To me it is a prison. ROSENCRANTZ. Why, then your ambition makes it one; ’tis too narrow for your mind. HAMLET. O God, I could be bounded in a nutshell, and count myself a king of infinite space, were it not that I have bad dreams. GUILDENSTERN. Which dreams, indeed, are ambition; for the very substance of the ambitious is merely the shadow of a dream. HAMLET. A dream itself is but a shadow. ROSENCRANTZ. Truly, and I hold ambition of so airy and light a quality that it is but a shadow’s shadow. HAMLET. Then are our beggars bodies, and our monarchs and outstretch’d heroes the beggars’ shadows. Shall we to th’ court? For, by my fay, I cannot reason. ROSENCRANTZ and GUILDENSTERN. We’ll wait upon you. HAMLET. No such matter. I will not sort you with the rest of my servants; for, to speak to you like an honest man, I am most dreadfully attended. But, in the beaten way of friendship, what make you at Elsinore? ROSENCRANTZ. To visit you, my lord, no other occasion. HAMLET. Beggar that I am, I am even poor in thanks; but I thank you. And sure, dear friends, my thanks are too dear a halfpenny. Were you not sent for? Is it your own inclining? Is it a free visitation? Come, deal justly with me. Come, come; nay, speak. GUILDENSTERN. What should we say, my lord? HAMLET. Why, anything. But to the purpose.

BUCKINGHAM. This butcher’s cur is venom-mouthed, and I Have not the power to muzzle him; therefore best Not wake him in his slumber. A beggar’s book Outworths a noble’s blood. NORFOLK. What, are you chafed? Ask God for temp’rance. That’s the appliance only Which your disease requires. BUCKINGHAM. I read in ’s looks Matter against me, and his eye reviled Me as his abject object. At this instant He bores me with some trick. He’s gone to th’ King. I’ll follow, and outstare him. NORFOLK. Stay, my lord, And let your reason with your choler question What ’tis you go about. To climb steep hills Requires slow pace at first. Anger is like A full hot horse, who being allowed his way, Self-mettle tires him. Not a man in England Can advise me like you; be to yourself As you would to your friend. BUCKINGHAM. I’ll to the King, And from a mouth of honour quite cry down This Ipswich fellow’s insolence, or proclaim There’s difference in no persons. NORFOLK. Be advised. Heat not a furnace for your foe so hot That it do singe yourself. We may outrun By violent swiftness that which we run at, And lose by over-running. Know you not, The fire that mounts the liquor till ’t run o’er, In seeming to augment it wastes it? Be advised. I say again, there is no English soul More stronger to direct you than yourself, If with the sap of reason you would quench, Or but allay the fire of passion. BUCKINGHAM. Sir, I am thankful to you, and I’ll go along By your prescription; but this top-proud fellow— Whom from the flow of gall I name not, but From sincere motions—by intelligence, And proofs as clear as founts in July when We see each grain of gravel, I do know To be corrupt and treasonous. NORFOLK. Say not “treasonous.” BUCKINGHAM. To th’ King I’ll say’t, and make my vouch as strong As shore of rock. Attend. This holy fox, Or wolf, or both—for he is equal ravenous As he is subtle, and as prone to mischief As able to perform’t, his mind and place Infecting one another, yea, reciprocally— Only to show his pomp as well in France As here at home, suggests the King our master To this last costly treaty, th’ interview, That swallowed so much treasure, and like a glass Did break i’ th’ rinsing.

words, but, to effect, more than all yet: That, when we have found the King, in which your pain That way, I’ll this; he that first lights on him Holla the other. [_Exeunt._] SCENE II. Another part of the heath Storm continues. Enter Lear and Fool. LEAR. Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout Till you have drench’d our steeples, drown’d the cocks! You sulphurous and thought-executing fires, Vaunt-couriers to oak-cleaving thunderbolts, Singe my white head! And thou, all-shaking thunder, Strike flat the thick rotundity o’ the world! Crack nature’s moulds, all germens spill at once, That make ingrateful man! FOOL. O nuncle, court holy-water in a dry house is better than this rain-water out o’ door. Good nuncle, in; and ask thy daughters blessing: here’s a night pities neither wise men nor fools. LEAR. Rumble thy bellyful! Spit, fire! spout, rain! Nor rain, wind, thunder, fire are my daughters; I tax not you, you elements, with unkindness. I never gave you kingdom, call’d you children; You owe me no subscription: then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Here I stand your slave, A poor, infirm, weak, and despis’d old man: But yet I call you servile ministers, That will with two pernicious daughters join Your high-engender’d battles ’gainst a head So old and white as this! O! O! ’tis foul! FOOL. He that has a house to put’s head in has a good head-piece. The codpiece that will house Before the head has any, The head and he shall louse: So beggars marry many. The man that makes his toe What he his heart should make Shall of a corn cry woe, And turn his sleep to wake. For there was never yet fair woman but she made mouths in a glass. LEAR. No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing. Enter Kent. KENT. Who’s there? FOOL. Marry, here’s grace and a codpiece; that’s a wise man and a fool. KENT. Alas, sir, are you here? Things that love night Love not such nights as these; the wrathful skies Gallow the very wanderers of the dark, And make them keep their caves.

LAFEW. Your commendations, madam, get from her tears. COUNTESS. ’Tis the best brine a maiden can season her praise in. The remembrance of her father never approaches her heart but the tyranny of her sorrows takes all livelihood from her cheek. No more of this, Helena; go to, no more, lest it be rather thought you affect a sorrow than to have. HELENA. I do affect a sorrow indeed, but I have it too. LAFEW. Moderate lamentation is the right of the dead; excessive grief the enemy to the living. COUNTESS. If the living be enemy to the grief, the excess makes it soon mortal. BERTRAM. Madam, I desire your holy wishes. LAFEW. How understand we that? COUNTESS. Be thou blest, Bertram, and succeed thy father In manners, as in shape! Thy blood and virtue Contend for empire in thee, and thy goodness Share with thy birthright! Love all, trust a few, Do wrong to none. Be able for thine enemy Rather in power than use; and keep thy friend Under thy own life’s key. Be check’d for silence, But never tax’d for speech. What heaven more will, That thee may furnish and my prayers pluck down, Fall on thy head! Farewell. My lord, ’Tis an unseason’d courtier; good my lord, Advise him. LAFEW. He cannot want the best That shall attend his love. COUNTESS. Heaven bless him! Farewell, Bertram. [_Exit Countess._] BERTRAM. The best wishes that can be forg’d in your thoughts be servants to you! [_To Helena._] Be comfortable to my mother, your mistress, and make much of her. LAFEW. Farewell, pretty lady, you must hold the credit of your father. [_Exeunt Bertram and Lafew._] HELENA. O, were that all! I think not on my father, And these great tears grace his remembrance more Than those I shed for him. What was he like? I have forgot him; my imagination Carries no favour in’t but Bertram’s. I am undone: there is no living, none, If Bertram be away. ’Twere all one That I should love a bright particular star, And think to wed it, he is so above me. In his bright radiance and collateral light Must I be comforted, not in his sphere.

Forgive me this my virtue; For in the fatness of these pursy times Virtue itself of vice must pardon beg, Yea, curb and woo for leave to do him good. QUEEN. O Hamlet, thou hast cleft my heart in twain. HAMLET. O throw away the worser part of it, And live the purer with the other half. Good night. But go not to mine uncle’s bed. Assume a virtue, if you have it not. That monster custom, who all sense doth eat, Of habits evil, is angel yet in this, That to the use of actions fair and good He likewise gives a frock or livery That aptly is put on. Refrain tonight, And that shall lend a kind of easiness To the next abstinence. The next more easy; For use almost can change the stamp of nature, And either curb the devil, or throw him out With wondrous potency. Once more, good night, And when you are desirous to be bles’d, I’ll blessing beg of you. For this same lord [_Pointing to Polonius._] I do repent; but heaven hath pleas’d it so, To punish me with this, and this with me, That I must be their scourge and minister. I will bestow him, and will answer well The death I gave him. So again, good night. I must be cruel, only to be kind: Thus bad begins, and worse remains behind. One word more, good lady. QUEEN. What shall I do? HAMLET. Not this, by no means, that I bid you do: Let the bloat King tempt you again to bed, Pinch wanton on your cheek, call you his mouse, And let him, for a pair of reechy kisses, Or paddling in your neck with his damn’d fingers, Make you to ravel all this matter out, That I essentially am not in madness, But mad in craft. ’Twere good you let him know, For who that’s but a queen, fair, sober, wise, Would from a paddock, from a bat, a gib, Such dear concernings hide? Who would do so? No, in despite of sense and secrecy, Unpeg the basket on the house’s top, Let the birds fly, and like the famous ape, To try conclusions, in the basket creep And break your own neck down. QUEEN. Be thou assur’d, if words be made of breath, And breath of life, I have no life to breathe What thou hast said to me. HAMLET. I must to England, you know that? QUEEN. Alack, I had forgot.

By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother. If the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived. [_Exit Isabella._] 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. [_Exeunt._] SCENE IV. A room in Angelo’s house. Enter Angelo and Escalus. 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? ESCALUS. I guess not. 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. [_Exit._] ANGELO. Good night. This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant And dull to all proceedings.

Bee't so: And let vs (Polidore) though now our voyces Haue got the mannish cracke, sing him to'th' ground As once to our Mother: vse like note, and words, Saue that Euriphile, must be Fidele Gui. Cadwall, I cannot sing: Ile weepe, and word it with thee; For Notes of sorrow, out of tune, are worse Then Priests, and Phanes that lye Arui. Wee'l speake it then Bel. Great greefes I see med'cine the lesse: For Cloten Is quite forgot. He was a Queenes Sonne, Boyes, And though he came our Enemy, remember He was paid for that: though meane, and mighty rotting Together haue one dust, yet Reuerence (That Angell of the world) doth make distinction Of place 'tweene high, and low. Our Foe was Princely, And though you tooke his life, as being our Foe, Yet bury him, as a Prince Gui. Pray you fetch him hither, Thersites body is as good as Aiax, When neyther are aliue Arui. If you'l go fetch him, Wee'l say our Song the whil'st: Brother begin Gui. Nay Cadwall, we must lay his head to th' East, My Father hath a reason for't Arui. 'Tis true Gui. Come on then, and remoue him Arui. So, begin. SONG. Guid. Feare no more the heate o'th' Sun, Nor the furious Winters rages, Thou thy worldly task hast don, Home art gon, and tane thy wages. Golden Lads, and Girles all must, As Chimney-Sweepers come to dust Arui. Feare no more the frowne o'th' Great, Thou art past the Tirants stroake, Care no more to cloath and eate, To thee the Reede is as the Oake: The Scepter, Learning, Physicke must, All follow this and come to dust Guid. Feare no more the Lightning flash Arui. Nor th' all-dreaded Thunderstone Gui. Feare not Slander, Censure rash Arui. Thou hast finish'd Ioy and mone Both. All Louers young, all Louers must, Consigne to thee and come to dust Guid. No Exorcisor harme thee, Arui. Nor no witch-craft charme thee Guid. Ghost vnlaid forbeare thee Arui. Nothing ill come neere thee Both. Quiet consumation haue, And renowned be thy graue. Enter Belarius with the body of Cloten. Gui. We haue done our obsequies: Come lay him downe Bel. Heere's a few Flowres, but 'bout midnight more: The hearbes that haue on them cold dew o'th' night Are strewings fit'st for Graues: vpon their Faces.

curses kill, as doth the mandrake’s groan, I would invent as bitter searching terms, As curst, as harsh and horrible to hear, Delivered strongly through my fixed teeth, With full as many signs of deadly hate, As lean-faced Envy in her loathsome cave. My tongue should stumble in mine earnest words; Mine eyes should sparkle like the beaten flint; Mine hair be fixed on end, as one distract; Ay, every joint should seem to curse and ban; And even now my burdened heart would break Should I not curse them. Poison be their drink! Gall, worse than gall, the daintiest that they taste! Their sweetest shade a grove of cypress-trees! Their chiefest prospect murdering basilisks; Their softest touch as smart as lizards’ stings! Their music frightful as the serpent’s hiss, And boding screech-owls make the consort full! All the foul terrors in dark-seated hell— QUEEN MARGARET. Enough, sweet Suffolk; thou torment’st thyself, And these dread curses, like the sun ’gainst glass, Or like an overcharged gun, recoil And turns the force of them upon thyself. SUFFOLK. You bade me ban, and will you bid me leave? Now, by the ground that I am banished from, Well could I curse away a winter’s night, Though standing naked on a mountain top Where biting cold would never let grass grow, And think it but a minute spent in sport. QUEEN MARGARET. O, let me entreat thee cease. Give me thy hand, That I may dew it with my mournful tears; Nor let the rain of heaven wet this place To wash away my woeful monuments. O, could this kiss be printed in thy hand, That thou mightst think upon these by the seal, Through whom a thousand sighs are breathed for thee! So, get thee gone, that I may know my grief; ’Tis but surmised whiles thou art standing by, As one that surfeits thinking on a want. I will repeal thee, or, be well assured, Adventure to be banished myself; And banished I am, if but from thee. Go; speak not to me, even now be gone! O, go not yet! Even thus two friends condemned Embrace and kiss and take ten thousand leaves, Loather a hundred times to part than die. Yet now farewell, and farewell life with thee. SUFFOLK. Thus is poor Suffolk ten times banished, Once by the King, and three times thrice by thee. ’Tis not the land I care for, wert thou thence. A wilderness is populous enough, So Suffolk had thy heavenly company; For where thou art, there is the world itself, With every several pleasure in the world; And where thou art not, desolation.

Then, a Soldier, Full of strange oaths, and bearded like the Pard, Ielous in honor, sodaine, and quicke in quarrell, Seeking the bubble Reputation Euen in the Canons mouth: And then, the Iustice In faire round belly, with good Capon lin'd, With eyes seuere, and beard of formall cut, Full of wise sawes, and moderne instances, And so he playes his part. The sixt age shifts Into the leane and slipper'd Pantaloone, With spectacles on nose, and pouch on side, His youthfull hose well sau'd, a world too wide, For his shrunke shanke, and his bigge manly voice, Turning againe toward childish trebble pipes, And whistles in his sound. Last Scene of all, That ends this strange euentfull historie, Is second childishnesse, and meere obliuion, Sans teeth, sans eyes, sans taste, sans euery thing. Enter Orlando with Adam. Du.Sen. Welcome: set downe your venerable burthen, and let him feede Orl. I thanke you most for him Ad. So had you neede, I scarce can speake to thanke you for my selfe Du.Sen. Welcome, fall too: I wil not trouble you, As yet to question you about your fortunes: Giue vs some Musicke, and good Cozen, sing. Song. Blow, blow, thou winter winde, Thou art not so vnkinde, as mans ingratitude Thy tooth is not so keene, because thou art not seene, although thy breath be rude. Heigh ho, sing heigh ho, vnto the greene holly, Most frendship, is fayning; most Louing, meere folly: The heigh ho, the holly, This Life is most iolly. Freize, freize, thou bitter skie that dost not bight so nigh as benefitts forgot: Though thou the waters warpe, thy sting is not so sharpe, as freind remembred not. Heigh ho, sing, &c Duke Sen. If that you were the good Sir Rowlands son, As you haue whisper'd faithfully you were, And as mine eye doth his effigies witnesse, Most truly limn'd, and liuing in your face, Be truly welcome hither: I am the Duke That lou'd your Father, the residue of your fortune, Go to my Caue, and tell mee. Good old man, Thou art right welcome, as thy masters is: Support him by the arme: giue me your hand, And let me all your fortunes vnderstand. Exeunt. Actus Tertius. Scena Prima. Enter Duke, Lords, & Oliuer. Du. Not see him since? Sir, sir, that cannot be: But were I not the better part made mercie, I should not seeke an absent argument Of my reuenge, thou present: but looke to it, Finde out thy brother wheresoere he is, Seeke him with Candle: bring him dead, or liuing Within this tweluemonth, or turne thou no more To seeke a liuing in our Territorie.

Well, God give them wisdom that have it; and those that are fools, let them use their talents. MARIA. Yet you will be hanged for being so long absent; or to be turned away; is not that as good as a hanging to you? CLOWN. Many a good hanging prevents a bad marriage; and for turning away, let summer bear it out. MARIA. You are resolute then? CLOWN. Not so, neither, but I am resolved on two points. MARIA. That if one break, the other will hold; or if both break, your gaskins fall. CLOWN. Apt, in good faith, very apt! Well, go thy way; if Sir Toby would leave drinking, thou wert as witty a piece of Eve’s flesh as any in Illyria. MARIA. Peace, you rogue, no more o’ that. Here comes my lady: make your excuse wisely, you were best. [_Exit._] Enter Olivia with Malvolio. CLOWN. Wit, and’t be thy will, put me into good fooling! Those wits that think they have thee, do very oft prove fools; and I that am sure I lack thee, may pass for a wise man. For what says Quinapalus? Better a witty fool than a foolish wit. God bless thee, lady! OLIVIA. Take the fool away. CLOWN. Do you not hear, fellows? Take away the lady. OLIVIA. Go to, y’are a dry fool; I’ll no more of you. Besides, you grow dishonest. CLOWN. Two faults, madonna, that drink and good counsel will amend: for give the dry fool drink, then is the fool not dry; bid the dishonest man mend himself, if he mend, he is no longer dishonest; if he cannot, let the botcher mend him. Anything that’s mended is but patched; virtue that transgresses is but patched with sin, and sin that amends is but patched with virtue. If that this simple syllogism will serve, so; if it will not, what remedy? As there is no true cuckold but calamity, so beauty’s a flower. The lady bade take away the fool, therefore, I say again, take her away. OLIVIA. Sir, I bade them take away you. CLOWN. Misprision in the highest degree! Lady, _cucullus non facit monachum:_ that’s as much to say, I wear not motley in my brain. Good madonna, give me leave to prove you a fool.

DON PEDRO. You have put him down, lady, you have put him down. BEATRICE. So I would not he should do me, my lord, lest I should prove the mother of fools. I have brought Count Claudio, whom you sent me to seek. DON PEDRO. Why, how now, Count! wherefore are you sad? CLAUDIO. Not sad, my lord. DON PEDRO. How then? Sick? CLAUDIO. Neither, my lord. BEATRICE. The Count is neither sad, nor sick, nor merry, nor well; but civil Count, civil as an orange, and something of that jealous complexion. DON PEDRO. I’ faith, lady, I think your blazon to be true; though, I’ll be sworn, if he be so, his conceit is false. Here, Claudio, I have wooed in thy name, and fair Hero is won; I have broke with her father, and, his good will obtained; name the day of marriage, and God give thee joy! LEONATO. Count, take of me my daughter, and with her my fortunes: his Grace hath made the match, and all grace say Amen to it! BEATRICE. Speak, Count, ’tis your cue. CLAUDIO. Silence is the perfectest herald of joy: I were but little happy, if I could say how much. Lady, as you are mine, I am yours: I give away myself for you and dote upon the exchange. BEATRICE. Speak, cousin; or, if you cannot, stop his mouth with a kiss, and let not him speak neither. DON PEDRO. In faith, lady, you have a merry heart. BEATRICE. Yea, my lord; I thank it, poor fool, it keeps on the windy side of care. My cousin tells him in his ear that he is in her heart. CLAUDIO. And so she doth, cousin. BEATRICE. Good Lord, for alliance! Thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt. I may sit in a corner and cry heigh-ho for a husband! DON PEDRO. Lady Beatrice, I will get you one. BEATRICE. I would rather have one of your father’s getting. Hath your Grace ne’er a brother like you? Your father got excellent husbands, if a maid could come by them. DON PEDRO. Will you have me, lady? BEATRICE. No, my lord, unless I might have another for working days: your Grace is too costly to wear every day. But, I beseech your Grace, pardon me; I was born to speak all mirth and no matter.

How will you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother? ISABELLA. I am now going to resolve him. I had rather my brother die by the law than my son should be unlawfully born. But, O, how much is the good Duke deceived in Angelo! If ever he return, and I can speak to him, I will open my lips in vain, or discover his government. DUKE. That shall not be much amiss. Yet, as the matter now stands, he will avoid your accusation: he made trial of you only. Therefore fasten your ear on my advisings, to the love I have in doing good, a remedy presents itself. I do make myself believe that you may most uprighteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit; redeem your brother from the angry law; do no stain to your own gracious person; and much please the absent Duke, if peradventure he shall ever return to have hearing of this business. ISABELLA. Let me hear you speak farther. I have spirit to do anything that appears not foul in the truth of my spirit. DUKE. Virtue is bold, and goodness never fearful. Have you not heard speak of Mariana, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier who miscarried at sea? ISABELLA. I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name. DUKE. She should this Angelo have married, was affianced to her oath, and the nuptial appointed. Between which time of the contract and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wrecked at sea, having in that perished vessel the dowry of his sister. But mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman. There she lost a noble and renowned brother, in his love toward her ever most kind and natural; with him, the portion and sinew of her fortune, her marriage dowry; with both, her combinate husband, this well-seeming Angelo. ISABELLA. Can this be so? Did Angelo so leave her? DUKE. Left her in her tears, and dried not one of them with his comfort, swallowed his vows whole, pretending in her discoveries of dishonour; in few, bestowed her on her own lamentation, which she yet wears for his sake; and he, a marble to her tears, is washed with them, but relents not.