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Liberty, Responsibility, and Prudence in The Prince, King Lear, and Measure for Measure

Topic

Niccolo Machiavelli (1469-1527)

William Shakespeare (1564-1616)

The conference will examine the nature of responsible governance and consider whether moral equivocations might be necessary for the good of the whole, whether it be a people or a corporation. Are good governors and managers born, or can techniques for responsible governance and prudent management be taught? The selected texts are concerned with different concepts of power, authority, liberty, and prudence. They invite us to explore the relation between legitimate power, the exercise of leadership, and the protection of liberty within the framework of rules. Prudent and responsible political leadership must come to terms with the paradoxes of human nature so that authority is based on responsible action.

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  1: Sessions I and II: The Prince

  Beginning with the Dedicatory Letter to Lorenzo de’ Medici, Session I covers the first half of The Prince (chs. 1-14). In the Letter, Machiavelli proposes to “lay down the law about how princes should rule.” While directed especially to a “new prince” (one who has come to power by force), the teaching is applicable to the exercise of power in general.

  The reading for Session II (chs. 15-26) contains the most provocative and controversial parts of The Prince. Machiavelli’s reputation as a “teacher of evil,” an “immoralist,” and a “counselor of tyrannts” is based largely on these chapters. Others, however, have defended the spirit (if not always the letter) of Machiavelli’s teaching for its analytical power and daring realism.

  Niccolo Machiavelli, The Historical, Political, and Diplomatic Writings of Niccolo Machiavelli, tr. from the Italian, by Christian E. Detmold (Boston, J. R. Osgood and company, 1882). Vol. 2. Chapter: THE PRINCE.

  Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/775/75825 on 2008-08-20

  The text is in the public domain.

  ---

  

  LORENZO DE MEDICI From the portrait by Giorgio Vasari in the Uffici Gallery Florence

  Heliog Durjardin Paris

  THE PRINCE.

  NICCOLO MACHIAVELLI to the MAGNIFICENT LORENZO, SON OF PIERO DE’ MEDICI.

  Those who desire to win the favor of princes generally endeavor to do so by offering them those things which they themselves prize most, or such as they observe the prince to delight in most. Thence it is that princes have very often presented to them horses, arms, cloth of gold, precious stones, and similar ornaments worthy of their greatness. Wishing now myself to offer to your Magnificence some proof of my devotion, I have found nothing amongst all I possess that I hold more dear or esteem more highly than the knowledge of the actions of great men, which I have acquired by long experience of modern affairs, and a continued study of ancient history.

  These I have meditated upon for a long time, and examined with great care and diligence; and having now written them out in a small volume, I send this to your Magnificence. And although I judge this work unworthy of you, yet I trust that your kindness of heart may induce you to accept it, considering that I cannot offer you anything better than the means of understanding in the briefest time all that which I have learnt by so many years of study, and with so much trouble and danger to myself.

  I have not set off this little work with pompous phrases, nor filled it with high-sounding and magnificent words, nor with any other allurements or extrinsic embellishments with which many are wont to write and adorn their works; for I wished that mine should derive credit only from the truth of the matter, and that the importance of the subject should make it acceptable.

  And I hope it may not be accounted presumption if a man of lowly and humble station ventures to discuss and direct the conduct of princes; for as those who wish to delineate countries place themselves low in the plain to observe the form and character of mountains and high places, and for the purpose of studying the nature of the low country place themselves high upon an eminence, so one must be a prince to know well the character of the people, and to understand well the nature of a prince one must be of the people.

  May your Magnificence then accept this little gift in the same spirit in which I send it; and if you will read and consider it well, you will recognize in it my desire that you may attain that greatness which fortune and your great qualities promise. And if your Magnificence will turn your eyes from the summit of your greatness towards those low places, you will know how undeservedly I have to bear the great and continued malice of fortune.

  CHAPTER I.

  how many kinds of principalities there are, and in what manner they are acquired.

  All states and governments that have had, and have at present, dominion over men, have been and are either republics or principalities.

  The principalities are either hereditary or they are new. Hereditary principalities are those where the government has been for a long time in the family of the prince. New principalities are either entirely new, as was Milan to Francesco Sforza, or they are like appurtenances annexed to the hereditary state of the prince who acquires them, as the kingdom of Naples is to that of Spain.

  States thus acquired have been accustomed either to live under a prince, or to exist as free states; and they are acquired either by the arms of others, or by the conqueror’s own, or by fortune or valor.

  CHAPTER II.

  of hereditary principalities.

  I will not discuss here the subject of republics, having treated of them at length elsewhere, but will confine myself only to principalities; and following the above indicated order of distinctions, I will proceed to discuss how states of this kind should be governed and maintained. I say, then, that hereditary states, accustomed to the line of their prince, are maintained with much less difficulty than new states. For it is enough merely that the prince do not transcend the order of things established by his predecessors, and then to accommodate himself to events as they occur. So that if such a prince has but ordinary sagacity, he will always maintain himself in his state, unless some extraordinary and superior force should deprive him of it. And even in such a case he will recover it, whenever the occupant meets with any reverses. We have in Italy, for instance, the Duke of Ferrara, who could not have resisted the assaults of the Venetians in 1484, nor those of Pope Julius II. in 1510, but for the fact that his family had for a great length of time held the sovereignty of that dominion. For the natural prince has less cause and less necessity for irritating his subjects, whence it is reasonable that he should be more beloved. And unless extraordinary vices should cause him to be hated, he will naturally have the affection of his people. For in the antiquity and continuity of dominion the memory of innovations, and their causes, are effaced; for each change and alteration always prepares the way and facilitates the next.

  CHAPTER III.

  of mixed principalities.

  But it is in a new principality that difficulties present themselves. In the first place, if it be not entirely new, but composed of different parts, which when taken all together may as it were be called mixed, its mutations arise in the beginning from a natural difficulty, which is inherent in all new principalities, because men change their rulers gladly, in the belief that they will better themselves by the change. It is this belief that makes them take up arms against the reigning prince; but in this they deceive themselves, for they find afterwards from experience that they have only made their condition worse. This is the inevitable consequence of another natural and ordinary necessity, which ever obliges a new prince to vex his people with the maintenance of an armed force, and by an infinite number of other wrongs that follow in the train of new conquests. Thus the new prince finds that he has for enemies all those whom he has injured by seizing that principality; and at the same time he cannot preserve as friends even those who have aided him in obtaining possession, because he cannot satisfy their expectations, nor can he employ strong measures against them, being under obligations to them. For however strong a new prince may be in troops, yet will he always have need of the good will of the inhabitants, if he wishes to enter into firm possession of the country.

  It was for these reasons that Louis XII., king of France, having suddenly made himself master of Milan, lost it as quickly, Lodovico Sforza’s own troops alone having sufficed to wrest it from him the first time. For the very people who had opened the gates to Louis XII., finding themselves deceived in their expectations of immediate as well as prospective advantages, soon became disgusted with the burdens imposed by the new prince.

  It is very true that, having recovered such revolted provinces, it is easier to keep them in subjection; for the prince will avail himself of the occasion of the rebellion to secure himself, with less consideration for the people, by punishing the guilty, watching the suspected, and strengthening himself at all the weak points of the province. Thus a mere demonstration on the frontier by Lodovico Sforza lost Milan to the French the first time; but to make them lose it a second time required the whole world to be against them, and that their armies should be dispersed and driven out of Italy; which resulted from the reasons which I have explained above. Nevertheless, France lost Milan both the first and the second time.

  The general causes of the first loss have been sufficiently explained; but it remains to be seen now what occasioned the loss of Milan to France the second time, and to point out the remedies which the king had at his command, and which might be employed by any other prince under similar circumstances to maintain himself in a conquered province, but which King Louis XII. failed to employ.

  I will say then, first, that the states which a prince acquires and annexes to his own dominions are either in the same country, speaking the same language, or they are not. When they are, it is very easy to hold them, especially if they have not been accustomed to govern themselves; for in that case it suffices to extinguish the line of the prince who, till then, has ruled over them, but otherwise to maintain their old institutions. There being no difference in their manners and customs, the inhabitants will submit quietly, as we have seen in the case of Burgundy, Brittany, Gascony, and Normandy, which provinces have remained so long united to France. For although there are some differences of language, yet their customs are similar, and therefore they were easily reconciled to each other. Hence, in order to retain a newly acquired state, regard must be had to two things: one, that the line of the ancient sovereign be entirely extinguished; and the other, that the laws be not changed, nor the taxes increased, so that the new may, in the least possible time, be thoroughly incorporated with the ancient state.

  But when states are acquired in a country differing in language, customs, and laws, then come the difficulties, and then it requires great good-fortune and much sagacity to hold them; and one of the best and most efficient means is for the prince who has acquired them to go and reside there, which will make his possession more secure and durable. Such was the course adopted by the Turk in Greece, who even if he had respected all the institutions of that country, yet could not possibly have succeeded in holding it, if he had not gone to reside there. For being on the spot, you can quickly remedy disorders as you see them arise; but not being there, you do not hear of them until they have become so great that there is no longer any remedy for them. Besides this, the country will not be despoiled by your officials, and the subjects will be satisfied by the easy recourse to the prince who is near them, which contributes to win their affections, if they are well disposed, and to inspire them with fear, if otherwise. And other powers will hesitate to assail a state where the prince himself resides, as they would find it very difficult to dispossess him.

  The next best means for holding a newly acquired state is to establish colonies in one or two places that are as it were the keys to the country. Unless this is done, it will be necessary to keep a large force of men-at-arms and infantry there for its protection. Colonies are not very expensive to the prince; they can be established and maintained at little, if any, cost to him; and only those of the inhabitants will be injured by him whom he deprives of their homes and fields, for the purpose of bestowing them upon the colonists; and this will be the case only with a very small minority of the original inhabitants. And as those who are thus injured by him become dispersed and poor, they can never do him any harm, whilst all the other inhabitants remain on the one hand uninjured, and therefore easily kept quiet, and on the other hand they are afraid to stir, lest they should be despoiled as the others have been. I conclude then that such colonies are inexpensive, and are more faithful to the prince and less injurious to the inhabitants generally; whilst those who are injured by their establishment become poor and dispersed, and therefore unable to do any harm, as I have already said. And here we must observe that men must either be flattered or crushed; for they will revenge themselves for slight wrongs, whilst for grave ones they cannot. The injury therefore that you do to a man should be such that you need not fear his revenge.

  But if instead of colonies an armed force be sent for the preservation of a newly acquired province, then it will involve much greater expenditures, so that the support of such a guard may consume the entire revenue of the province; so that this acquisition may prove an actual loss, and will moreover give greater offence, because the whole population will feel aggrieved by having the armed force quartered upon them in turn. Every one that is made to suffer from this inconvenience will become an enemy; and these are enemies that can injure the prince, for although beaten yet they remain in their homes. In every point of view, then, such a military guard is disadvantageous, just as colonies are most useful.

  A prince, moreover, who wishes to keep possession of a country that is separate and unlike his own, must make himself the chief and protector of the smaller neighboring powers. He must endeavor to weaken the most powerful of them, and must take care that by no chance a stranger enter that province who is equally powerful with himself; for strangers are never called in except by those whom an undue ambition or fear have rendered malcontents. It was thus in fact that the Ætolians called the Romans into Greece; and whatever other country the Romans entered, it was invariably at the request of the inhabitants.

  The way in which these things happen is generally thus: so soon as a powerful foreigner enters a province, all those of its inhabitants that are less powerful will give him their adhesion, being influenced thereto by their jealousy of him who has hitherto been their superior. So that, as regards these petty lords, the new prince need not be at any trouble to win them over to himself, as they will all most readily become incorporated with the state which he has there acquired. He has merely to see to it that they do not assume too much authority, or acquire too much power; for he will then be able by their favor, and by his own strength, very easily to humble those who are really powerful; so that he will in all respects remain the sole arbiter of that province. And he who does not manage this part well will quickly lose what he has acquired; and whilst he holds it, he will experience infinite difficulties and vexations. The Romans observed these points most carefully in the provinces which they conquered; they established colonies there, and sustained the feebler chiefs without increasing their power, whilst they humbled the stronger, and permitted no powerful stranger to acquire any influence or credit there. I will confine myself for an example merely to the provinces of Greece. The Romans sustained the Achaians and the Ætolians, whilst they humbled the kingdom of Macedon and expelled Antiochus from his dominions; but neither the merits of the Achaians or of the Ætolians caused the Romans to permit either of them to increase in power; nor could the persuasions of Philip induce the Romans to become his friends until after first having humbled his power; nor could the power of Antiochus make them consent that he should hold any state in that province.

  Thus in all these cases the Romans did what all wise princes ought to do; namely, not only to look to all present troubles, but also to those of the future, against which they provided with the utmost prudence. For it is by foreseeing difficulties from afar that they are easily provided against; but awaiting their near approach, remedies are no longer in time, for the malady has become incurable. It happens in such cases, as the doctors say of consumption, that in the early stages it is easy to cure, but difficult to recognize; whilst in the course of time, the disease not having been recognized and cured in the beginning, it becomes easy to know, but difficult to cure. And thus it is in the affairs of state; for when the evils that arise in it are seen far ahead, which it is given only to a wise prince to do, then they are easily remedied; but when, in consequence of not having been foreseen, these evils are allowed to grow and assume such proportions that they become manifest to every one, then they can no longer be remedied.

  The Romans therefore, on seeing troubles far ahead, always strove to avert them in time, and never permitted their growth merely for the sake of avoiding a war, well knowing that the war would not be prevented, and that to defer it would only be an advantage to others; and for these reasons they resolved upon attacking Philip and Antiochus in Greece, so as to prevent these from making war upon them in Italy. They might at the time have avoided both the one and the other, but would not do it; nor did they ever fancy the saying which is nowadays in the mouth of every wiseacre, “to bide the advantages of time,” but preferred those of their own valor and prudence; for time drives all things before it, and may lead to good as well as to evil, and to evil as well as to good.

  But let us return to France, and examine whether she has done any one of the things that we have spoken of. I will say nothing of Charles VIII., but only of Louis XII., whose proceedings we are better able to understand, as he held possession of Italy for a greater length of time. And we shall see how he did the very opposite of what he should have done, for the purpose of holding a state so unlike his own.

  King Louis XII. was called into Italy by the ambition of the Venetians, who wanted him to aid them in conquering a portion of Lombardy. I will not blame the king for the part he took; for, wishing to gain a foothold in Italy, and having no allies there, but rather finding the gates everywhere closed against him in consequence of the conduct of King Charles VIII., he was obliged to avail himself of such friends as he could find; and would have succeeded in his attempt, which was well planned, but for an error which he committed in his subsequent conduct. The king, then, having conquered Lombardy, quickly recovered that reputation which his predecessor, Charles VIII., had lost. Genoa yielded; the Florentines became his friends; the Marquis of Mantua, the Duke of Ferrara, the Bentivogli, the lady of Furli, the lords of Faenza, Pesaro, Rimini, Camerino, and Piombino, the Lucchese, the Pisanese, and the Siennese, all came to meet him with offers of friendship. The Venetians might then have recognized the folly of their course, when, for the sake of gaining two cities in Lombardy, they made King Louis master of two thirds of Italy.

  Let us see now how easily the king might have maintained his influence in Italy if he had observed the rules above given. Had he secured and protected all these friends of his, who were numerous but feeble, — some fearing the Church, and some the Venetians, and therefore all forced to adhere to him, — he might easily have secured himself against the remaining stronger powers of Italy. But no sooner in Milan than he did the very opposite, by giving aid to Pope Alexander VI. to enable him to seize the Romagna. Nor did he perceive that in doing this he weakened himself, by alienating his friends and those who had thrown themselves into his arms; and that he had made the Church great by adding so much temporal to its spiritual power, which gave it already so much authority. Having committed this first error, he was obliged to follow it up; so that, for the purpose of putting an end to the ambition of Pope Alexander VI., and preventing his becoming master of Tuscany, he was obliged to come into Italy.

  Not content with having made the Church great, and with having alienated his own friends, King Louis, in his eagerness to possess the kingdom of Naples, shared it with the king of Spain; so that where he had been the sole arbiter of Italy, he established an associate and rival, to whom the ambitious and the malcontents might have a ready recourse. And whilst he could have left a king in Naples who would have been his tributary, he dispossessed him, for the sake of replacing him by another who was powerful enough in turn to drive him out.

  The desire of conquest is certainly most natural and common amongst men, and whenever they yield to it and are successful, they are praised; but when they lack the means, and yet attempt it anyhow, then they commit an error that merits blame. If, then, the king of France was powerful enough by himself successfully to attack the kingdom of Naples, then he was right to do so; but if he was not, then he should not have divided it with the king of Spain. And if the partition of Lombardy with the Venetians was excusable because it enabled him to gain a foothold in Italy, that of Naples with the Spaniard deserves censure, as it cannot be excused on the ground of necessity.

  Louis XII. then committed these five errors: he destroyed the weak; he increased the power of one already powerful in Italy; he established a most powerful stranger there; he did not go to reside there himself; nor did he plant any colonies there. These errors, however, would not have injured him during his lifetime, had he not committed a sixth one in attempting to deprive the Venetians of their possessions. For if Louis had not increased the power of the Church, nor established the Spaniards in Italy, it would have been quite reasonable, and even advisable, for him to have weakened the Venetians; but having done both those things, he ought never to have consented to their ruin; for so long as the Venetians were powerful, they would always have kept others from any attempt upon Lombardy. They would on the one hand never have permitted this unless it should have led to their becoming masters of it, and on the other hand no one would have taken it from France for the sake of giving it to the Venetians; nor would any one have had the courage to attack the French and the Venetians combined. And should it be said that King Louis gave up the Romagna to Pope Alexander VI., and divided the kingdom of Naples with the Spaniard for the sake of avoiding a war, then I reply with the above stated reasons, that no one should ever submit to an evil for the sake of avoiding a war. For a war is never avoided, but is only deferred to one’s own disadvantage.

  And should it be argued, on the other hand, that the king felt bound by the pledge which he had given to the Pope to conquer the Romagna for him in consideration of his dissolving the king’s marriage, and of his bestowing the cardinal’s hat upon the Archbishop of Rouen, then I meet that argument with what I shall say further on concerning the pledges of princes, and the manner in which they should keep them.

  King Louis then lost Lombardy by not having conformed to any one of the conditions that have been observed by others, who, having conquered provinces, wanted to keep them. Nor is this at all to be wondered at, for it is quite reasonable and common. I conversed on this subject with the Archbishop of Rouen (Cardinal d’Amboise) whilst at Nantes, when the Duke Valentino, commonly called Cesar Borgia, son of Pope Alexander VI., made himself master of the Romagna. On that occasion the Cardinal said to me, that the Italians did not understand the art of war. To which I replied that the French did not understand statesmanship; for if they had understood it, they would never have allowed the Church to attain such greatness and power. For experience proves that the greatness of the Church and that of Spain in Italy were brought about by France, and that her own ruin resulted therefrom. From this we draw the general rule, which never or rarely fails, that the prince who causes another to become powerful thereby works his own ruin; for he has contributed to the power of the other either by his own ability or force, and both the one and the other will be mistrusted by him whom he has thus made powerful.

  CHAPTER IV.

  why the kingdom of darius, which was conquered by alexander, did not revolt against the successors of alexander after his death.

  If we reflect upon the difficulties of preserving a newly acquired state, it seems marvellous that, after the rapid conquest of all Asia by Alexander the Great, and his subsequent death, which one would suppose most naturally to have provoked the whole country to revolt, yet his successors maintained their possession of it, and experienced no other difficulties in holding it than such as arose amongst themselves from their own ambition.

  I meet this observation by saying that all principalities of which we have any accounts have been governed in one of two ways; viz. either by one absolute prince, to whom all others are as slaves, some of whom, as ministers, by his grace and consent, aid him in the government of his realm; or else by a prince and nobles, who hold that rank, not by the grace of their sovereign, but by the antiquity of their lineage. Such nobles have estates and subjects of their own, who recognize them as their liege lords, and have a natural affection for them.

  In those states that are governed by an absolute prince and slaves, the prince has far more power and authority; for in his entire dominion no one recognizes any other superior but him; and if they obey any one else, they do it as though to his minister and officer, and without any particular affection for such official. Turkey and France furnish us examples of these two different systems of government at the present time. The whole country of the Turk is governed by one master; all the rest are his slaves; and having divided the country into Sanjacs, or districts, he appoints governors for each of these, whom he changes and replaces at his pleasure.

  But the king of France is placed in the midst of a large number of ancient nobles, who are recognized and acknowledged by their subjects as their lords, and are held in great affection by them. They have their rank and prerogatives, of which the king cannot deprive them without danger to himself. In observing now these two principalities, we perceive the difficulty of conquering the empire of the Turk, but once conquered it will be very easily held. The reasons that make the conquest of the Turkish empire so difficult are, that the conqueror cannot be called into the country by any of the great nobles of the state; nor can he hope that his attempt could be facilitated by a revolt of those who surround the sovereign; which arises from the above given reasons. For being all slaves and dependants of their sovereign, it is more difficult to corrupt them; and even if they were corrupted, but little advantage could be hoped for from them, because they cannot carry the people along with them.

  Whoever therefore attacks the Turks must expect to find them united, and must depend wholly upon his own forces, and not upon any internal disturbances. But once having defeated and driven the Turk from the field, so that he cannot reorganize his army, then he will have nothing to fear but the line of the sovereign. This however once extinguished, the conqueror has nothing to apprehend from any one else, as none other has any influence with the people; and thus, having had nothing to hope from them before the victory, he will have nothing to fear from them afterwards.

  The contrary takes place in kingdoms governed like that of France; for having gained over some of the great nobles of the realm, there will be no difficulty in entering it, there being always malcontents and others who desire a change. These, for the reasons stated, can open the way into the country for the assailant, and facilitate his success. But for the conqueror to maintain himself there afterwards will involve infinite difficulties, both with the conquered and with those who have aided him in his conquest. Nor will it suffice to extinguish the line of the sovereign, because the great nobles remain, who will place themselves at the head of new movements; and the conqueror, not being able either to satisfy or to crush them, will lose the country again on the first occasion that presents itself.

  If now we consider the nature of the government of Darius, we shall find that it resembled that of the Turk, and therefore it was necessary for Alexander to attack him in full force, and drive him from the field. After this victory and the death of Darius, Alexander remained in secure possession of the kingdom for the reasons above explained. And if his successors had remained united, they might also have enjoyed possession at their ease; for no other disturbances occurred in that empire, except such as they created themselves.

  Countries, however, with a system of government like that of France, cannot possibly be held so easily. The frequent insurrections of Spain, France, and Greece against the Romans were due to the many petty princes that existed in those states; and therefore, so long as the memory of these princes endured, the Romans were ever uncertain in the tenure of those states. But all remembrance of these princes once effaced, the Romans became secure possessors of those countries, so long as the growth and power of their empire endured. And even afterwards, when fighting amongst themselves, each of the parties were able to keep for themselves portions of those countries, according to the authority which they had acquired there; and the line of their sovereigns being extinguished, the inhabitants recognized no other authority but that of the Romans.

  Reflecting now upon these things, we cannot be surprised at the facility with which Alexander maintained himself in Asia; nor at the difficulties which others experienced in preserving their conquests, as was the case with Pyrrhus and many others, and which resulted not from the greater or lesser valor of the conqueror, but from the different nature of the conquered states.

  CHAPTER V.

  how cities or principalities are to be governed that previous to being conquered had lived under their own laws.

  Conquered states that have been accustomed to liberty and the government of their own laws can be held by the conqueror in three different ways. The first is to ruin them; the second, for the conqueror to go and reside there in person; and the third is to allow them to continue to live under their own laws, subject to a regular tribute, and to create in them a government of a few, who will keep the country friendly to the conqueror. Such a government, having been established by the new prince, knows that it cannot maintain itself without the support of his power and friendship, and it becomes its interest therefore to sustain him. A city that has been accustomed to free institutions is much easier held by its own citizens than in any other way, if the conqueror desires to preserve it. The Spartans and the Romans will serve as examples of these different ways of holding a conquered state.

  The Spartans held Athens and Thebes, creating there a government of a few; and yet they lost both these states again. The Romans, for the purpose of retaining Capua, Carthage, and Numantia, destroyed them, but did not lose them. They wished to preserve Greece in somewhat the same way that the Spartans had held it, by making her free and leaving her in the enjoyment of her own laws, but did not succeed; so that they were obliged to destroy many cities in that country for the purpose of holding it. In truth there was no other safe way of keeping possession of that country but to ruin it. And whoever becomes master of a city that has been accustomed to liberty, and does not destroy it, must himself expect to be ruined by it. For they will always resort to rebellion in the name of liberty and their ancient institutions, which will never be effaced from their memory, either by the lapse of time, or by benefits bestowed by the new master. No matter what he may do, or what precautions he may take, if he does not separate and disperse the inhabitants, they will on the first occasion invoke the name of liberty and the memory of their ancient institutions, as was done by Pisa after having been held over a hundred years in subjection by the Florentines.

  But it is very different with states that have been accustomed to live under a prince. When the line of the prince is once extinguished, the inhabitants, being on the one hand accustomed to obey, and on the other having lost their ancient sovereign, can neither agree to create a new one from amongst themselves, nor do they know how to live in liberty; and thus they will be less prompt to take up arms, and the new prince will readily be able to gain their good will and to assure himself of them. But republics have more vitality, a greater spirit of resentment and desire of revenge, for the memory of their ancient liberty neither can nor will permit them to remain quiet, and therefore the surest way of holding them is either to destroy them, or for the conqueror to go and live there.

  CHAPTER VI.

  of new principalities that have been acquired by the valor of the prince and by his own troops.

  Let no one wonder if, in what I am about to say of entirely new principalities and of the prince and his government, I cite the very highest examples. For as men almost always follow the beaten track of others, and proceed in their actions by imitation, and yet cannot altogether follow the ways of others, nor attain the high qualities of those whom they imitate, so a wise man should ever follow the ways of great men and endeavor to imitate only such as have been most eminent; so that even if his merits do not quite equal theirs, yet that they may in some measure reflect their greatness. He should do as the skilful archer, who, seeing that the object he desires to hit is too distant, and knowing the extent to which his bow will carry, aims higher than the destined mark, not for the purpose of sending his arrow to that height, but so that by this elevation it may reach the desired aim.

  I say then that a new prince in an entirely new principality will experience more or less difficulty in maintaining himself, according as he has more or less courage and ability. And as such an event as to become a prince from a mere private individual presupposes either great courage or rare good fortune, it would seem that one or the other of these two causes ought in a measure to mitigate many of these difficulties. But he who depends least upon fortune will maintain himself best; which will be still more easy for the Prince if, having no other state, he is obliged to reside in his newly acquired principality.

  To come now to those who by their courage and ability, and not by fortune, have risen to the rank of rulers, I will say that the most eminent of such were Moses, Cyrus, Romulus, Theseus, and the like. And although we may not discuss Moses, who was a mere executor of the things ordained by God, yet he merits our admiration, if only for that grace which made him worthy to hold direct communion with the Almighty. But if we consider Cyrus and others who have conquered or founded empires, we shall find them all worthy of admiration; for it we study their acts and particular ordinances, they do not seem very different from those of Moses, although he had so great a teacher. We shall also find in examining their acts and lives, that they had no other favor from fortune but opportunity, which gave them the material which they could mould into whatever form seemed to them best; and without such opportunity the great qualities of their souls would have been wasted, whilst without those great qualities the opportunities would have been in vain.

  It was necessary then for Moses to find the people of Israel slaves in Egypt, and oppressed by the Egyptians, so that to escape from that bondage they resolved to follow him. It was necessary that Romulus should not have been kept in Alba, and that he should have been exposed at his birth, for him to have become the founder and king of Rome. And so it was necessary for Cyrus to find the Persians dissatisfied with the rule of the Medes, and the Medes effeminate and enfeebled by long peace. And finally, Theseus could not have manifested his courage had he not found the Athenians dispersed. These opportunities therefore made these men fortunate, and it was their lofty virtue that enabled them to recognize the opportunities by which their countries were made illustrious and most happy. Those who by similar noble conduct become princes acquire their principalities with difficulty, but maintain them with ease; and the difficulties which they experience in acquiring their principalities arise in part from the new ordinances and customs which they are obliged to introduce for the purpose of founding their state and their own security. We must bear in mind, then, that there is nothing more difficult and dangerous, or more doubtful of success, than an attempt to introduce a new order of things in any state. For the innovator has for enemies all those who derived advantages from the old order of things, whilst those who expect to be benefited by the new institutions will be but lukewarm defenders. This indifference arises in part from fear of their adversaries who were favored by the existing laws, and partly from the incredulity of men who have no faith in anything new that is not the result of well-established experience. Hence it is that, whenever the opponents of the new order of things have the opportunity to attack it, they will do it with the zeal of partisans, whilst the others defend it but feebly, so that it is dangerous to rely upon the latter.

  If we desire to discuss this subject thoroughly, it will be necessary to examine whether such innovators depend upon themselves, or whether they rely upon others; that is to say, whether for the purpose of carrying out their plans they have to resort to entreaties, or whether they can accomplish it by force. In the first case they always succeed badly, and fail to conclude anything; but when they depend upon their own strength to carry their innovations through, then they rarely incur any danger. Thence it was that all prophets who came with arms in hand were successful, whilst those who were not armed were ruined. For besides the reasons given above, the dispositions of peoples are variable; it is easy to persuade them to anything, but difficult to confirm them in that belief. And therefore a prophet should be prepared, in case the people will not believe any more, to be able by force to compel them to that belief.

  Neither Moses, Cyrus, Theseus, nor Romulus would have been able to make their laws and institutions observed for any length of time, if they had not been prepared to enforce them with arms. This was the experience of Brother Girolamo Savonarola, who failed in his attempt to establish a new order of things so soon as the multitude ceased to believe in him; for he had not the means to keep his believers firm in their faith, nor to make the unbelievers believe. And yet these great men experienced great difficulties in their course, and met danger at every step, which could only be overcome by their courage and ability. But once having surmounted them, then they began to be held in veneration; and having crushed those who were jealous of their great qualities, they remained powerful, secure, honored, and happy.

  To these great examples I will add a minor one, which nevertheless bears some relation to them, and will suffice me for all similar cases. This is Hiero of Syracuse, who from a mere private individual rose to be prince of Syracuse, although he owed no other favor to fortune than opportunity; for the Syracusans, being oppressed, elected him their captain, whence he advanced by his merits to become their prince. And even in his condition as a private citizen he displayed such virtue, that the author who wrote of him said that he lacked nothing of being a monarch excepting a kingdom. Hiero disbanded the old army and organized a new one; he abandoned his old allies and formed new alliances; and having thus an army and allies of his own creation, he had no difficulty in erecting any edifice upon such a foundation; so that although he had much trouble in attaining the principality, yet he had but little in maintaining it.

  CHAPTER VII.

  of new principalities that have been acquired by the aid of others and by good fortune.

  Those who by good fortune only rise from mere private station to the dignity of princes have but little trouble in achieving that elevation, for they fly there as it were on wings; but their difficulties begin after they have been placed in that high position. Such are those who acquire a state either by means of money, or by the favor of some powerful monarch who bestows it upon them. Many such instances occurred in Greece, in the cities of Ionia and of the Hellespont, where men were made princes by Darius so that they might hold those places for his security and glory. And such were those Emperors who from having been mere private individuals attained the Empire by corrupting the soldiery. These remain simply subject to the will and the fortune of those who bestowed greatness upon them, which are two most uncertain and variable things. And generally these men have neither the skill nor the power to maintain that high rank. They know not (for unless they are men of great genius and ability, it is not reasonable that they should know) how to command, having never occupied any but private stations; and they cannot, because they have no troops upon whose loyalty and attachment they can depend.

  Moreover, states that spring up suddenly, like other things in nature that are born and attain their growth rapidly, cannot have those roots and supports that will protect them from destruction by the first unfavorable weather. Unless indeed, as has been said, those who have suddenly become princes are gifted with such ability that they quickly know how to prepare themselves for the preservation of that which fortune has cast into their lap, and afterwards to build up those foundations which others have laid before becoming princes.

  In illustration of the one and the other of these two ways of becoming princes, by valor and ability, or by good fortune, I will adduce two examples from the time within our own memory; these are Francesco Sforza and Cesar Borgia. Francesco, by legitimate means and by great natural ability, rose from a private citizen to be Duke of Milan; and having attained that high position by a thousand efforts, it cost him but little trouble afterwards to maintain it. On the other hand, Cesar Borgia, commonly called Duke Valentino, acquired his state by the good fortune of his father, but lost it when no longer sustained by that good fortune; although he employed all the means and did all that a brave and prudent man can do to take root in that state which had been bestowed upon him by the arms and good fortune of another. For, as we have said above, he who does not lay the foundations for his power beforehand may be able by great ability and courage to do so afterwards; but it will be done with great trouble to the builder and with danger to the edifice.

  If now we consider the whole course of the Duke Valentino, we shall see that he took pains to lay solid foundations for his future power; which I think it well to discuss. For I should not know what better lesson I could give to a new prince, than to hold up to him the example of the Duke Valentino’s conduct. And if the measures which he adopted did not insure his final success, the fault was not his, for his failure was due to the extreme and extraordinary malignity of fortune. Pope Alexander VI. in his efforts to aggrandize his son, the Duke Valentino, encountered many difficulties, immediate and prospective. In the first place he saw that there was no chance of making him master of any state, unless a state of the Church; and he knew that neither the Duke of Milan nor the Venetians would consent to that. Faenza and Rimini were already at that time under the protection of the Venetians; and the armies of Italy, especially those of which he could have availed himself, were in the hands of men who had cause to fear the power of the Pope, namely the Orsini, the Colonna, and their adherents; and therefore he could not rely upon them.

  It became necessary therefore for Alexander to disturb the existing order of things, and to disorganize those states, in order to make himself safely master of them. And this it was easy for him to do; for he found the Venetians, influenced by other reasons, favorable to the return of the French into Italy; which not only he did not oppose, but facilitated by dissolving the former marriage of King Louis XII. (so as to enable him to marry Ann of Brittany). The king thereupon entered Italy with the aid of the Venetians and the consent of Alexander; and no sooner was he in Milan than the Pope obtained troops from him to aid in the conquest of the Romagna, which was yielded to him through the influence of the king.

  The Duke Valentino having thus acquired the Romagna, and the Colonna being discouraged, he both wished to hold that province, and also to push his possessions still further, but was prevented by two circumstances. The one was that his own troops seemed to him not to be reliable, and the other was the will of the king of France. That is to say, he feared lest the Orsini troops, which he had made use of, might fail him at the critical moment, and not only prevent him from acquiring more, but even take from him that which he had acquired; and that even the king of France might do the same. Of the disposition of the Orsini, the Duke had a proof when, after the capture of Faenza, he attacked Bologna, and saw with what indifference they moved to the assault. And as to the king of France, he knew his mind; for when he wanted to march into Tuscany, after having taken the Duchy of Urbino, King Louis made him desist from that undertaking. The Duke resolved therefore to rely no longer upon the fortune or the arms of others. And the first thing he did was to weaken the Orsini and the Colonna in Rome, by winning over to himself all the gentlemen adherents of those houses, by taking them into his own pay as gentlemen followers, giving them liberal stipends and bestowing honors upon them in proportion to their condition, and giving them appointments and commands; so that in the course of a few months their attachment to their factions was extinguished, and they all became devoted followers of the Duke.

  After that, having successfully dispersed the Colonna faction, he watched for an opportunity to crush the Orsini, which soon presented itself, and of which he made the most. For the Orsini, having been slow to perceive that the aggrandizement of the Duke and of the Church would prove the cause of their ruin, convened a meeting at Magione, in the Perugine territory, which gave rise to the revolt of Urbino and the disturbances in the Romagna, and caused infinite dangers to the Duke Valentino, all of which, however, he overcame with the aid of the French. Having thus re-established his reputation, and trusting no longer in the French or any other foreign power, he had recourse to deceit, so as to avoid putting them to the test. And so well did he know how to dissemble and conceal his intentions that the Orsini became reconciled to him, through the agency of the Signor Paolo, whom the Duke had won over to himself by means of all possible good offices, and gifts of money, clothing, and horses. And thus their credulity led them into the hands of the Duke at Sinigaglia.

  The chiefs thus destroyed, and their adherents converted into his friends, the Duke had laid sufficiently good foundations for his power, having made himself master of the whole of the Romagna and the Duchy of Urbino, and having attached their entire population to himself, by giving them a foretaste of the new prosperity which they were to enjoy under him. And as this part of the Duke’s proceedings is well worthy of notice, and may serve as an example to others, I will dwell upon it more fully.

  Having conquered the Romagna, the Duke found it under the control of a number of impotent petty tyrants, who had devoted themselves more to plundering their subjects than to governing them properly, and encouraging discord and disorder amongst them rather than peace and union; so that this province was infested by brigands, torn by quarrels, and given over to every sort of violence. He saw at once that, to restore order amongst the inhabitants and obedience to the sovereign, it was necessary to establish a good and vigorous government there. And for this purpose he appointed as governor of that province Don Ramiro d’Orco, a man of cruelty, but at the same time of great energy, to whom he gave plenary power. In a very short time D’Orco reduced the province to peace and order, thereby gaining for him the highest reputation. After a while the Duke found such excessive exercise of authority no longer necessary or expedient, for he feared that it might render himself odious. He therefore established a civil tribunal in the heart of the province, under an excellent president, where every city should have its own advocate. And having observed that the past rigor of Ramiro had engendered some hatred, he wished to show to the people, for the purpose of removing that feeling from their minds, and to win their entire confidence, that, if any cruelties had been practised, they had not originated with him, but had resulted altogether from the harsh nature of his minister. He therefore took occasion to have Messer Ramiro put to death, and his body, cut into two parts, exposed in the market-place of Cesena one morning, with a block of wood and a bloody cutlass left beside him. The horror of this spectacle caused the people to remain for a time stupefied and satisfied.

  But let us return to where we started from. I say, then, that the Duke, feeling himself strong enough now, and in a measure secure from immediate danger, having raised an armed force of his own, and having in great part destroyed those that were near and might have troubled him, wanted now to proceed with his conquest. The only power remaining which he had to fear was the king of France, upon whose support he knew that he could not count, although the king had been late in discovering his error of having allowed the Duke’s aggrandizement. The Duke, therefore, began to look for new alliances, and to prevaricate with the French about their entering the kingdom of Naples for the purpose of attacking the Spaniards, who were then engaged in the siege of Gaeta. His intention was to place them in such a position that they would not be able to harm him; and in this he would have succeeded easily if Pope Alexander had lived.

  Such was the course of the Duke Valentino with regard to the immediate present, but he had cause for apprehensions as to the future; mainly, lest the new successor to the papal chair should not be friendly to him, and should attempt to take from him what had been given him by Alexander. And this he thought of preventing in several different ways: one, by extirpating the families of those whom he had despoiled, so as to deprive the Pope of all pretext of restoring them to their possessions; secondly, by gaining over to himself all the gentlemen of Rome, so as to be able, through them, to keep the Pope in check; thirdly, by getting the College of Cardinals under his control; and, fourthly, by acquiring so much power before the death of Alexander that he might by himself be able to resist the first attack of his enemies. Of these four things he had accomplished three at the time of Alexander’s death; for of the petty tyrants whom he had despoiled he had killed as many as he could lay hands on, and but very few had been able to save themselves; he had won over to himself the gentlemen of Rome, and had secured a large majority in the sacred college; and as to further acquisitions, he contemplated making himself master of Tuscany, having already possession of Perugia and Piombino, and having assumed a protectorate over Pisa. There being no longer occasion to be apprehensive of France, which had been deprived of the kingdom of Naples by the Spaniards, so that both of these powers had to seek his friendship, he suddenly seized Pisa. After this, Lucca and Sienna promptly yielded to him, partly from jealousy of the Florentines and partly from fear. Thus Florence saw no safety from the Duke, and if he had succeeded in taking that city, as he could have done in the very year of Alexander’s death, it would have so increased his power and influence that he would have been able to have sustained himself alone, without depending upon the fortune or power of any one else, and relying solely upon his own strength and courage.

  But Alexander died five years after the Duke had first unsheathed his sword. He left his son with only his government of the Romagna firmly established, but all his other possessions entirely uncertain, hemmed in between two powerful hostile armies, and himself sick unto death. But such were the Duke’s energy and courage, and so well did he know how men are either won or destroyed, and so solid were the foundations which he had in so brief a time laid for his greatness, that if he had not had these two armies upon his back, and had been in health, he would have sustained himself against all difficulties. And that the foundations of his power were well laid may be judged by the fact that the Romagna remained faithful, and waited quietly for him more than a month; and that, although half dead with sickness, yet he was perfectly secure in Rome; and that, although the Baglioni, Vitelli, and Orsini came to Rome at the time, yet they could not raise a party against him. Unable to make a Pope of his own choice, yet he could prevent the election of any one that was not acceptable to him. And had the Duke been in health at the time of Alexander’s death, everything would have gone well with him; for he said to me on the day when Julius II. was created Pope, that he had provided for everything that could possibly occur in case of his father’s death, except that he never thought that at that moment he should himself be so near dying.

  Upon reviewing now all the actions of the Duke, I should not know where to blame him; it seems to me that I should rather hold him up as an example (as I have said) to be imitated by all those who have risen to sovereignty, either by the good fortune or the arms of others. For being endowed with great courage, and having a lofty ambition, he could not have acted otherwise under the circumstances; and the only thing that defeated his designs was the shortness of Alexander’s life and his own bodily infirmity.

  Whoever, then, in a newly acquired state, finds it necessary to secure himself against his enemies, to gain friends, to conquer by force or by cunning, to make himself feared or beloved by the people, to be followed and revered by the soldiery, to destroy all who could or might injure him, to substitute a new for the old order of things, to be severe and yet gracious, magnanimous, and liberal, to disband a disloyal army and create a new one, to preserve the friendship of kings and princes, so that they may bestow benefits upon him with grace, and fear to injure him, — such a one, I say, cannot find more recent examples than those presented by the conduct of the Duke Valentino. The only thing we can blame him for was the election of Julius II. to the Pontificate, which was a bad selection for him to make; for, as has been said, though he was not able to make a Pope to his own liking, yet he could have prevented, and should never have consented to, the election of one from amongst those cardinals whom he had offended, or who, if he had been elected, would have had occasion to fear him, for either fear or resentment makes men enemies.

  Those whom the Duke had offended were, amongst others, the Cardinals San Pietro in Vincola, Colonna, San Giorgio, and Ascanio. All the others, had they come to the pontificate, would have had to fear him, excepting D’Amboise and the Spanish cardinals; the latter because of certain relations and reciprocal obligations, and the former because of his power, he having France for his ally. The Duke then should by all means have had one of the Spanish cardinals made Pope, and failing in that, he should have supported the election of the Cardinal d’Amboise, and not that of the Cardinal San Pietro in Vincola. For whoever thinks that amongst great personages recent benefits will cause old injuries to be forgotten, deceives himself greatly. The Duke, then, in consenting to the election of Julius II. committed an error which proved the cause of his ultimate ruin.

  CHAPTER VIII.

  of such as have achieved sovereignty by means of crimes.

  But as there are also two ways in which a person may rise from private station to sovereignty, and which can neither be attributed to fortune nor to valor, it seems to me they should not be left unnoticed; although one of these ways might be more fully discussed when we treat of republics. These two modes are, when one achieves sovereignty either by wicked and nefarious means, or when a private citizen becomes sovereign of his country by the favor of his fellow-citizens. I will explain the first by two examples, the one ancient and the other modern; and without entering otherwise into the merits of these cases, I judge they will suffice to any one who may find himself obliged to imitate them.

  Agathocles, a Sicilian, rose to be king of Syracuse, not only from being a mere private citizen, but from the lowest and most abject condition. He was the son of a potter, and led a vicious life through all the various phases of his career. But his wickedness was coupled with so much moral and physical courage, that, having joined the army, he rose by successive steps until he became Prætor of Syracuse. Having attained that rank he resolved to make himself sovereign, and to retain by violence, and regardless of others, that which had been intrusted to him by public consent. For this purpose he came to an understanding with Hamilcar the Carthaginian, who was at that time carrying on war with his army in Sicily; and having one morning called an assembly of the people and the Senate of Syracuse, as though he wished to confer with them about public affairs, he made his soldiers, at a given signal, slay all the Senators and the richest of the people, and then seized the sovereignty of that city without any resistance on the part of the citizens. Although afterwards twice defeated by the Carthaginians, and finally besieged by them in Syracuse, he not only defended that city, but, leaving a portion of his forces to sustain the siege, he crossed the sea with the other part and attacked Africa, thus raising the siege of Syracuse in a short time, and driving the Carthaginians to the extremest necessity, compelling them to make terms with him, and to remain content with the possession of Africa, and leave Sicily to him.

  Whoever now reflects upon the conduct and valor of Agathocles will find in them little or nothing that can be attributed to fortune; for, as I have said, he achieved sovereignty, not by the favor of any one, but through his high rank in the army, which he had won by a thousand efforts and dangers, and he afterwards maintained his sovereignty with great courage, and even temerity. And yet we cannot call it valor to massacre one’s fellow-citizens, to betray one’s friends, and to be devoid of good faith, mercy, and religion; such means may enable a man to achieve empire, but not glory. Still, if we consider the valor of Agathocles in encountering and overcoming dangers, and his invincible courage in supporting and mastering adversity, we shall find no reason why he should be regarded inferior to any of the most celebrated captains. But with all this, his outrageous cruelty and inhumanity, together with his infinite crimes, will not permit him to be classed with the most celebrated men. We cannot therefore ascribe to either valor or fortune the achievements of Agathocles, which he accomplished without either the one or the other.

  In our own times, during the pontificate of Alexander VI., Oliverotto da Fermo, having been left an orphan, was brought up by his maternal uncle, Giovanni Fogliani, and was in early youth placed in the military service under Paolo Vitelli; so that, after having been thoroughly trained and disciplined, he might attain prominent rank in the army. After the death of Paolo, he served under his brother Vitellozzo; and became in a very short time, by his intelligence, his bodily strength and intrepidity, one of the foremost men in his service. But deeming it servile to act under the command of others, he planned, together with some of the citizens of Fermo who preferred servitude to the liberty of their country, and with the concurrence of Vitellozzo, to seize Fermo and make himself lord of the same. With this object he wrote to his uncle, Giovanni Fogliani, that, having been absent from home for several years, he desired now to come to see him and his native city, and also to look up his patrimony; and that, having until then striven only to acquire honor, he desired to show his fellow-citizens that he had not labored in vain; and therefore he wished to come in splendid style, accompanied by one hundred cavaliers, friends of his. He begged his uncle, therefore, to be pleased to arrange that the inhabitants of Fermo should give him an honorable reception, which would be an honor not only to him, but also to Giovanni, who was his near relative and had brought him up. Giovanni therefore omitted no courtesies due to his nephew, and caused the citizens of Fermo to give him an honorable reception, as well as lodgings in their houses for himself and all his retinue. After spending some days in Fermo, and arranging all that was necessary for the execution of his villanous design, Oliverotto gave a sumptuous entertainment, to which he invited his uncle Giovanni and all the principal citizens of Fermo. After the dinner and the other entertainments that are customary on such occasions, Oliverotto artfully started a grave discussion respecting the greatness of Pope Alexander VI. and his son Cesar Borgia and their enterprises. When Giovanni and the others replied to his remarks, Oliverotto suddenly arose, saying that these things were only to be spoken of in private places, and withdrew to another room, whither Giovanni and the other citizens followed. No sooner had they seated themselves there, than some of Oliverotto’s soldiers rushed out from concealment and massacred Giovanni and all the others.

  After this murder Oliverotto mounted his horse, rode through the streets of Fermo, and besieged the supreme magistrates in the palace, who, constrained by fear, obeyed him, and formed a government of which Oliverotto made himself sovereign. And as all those who, as malcontents, might have injured him, had been put to death, Oliverotto fortified himself in his position with new institutions, both civil and military, so that for the space of a year, during which he held the sovereignty, he was not only secure in the city of Fermo, but had become formidable to all his neighbors; so that it would have been as difficult to overcome him as Agathocles, had he not allowed himself to be deceived by Cesar Borgia, when, as I have related, he entrapped the Orsini and the Vitelli at Sinigaglia, where Oliverotto was also taken and strangled, together with Vitellozzo, his master in valor and in villany, just one year after he had committed parricide in having his uncle Giovanni Fogliani assassinated.

  Some may wonder how it was that Agathocles, and others like him, after their infinite treason and cruelty, could live for any length of time securely in the countries whose sovereignty they had usurped, and even defend themselves successfully against external enemies, without any attempts on the part of their own citizens to conspire against them; whilst many others could not by means of cruelty maintain their state even in time of peace, much less in doubtful times of war. I believe that this happened according as the cruelties were well or ill applied; we may call cruelty well applied (if indeed we may call that well which in itself is evil) when it is committed once from necessity for self-protection, and afterwards not persisted in, but converted as far as possible to the public good. Ill-applied cruelties are those which, though at first but few, yet increase with time rather than cease altogether. Those who adopt the first practice may, with the help of God and man, render some service to their state, as had been done by Agathocles; but those who adopt the latter course will not possibly be able to maintain themselves in their state. Whence it is to be noted that in taking possession of a state the conqueror should well reflect as to the harsh measures that may be necessary, and then execute them at a single blow, so as not to be obliged to renew them every day; and by thus not repeating them, to assure himself of the support of the inhabitants, and win them over to himself by benefits bestowed. And he who acts otherwise, either from timidity or from being badly advised, will be obliged ever to be sword in hand, and will never be able to rely upon his subjects, who in turn will not be able to rely upon him, because of the constant fresh wrongs committed by him. Cruelties should be committed all at once, as in that way each separate one is less felt, and gives less offence; benefits, on the other hand, should be conferred one at a time, for in that way they will be more appreciated. But above all a prince should live upon such terms with his subjects that no accident, either for good or for evil, should make him vary his conduct towards them. For when adverse times bring upon you the necessity for action, you will no longer be in time to do evil; and the good you may do will not profit you, because it will be regarded as having been forced from you, and therefore will bring you no thanks.

  CHAPTER IX.

  of civil principalities.

  But let us come now to that other case, when a prominent citizen has become prince of his country, not by treason and violence, but by the favor of his fellow-citizens. This may be called a civil principality; and to attain it requires neither great virtue nor extraordinary good fortune, but rather a happy shrewdness. I say, then, that such principalities are achieved either by the favor of the people or by that of the nobles; for in every state there will be found two different dispositions, which result from this, — that the people dislike being ruled and oppressed by the nobles, whilst the nobles seek to rule and oppress the people. And this diversity of feeling and interests engenders one of three effects in a state: these are either a principality, or a government of liberty, or license. A principality results either from the will of the people or from that of the nobles, according as either the one or the other prevails and has the opportunity. For the nobles, seeing that they cannot resist the people, begin to have recourse to the influence and reputation of one of their own class, and make him a prince, so that under the shadow of his power they may give free scope to their desires. The people also, seeing that they cannot resist the nobles, have recourse to the influence and reputation of one man, and make him prince, so as to be protected by his authority. He who becomes prince by the aid of the nobles will have more difficulty in maintaining himself than he who arrives at that high station by the aid of the people. For the former finds himself surrounded by many who in their own opinion are equal to him, and for that reason he can neither command nor manage them in his own way. But he who attains the principality by favor of the people stands alone, and has around him none, or very few, that will not yield him a ready obedience. Moreover, you cannot satisfy the nobles with honesty, and without wrong to others, but it is easy to satisfy the people, whose aims are ever more honest than those of the nobles; the latter wishing to oppress, and the former being unwilling to be oppressed. I will say further, that a prince can never assure himself of a people who are hostile to him, for they are too numerous; the nobles on the other hand being but few, it becomes easy for a prince to make himself sure of them.

  The worst that a prince may expect of a people who are unfriendly to him is that they will desert him; but the hostile nobles he has to fear, not only lest they abandon him, but also because they will turn against him. For they, being more farsighted and astute, always save themselves in advance, and seek to secure the favor of him whom they hope may be successful. The prince also is obliged always to live with the same people; but he can do very well without the same nobles, whom he can make and unmake at will any day, and bestow upon them or deprive them of their rank whenever it pleases him. The better to elucidate this subject, we must consider the nobles mainly in two ways; that is to say, they either shape their conduct so as to ally themselves entirely to your fortunes, or they do not. Those who attach themselves to you thus, if they are not rapacious, are to be honored and loved. Those who do not attach themselves to you must be regarded in two ways. Either they are influenced by pusillanimity and a natural lack of courage, and then you may make use of them, and especially of such as are men of intelligence; for in prosperity they will honor you, and in adversity you need not fear them. But if they purposely avoid attaching themselves to you from notions of ambition, then it is an evidence that they think more of their own interests than of yours; and of such men a prince must beware, and look upon them as open enemies, for when adversity comes they will always turn against him and contribute to his ruin.

  Any one, therefore, who has become a prince by the favor of the people, must endeavor to preserve their good will, which will be easy for him, as they will ask of him no more than that he shall not oppress them. But he who, contrary to the will of the people, has become prince by the favor of the nobles, should at once and before everything else strive to win the good will of the people, which will be easy for him, by taking them under his protection. And as men, when they receive benefits from one of whom they expected only ill treatment, will attach themselves readily to such a benefactor, so the people will become more kindly disposed to such a one than if he had been made prince by their favor. Now a prince can secure the good will of the people in various ways, which differ with their character, and for which no fixed rules can be given. I will merely conclude by saying that it is essential for a prince to possess the good will and affection of his people, otherwise he will be utterly without support in time of adversity. Nabis, prince of Sparta, sustained the attacks of all Greece, and of a victorious Roman army, and successfully defended his country and his state against them; and when danger came, it was enough for him to be assured of a few supporters, which would not have sufficed if the people had been hostile to him. And let no one contravene this opinion of mine by quoting the trite saying, that “he who relies upon the people builds upon quicksand”; though this may be true when a private citizen places his reliance upon the people in the belief that they will come to his relief when he is oppressed by his enemies or the magistrates. In such a case he will often find himself deceived; as happened in Rome to the Gracchi, and in Florence to Messer Scali. But it being a prince who places his reliance upon those whom he might command, and being a man of courage and undismayed by adversity, and not having neglected to make proper preparations, and keeping all animated by his own courageous example and by his orders, he will not be deceived by the people; and it will be seen that the foundations of his state are laid solidly.

  Those princes run great risks who attempt to change a civil government into an absolute one; for such princes command either in person or by means of magistrates. In the latter case, their state is more feeble and precarious; for the prince is in all things dependent upon the will of those citizens who are placed at the head of the magistracy, who, particularly in times of adversity, may with great ease deprive him of the government, either by open opposition or by refusing him obedience. For when danger is upon him, the prince is no longer in time to assume absolute authority; for the citizens and subjects who have been accustomed to receive their commands from the magistrates will not be disposed to yield obedience to the prince when in adversity. Thus in doubtful times there will ever be a lack of men whom he can trust. Such a prince cannot depend upon what he observes in ordinary quiet times, when the citizens have need of his authority; for then everybody runs at his bidding, everybody promises, and everybody is willing to die for him, when death is very remote. But in adverse times, when the government has need of the citizens, then but few will be found to stand by the prince. And this experience is the more dangerous as it can only be made once.

  A wise prince, therefore, will steadily pursue such a course that the citizens of his state will always and under all circumstances feel the need of his authority, and will therefore always prove faithful to him.

  CHAPTER X.

  in what manner the power of all principalities should be measured.

  In examining the nature of the different principalities, it is proper to consider another point; namely, whether a prince is sufficiently powerful to be able, in case of need, to sustain himself, or whether he is obliged always to depend upon others for his defence. And to explain this point the better, I say that, in my judgment, those are able to maintain themselves who, from an abundance of men and money, can put a well-appointed army into the field, and meet any one in open battle that may attempt to attack them. And I esteem those as having need of the constant support of others who cannot meet their enemies in the field, but are under the necessity of taking refuge behind walls and keeping within them. Of the first case I have already treated, and shall speak of it again hereafter as occasion may require. Of the second case I cannot say otherwise than that it behooves such princes to fortify the cities where they have their seat of government, and to provide them well with all necessary supplies, without paying much attention to the country. For any prince that has thoroughly fortified the city in which he resides, and has in other respects placed himself on a good footing with his subjects, as has been explained above, will not be readily attacked. For men will ever be indisposed to engage in enterprises that present manifest difficulties; and it cannot be regarded as an easy undertaking to attack a prince in a city which he has thoroughly fortified, and who is not hated by his people.

  The cities of Germany enjoy great liberties; they own little land outside of the walls, and obey the Emperor at their pleasure, fearing neither him nor any other neighboring power; for they are so well fortified that their capture would manifestly be tedious and difficult. They all have suitable walls and ditches, and are amply supplied with artillery, and always keep in their public magazines a year’s supply of provisions, drink, and fuel. Moreover, by way of feeding the people without expense to the public, they always keep on hand a common stock of raw materials to last for one year, so as to give employment in those branches of industry by which the people are accustomed to gain their living, and which are the nerve and life of the city. They also attach much importance to military exercises, and have established many regulations for their proper practice.

  A prince, then, who has a well-fortified city, and has not made himself odious to his people, cannot be readily attacked; and if any one be nevertheless rash enough to make the attempt, he would have to abandon it ignominiously, for the things of this world are so uncertain that it seems almost impossible that any one should be able to remain a whole year with his army inactive, carrying on the siege.

  And if any one were to argue that, if the people who have possessions outside of the city were to see them ravaged and destroyed by the enemy, they would lose their patience, and that their selfish desire to protect their property would cause them to forget their attachment to the prince, I would meet this objection by saying, that a powerful and valiant prince will easily overcome this difficulty by encouraging his subjects with the hope that the evil will not endure long, or by alarming them with fears of the enemy’s cruelty, or by assuring himself adroitly of those who have been too forward in expressing their discontent.

  It is, moreover, reasonable to suppose that the enemy will ravage and destroy the country immediately upon his arrival before the city, and whilst its inhabitants are still full of courage and eager for defence. The prince, therefore, has the less ground for apprehension, because, by the time that the ardor of his people has cooled somewhat, the damage has already been done, and the evil is past remedy. And then the people will be the more ready to stand by their prince, for they will regard him as under obligations to them, their houses having been burnt and their property ravaged in his defence. For it is the nature of mankind to become as much attached to others by the benefits which they bestow on them, as by those which they receive.

  All things considered, then, it will not be difficult for a prudent prince to keep up the courage of his citizens in time of siege, both in the beginning as well as afterwards, provided there be no lack of provisions or means of defence.

  CHAPTER XI.

  of ecclesiastical principalities.

  It remains now only to speak of ecclesiastical principalities, in the attainment of which all difficulties occur beforehand. To achieve them requires either virtue or good fortune; but they are maintained without either the one or the other, for they are sustained by the ancient ordinances of religion, which are so powerful and of such quality that they maintain their princes in their position, no matter what their conduct or mode of life may be. These are the only princes that have states without the necessity of defending them, and subjects without governing them; and their states, though undefended, are not taken from them, whilst their subjects are indifferent to the fact that they are not governed, and have no thought of the possibility of alienating themselves from their princes.

  These ecclesiastical principalities, then, are the only ones that are secure and happy; and being under the direction of that supreme wisdom to which human minds cannot attain, I will abstain from all further discussion of them; for they are raised up and sustained by the Divine Power, and it would be a bold and presumptuous office for any man to discuss them.

  Nevertheless, if any one asks how it comes that the Church has acquired such power and greatness in temporal matters, whilst previous to Alexander VI. all the Italian potentates, and even the great barons and the smallest nobles, paid so little regard to the temporal power of the Church, whilst now a king of France trembles before it, and this power has been able to drive him out of Italy and to ruin the Venetians, I shall not deem it superfluous to recall to memory the circumstances of the growth of this temporal power, although they are well known.

  Before King Charles VIII. of France came into Italy, that country was under the rule of the Pope, the Venetians, the king of Naples, the Duke of Milan, and the Florentines. These powers were obliged always to keep in view two important points: the one, not to permit any foreign power to come into Italy with an armed force; and the other, to prevent each other from further aggrandizement.

  Those who had to be most closely watched by the others were the Pope and the Venetians. To restrain the latter required the united power of all the others, as was the case in the defence of Ferrara; and to keep the Pope in check they availed themselves of the barons of Rome, who were divided into two factions, the Orsini and the Colonna; there being constant cause of quarrel between them, they were always with arms in hand, under the very eyes of the Pope, which kept the papal power weak and infirm.

  And although now and then a courageous Pope arose, who succeeded for a time in repressing these factions, as for instance Sixtus IV., yet neither wisdom nor good fortune could ever relieve them entirely from this annoyance. The cause of this difficulty was the shortness of their lives; for in the ten years which is about the average length of the life of a Pope, it would be difficult for him to crush out either one of these factions entirely. And if, for instance, one Pope should have succeeded in putting down the Colonna, another one, hostile to the Orsini, would arise and resuscitate the Colonna, but would not have the time to put down the Orsini. This was the reason why the temporal power of the Popes was so little respected in Italy.

  Afterwards Alexander VI. came to the Pontificate, who, more than any of his predecessors, showed what a Pope could accomplish with the money and power of the Church. Availing himself of the opportunity of the French invasion of Italy, and the instrumentality of the Duke Valentino, Alexander accomplished all those things which I have mentioned when speaking of the actions of the Duke. And although Alexander’s object was not the aggrandizement of the Church, but rather that of his son, the Duke, yet all his efforts served to advance the interests of the Church, which, after his death and that of his son, fell heir to all the results of his labors.

  Soon after came Julius II., who found the Church powerful, and mistress of the entire Romagna, with the Roman barons crushed and the factions destroyed by the vigorous blows of Alexander. He also found the way prepared for the accumulation of money, which had never been employed before the time of Alexander. Julius II. not only continued the system of Alexander, but carried it even further, and resolved to acquire the possession of Bologna, to ruin the Venetians, and to drive the French out of Italy, in all of which he succeeded. And this was the more praiseworthy in him, inasmuch as he did all these things, not for his own aggrandizement, but for that of the Church. He furthermore restrained the Orsini and the Colonna factions within the limits in which he found them upon his accession to the Pontificate; and although there were some attempts at disturbances between them, yet there were two things that kept them down: one, the power of the Church, which overawed them; and the other, the fact that neither of them had any cardinals, who were generally the fomenters of the disturbances between them. Nor will these party feuds ever cease so long as the cardinals take any part in them. For it is they who stir up the factions in Rome as well as elsewhere, and then force the barons to sustain them. And it is thus that the ambition of these prelates gives rise to the discord and the disturbances amongst the barons.

  His Holiness Pope Leo X. thus found the Church all-powerful on his accession; and it is to be hoped that, if his predecessors have made the Church great by means of arms, he will make her still greater and more venerable by his goodness and his infinite other virtues.

  CHAPTER XII.

  of the different kinds of troops, and of mercenaries.

  Having discussed in detail the characteristics of all those kinds of principalities of which I proposed at the outset to treat, and having examined to some extent the causes of their success or failure, and explained the means by which many have sought to acquire and maintain them, it remains for me now to discuss generally the means of offence and defence which such princes may have to employ, under the various circumstances above referred to.

  We have said how necessary it is for a prince to lay solid foundations for his power, as without such he would inevitably be ruined. The main foundations which all states must have, whether new, or old, or mixed, are good laws and good armies. And as there can be no good laws where there are not good armies, so the laws will be apt to be good where the armies are so. I will therefore leave the question of the laws, and confine myself to that of the armies. I say, then, that the armies with which a prince defends his state are either his own, or they are mercenaries or auxiliaries, or they are mixed. Mercenary and auxiliary troops are both useless and dangerous; and if any one attempts to found his state upon mercenaries, it will never be stable or secure; for they are disunited, ambitious, and without discipline, — faithless, and braggarts amongst friends, but amongst enemies cowards, and have neither fear of God nor good faith with men; so that the ruin of the prince who depends on them will be deferred only just so long as attack is delayed; and in peace he will be spoliated by his mercenaries, and in war by his enemies. The reason of all this is, that mercenary troops are not influenced by affection, or by any other consideration except their small stipend, which is not enough to make them willing to die for you. They are ready to serve you as soldiers so long as you are at peace; but when war comes, they will either run away or march off. There is no difficulty in demonstrating the truth of this; for the present ruin of Italy can be attributed to nothing else but to the fact that she has for many years depended upon mercenary armies, who for a time had some success, and seemed brave enough amongst themselves, but so soon as a foreign enemy came they showed what stuff they were made of. This was the reason why Charles VIII., king of France, was allowed to take Italy with scarcely an effort, and as it were with merely a piece of chalk.* Those who assert that our misfortunes were caused by our own faults speak the truth; but these faults were not such as are generally supposed to have been the cause, but those rather which I have pointed out; and as it was the princes who committed these faults, so they also suffered the penalties.

  I will demonstrate more fully the unhappy consequences of employing mercenary armies. Their commanders are either competent, or they are not; if they are, then you cannot trust them, because their chief aim will always be their own aggrandizement, either by imposing upon you, who are their employer, or by oppressing others beyond your intentions; and if they are incompetent, then they will certainly hasten your ruin. If now you meet these remarks by saying that the same will be the case with every commander, whether of mercenary troops or others, I reply, that, inasmuch as armies are employed either by princes or by republics, the prince should always in person perform the duty of commanding his army, and a republic should send one of her own citizens to command her troops, and in case he should not be successful, then they must change him; but if he is victorious, then they must be careful to keep him within the law, so that he may not exceed his powers. Experience has shown that princes as well as republics achieve the greatest success in war when they themselves direct the movements of their own armies, whilst mercenary troops do nothing but damage; and that a republic that has armies of her own is much less easily subjected to servitude by one of her own citizens, than one that depends upon foreign troops.

  Thus Rome and Sparta maintained their liberties for many centuries by having armies of their own; the Swiss are most thoroughly armed, and consequently enjoy the greatest independence and liberty. The Carthaginians, on the other hand, furnish an example of the danger of employing mercenaries, for they came very near being subjugated by them at the close of the first war with Rome, although they had appointed some of their own citizens as commanders. After the death of Epaminondas, the Thebans made Philip of Macedon commander of their army, who after having been victorious deprived the Thebans of their liberty. The Milanese, after the death of Duke Philip, employed Francesco Sforza against the Venetians; after having defeated them at Caravaggio, he combined with them to subjugate his employers, the Milanese. The father of Francesco Sforza, who was commander in the service of Queen Joanna of Naples, suddenly left her entirely without troops, in consequence of which she was compelled to throw herself upon the protection of the king of Aragon, to save her kingdom. And if the Venetians and the Florentines formerly extended their dominions by means of mercenaries, and without their commanders attempting to make themselves princes of the country, but rather defending it loyally, I can only say that the Florentines were greatly favored by fortune in that respect. For of the valiant captains whose ambition they might have feared, some were not victorious, some never met an enemy, and others directed their ambition elsewhere. Amongst those who were not victorious was Giovanni Aguto,* whose good faith was never put to the test, he having been unsuccessful in the field; although it will be generally admitted that, had he been successful, the Florentines would have been at his mercy. The Sforzas and the Bracceschi were always opposed to each other, which caused Francesco to direct his ambition towards Lombardy, whilst Braccio turned his towards the Church and the kingdom of Naples.

  But let us come now to occurrences of more recent date. The Florentines had conferred the command of their troops upon Paolo Vitelli, a soldier of the greatest ability, who had risen from private station to the highest post and reputation. No one will deny that, if he had succeeded in taking Pisa, the Florentines would have been obliged to submit to him; for had he gone over to the enemy, they would have been helpless, and if they kept him they would have been obliged to submit to his terms.

  If now we look at the Venetians, we shall find that they carried on their wars securely and gloriously so long as they confined themselves to their proper element, the water, where they conducted their operations most bravely with their nobles and their own people. But when they engaged in wars on land, they no longer acted with their customary bravery, and adopted the habit of the other Italian states of employing mercenary troops. And although at the beginning of the growth of their dominion on land they had no occasion to have any serious apprehensions of their commanders, because their own reputation was great and their possessions on land small, yet when they extended these, which was under the captaincy of Carmignuola, they became sensible of their error. For although they were aware that it was by his superior conduct that they had defeated the Duke of Milan, yet on observing his lukewarmness in the further conduct of the war, they concluded that they could no longer hope for victory under his command. Still they dared not dismiss him for fear of losing what they had gained, and therefore they deemed it necessary for their own security to put him to death.

  After that, the Venetians employed as generals of their forces Bartolommeo da Bergamo, Ruberto da San Severino, the Count Pittigliano, and the like, with whom they had reason rather to apprehend losses than to expect successes; as indeed happened afterwards at Vaila, where in one battle they lost what had taken them eight hundred years of great labor to acquire; for with this kind of troops acquisitions are feeble and slow, whilst losses are quick and extraordinary.

  Having thus far confined my examples to Italy, which has been for many years controlled by mercenary armies, I will now go back to an earlier period in discussing this subject; so that, having seen the origin and progress of the system, it may be the more effectually corrected. You must know, then, that in the earlier times, so soon as the Roman Empire began to lose its power and credit in Italy, and when the Pope acquired more influence in temporal matters, Italy became subdivided into a number of states. Many of the large cities took up arms against their nobles, who, encouraged by the Emperor, had kept them oppressed. The Church, by way of increasing her own influence in temporal matters, favored this revolt of the cities against their nobles. In many other cities the supreme power was usurped by some of their own citizens, who made themselves princes of the same. Thus it was that Italy, as it were, passed under the dominion of the Church and certain republics. And as these citizens and prelates were not accustomed to the management of armies, they began to hire foreigners for this purpose. The first who brought this sort of military into high repute was Alberigo da Como, a native of the Romagna. It was under his discipline that Braccio and Sforza were trained, and these in turn became the arbiters of Italy. They were succeeded by all those others who up to our time have led the armies of Italy; and the result of all their valor was that she was overrun by the French under Charles VIII., ravaged and plundered by Louis XII., oppressed by Ferdinand of Spain, and insulted and vituperated by the Swiss.

  The course which these mercenary leaders pursued for the purpose of giving reputation and credit to their own mounted forces was, first, to decry and destroy the reputation of the infantry of the several states. They did this because, having no territorial possessions of their own, and being mere soldiers of fortune, they could achieve no reputation by means of a small body of infantry, and for a larger force they could not furnish subsistence. And therefore they confined themselves to cavalry, a smaller force of which enabled them the more readily to gain success and credit, and was at the same time more easily subsisted. In this way they brought matters to that point, that in an army of twenty thousand there were not over two thousand infantry.

  Moreover, they used all means and ingenuity to avoid exposing themselves and their men to great fatigue and danger, and never killing each other in their encounters, but merely taking prisoners, who were afterwards liberated without ransom. They never make any night attacks when besieging a place, nor did the besieged make any night sorties; they never properly intrenched their camps, and never kept the field in winter. All these practices were permitted by their rules of war, which were devised by them expressly, as we have said, to avoid hardships and danger; so that Italy was brought to shame and slavery by this system of employing mercenary troops.

  CHAPTER XIII.

  of auxiliaries, and of mixed and national troops.

  Auxiliary troops, which are the other kind which I have characterized in the preceding chapter as useless, are such as are furnished by a powerful ally whom a prince calls upon to come with his troops to aid and defend him; as was done quite lately by Pope Julius II., who, having had sad proof of the inefficiency of mercenaries in his attempt upon Ferrara, resorted to auxiliaries, and arranged with Ferdinand of Spain to send his armies to his assistance.

  Troops of this kind may be useful and good in themselves, but they are always dangerous for him who calls them to his aid; for if defeated, he remains undone, and if victorious, then he is in their power like a prisoner. And although I could adduce numerous examples of this from ancient history, yet I will here cite that of Pope Julius II., which is still fresh in our minds, and whose conduct in that respect could not well have been more imprudent than what it was. For, wishing to take Ferrara, he placed himself entirely in the hands of a foreigner. Fortunately for him, however, an incident occurred which saved him from the full effect of his bad selection; for his auxiliaries having been defeated at Ravenna, the Swiss suddenly appeared on the field and put the victors to ignominious flight. And thus Julius II. escaped becoming prisoner either to his enemies who had fled, or to his auxiliaries; for the enemy’s defeat was not due to their assistance, but to that of others.

  The Florentines, having no army of their own, and wishing to get possession of Pisa, employed for that purpose ten thousand French troops, and were involved in greater danger by them than they had ever experienced from any other difficulty. The Emperor of Constantinople, by way of resisting the attacks of his neighbors, put ten thousand troops into Greece, who at the termination of the war refused to leave the country again; and this was the beginning of the subjection of Greece to the infidels.

  Whoever, then, desires not to be victorious, let him employ auxiliary troops, for they are much more dangerous even than mercenaries. For your ruin is certain with auxiliaries, who are all united in their obedience to another; whilst mercenaries, even after victory, need more time and greater opportunity to injure you, for they are not one homogeneous body, and have been selected by yourself and are in your pay, and their commander being appointed by you, he cannot so quickly gain sufficient influence over these troops to enable him to injure you. In short, with mercenaries the danger lies in their cowardice and bad faith; whilst with auxiliaries their valor constitutes the danger.

  A wise prince, therefore, should ever avoid employing either one of them, and should rely exclusively upon his own troops, and should prefer defeat with them rather than victory with the troops of others, with whom no real victory can ever be won. In proof of this, I shall not hesitate again to cite the conduct of Cesar Borgia. This Duke entered the Romagna with auxiliaries, taking there only French troops, with whom he took Imola and Furli. But thinking afterwards that these troops were not reliable, he had recourse to mercenaries, whom he deemed less dangerous, and engaged the Orsini and the Vitelli. These, however, proved themselves by their conduct to be uncertain, faithless, and dangerous; and therefore the Duke destroyed them, and then relied upon his own troops exclusively. The difference between the one and the other of these troops is easily seen when we look at the reputation of the Duke Valentino at the time when he employed the Orsini and the Vitelli, and when he had none but his own troops; for then his credit increased steadily, and the Duke was never more highly esteemed than when every one saw that he was thoroughly master of his armies.

  I did not intend to depart from Italian and recent instances, and yet I cannot leave unnoticed the case of Hiero of Syracuse, being one of those to whom I have referred before. Having been made general of the Syracusan army, as before stated, he quickly perceived that mercenary troops were not useful, their commanders being appointed in a similar manner as our Italian Condottieri. And as it seemed to Hiero that he could neither keep nor dismiss them with safety, he had them all put to death and cut to pieces, and thenceforth carried on the war exclusively with troops of his own.

  I will also recall to memory an illustration from the Old Testament applicable to this subject. David having offered to go and fight the Philistine bully, Goliath, Saul, by way of encouraging David, gave him his own arms and armor, which David however declined, after having tried them, saying that he could not make the most of his strength if he used those arms; and therefore he preferred to meet the enemy with no other arms but his sling and his knife. In short, the armor of another never suits you entirely; it is either too large and falls off your back, or weighs you down, or it is too tight.

  Charles VII., father of Louis XI., king of France, having by his valor and good fortune delivered France from the English, recognized the necessity of depending solely upon his own armies, and organized in his kingdom regular companies of artillery, cavalry, and infantry. His son, Louis XI., afterwards disbanded the infantry, and began to hire Swiss soldiers in their stead. This error, being followed by others, is now seen to have been the cause of the dangers to which that kingdom was exposed; for by giving prominence to the Swiss, Louis depreciated his own troops, and having disbanded his own infantry entirely, and accustomed his mounted forces to the support of the Swiss, they felt that they could have no success without them. Thence it came that the French could not hold their own against the Swiss, and without their support they could not stand against others. And thus the French armies have remained mixed, that is to say, partly their own troops and partly mercenaries; which, although better than either auxiliaries or mercenaries alone, yet makes them much worse than if they were composed exclusively of their own troops. Let this example suffice; for the kingdom of France would have been invincible if the military system established by Charles VII. had been persevered in and extended. But the short-sightedness of men leads them to adopt any measure that for the moment seems good, and which does not openly reveal the poison concealed under it, as I have said above of hectic fevers.

  A prince, then, who does not promptly recognize evils as they arise, cannot be called wise; but unfortunately this faculty is given to but few. And if we reflect upon the beginning of the ruin of the Roman Empire, it will be found to have resulted solely from hiring the Goths for its armies; for that was the first cause of the enervation of the forces of the Empire; and the valor of which the Romans divested themselves was thus transferred to the Goths.

  I conclude, then, that no prince can ever be secure that has not an army of his own; and he will become wholly dependent upon fortune if in times of adversity he lacks the valor to defend himself. And wise men have ever held the opinion, that nothing is more weak and unstable than the reputation of power when not founded upon forces of the prince’s own; by which I mean armies composed of his own subjects or citizens, or of his own creation; — all others are either mercenaries or auxiliaries.

  The means for organizing such armies of his own will readily be found by the prince by studying the method in which Philip of Macedon, father of Alexander the Great, and many republics and princes, organized their armies, to which I refer in all respects.

  CHAPTER XIV.

  of the duties of a prince in relation to military matters.

  A prince, then, should have no other thought or object so much at heart, and make no other thing so much his especial study, as the art of war and the organization and discipline of his army; for that is the only art that is expected of him who commands. And such is its power, that it not only maintains in their position those who were born princes, but it often enables men born in private station to achieve the rank of princes. And on the other hand, we have seen that princes who thought more of indulgence in pleasure than of arms have thereby lost their states.

  Thus the neglect of the art of war is the principal cause of the loss of your state, whilst a proficiency in it often enables you to acquire one. Francesco Sforza, from being skilled in arms, rose from private station to be Duke of Milan; and his descendants, by shunning the labors and fatigue of arms, relapsed into the condition of private citizens.

  Amongst the other causes of evil that will befall a prince who is destitute of a proper military force is, that it will make him contemned; which is one of those disgraces against which a prince ought especially to guard, as we shall demonstrate further on. For there is no sort of proportion between one who is well armed and one who is not so; nor is it reasonable that he who is armed should voluntarily obey the unarmed, or that a prince who is without a military force should remain secure amongst his armed subjects. For when there is disdain on the one side and mistrust on the other, it is impossible that the two should work well together. A prince, then, who is not master of the art of war, besides other misfortunes, cannot be respected by his soldiers, nor can he depend upon them. And therefore should the practice of arms ever be uppermost in the prince’s thoughts; he should study it in time of peace as much as in actual war, which he can do in two ways, the one by practical exercise, and the other by scientific study. As regards the former, he must not only keep his troops well disciplined and exercised, but he must also frequently follow the chase, whereby his body will become inured to hardships, and he will become familiar with the character of the country, and learn where the mountains rise and the valleys debouch, and how the plains lie; he will learn to know the nature of rivers and of the swamps, to all of which he should give the greatest attention. For this knowledge is valuable in many ways to the prince, who thereby learns to know his own country, and can therefore better understand its defence. Again, by the knowledge of and practical acquaintance with one country, he will with greater facility comprehend the character of others, which it may be necessary for him to understand. For instance, the mountains, valleys, plains, rivers, and swamps of Tuscany bear a certain resemblance to those of other provinces; so that by the knowledge of the character and formation of one country he will readily arrive at that of others. A prince who is wanting in that experience lacks the very first essentials which a commander should possess; for that knowledge teaches him where to find the enemy, to select proper places for intrenchments, to conduct armies, regulate marches, and order battles, and to keep the field with advantage.

  Amongst other praises that have been accorded by different writers to Philopœmen, prince of the Achaians, was, that in time of peace he devoted himself constantly to the study of the art of war; and when he walked in the country with friends, he often stopped and argued with them thus: “Suppose the enemy were on yonder mountain, and we should happen to be here with our army, which of the two would have the advantage? How could we go most safely to find the enemy, observing proper order? If we should wish to retreat, how should we proceed? and if the enemy were to retreat, which way had we best pursue him?” And thus in walking he proposed to his friends all the cases that possibly could occur with an army, hearing their opinions, and giving his own, and corroborating them with reasons; so that by these continued discussions no case could ever arise in the conduct of an army for which he had not thought of the proper remedy. As regards the exercise of the mind, the prince should read history, and therein study the actions of eminent men, observe how they bore themselves in war, and examine the causes of their victories and defeats, so that he may imitate the former and avoid the latter. But above all should he follow the example of whatever distinguished man he may have chosen for his model; assuming that some one has been specially praised and held up to him as glorious, whose actions and exploits he should ever bear in mind. Thus it is told of Alexander that he imitated Achilles, and of Cæsar that he had taken Alexander for his model, as Scipio had done with Cyrus. And whoever reads the life of Cyrus, written by Xenophon, will not fail to recognize afterwards, in the life of Scipio, of how much value this imitation was to him, and how closely the latter conformed in point of temperance, affability, humanity, and liberality to the accounts given of Cyrus by Xenophon.

  A wise prince then should act in like manner, and should never be idle in times of peace, but should industriously lay up stores of which to avail himself in times of adversity; so that, when Fortune abandons him, he may be prepared to resist her blows.

  CHAPTER XV.

  of the means by which men, and especially princes, win applause, or incur censure.

  It remains now to be seen in what manner a prince should conduct himself towards his subjects and his allies; and knowing that this matter has already been treated by many others, I apprehend that my writing upon it also may be deemed presumptuous, especially as in the discussion of the same I shall differ from the rules laid down by others. But as my aim is to write something that may be useful to him for whom it is intended, it seems to me proper to pursue the real truth of the matter, rather than to indulge in mere speculation on the same; for many have imagined republics and principalities such as have never been known to exist in reality. For the manner in which men live is so different from the way in which they ought to live, that he who leaves the common course for that which he ought to follow will find that it leads him to ruin rather than to safety. For a man who, in all respects, will carry out only his professions of good, will be apt to be ruined amongst so many who are evil. A prince therefore who desires to maintain himself must learn to be not always good, but to be so or not as necessity may require. Leaving aside then the imaginary things concerning princes, and confining ourselves only to the realities, I say that all men when they are spoken of, and more especially princes, from being in a more conspicuous position, are noted for some quality that brings them either praise or censure. Thus one is deemed liberal, another miserly (misero) to use a Tuscan expression (for avaricious is he who by rapine desires to gain, and miserly we call him who abstains too much from the enjoyment of his own). One man is esteemed generous, another rapacious; one cruel, another merciful; one faithless, and another faithful; one effeminate and pusillanimous, another ferocious and brave; one affable, another haughty; one lascivious, another chaste; one sincere, the other cunning; one facile, another inflexible; one grave, another frivolous; one religious, another sceptical; and so on.

  I am well aware that it would be most praiseworthy for a prince to possess all of the above-named qualities that are esteemed good; but as he cannot have them all, nor entirely observe them, because of his human nature which does not permit it, he should at least be prudent enough to know how to avoid the infamy of those vices that would rob him of his state; and if possible also to guard against such as are likely to endanger it. But if that be not possible, then he may with less hesitation follow his natural inclinations. Nor need he care about incurring censure for such vices, without which the preservation of his state may be difficult. For, all things considered, it will be found that some things that seem like virtue will lead you to ruin if you follow them; whilst others, that apparently are vices, will, if followed, result in your safety and well-being.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  of liberality and parsimoniousness.

  To begin with the first of the above-named qualities, I say that it is well for a prince to be deemed liberal; and yet liberality, indulged in so that you will no longer be feared, will prove injurious. For liberality worthily exercised, as it should be, will not be recognized, and may bring upon you the reproach of the very opposite. For if you desire the reputation of being liberal, you must not stop at any degree of sumptuousness; so that a prince will in this way generally consume his entire substance, and may in the end, if he wishes to keep up his reputation for liberality, be obliged to subject his people to extraordinary burdens, and resort to taxation, and employ all sorts of measures that will enable him to procure money. This will soon make him odious with his people; and when he becomes poor, he will be contemned by everybody; so that having by his prodigality injured many and benefited few, he will be the first to suffer every inconvenience, and be exposed to every danger. And when he becomes conscious of this and attempts to retrench, he will at once expose himself to the imputation of being a miser.

  A prince then, being unable without injury to himself to practise the virtue of liberality in such manner that it may be generally recognized, should not, when he becomes aware of this and is prudent, mind incurring the charge of parsimoniousness. For after a while, when it is seen that by his prudence and economy he makes his revenues suffice him, and that he is able to provide for his defence in case of war, and engage in enterprises without burdening his people, he will be considered liberal enough by all those from whom he takes nothing, and these are the many; whilst only those to whom he does not give, and which are the few, will look upon him as parsimonious.

  In our own times we have not seen any great things accomplished except by those who were regarded as parsimonious; all others have been ruined. Pope Julius II., having been helped by his reputation of liberality to attain the Pontificate, did not afterwards care to keep up that reputation to enable him to engage in war against the king of France; and he carried on ever so many wars without levying any extraordinary taxes. For his long-continued economy enabled him to supply the extraordinary expenses of his wars.

  If the present king of Spain had sought the reputation of being liberal, he would not have been able to engage in so many enterprises, nor could he have carried them to a successful issue. A prince, then, who would avoid robbing his own subjects, and be able to defend himself, and who would avoid becoming poor and abject or rapacious, should not mind incurring the reputation of being parsimonious; for that is one of those vices that will enable him to maintain his state. And should it be alleged that Julius Cæsar attained the Empire by means of his liberality, and that many others by the same reputation have achieved the highest rank, then I reply, that you are either already a prince, or are in the way of becoming one; in the first case liberality would be injurious to you, but in the second it certainly is necessary to be reputed liberal. Now Cæsar was aiming to attain the Empire of Rome; but having achieved it, had he lived and not moderated his expenditures, he would assuredly have ruined the Empire by his prodigality.

  And were any one to assert that there have been many princes who have achieved great things with their armies, and who were accounted most liberal, I answer that a prince either spends his own substance and that of his subjects, or that of others. Of the first two he should be very sparing, but in spending that of others he ought not to omit any act of liberality. The prince who in person leads his armies into foreign countries, and supports them by plunder, pillage, and exactions, and thus dispenses the substance of others, should do so with the greatest liberality, as otherwise his soldiers would not follow him. For that which belongs neither to him nor to his own subjects, a prince may spend most lavishly, as was done by Cyrus, Cæsar, and Alexander. The spending of other people’s substance will not diminish, but rather increase, his reputation; it is only the spending of his own that is injurious to a prince.

  And there is nothing that consumes itself so quickly as liberality; for the very act of using it causes it to lose the faculty of being used, and will either impoverish and make you contemned, or it will make you rapacious and odious. And of all the things against which a prince should guard most carefully is the incurring the hatred and contempt of his subjects. Now, liberality will bring upon you either the one or the other; there is therefore more wisdom in submitting to be called parsimonious, which may bring you blame without hatred, than, by aiming to be called liberal, to incur unavoidably the reputation of rapacity, which will bring upon you infamy as well as hatred.

  CHAPTER XVII.

  of cruelty and clemency, and whether it is better to be loved than feared.

  Coming down now to the other aforementioned qualities, I say that every prince ought to desire the reputation of being merciful, and not cruel; at the same time, he should be careful not to misuse that mercy. Cesar Borgia was reputed cruel, yet by his cruelty he reunited the Romagna to his states, and restored that province to order, peace, and loyalty; and if we carefully examine his course, we shall find it to have been really much more merciful than the course of the people of Florence, who, to escape the reputation of cruelty, allowed Pistoja to be destroyed. A prince, therefore, should not mind the ill repute of cruelty, when he can thereby keep his subjects united and loyal; for a few displays of severity will really be more merciful than to allow, by an excess of clemency, disorders to occur, which are apt to result in rapine and murder; for these injure a whole community, whilst the executions ordered by the prince fall only upon a few individuals. And, above all others, the new prince will find it almost impossible to avoid the reputation of cruelty, because new states are generally exposed to many dangers. It was on this account that Virgil made Dido to excuse the severity of her government, because it was still new, saying, —

  • “Res dura, et regni novitas me talia cogunt
  • Moliri, et late fines custode tueri.”*

  A prince, however, should be slow to believe and to act; nor should he be too easily alarmed by his own fears, and should proceed moderately and with prudence and humanity, so that an excess of confidence may not make him incautious, nor too much mistrust make him intolerant. This, then, gives rise to the question “whether it be better to be beloved than feared, or to be feared than beloved.” It will naturally be answered that it would be desirable to be both the one and the other; but as it is difficult to be both at the same time, it is much more safe to be feared than to be loved, when you have to choose between the two. For it may be said of men in general that they are ungrateful and fickle, dissemblers, avoiders of danger, and greedy of gain. So long as you shower benefits upon them, they are all yours; they offer you their blood, their substance, their lives, and their children, provided the necessity for it is far off; but when it is near at hand, then they revolt. And the prince who relies upon their words, without having otherwise provided for his security, is ruined; for friendships that are won by rewards, and not by greatness and nobility of soul, although deserved, yet are not real, and cannot be depended upon in time of adversity.

  Besides, men have less hesitation in offending one who makes himself beloved than one who makes himself feared; for love holds by a bond of obligation which, as mankind is bad, is broken on every occasion whenever it is for the interest of the obliged party to break it. But fear holds by the apprehension of punishment, which never leaves men. A prince, however, should make himself feared in such a manner that, if he has not won the affections of his people, he shall at least not incur their hatred; for the being feared, and not hated, can go very well together, if the prince abstains from taking the substance of his subjects, and leaves them their women. And if you should be obliged to inflict capital punishment upon any one, then be sure to do so only when there is manifest cause and proper justification for it; and, above all things, abstain from taking people’s property, for men will sooner forget the death of their fathers than the loss of their patrimony. Besides, there will never be any lack of reasons for taking people’s property; and a prince who once begins to live by rapine will ever find excuses for seizing other people’s property. On the other hand, reasons for taking life are not so easily found, and are more readily exhausted. But when a prince is at the head of his army, with a multitude of soldiers under his command, then it is above all things necessary for him to disregard the reputation of cruelty; for without such severity an army cannot be kept together, nor disposed for any successful feat of arms.

  Amongst the many admirable qualities of Hannibal, it is related of him that, having an immense army composed of a very great variety of races of men, which he led to war in foreign countries, no quarrels ever occurred amongst them, nor were there ever any dissensions between them and their chief, either in his good or in his adverse fortunes; which can only be accounted for by his extreme cruelty. This, together with his boundless courage, made him ever venerated and terrible in the eyes of his soldiers; and without that extreme severity all his other virtues would not have sufficed to produce that result.

  Inconsiderate writers have, on the one hand, admired his great deeds, and, on the other, condemned the principal cause of the same. And the proof that his other virtues would not have sufficed him may be seen from the case of Scipio, who was one of the most remarkable men, not only of his own time, but in all history. His armies revolted in Spain solely in consequence of his extreme clemency, which allowed his soldiers more license than comports with proper military discipline. This fact was censured in the Roman Senate by Fabius Maximus, who called Scipio the corrupter of the Roman soldiers. The tribe of the Locrians having been wantonly destroyed by one of the lieutenants of Scipio, he neither punished him for that nor for his insolence, — simply because of his own easy nature; so that, when somebody wished to excuse Scipio in the Senate, he said, “that there were many men who knew better how to avoid errors themselves than to punish them in others.” This easy nature of Scipio’s would in time have dimmed his fame and glory if he had persevered in it under the Empire; but living as he did under the government of the Senate, this dangerous quality of his was not only covered up, but actually redounded to his honor.

  To come back now to the question whether it be better to be beloved than feared, I conclude that, as men love of their own free will, but are inspired with fear by the will of the prince, a wise prince should always rely upon himself, and not upon the will of others; but, above all, should he always strive to avoid being hated, as I have already said above.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  in what manner princes should keep their faith.

  It must be evident to every one that it is more praiseworthy for a prince always to maintain good faith, and practise integrity rather than craft and deceit. And yet the experience of our own times has shown that those princes have achieved great things who made small account of good faith, and who understood by cunning to circumvent the intelligence of others; and that in the end they got the better of those whose actions were dictated by loyalty and good faith. You must know, therefore, that there are two ways of carrying on a contest; the one by law, and the other by force. The first is practised by men, and the other by animals; and as the first is often insufficient, it becomes necessary to resort to the second.

  A prince then should know how to employ the nature of man, and that of the beasts as well. This was figuratively taught by ancient writers, who relate how Achilles and many other princes were given to Chiron the centaur to be nurtured, and how they were trained under his tutorship; which fable means nothing else than that their preceptor combined the qualities of the man and the beast; and that a prince, to succeed, will have to employ both the one and the other nature, as the one without the other cannot produce lasting results.

  It being necessary then for a prince to know well how to employ the nature of the beasts, he should be able to assume both that of the fox and that of the lion; for whilst the latter cannot escape the traps laid for him, the former cannot defend himself against the wolves. A prince should be a fox, to know the traps and snares; and a lion, to be able to frighten the wolves; for those who simply hold to the nature of the lion do not understand their business.

  A sagacious prince then cannot and should not fulfil his pledges when their observance is contrary to his interest, and when the causes that induced him to pledge his faith no longer exist. If men were all good, then indeed this precept would be bad; but as men are naturally bad, and will not observe their faith towards you, you must, in the same way, not observe yours to them; and no prince ever yet lacked legitimate reasons with which to color his want of good faith. Innumerable modern examples could be given of this; and it could easily be shown how many treaties of peace, and how many engagements, have been made null and void by the faithlessness of princes; and he who has best known how to play the fox has ever been the most successful.

  But it is necessary that the prince should know how to color this nature well, and how to be a great hypocrite and dissembler. For men are so simple, and yield so much to immediate necessity, that the deceiver will never lack dupes. I will mention one of the most recent examples. Alexander VI. never did nor ever thought of anything but to deceive, and always found a reason for doing so. No one ever had greater skill in asseverating, or who affirmed his pledges with greater oaths and observed them less, than Pope Alexander; and yet he was always successful in his deceits, because he knew the weakness of men in that particular.

  It is not necessary, however, for a prince to possess all the above-mentioned qualities; but it is essential that he should at least seem to have them. I will even venture to say, that to have and to practise them constantly is pernicious, but to seem to have them is useful. For instance, a prince should seem to be merciful, faithful, humane, religious, and upright, and should even be so in reality; but he should have his mind so trained that, when occasion requires it, he may know how to change to the opposite. And it must be understood that a prince, and especially one who has but recently acquired his state, cannot perform all those things which cause men to be esteemed as good; he being often obliged, for the sake of maintaining his state, to act contrary to humanity, charity, and religion. And therefore is it necessary that he should have a versatile mind, capable of changing readily, according as the winds and changes of fortune bid him; and, as has been said above, not to swerve from the good if possible, but to know how to resort to evil if necessity demands it.

  A prince then should be very careful never to allow anything to escape his lips that does not abound in the above-named five qualities, so that to see and to hear him he may seem all charity, integrity, and humanity, all uprightness, and all piety. And more than all else is it necessary for a prince to seem to possess the last quality; for mankind in general judge more by what they see and hear than by what they feel, every one being capable of the former, and but few of the latter. Everybody sees what you seem to be, but few really feel what you are; and these few dare not oppose the opinion of the many, who are protected by the majesty of the state; for the actions of all men, and especially those of princes, are judged by the result, where there is no other judge to whom to appeal.

  A prince then should look mainly to the successful maintenance of his state. The means which he employs for this will always be accounted honorable, and will be praised by everybody; for the common people are always taken by appearances and by results, and it is the vulgar mass that constitutes the world. But a very few have rank and station, whilst the many have nothing to sustain them. A certain prince of our time, whom it is well not to name, never preached anything but peace and good faith; but if he had always observed either the one or the other, it would in most instances have cost him his reputation or his state.

  CHAPTER XIX.

  a prince must avoid being contemned and hated.

  Having thus considered separately the most important of the above-mentioned qualities which a prince should possess, I will now briefly discuss the others under this general maxim: that a prince should endeavor, as has already been said, to avoid everything that would tend to make him odious and contemned. And in proportion as he avoids that will he have performed his part well, and need fear no danger from any other vices. Above all, a prince makes himself odious by rapacity, that is, by taking away from his subjects their property and their women, from which he should carefully abstain. The great mass of men will live quietly and contentedly, provided you do not rob them of their substance and their honor; so that you will have to contend only with the ambition of a few, which is easily restrained in various ways.

  A prince becomes despised when he incurs by his acts the reputation of being variable, inconstant, effeminate, pusillanimous, and irresolute; he should therefore guard against this as against a dangerous rock, and should strive to display in all his actions grandeur, courage, gravity, and determination. And in judging the private causes of his subjects, his decisions should be irrevocable. Thus will he maintain himself in such esteem that no one will think of deceiving or betraying him. The prince, who by his habitual conduct gives cause for such an opinion of himself, will acquire so great a reputation that it will be difficult to conspire against him, or to attack him; provided that it be generally known that he is truly excellent, and revered by his subjects. For there are two things which a prince has to fear: the one, attempts against him by his own subjects; and the other, attacks from without by powerful foreigners. Against the latter he will be able to defend himself by good armies and good allies, and whoever has the one will not lack the other. And so long as his external affairs are kept quiet, his internal security will not be disturbed, unless it should be by a conspiracy. And even if he were to be assailed from without, if he has a well-organized army and has lived as he should have done, he will always (unless he should give way himself) be able to withstand any such attacks, as we have related was done by Nabis, tyrant of Sparta. But even when at peace externally, it nevertheless behooves the prince to be on his guard, lest his subjects conspire against him secretly. He will, however, be sufficiently secure against this, if he avoids being hated and despised, and keeps his subjects well satisfied with himself, which should ever be his aim, as I have already explained above. Not to be hated nor contemned by the mass of the people is one of the best safeguards for a prince against conspiracies; for conspirators always believe that the death of the prince will be satisfactory to the people; but when they know that it will rather offend than conciliate the people, they will not venture upon such a course, for the difficulties that surround conspirators are infinite.

  Experience proves that, although there have been many conspiracies, yet but few have come to a good end; for he who conspires cannot act alone, nor can he take any associates except such as he believes to be malcontents; and so soon as you divulge your plans to a malcontent, you furnish him the means wherewith to procure satisfaction. For by denouncing it he may hope to derive great advantages for himself, seeing that such a course will insure him those advantages, whilst the other is full of doubts and dangers. He must indeed be a very rare friend of yours, or an inveterate enemy of the prince, to observe good faith and not to betray you.

  But to reduce this matter to a few words, I say that on the side of the conspirator there is nothing but fear, jealousy, and apprehension of punishment; whilst the prince has on his side the majesty of sovereignty, the laws, the support of his friends and of the government, which protect him. And if to all this be added the popular good will, it seems impossible that any one should be rash enough to attempt a conspiracy against him. For ordinarily a conspirator has cause for apprehension only before the execution of his evil purpose; but in this case, having the people for his enemies, he has also to fear the consequences after the commission of the crime, and can look nowhere for a refuge. Upon this point I might adduce innumerable examples, but will content myself with only one, which occurred within the memory of our fathers. Messer Annibale Bentivogli, grandfather of the present Messer Annibale, being prince of Bologna, was murdered by the Canneschi, who had conspired against him, and there remained of his family one Messer Giovanni, who was still in his infancy. Immediately after the murder of Messer Annibale, the people rose and killed all the Canneschi. This was the consequence of the popularity which the Bentivogli enjoyed in those days in Bologna, and which went to that extent that after the death of Messer Annibale, when there remained not one of the family in Bologna capable of governing the state, the people received information that there was a Bentivogli in Florence who, until then, had been reputed the son of a blacksmith. They sent a deputation to him at Florence and conferred the government of the city upon him, which he exercised undisturbed until Messer Giovanni came to be of suitable age to assume it himself. I conclude, that a prince need apprehend but little from conspiracies, provided he possess the good will of his people, which is one of the most important points that a prince has to look to.

  Amongst the well-organized and well-governed kingdoms of our time is that of France, which has a great many excellent institutions that secure the liberty and safety of the king. The most important of these is the Parliament, and its authority; for the founder of that kingdom knew the ambition and insolence of the nobles, and judged it necessary to put a bit into their mouths with which to curb them. He knew at the same time the hatred of the mass of the people towards the nobles, based upon their fears. Wishing to secure both, and yet unwilling to make this the special care of the king, so as to relieve him of the responsibility to the nobles of seeming to favor the people, and to the people of favoring the nobles, he instituted the Parliament to act as a judge, which might, without reference to the king, keep down the great, and favor the weak. Nor could there be a wiser system, or one that affords more security to the king and his realm.

  We may also draw another notable conclusion from this, namely, that princes should devolve all matters of responsibility upon others, and take upon themselves only those of grace. I conclude then anew, that a prince should treat his nobles with respect and consideration, and should avoid at the same time making himself odious to his people. It may perhaps seem to many that, considering the life and death of many Roman Emperors, their example contradicts my opinions, seeing that some who have led most exemplary lives, and displayed most noble qualities of the soul, yet lost the Empire, or were even killed by their followers, who had conspired against them. I desire to meet this objection, and will therefore discuss the characters of some of those Emperors, showing that the causes of their ruin were not different from those adduced by me above; and I will present some considerations that are important to the student of the history of those times. In this I shall confine myself to those Emperors that succeeded one another from Marcus, the philosopher, to Maximinius; namely, Marcus, his son Commodus, Pertinax, Julian, Severus, Antoninus Caracalla his son, Macrinus, Heliogabalus, Alexander, and Maximinius.

  And I must remark at the outset, that, where in other principalities the prince had to contend only with the ambition of the nobles and the insolence of the people, the Roman Emperors had to meet a third difficulty, in having to bear with the cruelty and cupidity of the soldiers, which were so great that they caused the ruin of many, because of the difficulty of satisfying at the same time both the soldiers and the people; for the people love quiet, and for that reason they revere princes who are modest, whilst the soldiers love a prince of military spirit, and who is cruel, haughty, and rapacious. And these qualities the prince must practise upon the people, so as to enable him to increase the pay of the soldiers, and to satisfy their avarice and cruelty. Whence it came that all those Emperors were ruined who had not, by their natural or acquired qualities, the necessary influence that would enable them to restrain at the same time the soldiers and the people. Most of them, therefore, and especially those who had but recently attained the sovereignty, knowing the difficulty of satisfying two such different dispositions, sought rather to satisfy the soldiers, and cared but little about oppressing and offending the people. And this course was unavoidable for them; for inasmuch as princes generally cannot prevent being hated by some, they ought first of all to strive not to be hated by the mass of the people; but failing in this, they should by all means endeavor to avoid being hated by the more powerful. And therefore those Emperors who, by reason of having but recently acquired the Empire, had need of extraordinary favors, attached themselves more readily to the soldiery than to the people; which, however, was advantageous to them or not only according as such Emperor knew how to maintain his ascendency over them. These were the reasons why Marcus, Pertinax, and Alexander, being all three men of modest lives, lovers of justice, enemies to cruelty, humane, and benevolent, came to a bad end, Marcus alone excepted, who lived and died much honored; but he had succeeded to the Empire by inheritance, and was not indebted for it either to the soldiers or to the favor of the people. He was, moreover, endowed with many virtues, which made him generally revered; and so long as he lived he always kept both the soldiery and the people within their proper bounds, and thus was neither hated nor contemned. But Pertinax was made emperor contrary to the will of the army, which, having been accustomed under Commodus to a life of unrestrained license, could not bear the orderly life to which Pertinax wished to constrain them. Having thus incurred their hatred, to which disrespect became added on account of his age, he was ruined at the very outset of his reign. And here I would observe that hatred may be caused by good as well as by evil works, and therefore (as I have said above) a prince who wants to preserve his state is often obliged not to be good; for when the mass of the people or of the soldiery, or of the nobles, whose support is necessary for him, is corrupt, then it becomes the interest of the prince to indulge and satisfy their humor; and it is under such circumstances that good works will be injurious to him. Let us come now to Alexander, who was so good that, amongst other merits, it was said of him that during the fourteen years of his reign not one person was put to death by him without regular judicial proceedings. But being regarded as effeminate, and as allowing himself to be governed by his mother, he fell into disrespect, and the soldiery conspired against him and killed him.

  Discussing now, by way of the opposite extreme, the qualities of Commodus, Severus, Antoninus Caracalla, and Maximinius, we find them to have been most cruel and rapacious; and that, for the sake of keeping the soldiers satisfied, they did not hesitate to commit every kind of outrage upon the people; and that all of them, with exception of Septimus Severus, came to a bad end. The latter possessed such valor that, although he imposed heavy burdens upon the people, yet, by keeping the soldiers his friends, he was enabled to reign undisturbed and happily; for his bravery caused him to be so much admired by the soldiers and the people that the latter were in a manner stupefied and astounded by it, whilst it made the former respectful and satisfied.

  And as the actions of Severus were really great, considering that he was a prince of but recent date, I will show how well he knew to play the part of the fox and of the lion, whose natures a prince should be able to imitate, as I have shown above. Severus, knowing the indolence of the Emperor Julian, persuaded the troops which he commanded in Slavonia that it would be proper for them to go to Rome to avenge the death of Pertinax, who had been killed by the Imperial Guard. Under this pretext, without showing that he aspired to the Empire, he moved the army to Rome, and was in Italy before it was known even that he had started. On his arrival in Rome the Senate, under the influence of fear, elected Severus Emperor, Julian having previously been slain.

  After this beginning, Severus had yet two difficulties to overcome before he could make himself master of the entire state: the one in Asia, where Niger, commander of the army of the East, had himself proclaimed Emperor; and the other in the West, caused by Albinus, who also aspired to the Empire. Deeming it dangerous to declare himself openly the enemy of both, Severus resolved to attack Niger and to deceive Albinus; and therefore he wrote to the latter that, having been elected Emperor by the Senate, he wished to share that dignity with him, and accordingly sent him the title of Cæsar, and accepted him as his colleague, by resolution of the Senate. Albinus received it all as truth; but after Severus had defeated and slain Niger, and quieted matters in the East, he returned to Rome and complained in the Senate that Albinus, little grateful for the benefits which he had bestowed upon him, had plotted treason and murder against him, and that therefore it was incumbent upon him to go and punish this ingratitude and treason. Severus thereupon went into France to seek Albinus, and deprived him of his state and his life.

  If now we examine minutely the conduct of Severus, we shall find that he combined the ferocity of the lion with the cunning of the fox, and that he was feared and revered by every one, and was not hated by the army. Nor ought we to be surprised to find that, although a new man, he yet should have been able to maintain himself at the head of so great an empire; for his eminent reputation saved him always from incurring the hatred of the people, which his rapacity might otherwise have provoked.

  Antoninus Caracalla, the son of Severus, was also a man possessed of eminent qualities and rare gifts, which made him admired by the people and acceptable to the soldiery. For he was a military man, capable of enduring every fatigue, despising the delicacies of the table and every other effeminacy, which made him beloved by all the army. But his ferocity and cruelty were so great and unprecedented that, having on several occasions caused a large number of the people of Rome to be put to death, and at another time nearly the entire population of Alexandria, he became odious to the whole world, and began to be feared even by his immediate attendants, and finally was killed by a centurion in the midst of his army. Whence we may observe that princes cannot always escape assassination when prompted by a resolute and determined spirit; for any man who himself despises death can always inflict it upon others. But as men of this sort are rare, princes need not be very apprehensive about them; they should, however, be most careful not to offend grievously any of those who serve their persons, or who are around and near them in the service of the state. It was in this respect that Caracalla erred, for he had contumeliously slain a brother of a centurion, whom he had also threatened repeatedly, and yet kept him as one of his body-guard; which was a most reckless thing to do, and well calculated to prove ruinous to Antoninus Caracalla, as it finally did.

  But we come now to Commodus, who might have kept the Empire with great ease, having inherited it as the son of Marcus Aurelius. All he had to do was to follow in the footsteps of his father, which would have satisfied both the people and the army. But being of a cruel and bestial nature, he began by entertaining the army and making it licentious, so as to enable him the more freely to indulge his rapacity upon the people. And on the other hand he made himself contemptible in the eyes of his soldiers, by disregarding his own dignity, and descending into the arena to combat with gladiators, and doing other disgraceful things wholly unworthy of the imperial majesty. Being thus hated by the people and contemned by the army, a conspiracy was set on foot against him and he was killed.

  It remains now for me to discuss the character of Maximinius. He was a most warlike man; and the army being tired of the effeminacy of Alexander Severus, of which I have spoken above, they elected Maximinius to the Empire after the death of Alexander. But he did not retain it very long, for two circumstances made him both odious and despised. One was his extremely low origin, having been a shepherd in Thracia (which was generally known, and caused him to be held in great contempt by every one), and the other was his delay, when elected Emperor, to go to Rome, there to take possession of the imperial throne. He had moreover earned the reputation of extreme cruelty, in consequence of the many acts of ferocity which he had committed through the agency of his prefects in Rome and elsewhere. Being thus despised by the whole world on account of his low origin, and on the other hand hated because of his cruelty, a conspiracy was formed against him, first in Africa, and then by the Senate and people of Rome and all Italy. His army joined in the conspiracy, for being engaged in the siege of Aquileia and finding difficulty in taking it, they became tired of his harshness; and seeing that he had so many enemies, they lost their fear of him and put him to death.

  I care not to discuss either Heliogabalus, or Macrinus, or Julian, who, being utterly contemptible, came quickly to an end; but will conclude this discourse by saying that the princes of our times are not subjected to the same difficulties in their governments by the extraordinary demands of their armies. For although they are obliged to show them some consideration, yet they are easily disposed of, as none of the sovereigns of the present day keep their armies constantly together, so as to become veterans in the service of the government and the administration of the provinces, as was the case in the time of the Roman Empire. And if in those days it was necessary to have more regard to the armies than to the people, because of their greater power, it nowadays behooves princes rather to keep the people contented, for they have more influence and power than the soldiers. The Grand Turk and the Sultan of Egypt form an exception to this rule, for the Turk always keeps himself surrounded by twelve thousand infantry and fifteen thousand cavalry, on which the strength and security of his empire depends; he must therefore keep these troops devoted to himself, regardless of all consideration for the people.

  It is much the same with the government of the Sultan of Egypt, which being entirely under the control of the army, it behooves him also, regardless of the people, to keep the soldiery his friends. And here I would remark that the government of the Sultan of Egypt differs from all other principalities, although in some respects similar to the Christian Pontificate, which cannot be called either an hereditary or a new principality. For when the Sultan dies, his sons do not inherit the government, but it devolves upon whoever is elected to that dignity by those who have authority in the matter. And as this system is consecrated by time, it cannot be called a new principality; for it is free from all the difficulties that appertain to new principalities. For even if the prince be new, the institutions of the state are old, and are so organized as to receive the elected the same as though he were their hereditary lord.

  But to return to our subject, I say, that whoever reflects carefully upon the above discourse will find that the ruin of the above-mentioned Emperors was caused by either hatred or contempt; and he will also see how it happened that, whilst some of them having proceeded one way and some in the opposite, in some instances the one had a happy, and the other an unhappy end. For in the case of Pertinax and Alexander, both being new princes, it was useless and dangerous for them to attempt to imitate Marcus, who had inherited the Empire. And in the same way it was ruinous for Caracalla, Commodus, and Maximinius to imitate Severus, for neither of them possessed the noble qualities necessary to enable them to follow in his footsteps.

  A prince, therefore, who has but recently acquired his principality, cannot imitate the conduct of Marcus Aurelius; nor is it necessary for him to imitate that of Septimus Severus. But he should learn from Severus what is necessary to found a state, and from Marcus what is proper and glorious for the preservation of a state that is already firmly established.

  CHAPTER XX.

  whether the erection of fortresses, and many other things which princes often do, are useful, or injurious.

  Some princes, with a view to a more secure tenure of their states, have disarmed their subjects; some have kept the countries subject to them divided into different parties; others have purposely encouraged enmities against themselves; whilst others again have endeavored to win the good will of those whom in the beginning of their reign they suspected of hostile feelings. Some have built fortresses, whilst others have demolished and razed those that existed. Now although I cannot pronounce any definite judgment as to these different ways of proceeding, without examining the particular condition of those states where similar proceedings are to be applied, yet I will treat the subject in that general way of which it is susceptible.

  It has never happened that a new prince has disarmed his subjects; on the contrary rather, if he has found them unarmed, he has armed them, and in that way has made them as it were his own, and made those faithful who before were suspect; whilst those who were loyal to him before will remain so, and thus he will convert his subjects into his partisans and supporters. And although a prince cannot arm all his subjects, yet by giving certain advantages to those whom he does arm, he secures himself the better against the others who are not armed, and who will excuse the preference shown to those whom the prince has armed and thereby laid under obligations to himself. For the others will excuse him, and will recognize the necessity of rewarding those who are exposed to greater danger, and who have more onerous duties to perform.

  But a prince who disarms his subjects will at once offend them, by thus showing that he has no confidence in them, but that he suspects them either of cowardice or want of loyalty, and this will cause them to hate him. And as the prince cannot remain without an armed force, he will have to resort to mercenaries, the objections to which I have fully set forth in a preceding chapter. And even if these mercenaries were not absolutely bad, they would still be insufficient to protect the prince against powerful enemies, and suspected subjects. Therefore, as I have said, new princes should always establish armed forces in their newly acquired principalities; for which history furnishes us abundance of precedents.

  But when a prince acquires a new state, which he annexes as an appendage to his old possessions, then it is advisable for him to disarm the inhabitants of the new state, excepting those who, upon the acquisition of the same, declared in the prince’s favor. But even these it will be well for him to weaken and enervate when occasion offers; so that his armed forces shall be organized in such a way as to consist entirely of his own subjects, natives of his original state.

  Our ancestors, and those who were regarded as wise, used to say that the way to hold Pistoja was through party divisions, and Pisa by means of fortresses. Accordingly they encouraged such party divisions in some of the towns that were subject to them, for the purpose of holding them the more easily. This may have been very well in those times when the different powers of Italy were to some extent evenly balanced; but it does not seem to me that such a precept is applicable at the present day, for I do not believe that party divisions purposely made are ever productive of good. To the contrary rather, cities divided against themselves are easily lost, on the approach of an enemy; for the weaker party will always unite with the external foe, and then the other will not be able to maintain itself.

  The Venetians, influenced I believe by the above reasons, encouraged the feuds between the Guelfs and the Ghibellines in the cities that were subject to them; and although they never allowed them to come to bloody conflicts, yet they fomented their quarrels sufficiently to keep the citizens occupied with their own dissensions, so that they could not turn against the Venetians. This, however, did not result as they had designed, for after the defeat at Vaila one of the parties promptly took courage, and deprived the Venetians of the entire state. Measures of this kind, therefore, argue weakness in a prince, for a strong government will never allow such divisions; they can be of advantage only in time of peace, as by their means subjects may be more easily managed, but in case of war the fallacy of this system becomes manifest. Princes undoubtedly become great by overcoming all difficulties and oppositions that may spring up against them; and therefore does Fortune, when she intends to make a new prince great (for whom it is more important to acquire a reputation than for an hereditary prince), cause enemies to arise and make attempts against the prince, so as to afford him the opportunity of overcoming them, and that he may thus rise higher by means of the very ladder which his enemies have brought against him. And therefore the opinion has been held by many, that a wise prince should, when opportunity offers, adroitly nurse some enmities against himself, so that by overcoming them his greatness may be increased.

  Princes, and more especially new ones, have often met with more fidelity and devotion in the very men whom at the beginning of their reign they mistrusted, than in those upon whom they at first confidently relied. Thus Pandolfo Petrucci, prince of Sienna, governed his state more by the aid of those whom he at first regarded with suspicion, than by that of any of his other subjects. But no general rules can be laid down for this, as the prince must in this respect be governed by circumstances. I will only observe that those men who at the beginning of a prince’s reign are hostile to him, and who are yet so situated that they need his support for their maintenance, will always be most easily won over by him; and they will be obliged to continue to serve him with the greater fidelity, because of the importance of their effacing by their good conduct the bad opinion which the prince had formed of them at the beginning. And thus the prince will derive more useful service from these than from such as from over confidence in their security will serve his interests negligently.

  And since the subject requires it, I will not omit to remind the prince who has but recently acquired a state by the favor of its citizens to consider well the reasons that influenced those who favored his success. For if it was not a natural affection for him, but merely their dissatisfaction with the previous government, then he will have much trouble and difficulty in preserving their attachment, for it will be almost impossible for the prince to satisfy their expectations. Now if we carefully study the reasons of this from the examples which both ancient and modern history furnish us, we shall find that it is much easier for a prince to win the friendship of those who previous to his acquisition of the state were content with its government, and who must therefore have been hostile to him, than of those who, from being malcontents under the previous government, became his friends, and favored his seizing the state.

  It has been the general practice of princes, for the purpose of holding their states securely, to build fortresses to serve as a curb and check upon those who might make an attempt against the government, and at the same time to afford the prince a secure place of refuge against the first attack. I approve of this system, because it was practised by the ancients; and yet we have seen in our own times that Messer Niccolo Vitelli dismantled two fortresses in Citta di Castello, so as to enable him to hold that place. Guidobaldo, Duke of Urbino, on returning to his state, whence he had been driven by Cesar Borgia, razed all the fortresses of that province to their very foundations; for he thought that it would be more difficult for him to lose that state a second time without those fortresses. The Bentivogli did the same thing on their return to Bologna. Fortresses then are useful or not, according to circumstances; and whilst in one way they are advantageous, they may in another prove injurious to a prince. The question may therefore be stated thus. A prince who fears his own people more than he does foreigners should build fortresses; but he who has more cause to fear strangers than his own people should do without them. The citadel of Milan, built by Francesco Sforza, has caused, and will yet cause, more trouble to the house of Sforza than any other disturbance in that state. The best fortress which a prince can possess is the affection of his people; for even if he have fortresses, and is hated by his people, the fortresses will not save him; for when a people have once risen in arms against their prince, there will be no lack of strangers who will aid them.

  In our own times we have seen but one instance where fortresses have been of advantage to a ruler, and that was the case of the Countess of Furli, when her husband, the Count Girolamo, was killed; for the castle of Furli enabled her to escape from the fury of the people, and there to await assistance from Milan, so as to recover her state, the circumstances at the time being such that the people could not obtain assistance from strangers. Later, however, when she was assailed by Cesar Borgia, the people of Furli, being hostile to her, united with the stranger, and then the castle was no longer of any great value to her. Thus she would have been more secure if she had not been hated by her people, than she was in possessing the castle.

  After a full examination of the question, then, I approve of those who build fortresses, as well as those who do not. But I blame all those who, in their confident reliance upon such strongholds, do not mind incurring the hatred of their own people.

  CHAPTER XXI.

  how princes should conduct themselves to acquire a reputation.

  Nothing makes a prince so much esteemed as the undertaking of great enterprises and the setting a noble example in his own person. We have a striking instance of this in Ferdinand of Aragon, the present king of Spain. He may be called, as it were, a new prince; for, from being king of a feeble state, he has, by his fame and glory, become the first sovereign of Christendom; and if we examine his actions we shall find them all most grand, and some of them extraordinary. In the beginning of his reign he attacked Granada, and it was this undertaking that was the very foundation of his greatness. At first he carried on this war leisurely and without fear of opposition; for he kept the nobles of Castile occupied with this enterprise, and, their minds being thus engaged by war, they gave no attention to the innovations introduced by the king, who thereby acquired a reputation and an influence over the nobles without their being aware of it. The money of the Church and of the people enabled him to support his armies, and by that long war he succeeded in giving a stable foundation to his military establishment, which afterwards brought him so much honor. Besides this, to be able to engage in still greater enterprises, he always availed himself of religion as a pretext, and committed a pious cruelty in spoliating and driving the Moors out of his kingdom, which certainly was a most admirable and extraordinary example. Under the same cloak of religion he attacked Africa, and made a descent upon Italy, and finally assailed France. And thus he was always planning great enterprises, which kept the minds of his subjects in a state of suspense and admiration, and occupied with their results. And these different enterprises followed so quickly one upon the other, that he never gave men a chance deliberately to make any attempt against himself.

  It is also important for a prince to give striking examples of his interior administration, (similar to those that are related of Messer Bernabo di Milano,) when an occasion presents itself to reward or punish any one who has in civil affairs either rendered great service to the state, or committed some crime, so that it may be much talked about. But, above all, a prince should endeavor to invest all his actions with a character of grandeur and excellence. A prince, furthermore, becomes esteemed when he shows himself either a true friend or a real enemy; that is, when, regardless of consequences, he declares himself openly for or against another, which will always be more creditable to him than to remain neutral. For if two of your neighboring potentates should come to war amongst themselves, they are either of such character that, when either of them has been defeated, you will have cause to fear the conqueror, or not. In either case, it will always be better for you to declare yourself openly and make fair war; for if you fail to do so, you will be very apt to fall a prey to the victor, to the delight and satisfaction of the defeated party, and you will have no claim for protection or assistance from either the one or the other. For the conqueror will want no doubtful friends, who did not stand by him in time of trial; and the defeated party will not forgive you for having refused, with arms in hand, to take the chance of his fortunes.

  When Antiochus came into Greece, having been sent by the Ætolians to drive out the Romans, he sent ambassadors to the Achaians, who were friends of the Romans, to induce them to remain neutral; whilst the Romans, on the other hand, urged them to take up arms in their behalf. When the matter came up for deliberation in the council of the Achaians, and the ambassadors of Antiochus endeavored to persuade them to remain neutral, the Roman legate replied: “As to the course which is said to be the best and most advantageous for your state, not to intervene in our war, I can assure you that the very reverse will be the case; for by not intervening you will, without thanks and without credit, remain a prize to the victor.”

  And it will always be the case that he who is not your friend will claim neutrality at your hands, whilst your friend will ask your armed intervention in his favor. Irresolute princes, for the sake of avoiding immediate danger, adopt most frequently the course of neutrality, and are generally ruined in consequence. But when a prince declares himself boldly in favor of one party, and that party proves victorious, even though the victor be powerful, and you are at his discretion, yet is he bound to you in love and obligation; and men are never so base as to repay these by such flagrant ingratitude as the oppressing you under these circumstances would be.

  Moreover, victories are never so complete as to dispense the victor from all regard for justice. But when the party whom you have supported loses, then he will ever after receive you as a friend, and, when able, will assist you in turn; and thus you will have become the sharer of a fortune which in time may be retrieved.

  In the second case, when the contending parties are such that you need not fear the victor, then it is the more prudent to give him your support; for you thereby aid one to ruin the other, whom he should save if he were wise; for although he has defeated his adversary, yet he remains at your discretion, inasmuch as without your assistance victory would have been impossible for him. And here it should be noted, that a prince ought carefully to avoid making common cause with any one more powerful than himself, for the purpose of attacking another power, unless he should be compelled to do so by necessity. For if the former is victorious, then you are at his mercy; and princes should, if possible, avoid placing themselves in such a position.

  The Venetians allied themselves with France against the Duke of Milan, an alliance which they could easily have avoided, and which proved their ruin. But when it is unavoidable, as was the case with the Florentines when Spain and the Pope united their forces to attack Lombardy, then a prince ought to join the stronger party, for the reasons above given. Nor is it to be supposed that a state can ever adopt a course that is entirely safe; on the contrary, a prince must make up his mind to take the chance of all the doubts and uncertainties; for such is the order of things that one inconvenience cannot be avoided except at the risk of being exposed to another. And it is the province of prudence to discriminate amongst these inconveniences, and to accept the least evil for good.

  A prince should also show himself a lover of virtue, and should honor all who excel in any one of the arts, and should encourage his citizens quietly to pursue their vocations, whether of commerce, agriculture, or any other human industry; so that the one may not abstain from embellishing his possessions for fear of their being taken from him, nor the other from opening new sources of commerce for fear of taxes. But the prince should provide rewards for those who are willing to do these things, and for all who strive to enlarge his city or state. And besides this, he should at suitable periods amuse his people with festivities and spectacles. And as cities are generally divided into guilds and classes, he should keep account of these bodies, and occasionally be present at their assemblies, and should set an example of his affability and magnificence; preserving, however, always the majesty of his dignity, which should never be wanting on any occasion or under any circumstances.

  CHAPTER XXII.

  of the ministers of princes.

  The choice of his ministers is of no slight importance to a prince; they are either good or not, according as the prince himself is sagacious or otherwise; and upon the character of the persons with whom a prince surrounds himself depends the first impression that is formed of his own ability. If his ministers and counsellors are competent and faithful, he will be reputed wise, because he had known how to discern their capacity and how to secure their fidelity; but if they prove otherwise, then the opinion formed of the prince will not be favorable, because of his want of judgment in their first selection. Every one who knew Messer Antonio di Venafro as the minister of Pandolfo Petrucci, prince of Sienna, judged Pandolfo to be a man of great sagacity in having chosen Messer Antonio for his minister.

  There are three sorts of intellect: the one understands things by its own quickness of perception; another understands them when explained by some one else; and the third understands them neither by itself nor by the explanation of others. The first is the best, the second very good, and the third useless. Now we must admit that Pandolfo did not belong to the first order, but rather to the second. For whenever a prince has the sagacity to recognize the good or the evil that is said or done, he will, even without being a genius, be able to judge whether the minister’s actions are good or bad; and he will praise the one and censure the other. And thus the minister, seeing that he cannot hope to deceive the prince, will continue to serve him faithfully. But the true way for a prince to know his minister is as follows, and never fails. Whenever he sees that the minister thinks more of himself than of the prince, and that in all his doings he seeks his own advantage more than that of the state, then the prince may be sure that that man will never be a good minister, and is not to be trusted. For a man who has the administration of a state in his hands, should never think of himself, but only of the prince, and should never bring anything to his notice that does not relate to the interest of the government.

  On the other hand, the prince, by way of securing the devotion of his minister, should think of him and bind him to himself by obligations; he should bestow riches upon him, and should share the honors as well as the cares with him; so that the abundance of honors and riches conferred by the prince upon his minister may cause the latter not to desire either the one or the other from any other source, and that the weight of cares may make him dread a change, knowing that without the prince he could not sustain it. And when the relations between the prince and his minister are thus constituted, they will be able to confide in each other; but if they be otherwise, then one or the other of them will surely come to a bad end.

  CHAPTER XXIII.

  how to avoid flatterers.

  I will not leave unnoticed an important subject, and an evil against which princes have much difficulty in defending themselves, if they are not extremely prudent, or have not made good choice of ministers; and this relates to flatterers, who abound in all courts. Men are generally so well pleased with themselves and their own acts, and delude themselves to such a degree, that it is with difficulty they escape from the pest of flatterers; and in their efforts to avoid them they expose themselves to the risk of being contemned. There is no other way of guarding against adulation, than to make people understand that they will not offend you by speaking the truth. On the other hand, when every one feels at liberty to tell you the truth, they will be apt to be lacking in respect to you. A prudent prince therefore should follow a middle course, choosing for ministers of his government only wise men, and to these only should he give full power to tell him the truth, and they should only be allowed to speak to him of those things which he asks of them, and of none other. But then the prince should ask them about everything, and should listen to their opinions and reflect upon them, and afterwards form his own resolutions. And he should bear himself towards all his advisers in such manner that each may know that the more freely he speaks, the more acceptable will he be. But outside of these he should not listen to any one, but follow the course agreed upon, and be firm in his resolves. Whoever acts otherwise will either be misled by his flatterers, or will vacillate in his decisions, because of the variety of opinions; and this will naturally result in his losing in public estimation.

  I will cite one modern example to this effect. Padre Luca, in the service of the present Emperor Maximilian, in speaking of his Majesty, says that he “counsels with no one, and yet never does anything in his own way”; which results from his following the very opposite course to that above indicated; for the Emperor is a reserved man, who never communicates his secrets to any one, nor takes advice from anybody. But when he attempts to carry his plans into execution and they begin to be known, then also do they begin to be opposed by those whom he has around him; and being easily influenced, he is diverted from his own resolves. And thence it comes that he undoes one day what he has done the day before, and that one never knows what he wants or designs to do; and therefore his conclusions cannot be depended upon.

  A prince nevertheless should always take counsel, but only when he wants it, and not when others wish to thrust it upon him; in fact, he should rather discourage persons from tendering him advice unsolicited by him. But he should be an extensive questioner, and a patient listener to the truth respecting the things inquired about, and should even show his anger in case any one should, for some reason, not tell him the truth.

  Those who imagine that a prince who has the reputation of sagacity is not indebted for it to his own natural gifts, but to the good counsels of those who surround him, certainly deceive themselves. For it may be taken as a general and infallible rule, that a prince who is not naturally wise cannot be well advised; unless he should perchance place himself entirely in the hands of one man, who should guide him in all things, and who would have to be a man of uncommon ability. In such a case a prince might be well directed, but it would probably not last long, because his counsellor would in a short time deprive him of his state. But a prince who is not wise himself, and counsels with more than one person, will never have united counsels; for he will himself lack the ability to harmonize and combine the various counsels and suggestions. His advisers will only think of their own advantage, which the prince will neither know how to discern nor how to correct.

  And things cannot well be otherwise, for men will always naturally prove bad, unless some necessity constrains them to be good. Whence we conclude that good counsels, no matter whence they may come, result wholly from the prince’s own sagacity; but the wisdom of the prince never results from good counsels.

  CHAPTER XXIV.

  the reason why the princes of italy have lost their states.

  A judicious observation of the above-given rules will cause a new prince to be regarded as though he were an hereditary one, and will very soon make him more firm and secure in his state than if he had grown old in its possession. For the actions of a new prince are much more closely observed and scrutinized than those of an hereditary one; and when they are known to be virtuous, they will win the confidence and affections of men much more for the new prince, and make his subjects feel under greater obligations to him, than if he were of the ancient line. For men are ever more taken with the things of the present than with those of the past; and when they find their own good in the present, then they enjoy it and seek none other, and will be ready in every way to defend the new prince, provided he be not wanting to himself in other respects. And thus he will have the double glory of having established a new principality, and of having strengthened and adorned it with good laws, good armies, good allies, and good examples. And in the same way will it be a double shame to an hereditary prince, if through want of prudence and ability he loses his state.

  If now we examine the conduct of those princes of Italy who in our day have lost their states, such as the king of Naples, the Duke of Milan, and others, we shall note in them at once a common defect as regards their military forces, for the reasons which we have discussed at length above. And we shall also find that in some instances the people were hostile to the prince; or if he had the good will of the people, he knew not how to conciliate that of the nobles. For unless there be some such defects as these, states are not lost when the prince has energy enough to keep an army in the the field.

  Philip of Macedon, not the father of Alexander the Great, but he who was vanquished by Titus Quintus, had not much of a state as compared with Rome and Greece, who attacked him; yet being a military man, and at the same time knowing how to preserve the good will of the people and to assure himself of the support of the nobles, he sustained the war against the Romans and Greeks for many years; and although he finally lost some cities, yet he preserved his kingdom.

  Those of our princes, therefore, who have lost their dominions after having been established in them for many years, should not blame fortune, but only their own indolence and lack of energy; for in times of quiet they never thought of the possibility of a change (it being a common defect of men in fair weather to take no thought of storms), and afterwards, when adversity overtook them, their first impulse was to fly, and not to defend themselves, hoping that the people, when disgusted with the insolence of the victors, would recall them. Such a course may be very well when others fail, but it is very discreditable to neglect other means for it that might have saved you from ruin; for no one ever falls deliberately, in the expectation that some one will help him up, which either does not happen, or, if it does, will not contribute to your security; for it is a base thing to look to others for your defence instead of depending upon yourself. That defence alone is effectual, sure, and durable which depends upon yourself and your own valor.

  CHAPTER XXV.

  of the influence of fortune in human affairs, and how it may be counteracted.

  I am well aware that many have held and still hold the opinion, that the affairs of this world are so controlled by Fortune and by the Divine Power that human wisdom and foresight cannot modify them; that, in fact, there is no remedy against the decrees of fate, and that therefore it is not worth while to make any effort, but to yield unconditionally to the power of Fortune. This opinion has been generally accepted in our times, because of the great changes that have taken place, and are still being witnessed every day, and are beyond all human conjecture.

  In reflecting upon this at times, I am myself in some measure inclined to that belief; nevertheless, as our free will is not entirely destroyed, I judge that it may be assumed as true that Fortune to the extent of one half is the arbiter of our actions, but that she permits us to direct the other half, or perhaps a little less, ourselves. I compare this to a swollen river, which in its fury overflows the plains, tears up the trees and buildings, and sweeps the earth from one place and deposits it in another. Every one flies before the flood, and yields to its fury, unable to resist it; and notwithstanding this state of things, men do not when the river is in its ordinary condition provide against its overflow by dikes and walls, so that when it rises it may flow either in the channel thus provided for it, or that at any rate its violence may not be entirely unchecked, nor its effects prove so injurious. It is the same with Fortune, who displays her power where there is no organized valor to resist her, and where she knows that there are no dikes or walls to control her.

  If now you examine Italy, which is the seat of the changes under consideration, and has occasioned their occurrence, you will see that she is like an open country, without dikes or any other protection against inundations; and that if she had been protected with proper valor and wisdom, as is the case with Germany, Spain, and France, these inundations would either not have caused the great changes which they did, or they would not have occurred at all.

  These remarks I deem sufficient as regards resisting fortune in general; but confining myself now more to particular cases, I say that we see a prince fortunate one day, and ruined the next, without his nature or any of his qualities being changed. I believe this results mainly from the causes which have been discussed at length above; namely, that the prince who relies entirely upon fortune will be ruined according as fortune varies. I believe, further, that the prince who conforms his conduct to the spirit of the times will be fortunate; and in the same way will he be unfortunate, if in his actions he disregards the spirit of the times. For we see men proceed in various ways to attain the end they aim at, such as glory and riches: the one with circumspection, the other with rashness; one with violence, another with cunning; one with patience, and another with impetuosity; and all may succeed in their different ways. We also see that, of two men equally prudent, the one will accomplish his designs, whilst the other fails; and in the same way we see two men succeed equally well by two entirely different methods, the one being prudent and the other rash; which is due to nothing else than the character of the times, to which they either conform in their proceedings or not. Whence it comes, as I have said, that two men by entirely different modes of action will achieve the same results; whilst of two others, proceeding precisely in the same way, the one will accomplish his end, and the other not. This also causes the difference of success; for if one man, acting with caution and patience, is also favored by time and circumstances, he will be successful; but if these change, then will he be ruined, unless, indeed, he changes his conduct accordingly. Nor is there any man so sagacious that he will always know how to conform to such change of times and circumstances; for men do not readily deviate from the course to which their nature inclines them; and, moreover, if they have generally been prosperous by following one course, they cannot persuade themselves that it would be well to depart from it. Thus the cautious man, when the moment comes for him to strike a bold blow, will not know how to do it, and thence will he fail; whilst, if he could have changed his nature with the times and circumstances, his usual good fortune would not have abandoned him.

  Pope Julius II. was in all his actions most impetuous; and the times and circumstances happened so conformably to that mode of proceeding that he always achieved happy results. Witness the first attempt he made upon Bologna, when Messer Giovanni Bentivogli was still living. This attempt gave umbrage to the Venetians, and also to the kings of Spain and France, who held a conference on the subject. But Pope Julius, with his habitual boldness and impetuosity, assumed the direction of that expedition in person; which caused the Spaniards and the Venetians to remain quiet in suspense, the latter from fear, and the others from a desire to recover the entire kingdom of Naples. On the other hand, the Pope drew the king of France after him; for that king, seeing that Julius had already started on the expedition, and wishing to gain his friendship for the purpose of humbling the Venetians, judged that he could not refuse him the assistance of his army without manifest injury to himself.

  Pope Julius II., then, achieved by this impetuous movement what no other pontiff could have accomplished with all possible human prudence. For had he waited to start from Rome until all his plans were definitely arranged, and everything carefully organized, as every other pontiff would have done, he would certainly never have succeeded; for the king would have found a thousand excuses, and the others would have caused him a thousand apprehensions. I will not dwell upon the other actions of Julius II., which were all of a similar character, and have all succeeded equally well. The shortness of his life saved him from experiencing any reverses; for if times had supervened that would have made it necessary for him to proceed with caution and prudence, he would assuredly have been ruined; for he could never have deviated from the course to which his nature inclined him.

  I conclude, then, inasmuch as Fortune is changeable, that men who persist obstinately in their own ways will be successful only so long as those ways coincide with those of Fortune; and whenever these differ, they fail. But, on the whole, I judge impetuosity to be better than caution; for Fortune is a woman, and if you wish to master her, you must strike and beat her, and you will see that she allows herself to be more easily vanquished by the rash and the violent than by those who proceed more slowly and coldly. And therefore, as a woman, she ever favors youth more than age, for youth is less cautious and more energetic, and commands Fortune with greater audacity.

  CHAPTER XXVI.

  exhortation to deliver italy from foreign barbarians.

  Reviewing now all I have said in the foregoing discourses, and thinking to myself that, if the present time should be favorable for Italy to receive and honor a new prince, and the opportunity were given to a prudent and virtuous man to establish a new form of government, that would bring honor to himself and happiness to the mass of the Italian people, so many things would combine for the advantage of such a new prince, that, so far as I know, no previous time was ever more favorable for such a change. And if, as I have said, it was necessary for the purpose of displaying the virtue of Moses that the people of Israel should be held in bondage in Egypt; and that the Persians should be opposed to the Medes, so as to bring to light the greatness and courage of Cyrus; and that the Athenians should be dispersed for the purpose of illustrating the excellence of Theseus; so at present, for the purpose of making manifest the virtues of one Italian spirit, it was necessary that Italy should have been brought to her present condition of being in a worse bondage than that of the Jews, more enslaved than the Persians, more scattered than the Athenians, without a head, without order, vanquished and despoiled, lacerated, overrun by her enemies, and subjected to every kind of devastation.

  And although, up to the present time, there may have been some one who may have given a gleam of hope that he was ordained by Heaven to redeem Italy, yet have we seen how, in the very zenith of his career, he was so checked by fortune that poor Italy remained as it were lifeless, and waiting to see who might be chosen to heal her wounds, — to put an end to her devastation, to the sacking of Lombardy, to the spoliation and ruinous taxation of the kingdom of Naples and of Tuscany, — and who should heal her sores that have festered so long. You see how she prays God that he may send some one who shall redeem her from this cruelty and barbarous insolence. You see her eagerly disposed to follow any banner, provided there be some one to bear it aloft. But there is no one at present in whom she could place more hope than in your illustrious house, O magnificent Lorenzo! which, with its virtue and fortune, favored by God and the Church, of which it is now the head, could make an effectual beginning of her deliverance. And this will not be difficult for you, if you will first study carefully the lives and actions of the men whom I have named above. And although these men were rare and wonderful, they were nevertheless but men, and the opportunities which they had were far less favorable than the present; nor were their undertakings more just or more easy than this; neither were they more favored by the Almighty than what you are. Here, then, is great justice; for war is just when it is necessary, and a resort to arms is beneficent when there is no hope in anything else. The opportunity is most favorable, and when that is the case there can be no great difficulties, provided you follow the course of those whom I have held up to you as examples. Although in their case extraordinary things, without parallel, were brought about by the hand of God, — the sea divided for their passage, a pillar of cloud pointed their way through the wilderness, the rock poured forth water to assuage their thirst, and it rained manna to appease their hunger, — yet your greatness combines all, and on your own efforts will depend the result. God will not do everything; for that would deprive us of our free will, and of that share of glory which belongs to us.

  Nor should we wonder that not one of the Italians whom I have mentioned has been able to accomplish that which it is to be hoped will be done by your illustrious house; for if in so many revolutions in Italy, and in the conduct of so many wars, it would seem that military capacity and valor have become extinct, it is owing to the fact that the old military system was defective, and no one has come forward capable of establishing a new one. And nothing brings a man who has newly risen so much honor as the establishing of new laws and institutions of his own creation; if they have greatness in them and become well established, they will make the prince admired and revered; and there is no lack of opportunity in Italy for the introduction of every kind of reform. The people have great courage, provided it be not wanting in their leaders. Look but at their single combats, and their encounters when there are but a few on either side, and see how superior the Italians have shown themselves in strength, dexterity, and ability. But when it comes to their armies, then these qualities do not appear, because of the incapacity of the chiefs, who cannot enforce obedience from those who are versed in the art of war, and every one believes himself to be so; for up to the present time there have been none so decidedly superior in valor and good fortune that the others yielded him obedience. Thence it comes that in so great a length of time, and in the many wars that have occurred within the past twenty years, the armies, whenever wholly composed of Italians, have given but poor account of themselves. Witness first Taro, then Alessandria, Capua, Genoa, Vaila, Bologna, and Mestri.

  If, then, your illustrious house is willing to follow the examples of those distinguished men who have redeemed their countries, you will before anything else, and as the very foundation of every enterprise, have to provide yourself with a national army. And you cannot have more faithful, truer, and better soldiers than the Italians. And whilst each individual is good, they will become still better when they are all united, and know that they are commanded by their own prince, who will honor and support them. It is necessary, therefore, to provide troops of this kind, so as to be able successfully to oppose Italian valor to the attacks of foreigners.

  And although the infantry of the Swiss and of the Spaniards is looked upon as terrible, yet both of them have a defect, which will permit a third organization not only to resist them, but confidently hope to vanquish them. For the Spaniards cannot withstand the shock of cavalry, and the Swiss dread infantry, when they encounter it in battle as obstinate as themselves. Whence we have seen, what further experience will prove more fully, that the Spaniards cannot resist the French cavalry, and that the Swiss succumb to the Spanish infantry. And although we have not yet had a full trial of the latter, yet have we had a fair specimen of it in the battle of Ravenna, where the Spanish infantry confronted the line of battle of the Germans, who have adopted the same system as the Swiss; and where the Spaniards with great agility, and protected by their bucklers, rushed under the pikes of the Germans, and were thus able to attack them securely without the Germans being able to prevent it; and had it not been for the cavalry which fell upon the Spaniards, they might have destroyed the entire German infantry.

  Knowing, then, the defects of the one and the other of these systems of infantry, you can organize a new one that shall avoid these defects, and shall be able to resist cavalry as well as infantry. And this is to be done, not by a change of arms, but by an entirely different organization and discipline. This is one of the things which, if successfully introduced, will give fame and greatness to a new prince.

  You must not, then, allow this opportunity to pass, so that Italy, after waiting so long, may at last see her deliverer appear. Nor can I possibly express with what affection he would be received in all those provinces that have suffered so long from this inundation of foreign foes! — with what thirst for vengeance, with what persistent faith, with what devotion, and with what tears! What door would be closed to him? Who would refuse him obedience? What envy would dare oppose him? What Italian would refuse him homage? This barbarous dominion of the foreigner offends the very nostrils of everybody!

  Let your illustrious house, then, assume this task with that courage and hopefulness which every just enterprise inspires; so that under your banner our country may recover its ancient fame, and under your auspices may be verified the words of Petrarca: —

  • “Virtù contro al furore
  • Prenderà l’arme, e fia il combatter corto;
  • Chè l’antico valore
  • Negli Italici cuor non è ancor morto.”

  Canz. XVI. v. 93-96.

  [* ]This expression of taking Italy “as it were with merely a piece of chalk” (col gesso) was made use of by Alexander VI., and means that Charles VIII. had merely to send a quartermaster ahead with “a piece of chalk” to mark the houses in which the French troops were to be quartered.

  [* ]John Sharpe, an English soldier of fortune.

  [* ]

  • “My cruel fate,
  • And doubts attending an unsettled state,
  • Force me to guard my coasts from foreign foes.”
  Dryden.

• Back to Top

  2: Sessions III and IV: King Lear

  Based on fictional sources, King Lear is nonetheless much like Shakespeare’s historical plays, which take “high politics” for their subject. In Acts I and II (Session III), Lear moves from honored sovereign to a homeless wanderer, while the honest Edgar is forced into hiding by his scheming brother, the “bastard” Edmund. These events readily lend themselve to “machiavellian” analysis, particularly Lear’s folly, Cordelia’s reticence, and Gloucester’s gullibility.

  In Acts III-V (Session IV) matters go from bad to worse, as treachery and deceit spiral into a maelstrom of human suffering. In the end the villians are vanquished, but only after exacting a heavy toll on the innocent (but not blameless) victims. Could tragedy have been averted if Lear, Cordelia, and Gloucester had acted in a more “machiavellian” fashion? While Edmund is often described as a “machiavellian” character, can not a case be made for Kent, who perceives correctly, advises wisely, and survives the carnage?

  William Shakespeare, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (The Oxford Shakespeare), ed. with a glossary by W.J. Craig M.A. (Oxford University Press, 1916).

  Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/1621 on 2008-08-20

  The text is in the public domain.

  ---

  KING LEAR

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  LEAR,	King of Britain.
  KING OF FRANCE.
  DUKE OF BURGUNDY.
  DUKE OF CORNWALL.
  DUKE OF ALBANY.
  EARL OF KENT.
  EARL OF GLOUCESTER.
  EDGAR,	Son to Gloucester.
  EDMUND,	Bastard Son to Gloucester.
  CURAN,	a Courtier.
  OSWALD,	Steward to Goneril.
  Old Man, Tenant to Gloucester.
  Doctor.
  Fool.
  An Officer, employed by Edmund.
  A Gentleman, Attendant on Cordelia.
  A Herald.
  Servants to Cornwall.
  GONERIL, }	Daughters to Lear.
  REGAN, }
  CORDELIA, }
  Knights of Lear’s Train, Officers, Messengers, Soldiers, and Attendants.

  Scene.—Britain.

  ACT I.

  Scene I.—

  A Room of State inKing Lear’sPalace.

  EnterKent, Gloucester,andEdmund.

  Kent.

  I thought the king had more affected the Duke of Albany than Cornwall.

  Glo.

  It did always seem so to us; but now, in the division of the kingdom, it appears not which of the dukes he values most; for equalities are so weighed that curiosity in neither can make choice of either’s moiety.

  Kent.

  Is not this your son, my lord?

  Glo.

  His breeding, sir, hath been at my charge: I have so often blushed to acknowledge him, that now I am brazed to it.

  Kent.

  I cannot conceive you.

  Glo.

  Sir, this young fellow’s mother could; whereupon she grew round-wombed, and had, indeed, sir, a son for her cradle ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault?

  Kent.

  I cannot wish the fault undone, the issue of it being so proper.

  Glo.

  But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account: though this knave came somewhat saucily into the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair; there was good sport at his making, and the whoreson must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?

  Edm.

  No, my lord.

  Glo.

  My Lord of Kent: remember him hereafter as my honourable friend.

  Edm.

  My services to your lordship.

  Kent.

  I must love you, and sue to know you better.

  Edm.

  Sir, I shall study deserving.

  Glo.

  He hath been out nine years, and away he shall again. The king is coming.

  Sennet. EnterLear, Cornwall, Albany, Goneril, Regan, Cordelia,and Attendants.

  Lear.

  Attend the Lords of France and Burgundy, Gloucester.

  Glo.

  I shall, my liege.

  [ExeuntGloucesterandEdmund.

  Lear.

  Meantime we shall express our darker purpose.

  Give me the map there. Know that we have divided

  In three our kingdom; and ’tis our fast intent

  To shake all cares and business from our age,

  Conferring them on younger strengths, while we

  Unburden’d crawl toward death. Our son of Cornwall,

  And you, our no less loving son of Albany,

  We have this hour a constant will to publish

  Our daughters’ several dowers, that future strife

  May be prevented now. The princes, France and Burgundy,

  Great rivals in our youngest daughter’s love,

  Long in our court have made their amorous sojourn,

  And here are to be answer’d. Tell me, my daughters,—

  Since now we will divest us both of rule,

  Interest of territory, cares of state,—

  Which of you shall we say doth love us most?

  That we our largest bounty may extend

  Where nature doth with merit challenge. Goneril,

  Our eldest-born, speak first.

  Gon.

  Sir, I love you more than words can wield the matter;

  Dearer than eye-sight, space, and liberty;

  Beyond what can be valu’d, rich or rare;

  No less than life, with grace, health, beauty, honour;

  As much as child e’er lov’d, or father found;

  A love that makes breath poor and speech unable;

  Beyond all manner of so much I love you.

  Cor.

  [Aside.] What shall Cordelia do? Love, and be silent.

  Lear.

  Of all these bounds, even from this line to this,

  With shadowy forests and with champains rich’d,

  With plenteous rivers and wide-skirted meads,

  We make thee lady: to thine and Albany’s issue

  Be this perpetual. What says our second daughter,

  Our dearest Regan, wife to Cornwall? Speak.

  Reg.

  I am made of that self metal as my sister,

  And prize me at her worth. In my true heart

  I find she names my very deed of love;

  Only she comes too short: that I profess

  Myself an enemy to all other joys

  Which the most precious square of sense possesses

  And find I am alone felicitate

  In your dear highness’ love.

  Cor.

  [Aside.] Then, poor Cordelia!

  And yet not so; since, I am sure, my love’s

  More richer than my tongue.

  Lear.

  To thee and thine, hereditary ever,

  Remain this ample third of our fair kingdom,

  No less in space, validity, and pleasure,

  Than that conferr’d on Goneril. Now, our joy,

  Although our last, not least; to whose young love

  The vines of France and milk of Burgundy

  Strive to be interess’d; what can you say to draw

  A third more opulent than your sisters? Speak.

  Cor.

  Nothing, my lord.

  Lear.

  Nothing?

  Cor.

  Nothing.

  Lear.

  Nothing will come of nothing: speak again.

  Cor.

  Unhappy that I am, I cannot heave

  My heart into my mouth: I love your majesty

  According to my bond; nor more nor less.

  Lear.

  How, how, Cordelia! mend your speech a little,

  Lest you may mar your fortunes.

  Cor.

  Good my lord,

  You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me: I

  Return those duties back as are right fit,

  Obey you, love you, and most honour you.

  Why have my sisters husbands, if they say

  They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed,

  That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry

  Half my love with him, half my care and duty:

  Sure I shall never marry like my sisters,

  To love my father all.

  Lear.

  But goes thy heart with this?

  Cor.

  Ay, good my lord.

  Lear.

  So young, and so untender?

  Cor.

  So young, my lord, and true.

  Lear.

  Let it be so; thy truth then be thy dower:

  For, by the sacred radiance of the sun,

  The mysteries of Hecate and the night,

  By all the operation of the orbs

  From whom we do exist and cease to be,

  Here I disclaim all my paternal care,

  Propinquity and property of blood,

  And as a stranger to my heart and me

  Hold thee from this for ever. The barbarous Scythian,

  Or he that makes his generation messes

  To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosom

  Be as well neighbour’d, pitied, and reliev’d,

  As thou my sometime daughter.

  Kent.

  Good my liege,—

  Lear.

  Peace, Kent!

  Come not between the dragon and his wrath.

  I lov’d her most, and thought to set my rest

  On her kind nursery. Hence, and avoid my sight!

  So be my grave my peace, as here I give

  Her father’s heart from her! Call France. Who stirs?

  Call Burgundy. Cornwall and Albany,

  With my two daughters’ dowers digest the third;

  Let pride, which she calls plainness, marry her.

  I do invest you jointly with my power,

  Pre-eminence, and all the large effects

  That troop with majesty. Ourself by monthly course,

  With reservation of a hundred knights,

  By you to be sustain’d, shall our abode

  Make with you by due turn. Only we shall retain

  The name and all th’ addition to a king;

  The sway, revenue, execution of the rest,

  Beloved sons, be yours: which to confirm,

  This coronet part between you.

  Kent.

  Royal Lear,

  Whom I have ever honour’d as my king,

  Lov’d as my father, as my master follow’d,

  As my great patron thought on in my prayers,—

  Lear.

  The bow is bent and drawn; make from the shaft.

  Kent.

  Let it fall rather, though the fork invade

  The region of my heart: be Kent unmannerly

  When Lear is mad. What wouldst thou do, old man?

  Think’st thou that duty shall have dread to speak

  When power to flattery bows? To plainness honour’s bound

  When majesty falls to folly. Reserve thy state;

  And, in thy best consideration, check

  This hideous rashness: answer my life my judgment,

  Thy youngest daughter does not love thee least;

  Nor are those empty-hearted whose low sound

  Reverbs no hollowness.

  Lear.

  Kent, on thy life, no more.

  Kent.

  My life I never held but as a pawn

  To wage against thine enemies; nor fear to lose it,

  Thy safety being the motive.

  Lear.

  Out of my sight!

  Kent.

  See better, Lear; and let me still remain

  The true blank of thine eye.

  Lear.

  Now, by Apollo,—

  Kent.

  Now, by Apollo, king,

  Thou swear’st thy gods in vain.

  Lear.

  O vassal! miscreant!

  [Laying his hand on his sword.

  Alb.

  Dear sir, forbear.

  Corn.

  Dear sir, forbear.

  Kent.

  Do;

  Kill thy physician, and the fee bestow

  Upon the foul disease. Revoke thy gift;

  Or, whilst I can vent clamour from my throat,

  I’ll tell thee thou dost evil.

  Lear.

  Hear me, recreant!

  On thine allegiance, hear me!

  Since thou hast sought to make us break our vow,—

  Which we durst never yet,—and, with strain’d pride

  To come betwixt our sentence and our power,—

  Which nor our nature nor our place can hear,—

  Our potency made good, take thy reward.

  Five days we do allot thee for provision

  To shield thee from diseases of the world;

  And, on the sixth, to turn thy hated back

  Upon our kingdom: if, on the tenth day following

  Thy banish’d trunk be found in our dominions,

  The moment is thy death. Away! By Jupiter,

  This shall not be revok’d.

  Kent.

  Fare thee well, king; sith thus thou wilt appear,

  Freedom lives hence, and banishment is here.

  [ToCordelia.] The gods to their dear shelter take thee, maid,

  That justly think’st, and hast most rightly said!

  [ToReganandGoneril.] And your large speeches may your deeds approve,

  That good effects may spring from words of love.

  Thus Kent, O princes! bids you all adieu;

  He’ll shape his old course in a country new.

  [Exit.

  Flourish. Re-enterGloucester,withFrance, Burgundy,and Attendants.

  Glo.

  Here’s France and Burgundy, my noble lord.

  Lear.

  My Lord of Burgundy,

  We first address toward you, who with this king

  Hath rivall’d for our daughter. What, in the least,

  Will you require in present dower with her,

  Or cease your quest of love?

  Bur.

  Most royal majesty,

  I crave no more than hath your highness offer’d,

  Nor will you tender less.

  Lear.

  Right noble Burgundy,

  When she was dear to us we did hold her so,

  But now her price is fall’n. Sir, there she stands:

  If aught within that little-seeming substance,

  Or all of it, with our displeasure piec’d,

  And nothing more, may fitly like your Grace,

  She’s there, and she is yours.

  Bur.

  I know no answer.

  Lear.

  Will you, with those infirmities she owes,

  Unfriended, new-adopted to our hate,

  Dower’d with our curse, and stranger’d with our oath,

  Take her, or leave her?

  Bur.

  Pardon me, royal sir;

  Election makes not up on such conditions.

  Lear.

  Then leave her, sir; for, by the power that made me,

  I tell you all her wealth.—[ToFrance.] For you, great king,

  I would not from your love make such a stray

  To match you where I hate; therefore, beseech you

  To avert your liking a more worthier way

  Than on a wretch whom nature is asham’d

  Almost to acknowledge hers.

  France.

  This is most strange,

  That she, who even but now was your best object,

  The argument of your praise, balm of your age,

  The best, the dearest, should in this trice of time

  Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle

  So many folds of favour. Sure, her offence

  Must be of such unnatural degree

  That monsters it, or your fore-vouch’d affection

  Fall into taint; which to believe of her,

  Must be a faith that reason without miracle

  Could never plant in me.

  Cor.

  I yet beseech your majesty—

  If for I want that glib and oily art

  To speak and purpose not; since what I well intend,

  I’ll do ’t before I speak—that you make known

  It is no vicious blot nor other foulness,

  No unchaste action, or dishonour’d step,

  That hath depriv’d me of your grace and favour,

  But even for want of that for which I am richer,

  A still-soliciting eye, and such a tongue

  That I am glad I have not, though not to have it

  Hath lost me in your liking.

  Lear.

  Better thou

  Hadst not been born than not to have pleas’d me better.

  France.

  Is it but this? a tardiness in nature

  Which often leaves the history unspoke

  That it intends to do? My Lord of Burgundy,

  What say you to the lady? Love is not love

  When it is mingled with regards that stand

  Aloof from the entire point. Will you have her?

  She is herself a dowry.

  Bur.

  Royal Lear,

  Give but that portion which yourself propos’d,

  And here I take Cordelia by the hand,

  Duchess of Burgundy.

  Lear.

  Nothing: I have sworn; I am firm.

  Bur.

  I am sorry, then, you have so lost a father

  That you must lose a husband.

  Cor.

  Peace be with Burgundy!

  Since that respects of fortune are his love,

  I shall not be his wife.

  France.

  Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich, being poor;

  Most choice, forsaken; and most lov’d, despis’d!

  Thee and thy virtues here I seize upon:

  Be it lawful I take up what’s cast away.

  Gods, gods! ’tis strange that from their cold’st neglect

  My love should kindle to inflam’d respect.

  Thy dowerless daughter, king, thrown to my chance,

  Is queen of us, of ours, and our fair France:

  Not all the dukes of waterish Burgundy

  Shall buy this unpriz’d precious maid of me.

  Bid them farewell, Cordelia, though unkind:

  Thou losest here, a better where to find.

  Lear.

  Thou hast her, France; let her be thine, for we

  Have no such daughter, nor shall ever see

  That face of hers again, therefore be gone

  Without our grace, our love, our benison.

  Come, noble Burgundy.

  [Flourish. ExeuntLear, Burgundy, Cornwall, Albany, Gloucester,and Attendants.

  France.

  Bid farewell to your sisters.

  Cor.

  The jewels of our father, with wash’d eyes

  Cordelia leaves you: I know you what you are;

  And like a sister am most loath to call

  Your faults as they are nam’d. Use well our father:

  To your professed bosoms I commit him:

  But yet, alas! stood I within his grace,

  I would prefer him to a better place.

  So farewell to you both.

  Reg.

  Prescribe not us our duties.

  Gon.

  Let your study

  Be to content your lord, who hath receiv’d you

  At fortune’s alms; you have obedience scanted,

  And well are worth the want that you have wanted.

  Cor.

  Time shall unfold what plighted cunning hides;

  Who covers faults, at last shame them derides.

  Well may you prosper!

  France.

  Come, my fair Cordelia.

  [ExitFranceandCordelia.

  Gon.

  Sister, it is not little I have to say of what most nearly appertains to us both. I think our father will hence to-night.

  Reg.

  That’s most certain, and with you; next month with us.

  Gon.

  You see how full of changes his age is; the observation we have made of it hath not been little: he always loved our sister most; and with what poor judgment he hath now cast her off appears too grossly.

  Reg.

  ’Tis the infirmity of his age; yet he hath ever but slenderly known himself.

  Gon.

  The best and soundest of his time hath been but rash; then, must we look to receive from his age, not alone the imperfections of long-engraffed condition, but, therewithal the unruly waywardness that infirm and choleric years bring with them.

  Reg.

  Such unconstant starts are we like to have from him as this of Kent’s banishment.

  Gon.

  There is further compliment of leave-taking between France and him. Pray you, let us hit together: if our father carry authority with such dispositions as he bears, this last surrender of his will but offend us.

  Reg.

  We shall further think on’t.

  Gon.

  We must do something, and i’ the heat.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene II.—

  A Hall in theEarl of Gloucester’sCastle.

  EnterEdmund,with a letter.

  Edm.

  Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law

  My services are bound. Wherefore should I

  Stand in the plague of custom, and permit

  The curiosity of nations to deprive me,

  For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines

  Lag of a brother? Why bastard? wherefore base?

  When my dimensions are as well compact,

  My mind as generous, and my shape as true,

  As honest madam’s issue? Why brand they us

  With base? with baseness? bastardy? base, base?

  Who in the lusty stealth of nature take

  More composition and fierce quality

  Than doth, within a dull, stale, tired bed,

  Go to the creating a whole tribe of fops,

  Got ’tween asleep and wake? Well then,

  Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land:

  Our father’s love is to the bastard Edmund

  As to the legitimate. Fine word, ‘legitimate!’

  Well, my legitimate, if this letter speed,

  And my invention thrive, Edmund the base

  Shall top the legitimate:—I grow, I prosper;

  Now, gods, stand up for bastards!

  EnterGloucester.

  Glo.

  Kent banished thus! And France in choler parted!

  And the king gone to-night! subscrib’d his power!

  Confin’d to exhibition! All this done

  Upon the gad! Edmund, how now! what news?

  Edm.

  So please your lordship, none.

  [Putting up the letter.

  Glo.

  Why so earnestly seek you to put up that letter?

  Edm.

  I know no news, my lord.

  Glo.

  What paper were you reading?

  Edm.

  Nothing, my lord.

  Glo.

  No? What needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your pocket? the quality of nothing hath not such need to hide itself. Let’s see; come; if it be nothing, I shall not need spectacles.

  Edm.

  I beseech you, sir, pardon me; it is a letter from my brother that I have not all o’er-read, and for so much as I have perused, I find it not fit for your o’er-looking.

  Glo.

  Give me the letter, sir.

  Edm.

  I shall offend, either to detain or give it. The contents, as in part I understand them, are to blame.

  Glo.

  Let’s see, let’s see.

  Edm.

  I hope, for my brother’s justification, he wrote this but as an essay or taste of my virtue.

  Glo.

  This policy and reverence of age makes the world bitter to the best of our times; keeps our fortunes from us till our oldness cannot relish them. I begin to find an idle and fond bondage in the oppression of aged tyranny, who sways, not as it hath power, but as it is suffered. Come to me, that of this I may speak more. If our father would sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue for ever, and live the beloved of your brother, Edgar.—Hum! Conspiracy! ‘Sleep till I waked him, you should enjoy half his revenue.’—My son Edgar! Had he a hand to write this? a heart and brain to breed it in? When came this to you? Who brought it?

  Edm.

  It was not brought me, my lord; there’s the cunning of it; I found it thrown in at the casement of my closet.

  Glo.

  You know the character to be your brother’s?

  Edm.

  If the matter were good, my lord, I durst swear it were his; but, in respect of that, I would fain think it were not.

  Glo.

  It is his.

  Edm.

  It is his hand, my lord; but I hope his heart is not in the contents.

  Glo.

  Hath he never heretofore sounded you in this business?

  Edm.

  Never, my lord: but I have often heard him maintain it to be fit that, sons at perfect age, and fathers declined, the father should be as ward to the son, and the son manage his revenue.

  Glo.

  O villain, villain! His very opinion in the letter! Abhorred villain! Unnatural, detested, brutish villain! worse than brutish! Go, sirrah, seek him; I’ll apprehend him. Abominable villain! Where is he?

  Edm.

  I do not well know, my lord. If it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my brother till you can derive from him better testimony of his intent, you shall run a certain course; where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your own honour, and shake in pieces the heart of his obedience. I dare pawn down my life for him, that he hath writ this to feel my affection to your honour, and to no other pretence of danger.

  Glo.

  Think you so?

  Edm.

  If your honour judge it meet, I will place you where you shall hear us confer of this, and by an auricular assurance have your satisfaction; and that without any further delay than this very evening.

  Glo.

  He cannot be such a monster—

  Edm.

  Nor is not, sure.

  Glo.

  —to his father, that so tenderly and entirely loves him. Heaven and earth! Edmund, seek him out; wind me into him, I pray you: frame the business after your own wisdom. I would unstate myself to be in a due resolution.

  Edm.

  I will seek him, sir, presently; convey the business as I shall find means, and acquaint you withal.

  Glo.

  These late eclipses in the sun and moon portend no good to us: though the wisdom of nature can reason it thus and thus, yet nature finds itself scourged by the sequent effects. Love cools, friendship falls off, brothers divide: in cities, mutinies; in countries, discord; in palaces, treason; and the bond cracked between son and father. This villain of mine comes under the prediction; there’s son against father: the king falls from bias of nature; there’s father against child. We have seen the best of our time: machinations, hollowness, treachery, and all ruinous disorders, follow us disquietly to our graves. Find out this villain, Edmund; it shall lose thee nothing: do it carefully. And the noble and true-hearted Kent banished! his offence, honesty! ’Tis strange!

  [Exit.

  Edm.

  This is the excellent foppery of the world, that, when we are sick in fortune,—often the surfeit of our own behaviour,—we make guilty of our disasters the sun, the moon, and the stars; as if we were villains by necessity, fools by heavenly compulsion, knaves, thieves, and treachers by spherical predominance, drunkards, liars, and adulterers by an enforced obedience of planetary influence; and all that we are evil in, by a divine thrusting on: an admirable evasion of whoremaster man, to lay his goatish disposition to the charge of a star! My father compounded with my mother under the dragon’s tail, and my nativity was under ursa major; so that it follows I am rough and lecherous. ’Sfoot! I should have been that I am had the maidenliest star in the firmament twinkled on my bastardizing. Edgar—

  EnterEdgar.

  and pat he comes, like the catastrophe of the old comedy: my cue is villanous melancholy, with a sigh like Tom o’ Bedlam. O, these eclipses do portend these divisions! Fa, sol, la, mi.

  Edg.

  How now, brother Edmund! What serious contemplation are you in?

  Edm.

  I am thinking, brother, of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these eclipses.

  Edg.

  Do you busy yourself with that?

  Edm.

  I promise you the effects he writes of succeed unhappily; as of unnaturalness between the child and the parent; death, dearth, dissolutions of ancient amities; divisions in state; menaces and maledictions against king and nobles; needless diffidences, banishment of friends, dissipation of cohorts, nuptial breaches, and I know not what.

  Edg.

  How long have you been a sectary astronomical?

  Edm.

  Come, come; when saw you my father last?

  Edg.

  The night gone by.

  Edm.

  Spake you with him?

  Edg.

  Ay, two hours together.

  Edm.

  Parted you in good terms? Found you no displeasure in him by word or countenance?

  Edg.

  None at all.

  Edm.

  Bethink yourself wherein you may have offended him; and at my entreaty forbear his presence till some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure, which at this instant so rageth in him that with the mischief of your person it would scarcely allay.

  Edg.

  Some villain hath done me wrong.

  Edm.

  That’s my fear. I pray you have a continent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower, and, as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to hear my lord speak. Pray you, go; there’s my key. If you do stir abroad, go armed.

  Edg.

  Armed, brother!

  Edm.

  Brother, I advise you to the best; go armed; I am no honest man if there be any good meaning toward you; I have told you what I have seen and heard; but faintly, nothing like the image and horror of it; pray you, away.

  Edg.

  Shall I hear from you anon?

  Edm.

  I do serve you in this business.

  [ExitEdgar.

  A credulous father, and a brother noble,

  Whose nature is so far from doing harms

  That he suspects none; on whose foolish honesty

  My practices ride easy! I see the business.

  Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit:

  All with me’s meet that I can fashion fit.

  [Exit.

  Scene III.—

  A Room in theDuke of Albany’sPalace.

  EnterGonerilandOswaldher Steward.

  Gon.

  Did my father strike my gentleman for chiding of his fool?

  Osw.

  Ay, madam.

  Gon.

  By day and night he wrongs me; every hour

  He flashes into one gross crime or other,

  That sets us all at odds: I’ll not endure it:

  His knights grow riotous, and himself upbraids us

  On every trifle. When he returns from hunting

  I will not speak with him; say I am sick:

  If you come slack of former services,

  You shall do well; the fault of it I’ll answer.

  Osw.

  He’s coming, madam; I hear him.

  [Horns within.

  Gon.

  Put on what weary negligence you please,

  You and your fellows; I’d have it come to question:

  If he distaste it, let him to my sister,

  Whose mind and mine, I know, in that are one,

  Not to be over-rul’d. Idle old man,

  That still would manage those authorities

  That he hath given away! Now, by my life,

  Old fools are babes again, and must be us’d

  With cheeks as flatteries, when they are seen abus’d.

  Remember what I have said.

  Osw.

  Well, madam.

  Gon.

  And let his knights have colder looks among you;

  What grown of it, no matter; advise your fellows so:

  I would breed from hence occasions, and I shall,

  That I may speak: I’ll write straight to my sister

  To hold my very source. Prepare for dinner.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene IV.—

  A Hall in the Same.

  EnterKent,disguised.

  Kent.

  If but as well I other accents borrow,

  That can my speech diffuse, my good intent

  May carry through itself to that full issue

  For which I raz’d my likeness. Now, banish’d Kent,

  If thou canst serve where thou dost stand condemn’d,

  So may it come, thy master, whom thou lov’st,

  Shall find thee full of labours.

  Horns within. EnterLear, Knights, and Attendants.

  Lear.

  Let me not stay a jot for dinner: go, get it ready. [Exit an Attendant.] How now! what art thou?

  Kent.

  A man, sir.

  Lear.

  What dost thou profess? What wouldst thou with us?

  Kent.

  I do profess to be no less than I seem; to serve him truly that will put me in trust; to love him that is honest; to converse with him that is wise, and says little; to fear judgment; to fight when I cannot choose; and to eat no fish.

  Lear.

  What art thou?

  Kent.

  A very honest-hearted fellow, and as poor as the king.

  Lear.

  If thou be as poor for a subject as he is for a king, thou art poor enough. What wouldst thou?

  Kent.

  Service.

  Lear.

  Whom wouldst thou serve?

  Kent.

  You.

  Lear.

  Dost thou know me, fellow?

  Kent.

  No, sir; but you have that in your countenance which I would fain call master.

  Lear.

  What’s that?

  Kent.

  Authority.

  Lear.

  What services canst thou do?

  Kent.

  I can keep honest counsel, ride, run, mar a curious tale in telling it, and deliver a plain message bluntly; that which ordinary men are fit for, I am qualified in, and the best of me is diligence.

  Lear.

  How old art thou?

  Kent.

  Not so young, sir, to love a woman for singing, nor so old to dote on her for any thing; I have years on my back forty-eight.

  Lear.

  Follow me; thou shalt serve me; if I like thee no worse after dinner I will not part from thee yet. Dinner, ho! dinner! Where’s my knave? my fool? Go you and call my fool hither.

  [Exit an Attendant.

  EnterOswald.

  You, you, sirrah, where’s my daughter?

  Osw.

  So please you,—

  [Exit.

  Lear.

  What says the fellow there? Call the clotpoll back. [Exit a Knight.] Where’s my fool, ho? I think the world’s asleep. How now! where’s that mongrel?

  Re-enter Knight.

  Knight.

  He says, my lord, your daughter is not well.

  Lear.

  Why came not the slave back to me when I called him?

  Knight.

  Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he would not.

  Lear.

  He would not!

  Knight.

  My lord, I know not what the matter is; but, to my judgment, your highness is not entertained with that ceremonious affection as you were wont; there’s a great abatement of kindness appears as well in the general dependants as in the duke himself also and your daughter.

  Lear.

  Ha! sayest thou so?

  Knight.

  I beseech you, pardon me, my lord, if I be mistaken; for my duty cannot be silent when I think your highness wronged.

  Lear.

  Thou but rememberest me of mine own conception: I have perceived a most faint neglect of late; which I have rather blamed as mine own jealous curiosity than as a very pretence and purpose of unkindness: I will look further into ’t. But where’s my fool? I have not seen him this two days.

  Knight.

  Since my young lady’s going into France, sir, the fool hath much pined him away.

  Lear.

  No more of that; I have noted it well.

  Go you and tell my daughter I would speak with her.

  [Exit an Attendant.

  Go you, call hither my fool.

  [Exit an Attendant.

  Re-enterOswald.

  O! you sir, you, come you hither, sir. Who am

  I, sir?

  Osw.

  My lady’s father.

  Lear.

  ‘My lady’s father!’ my lord’s knave: you whoreson dog! you slave! you cur!

  Osw.

  I am none of these, my lord; I beseech your pardon.

  Lear.

  Do you bandy looks with me, you rascal?

  [Striking him.

  Osw.

  I’ll not be struck, my lord.

  Kent.

  Nor tripped neither, you base football player.

  [Tripping up his heels.

  Lear.

  I thank thee, fellow; thou servest me, and I’ll love thee.

  Kent.

  Come, sir, arise, away! I’ll teach you differences: away, away! If you will measure your lubber’s length again, tarry; but away!

  Go to; have you wisdom? so.

  [PushesOswaldout.

  Lear.

  Now, my friendly knave, I thank thee: there’s earnest of thy service.

  [GivesKentmoney.

  Enter Fool.

  Fool.

  Let me hire him too: here’s my coxcomb.

  [OffersKenthis cap.

  Lear.

  How now, my pretty knave! how dost thou?

  Fool.

  Sirrah, you were best take my coxcomb.

  Kent.

  Why, fool?

  Fool.

  Why? for taking one’s part that’s out of favour. Nay, an thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou’lt catch cold shortly: there, take my coxcomb. Why, this fellow has banished two on ’s daughters, and did the third a blessing against his will: if thou follow him thou must needs wear my coxcomb. How now, nuncle! Would I had two coxcombs and two daughters!

  Lear.

  Why, my boy?

  Fool.

  If I gave them all my living, I’d keep my coxcombs myself. There’s mine; beg another of thy daughters.

  Lear.

  Take heed, sirrah; the whip.

  Fool.

  Truth’s a dog must to kennel; he must be whipped out when Lady the brach may stand by the fire and stink.

  Lear.

  A pestilent gall to me!

  Fool.

  [ToKent.] Sirrah, I’ll teach’ thee a speech.

  Lear.

  Do.

  Fool.

  Mark it, nuncle:—

  • Have more than thou showest,
  • Speak less than thou knowest,
  • Lend less than thou owest,
  • Ride more than thou goest,
  • Learn more than thou trowest,
  • Set less than thou throwest;
  • Leave thy drink and thy whore,
  • And keep in-a-door,
  • And thou shalt have more
  • Than two tens to a score.

  Kent.

  This is nothing, fool.

  Fool.

  Then ’tis like the breath of an unfee’d lawyer, you gave me nothing for ’t. Can you make no use of nothing, nuncle?

  Lear.

  Why, no, boy; nothing can be made out of nothing.

  Fool.

  [ToKent.] Prithee, tell him, so much the rent of his land comes to: he will not believe a fool.

  Lear.

  A bitter fool!

  Fool.

  Dost thou know the difference, my boy, between a bitter fool and a sweet fool?

  Lear.

  No, lad; teach me.

  Fool.

  • That lord that counsell’d thee
  • To give away thy land,
  • Come place him here by me,
  • Do thou for him stand:
  • The sweet and bitter fool
  • Will presently appear;
  • The one in motley here,
  • The other found out there.

  Lear.

  Dost thou call me fool, boy?

  Fool.

  All thy other titles thou hast given away; that thou wast born with.

  Kent.

  This is not altogether fool, my lord.

  Fool.

  No, faith, lords and great men will not let me; if I had a monopoly out, they would have part on ’t, and ladies too: they will not let me have all fool to myself; they’ll be snatching. Nuncle, give me an egg, and I’ll give thee two crowns.

  Lear.

  What two crowns shall they be?

  Fool.

  Why, after I have cut the egg i’ the middle and eat up the meat, the two crowns of the egg. When thou clovest thy crown i’ the middle, and gavest away both parts, thou borest thine ass on thy back o’er the dirt: thou hadst little wit in thy bald crown when thou gavest thy golden one away. If I speak like myself in this, let him be whipped that first finds it so.

  • Fools had ne’er less grace in a year;
  • For wise men are grown foppish,
  • And know not how their wits to wear,
  • Their manners are so apish.

  Lear.

  When were you wont to be so full of songs, sirrah?

  Fool.

  I have used it, nuncle, ever since thou madest thy daughters thy mothers; for when thou gavest them the rod and puttest down thine own breeches,

  • Then they for sudden joy did weep,
  • And I for sorrow sung,
  • That such a king should play bo-peep,
  • And go the fools among.

  Prithee, nuncle, keep a schoolmaster that can teach thy fool to lie: I would fain learn to lie.

  Lear.

  An you lie, sirrah, we’ll have you whipped.

  Fool.

  I marvel what kin thou and thy daughters are: they’ll have me whipped for speaking true, thou’lt have me whipped for lying; and sometimes I am whipped for holding my peace. I had rather be any kind o’ thing than a fool; and yet I would not be thee, nuncle; thou hast pared thy wit o’ both sides, and left nothing i’ the middle: here comes one o’ the parings.

  EnterGoneril.

  Lear.

  How now, daughter! what makes that frontlet on? Methinks you are too much of late i’ the frown.

  Fool.

  Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no need to care for her frowning; now thou art an O without a figure. I am better than thou art now; I am a fool, thou art nothing. [ToGoneril.] Yes, forsooth, I will hold my tongue; so your face bids me, though you say nothing.

  • Mum, mum;
  • He that keeps nor crust nor crumb,
  • Weary of all, shall want some.

  That’s a shealed peascod.

  [Pointing toLear.

  Gon.

  Not only, sir, this your all-licens’d fool,

  But other of your insolent retinue

  Do hourly carp and quarrel, breaking forth

  In rank and not-to-be-endured riots. Sir,

  I had thought, by making this well known unto you,

  To have found a safe redress; but now grow fearful,

  By what yourself too late have spoke and done.

  That you protect this course, and put it on

  By your allowance; which if you should, the fault

  Would not ’scape censure, nor the redresses sleep,

  Which, in the tender of a wholesome weal,

  Might in their working do you that offence,

  Which else were shame, that then necessity

  Will call discreet proceeding.

  Fool.

  For you trow, nuncle,

  • The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long,
  • That it had it head bit off by it young.

  So out went the candle, and we were left darkling.

  Lear.

  Are you our daughter?

  Gon.

  I would you would make use of your good wisdom,

  Whereof I know you are fraught; and put away

  These dispositions which of late transform you

  From what you rightly are.

  Fool.

  May not an ass know when the cart draws the horse? Whoop, Jug! I love thee.

  Lear.

  Does any here know me? This is not Lear:

  Does Lear walk thus? speak thus? Where are his eyes?

  Either his notion weakens, his discernings

  Are lethargied. Ha! waking? ’tis not so.

  Who is it that can tell me who I am?

  Fool.

  Lear’s shadow.

  Lear.

  I would learn that; for, by the marks of sovereignty, knowledge and reason, I should be false persuaded I had daughters.

  Fool.

  Which they will make an obedient father.

  Lear.

  Your name, fair gentlewoman?

  Gon.

  This admiration, sir, is much o’ the favour

  Of other your new pranks. I do beseech you

  To understand my purposes aright:

  As you are old and reverend, should be wise.

  Here do you keep a hundred knights and squires;

  Men so disorder’d, so debosh’d, and bold,

  That this our court, infected with their manners,

  Shows like a riotous inn: epicurism and lust

  Make it more like a tavern or a brothel

  Than a grac’d palace. The shame itself doth speak

  For instant remedy; be then desir’d

  By her that else will take the thing she begs,

  A little to disquantity your train;

  And the remainder, that shall still depend,

  To be such men as may besort your age,

  Which know themselves and you.

  Lear.

  Darkness and devils!

  Saddle my horses; call my train together.

  Degenerate bastard! I’ll not trouble thee:

  Yet have I left a daughter.

  Gon.

  You strike my people, and your disorder’d rabble

  Make servants of their betters.

  EnterAlbany.

  Lear.

  Woe, that too late repents;

  [ToAlbany.] O! sir, are you come?

  Is it your will? Speak, sir. Prepare my horses.

  Ingratitude, thou marble-hearted fiend,

  More hideous, when thou show’st thee in a child,

  Than the sea-monster.

  Alb.

  Pray, sir, be patient.

  Lear.

  [ToGoneril.] Detested kite! thou liest:

  My train are men of choice and rarest parts,

  That all particulars of duty know,

  And in the most exact regard support

  The worships of their name. O most small fault,

  How ugly didst thou in Cordelia show!

  Which, like an engine, wrench’d my frame of nature

  From the fix’d place, drew from my heart all love,

  And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!

  Beat at this gate, that let thy folly in,

  [Striking his head.

  And thy dear judgment out! Go, go, my people.

  Alb.

  My lord, I am guiltless, as I am ignorant

  Of what hath mov’d you.

  Lear.

  It may be so, my lord.

  Hear, Nature, hear! dear goddess, hear!

  Suspend thy purpose, if thou didst intend

  To make this creature fruitful!

  Into her womb convey sterility!

  Dry up in her the organs of increase,

  And from her derogate body never spring

  A babe to honour her! If she must teem,

  Create her child of spleen, that it may live

  And be a thwart disnatur’d torment to her!

  Let it stamp wrinkles in her brow of youth,

  With cadent tears fret channels in her cheeks,

  Turn all her mother’s pains and benefits

  To laughter and contempt, that she may feel

  How sharper than a serpent’s tooth it is

  To have a thankless child! Away, away!

  [Exit.

  Alb.

  Now, gods that we adore, whereof comes this?

  Gon.

  Never afflict yourself to know the cause;

  But let his disposition have that scope

  That dotage gives it.

  Re-enterLear.

  Lear.

  What! fifty of my followers at a clap,

  Within a fortnight?

  Alb.

  What’s the matter, sir?

  Lear.

  I’ll tell thee. [ToGoneril.] Life and death! I am asham’d

  That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus,

  That these hot tears, which break from me perforce,

  Should make thee worth them. Blasts and fogs upon thee!

  Th’ untented woundings of a father’s curse

  Pierce every sense about thee! Old fond eyes,

  Beweep this cause again, I’ll pluck ye out,

  And cast you, with the waters that you lose,

  To temper clay. Yea, is it come to this?

  Let it be so: I have another daughter,

  Who, I am sure, is kind and comfortable:

  When she shall hear this of thee, with her nails

  She’ll flay thy wolvish visage. Thou shalt find

  That I’ll resume the shape which thou dost think

  I have cast off for ever; thou shalt, I warrant thee.

  [ExeuntLear, Kent,and Attendants.

  Gon.

  Do you mark that?

  Alb.

  I cannot be so partial, Goneril,

  To the great love I bear you.—

  Gon.

  Pray you, content. What, Oswald, ho!

  [To the Fool.] You, sir, more knave than fool, after your master.

  Fool.

  Nuncle Lear, nuncle Lear! tarry, and take the fool with thee.

  • A fox, when one has caught her,
  • And such a daughter,
  • Should sure to the slaughter,
  • If my cap would buy a halter;
  • So the fool follows after.
  • [Exit.

  Gon.

  This man hath had good counsel. A hundred knights!

  ’Tis politic and safe to let him keep

  At point a hundred knights; yes, that on every dream,

  Each buzz, each fancy, each complaint, dislike,

  He may enguard his dotage with their powers,

  And hold our lives in mercy. Oswald, I say!

  Alb.

  Well, you may fear too far.

  Gon.

  Safer than trust too far.

  Let me still take away the harms I fear,

  Not fear still to be taken: I know his heart.

  What he hath utter’d I have writ my sister;

  If she sustain him and his hundred knights,

  When I have show’d the unfitness,—

  Re-enterOswald.

  How now, Oswald!

  What! have you writ that letter to my sister?

  Osw.

  Ay, madam.

  Gon.

  Take you some company, and away to horse:

  Inform her full of my particular fear;

  And thereto add such reasons of your own

  As may compact it more. Get you gone,

  And hasten your return. [ExitOswald.] No, no, my lord,

  This milky gentleness and course of yours

  Though I condemn not, yet, under pardon,

  You are much more attask’d for want of wisdom

  Than prais’d for harmful mildness.

  Alb.

  How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell:

  Striving to better, oft we mar what’s well.

  Gon.

  Nay, then—

  Alb.

  Well, well; the event.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene V.—

  Court before the Same.

  EnterLear, Kent,and Fool.

  Lear.

  Go you before to Gloucester with these letters. Acquaint my daughter no further with any thing you know than comes from her demand out of the letter. If your diligence be not speedy I shall be there before you.

  Kent.

  I will not sleep, my lord, till I have delivered your letter.

  [Exit.

  Fool.

  If a man’s brains were in ’s heels, were’t not in danger of kibes?

  Lear.

  Ay, boy.

  Fool.

  Then, I prithee, be merry; thy wit shall not go slip-shod.

  Lear.

  Ha, ha, ha!

  Fool.

  Shalt see thy other daughter will use thee kindly; for though she’s as like this as a crab is like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell.

  Lear.

  What canst tell, boy?

  Fool.

  She will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one’s nose stands i’ the middle on ’s face?

  Lear.

  No.

  Fool.

  Why, to keep one’s eyes of either side’s nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into.

  Lear.

  I did her wrong,—

  Fool.

  Canst tell how an oyster makes his shell?

  Lear.

  No.

  Fool.

  Nor I neither; but I can tell why a snail has a house.

  Lear.

  Why?

  Fool.

  Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his daughters, and leave his horns without a case.

  Lear.

  I will forget my nature. So kind a father! Be my horses ready?

  Fool.

  Thy asses are gone about ’em. The reason why the seven stars are no more than seven is a pretty reason.

  Lear.

  Because they are not eight?

  Fool.

  Yes, indeed: thou wouldst make a good fool.

  Lear.

  To take it again perforce! Monster ingratitude!

  Fool.

  If thou wert my fool, nuncle, I’d have thee beaten for being old before thy time.

  Lear.

  How’s that?

  Fool.

  Thou shouldst not have been old before thou hadst been wise.

  Lear.

  O! let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven;

  Keep me in temper; I would not be mad!

  Enter Gentleman.

  How now! Are the horses ready?

  Gent.

  Ready, my lord.

  Lear.

  Come, boy.

  Fool.

  She that’s a maid now, and laughs at my departure,

  Shall not be a maid long, unless things be cut shorter.

  [Exeunt.

  ACT II.

  Scene I.—

  A Court within the Castle of theEarl of Gloucester.

  EnterEdmundandCuran,meeting.

  Edm.

  Save thee, Curan.

  Cur.

  And you, sir. I have been with your father, and given him notice that the Duke of Cornwall and Regan his duchess will be here with him to-night.

  Edm.

  How comes that?

  Cur.

  Nay, I know not. You have heard of the news abroad? I mean the whispered ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments?

  Edm.

  Not I: pray you, what are they?

  Cur.

  Have you heard of no likely wars toward, ’twixt the Dukes of Cornwall and Albany?

  Edm.

  Not a word.

  Cur.

  You may do then, in time. Fare you well, sir.

  [Exit.

  Edm.

  The duke be here to-night! The better! best!

  This weaves itself perforce into my business.

  My father hath set guard to take my brother;

  And I have one thing, of a queasy question,

  Which I must act. Briefness and fortune, work!

  Brother, a word; descend: brother, I say!

  EnterEdgar.

  My father watches: O sir! fly this place;

  Intelligence is given where you are hid;

  You have now the good advantage of the night.

  Have you not spoken ’gainst the Duke of Cornwall?

  He’s coming hither, now, i’ the night, i’ the haste,

  And Regan with him; have you nothing said

  Upon his party ’gainst the Duke of Albany?

  Advise yourself.

  Edg.

  I am sure on ’t, not a word.

  Edm.

  I hear my father coming; pardon me;

  In cunning I must draw my sword upon you;

  Draw; seem to defend yourself; now ’quit you well.

  Yield;—come before my father. Light, ho! here!

  Fly, brother. Torches! torches! So, farewell.

  [ExitEdgar.

  Some blood drawn on me would beget opinion

  [Wounds his arm.

  Of my more fierce endeavour: I have seen drunkards

  Do more than this in sport. Father! father!

  Stop, stop! No help?

  EnterGloucester,and Servants with torches.

  Glo.

  Now, Edmund, where’s the villain?

  Edm.

  Here stood he in the dark, his sharp sword out,

  Mumbling of wicked charms, conjuring the moon

  To stand auspicious mistress.

  Glo.

  But where is he?

  Edm.

  Look, sir, I bleed.

  Glo.

  Where is the villain, Edmund?

  Edm.

  Fled this way, sir. When by no means he could—

  Glo.

  Pursue him, ho! Go after. [Exeunt some Servants.] ‘By no means’ what?

  Edm.

  Persuade me to the murder of your lordship;

  But that I told him, the revenging gods

  ’Gainst parricides did all their thunders bend;

  Spoke with how manifold and strong a bond

  The child was bound to the father; sir, in fine,

  Seeing how loathly opposite I stood

  To his unnatural purpose, in fell motion,

  With his prepared sword he charges home

  My unprovided body, lanc’d mine arm:

  But when he saw my best alarum’d spirits

  Bold in the quarrel’s right, rous’d to the encounter,

  Or whether gasted by the noise I made,

  Full suddenly he fled.

  Glo.

  Let him fly far:

  Not in this land shall he remain uncaught;

  And found—dispatch. The noble duke my master,

  My worthy arch and patron, comes to-night:

  By his authority I will proclaim it,

  That he which finds him shall deserve our thanks,

  Bringing the murderous coward to the stake;

  He that conceals him, death.

  Edm.

  When I dissuaded him from his intent,

  And found him pight to do it, with curst speech

  I threaten’d to discover him: he replied,

  ‘Thou unpossessing bastard! dost thou think,

  If I would stand against thee, would the reposal

  Of any trust, virtue, or worth, in thee

  Make thy words faith’d? No: what I should deny,—

  As this I would; ay, though thou didst produce

  My very character,—I’d turn it all

  To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practice:

  And thou must make a dullard of the world,

  If they not thought the profits of my death

  Were very pregnant and potential spurs

  To make thee seek it.’

  Glo.

  Strong and fasten’d villain!

  Would he deny his letter? I never got him.

  [Tucket within.

  Hark! the duke’s trumpets. I know not why he comes.

  All ports I’ll bar; the villain shall not ’scape;

  The duke must grant me that: besides, his picture

  I will send far and near, that all the kingdom

  May have due note of him; and of my land,

  Loyal and natural boy, I’ll work the means

  To make thee capable.

  EnterCornwall, Regan,and Attendants.

  Corn.

  How now, my noble friend! since I came hither,—

  Which I can call but now,—I have heard strange news.

  Reg.

  If it be true, all vengeance comes too short

  Which can pursue the offender. How dost, my lord?

  Glo.

  O! madam, my old heart is crack’d, it’s crack’d.

  Reg.

  What! did my father’s godson seek your life?

  He whom my father nam’d? your Edgar?

  Glo.

  O! lady, lady, shame would have it hid.

  Reg.

  Was he not companion with the riotous knights

  That tend upon my father?

  Glo.

  I know not, madam; ’tis too bad, too bad.

  Edm.

  Yes, madam, he was of that consort.

  Reg.

  No marvel then though he were ill affected;

  ’Tis they have put him on the old man’s death,

  To have the expense and waste of his revenues.

  I have this present evening from my sister

  Been well-inform’d of them, and with such cautions

  That if they come to sojourn at my house,

  I’ll not be there.

  Corn.

  Nor I, assure thee, Regan.

  Edmund, I hear that you have shown your father

  A child-like office.

  Edm.

  ’Twas my duty, sir.

  Glo.

  He did bewray his practice; and receiv’d

  This hurt you see, striving to apprehend him.

  Corn.

  Is he pursu’d?

  Glo.

  Ay, my good lord.

  Corn.

  If he be taken he shall never more

  Be fear’d of doing harm; make your own purpose,

  How in my strength you please. For you, Edmund,

  Whose virtue and obedience doth this instant

  So much commend itself, you shall be ours:

  Natures of such deep trust we shall much need;

  You we first seize on.

  Edm.

  I shall serve you, sir,

  Truly, however else.

  Glo.

  For him I thank your Grace.

  Corn.

  You know not why we came to visit you,—

  Reg.

  Thus out of season, threading dark-ey’d night:

  Occasions, noble Gloucester, of some prize,

  Wherein we must have use of your advice.

  Our father he hath writ, so hath our sister,

  Of differences, which I best thought it fit

  To answer from our home; the several messengers

  From hence attend dispatch. Our good old friend,

  Lay comforts to your bosom, and bestow

  Your needful counsel to our businesses,

  Which craves the instant use.

  Glo.

  I serve you, madam.

  Your Graces are right welcome.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene II.—

  BeforeGloucester’sCastle.

  EnterKentandOswald,severally.

  Osw.

  Good dawning to thee, friend: art of this house?

  Kent.

  Ay.

  Osw.

  Where may we set our horses?

  Kent.

  I’ the mire.

  Osw.

  Prithee, if thou lovest me, tell me.

  Kent.

  I love thee not.

  Osw.

  Why, then I care not for thee.

  Kent.

  If I had thee in Lipsbury pinfold, I would make thee care for me.

  Osw.

  Why dost thou use me thus? I know thee not.

  Kent.

  Fellow, I know thee.

  Osw.

  What dost thou know me for?

  Kent.

  A knave, a rascal, an eater of broken meats; a base, proud, shallow, beggarly, three-suited, hundred-pound, filthy, worsted-stocking knave; a lily-liver’d, action-taking knave; a whoreson, glass-gazing, superserviceable, finical rogue; one-trunk-inheriting slave; one that wouldst be a bawd, in way of good service, and art nothing but the composition of a knave, beggar, coward, pandar, and the son and heir of a mongrel bitch: one whom I will beat into clamorous whining if thou deniest the least syllable of thy addition.

  Osw.

  Why, what a monstrous fellow art thou, thus to rail on one that is neither known of thee nor knows thee!

  Kent.

  What a brazen-faced varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me! Is it two days since I tripped up thy heels and beat thee before the king? Draw, you rogue; for, though it be night, yet the moon shines: I’ll make a sop o’ the moonshine of you. [Drawing his sword.] Draw, you whoreson, cullionly, barber-monger, draw.

  Osw.

  Away! I have nothing to do with thee.

  Kent.

  Draw, you rascal; you come with letters against the king, and take vanity the pupet’s part against the royalty of her father. Draw, you rogue, or I’ll so carbonado your shanks: draw, you rascal; come your ways.

  Osw.

  Help, ho! murder! help!

  Kent.

  Strike, you slave; stand, rogue, stand; you neat slave, strike.

  [Beating him.

  Osw.

  Help, oh! murder! murder!

  EnterEdmundwith his rapier drawn.

  Edm.

  How now! What’s the matter?

  [Parting them.

  Kent.

  With you, goodman boy, if you please: come,

  I’ll flesh ye; come on, young master.

  EnterCornwall, Regan, Gloucester,and Servants.

  Glo.

  Weapons! arms! What’s the matter here?

  Corn.

  Keep peace, upon your lives:

  He dies that strikes again. What is the matter?

  Reg.

  The messengers from our sister and the king.

  Corn.

  What is your difference? speak.

  Osw.

  I am scarce in breath, my lord.

  Kent.

  No marvel, you have so bestirred your valour. You cowardly rascal, nature disclaims in thee: a tailor made thee.

  Corn.

  Thou art a strange fellow; a tailor make a man?

  Kent.

  Ay, a tailor, sir: a stone-cutter or a painter could not have made him so ill, though they had been but two hours o’ the trade.

  Corn.

  Speak yet, how grew your quarrel?

  Osw.

  This ancient ruffian, sir, whose life I have spar’d at suit of his grey beard,—

  Kent.

  Thou whoreson zed! thou unnecessary letter! My lord, if you will give me leave, I will tread this unbolted villain into mortar, and daub the wall of a jakes with him. Spare my grey beard, you wagtail?

  Corn.

  Peace, sirrah!

  You beastly knave, know you no reverence?

  Kent.

  Yes, sir; but anger hath a privilege.

  Corn.

  Why art thou angry?

  Kent.

  That such a slave as this should wear a sword,

  Who wears no honesty. Such smiling rogues as these,

  Like rats, oft bite the holy cords a-twain

  Which are too intrinse t’ unloose; smooth every passion

  That in the natures of their lords rebel;

  Bring oil to fire, snow to their colder moods;

  Renege, affirm, and turn their halcyon beaks

  With every gale and vary of their masters,

  Knowing nought, like dogs, but following.

  A plague upon your epileptic visage!

  Smile you my speeches, as I were a fool?

  Goose, if I had you upon Sarum plain,

  I’d drive ye cackling home to Camelot.

  Corn.

  What! art thou mad, old fellow?

  Glo.

  How fell you out? say that.

  Kent.

  No contraries hold more antipathy

  Than I and such a knave.

  Corn.

  Why dost thou call him knave? What is his fault?

  Kent.

  His countenance likes me not.

  Corn.

  No more, perchance, does mine, nor his, nor hers.

  Kent.

  Sir, ’tis my occupation to be plain:

  I have seen better faces in my time

  Than stands on any shoulder that I see

  Before me at this instant.

  Corn.

  This is some fellow,

  Who, having been prais’d for bluntness, doth affect

  A saucy roughness, and constrains the garb

  Quite from his nature: he cannot flatter, he,

  An honest mind and plain, he must speak truth:

  An they will take it, so; if not, he’s plain.

  These kind of knaves I know, which in this plainness

  Harbour more craft and more corrupter ends

  Than twenty silly-ducking observants,

  That stretch their duties nicely.

  Kent.

  Sir, in good sooth, in sincere verity,

  Under the allowance of your grand aspect,

  Whose influence, like the wreath of radiant fire

  On flickering Phœbus’ front,—

  Corn.

  What mean’st by this?

  Kent.

  To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much. I know, sir, I am no flatterer: he that beguiled you in a plain accent was a plain knave; which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me to ’t.

  Corn.

  What was the offence you gave him?

  Osw.

  I never gave him any:

  It pleas’d the king his master very late

  To strike at me, upon his misconstruction;

  When he, conjunct, and flattering his displeasure,

  Tripp’d me behind; being down, insulted, rail’d,

  And put upon him such a deal of man,

  That worthied him, got praises of the king

  For him attempting who was self-subdu’d;

  And, in the fleshment of this dread exploit,

  Drew on me here again.

  Kent.

  None of these rogues and cowards

  But Ajax is their fool.

  Corn.

  Fetch forth the stocks!

  You stubborn ancient knave, you reverend braggart,

  We’ll teach you.

  Kent.

  Sir, I am too old to learn,

  Call not your stocks for me; I serve the king,

  On whose employment I was sent to you;

  You shall do small respect, show too bold malice

  Against the grace and person of my master,

  Stocking his messenger.

  Corn.

  Fetch forth the stocks! As I have life and honour,

  There shall he sit till noon.

  Reg.

  Till noon! Till night, my lord; and all night too.

  Kent.

  Why, madam, if I were your father’s dog,

  You should not use me so.

  Reg.

  Sir, being his knave, I will.

  Corn.

  This is a fellow of the self-same colour

  Our sister speaks of. Come, bring away the stocks.

  [Stocks brought out.

  Glo.

  Let me beseech your Grace not to do so.

  His fault is much, and the good king his master

  Will check him for’t: your purpos’d low correction

  Is such as basest and contemned’st wretches

  For pilferings and most common trespasses

  Are punish’d with: the king must take it ill,

  That he, so slightly valu’d in his messenger,

  Should have him thus restrain’d.

  Corn.

  I’ll answer that.

  Reg.

  My sister may receive it much more worse

  To have her gentleman abus’d, assaulted,

  For following her affairs. Put in his legs.

  [Kentis put in the stocks.

  Come, my good lord, away.

  [Exeunt all butGloucesterandKent.

  Glo.

  I am sorry for thee, friend; ’tis the duke’s pleasure,

  Whose disposition, all the world well knows,

  Will not be rubb’d nor stopp’d; I’ll entreat for thee.

  Kent.

  Pray, do not, sir. I have watch’d and travell’d hard;

  Some time I shall sleep out, the rest I’ll whistle.

  A good man’s fortune may grow out at heels:

  Give you good morrow!

  Glo.

  The duke’s to blame in this; ’twill be ill taken.

  [Exit.

  Kent.

  Good king, that must approve the common saw,

  Thou out of heaven’s benediction com’st

  To the warm sun.

  Approach, thou beacon to this under globe,

  That by thy comfortable beams I may

  Peruse this letter. Nothing almost sees miracles

  But misery: I know ’tis from Cordelia,

  Who hath most fortunately been inform’d

  Of my obscured course; and shall find time

  From this enormous state, seeking to give

  Losses their remedies. All weary and o’erwatch’d,

  Take vantage, heavy eyes, not to behold

  This shameful lodging.

  Fortune, good night, smile once more; turn thy wheel!

  [He sleeps.

  Scene III.—

  A Part of the Heath.

  EnterEdgar.

  Edg.

  I heard myself proclaim’d;

  And by the happy hollow of a tree

  Escap’d the hunt. No port is free; no place,

  That guard, and most unusual vigilance,

  Does not attend my taking. While I may ’scape

  I will preserve myself; and am bethought

  To take the basest and most poorest shape

  That ever penury, in contempt of man,

  Brought near to beast; my face I’ll grime with filth,

  Blanket my loins, elf all my hair in knots,

  And with presented nakedness outface

  The winds and persecutions of the sky.

  The country gives me proof and precedent

  Of Bedlam beggars, who with roaring voices,

  Strike in their numb’d and mortified bare arms

  Pins, wooden pricks, nails, sprigs of rosemary;

  And with this horrible object, from low farms,

  Poor pelting villages, sheep-cotes, and mills,

  Sometime with lunatic bans, sometime with prayers,

  Enforce their charity. Poor Turlygood! poor Tom!

  That’s something yet: Edgar I nothing am.

  [Exit.

  Scene IV.—

  BeforeGloucester’sCastle.Kentin the stocks.

  EnterLear, Fool, and Gentleman.

  Lear.

  ’Tis strange that they should so depart from home,

  And not send back my messenger.

  Gent.

  As I learn’d,

  The night before there was no purpose in them

  Of this remove.

  Kent.

  Hail to thee, noble master!

  Lear.

  Ha!

  Mak’st thou this shame thy pastime?

  Kent.

  No, my lord.

  Fool.

  Ha, ha! he wears cruel garters. Horses are tied by the head, dogs and bears by the neck, monkeys by the loins, and men by the legs: when a man is over-lusty at legs, then he wears wooden nether-stocks.

  Lear.

  What’s he that hath so much thy place mistook

  To set thee here?

  Kent.

  It is both he and she,

  Your son and daughter.

  Lear.

  No.

  Kent.

  Yes.

  Lear.

  No, I say.

  Kent.

  I say, yea.

  Lear.

  No, no; they would not.

  Kent.

  Yes, they have.

  Lear.

  By Jupiter, I swear, no.

  Kent.

  By Juno, I swear, ay.

  Lear.

  They durst not do’t;

  They could not, would not do ’t; ’tis worse than murder,

  To do upon respect such violent outrage.

  Resolve me, with all modest haste, which way

  Thou mightst deserve, or they impose, this usage,

  Coming from us.

  Kent.

  My lord, when at their home

  I did commend your highness’ letters to them,

  Ere I was risen from the place that show’d

  My duty kneeling, there came a reeking post,

  Stew’d in his haste, half breathless, panting forth

  From Goneril his mistress salutations;

  Deliver’d letters, spite of intermission,

  Which presently they read: on whose contents

  They summon’d up their meiny, straight took horse;

  Commanded me to follow, and attend

  The leisure of their answer; gave me cold looks:

  And meeting here the other messenger,

  Whose welcome, I perceiv’d, had poison’d mine,—

  Being the very fellow which of late

  Display’d so saucily against your highness,—

  Having more man than wit about me,—drew:

  He rais’d the house with loud and coward cries.

  Your son and daughter found this trespass worth

  The shame which here it suffers.

  Fool.

  Winter’s not gone yet, if the wild geese fly that way.

  • Fathers that wear rags
  • Do make their children blind,
  • But fathers that bear bags
  • Shall see their children kind.
  • Fortune, that arrant whore,
  • Ne’er turns the key to the poor.

  But for all this thou shalt have as many dolours for thy daughters as thou canst tell in a year.

  Lear.

  O! how this mother swells up toward my heart;

  Hysterica passio! down, thou climbing sorrow!

  Thy element’s below. Where is this daughter?

  Kent.

  With the earl, sir: here within.

  Lear.

  Follow me not; stay here.

  [Exit.

  Gent.

  Made you no more offence than what you speak of?

  Kent.

  None.

  How chance the king comes with so small a number?

  Fool.

  An thou hadst been set i’ the stocks for that question, thou hadst well deserved it.

  Kent.

  Why, fool?

  Fool.

  We’ll set thee to school to an ant, to teach thee there’s no labouring i’ the winter. All that follow their noses are led by their eyes but blind men; and there’s not a nose among twenty but can smell him that’s stinking. Let go thy hold when a great wheel runs down a hill, lest it break thy neck with following it; but the great one that goes up the hill, let him draw thee after. When a wise man gives thee better counsel, give me mine again: I would have none but knaves follow it, since a fool gives it.

  • That sir which serves and seeks for gain,
  • And follows but for form,
  • Will pack when it begins to rain,
  • And leave thee in the storm.
  • But I will tarry; the fool will stay,
  • And let the wise man fly:
  • The knave turns fool that runs away;
  • The fool no knave, perdy.

  Kent.

  Where learn’d you this, fool?

  Fool.

  Not i’ the stocks, fool.

  Re-enterLear,withGloucester.

  Lear.

  Deny to speak with me! They are sick! they are weary,

  They have travell’d hard to-night! Mere fetches,

  The images of revolt and flying off.

  Fetch me a better answer.

  Glo.

  My dear lord,

  You know the fiery quality of the duke;

  How unremovable and fix’d he is

  In his own course.

  Lear.

  Vengeance! plague! death! confusion!

  Fiery! what quality? Why, Gloucester, Gloucester,

  I’d speak with the Duke of Cornwall and his wife.

  Glo.

  Well, my good lord, I have inform’d them so.

  Lear.

  Inform’d them! Dost thou understand me, man?

  Glo.

  Ay, my good lord.

  Lear.

  The king would speak with Cornwall; the dear father

  Would with his daughter speak, commands her service:

  Are they inform’d of this? My breath and blood!

  Fiery! the fiery duke! Tell the hot duke that—

  No, but not yet; may be he is not well:

  Infirmity doth still neglect all office

  Whereto our health is bound; we are not ourselves

  When nature, being oppress’d, commands the mind

  To suffer with the body. I’ll forbear;

  And am fall’n out with my more headier will,

  To take the indispos’d and sickly fit

  For the sound man. Death on my state! [Looking onKent.] Wherefore

  Should he sit here? This act persuades me

  That this remotion of the duke and her

  Is practice only. Give me my servant forth.

  Go, tell the duke and’s wife I’d speak with them,

  Now, presently: bid them come forth and hear me,

  Or at their chamber-door I’ll beat the drum

  Till it cry sleep to death.

  Glo.

  I would have all well betwixt you.

  [Exit.

  Lear.

  O, me! my heart, my rising heart! but, down!

  Fool.

  Cry to it, nuncle, as the cockney did to the eels when she put ’em i’ the paste alive; she knapped ’em o’ the coxcombs with a stick, and cried, ‘Down, wantons, down!’ ’Twas her brother that, in pure kindness to his horse, buttered his hay.

  EnterCornwall, Regan, Gloucester,and Servants.

  Lear.

  Good morrow to you both.

  Corn.

  Hail to your Grace!

  [Kentis set at liberty.

  Reg.

  I am glad to see your highness.

  Lear.

  Regan, I think you are; I know what reason

  I have to think so: if thou shouldst not be glad,

  I would divorce me from thy mother’s tomb,

  Sepulchring an adult’ress.—[ToKent.] O! are you free?

  Some other time for that. Beloved Regan,

  Thy sister’s naught: O Regan! she hath tied

  Sharp-tooth’d unkindness, like a vulture, here:

  [Points to his heart.

  I can scarce speak to thee; thou’lt not believe

  With how deprav’d a quality—O Regan!

  Reg.

  I pray you, sir, take patience. I have hope

  You less know how to value her desert

  Than she to scant her duty.

  Lear.

  Say, how is that?

  Reg.

  I cannot think my sister in the least

  Would fail her obligation: if, sir, perchance

  She have restrain’d the riots of your followers,

  ’Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,

  As clears her from all blame.

  Lear.

  My curses on her!

  Reg.

  O, sir! you are old;

  Nature in you stands on the very verge

  Of her confine: you should be rul’d and led

  By some discretion that discerns your state

  Better than you yourself. Therefore I pray you

  That to our sister you do make return;

  Say, you have wrong’d her, sir.

  Lear.

  Ask her forgiveness?

  Do you but mark how this becomes the house:

  ‘Dear daughter, I confess that I am old;

  Age is unnecessary: on my knees I beg

  [Kneeling.

  That you’ll vouchsafe me raiment, bed, and food.’

  Reg.

  Good sir, no more; these are unsightly tricks:

  Return you to my sister.

  Lear.

  [Rising.] Never, Regan.

  She hath abated me of half my train;

  Look’d black upon me; struck me with her tongue,

  Most serpent-like, upon the very heart.

  All the stor’d vengeances of heaven fall

  On her ingrateful top! Strike her young bones,

  You taking airs, with lameness!

  Corn.

  Fie, air, fie!

  Lear.

  You nimble lightnings, dart your blinding flames

  Into her scornful eyes! Infect her beauty,

  You fen-suck’d fogs, drawn by the powerful sun,

  To fall and blast her pride!

  Reg.

  O the blest gods! So will you wish on me,

  When the rash mood is on.

  Lear.

  No, Regan, thou shalt never have my curse:

  Thy tender-hefted nature shall not give

  Thee o’er to harshness: her eyes are fierce, but thine

  Do comfort and not burn. ’Tis not in thee

  To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my train,

  To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,

  And, in conclusion, to oppose the bolt

  Against my coming in: thou better know’st

  The offices of nature, bond of childhood,

  Effects of courtesy, dues of gratitude;

  Thy half o’ the kingdom hast thou not forgot,

  Wherein I thee endow’d.

  Reg.

  Good sir, to the purpose.

  Lear.

  Who put my man i’ the stocks?

  [Tucket within.

  Corn.

  What trumpet’s that?

  Reg.

  I know’t, my sister’s; this approves her letter,

  That she would soon be here. Is your lady come?

  EnterOswald.

  Lear.

  This is a slave, whose easy-borrow’d pride

  Dwells in the fickle grace of her he follows.

  Out, varlet, from my sight!

  Corn.

  What means your Grace?

  Lear.

  Who stock’d my servant? Regan, I have good hope

  Thou didst not know on ’t. Who comes here? O heavens,

  EnterGoneril.

  If you do love old men, if your sweet sway

  Allow obedience, if yourselves are old,

  Make it your cause; send down and take my part!

  [ToGoneril.] Art not asham’d to look upon this beard?

  O Regan, wilt thou take her by the hand?

  Gon.

  Why not by the hand, sir? How have I offended?

  All’s not offence that indiscretion finds

  And dotage terms so.

  Lear.

  O sides! you are too tough;

  Will you yet hold? How came my man i’ the stocks?

  Corn.

  I set him there, sir: but his own disorders

  Deserv’d much less advancement.

  Lear.

  You! did you?

  Reg.

  I pray you, father, being weak, seem so.

  If, till the expiration of your month,

  You will return and sojourn with my sister,

  Dismissing half your train, come then to me:

  I am now from home, and out of that provision

  Which shall be needful for your entertainment.

  Lear.

  Return to her? and fifty men dismiss’d!

  No, rather I abjure all roofs, and choose

  To wage against the enmity o’ the air;

  To be a comrade with the wolf and owl,

  Necessity’s sharp pinch! Return with her!

  Why, the hot-blooded France, that dowerless took

  Our youngest born, I could as well be brought

  To knee his throne, and, squire-like, pension beg

  To keep base life afoot. Return with her!

  Persuade me rather to be slave and sumpter

  To this detested groom.

  [Pointing atOswald.

  Gon.

  At your choice, sir.

  Lear.

  I prithee, daughter, do not make me mad:

  I will not trouble thee, my child; farewell.

  We’ll no more meet, no more see one another;

  But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my daughter;

  Or rather a disease that’s in my flesh,

  Which I must needs call mine: thou art a boil,

  A plague-sore, an embossed carbuncle,

  In my corrupted blood. But I’ll not chide thee;

  Let shame come when it will, I do not call it:

  I do not bid the thunder-bearer shoot,

  Nor tell tales of thee to high-judging Jove.

  Mend when thou canst; be better at thy leisure:

  I can be patient; I can stay with Regan,

  I and my hundred knights.

  Reg.

  Not altogether so:

  I look’d not for you yet, nor am provided

  For your fit welcome. Give ear, sir, to my sister;

  For those that mingle reason with your passion

  Must be content to think you old, and so—

  But she knows what she does.

  Lear.

  Is this well spoken?

  Reg.

  I dare avouch it, sir: what! fifty followers?

  Is it not well? What should you need of more?

  Yea, or so many, sith that both charge and danger

  Speak ’gainst so great a number? How, in one house,

  Should many people, under two commands,

  Hold amity? ’Tis hard; almost impossible.

  Gon.

  Why might not you, my lord, receive attendance

  From those that she calls servants, or from mine?

  Reg.

  Why not, my lord? If then they chanc’d to slack you

  We could control them. If you will come to me,—

  For now I spy a danger,—I entreat you

  To bring but five-and-twenty; to no more

  Will I give place or notice.

  Lear.

  I gave you all—

  Reg.

  And in good time you gave it

  Lear.

  Made you my guardians, my depositaries,

  But kept a reservation to be follow’d

  With such a number. What! must I come to you

  With five-and-twenty? Regan, said you so?

  Reg.

  And speak’t again, my lord; no more with me.

  Lear.

  Those wicked creatures yet do look well-favour’d,

  When others are more wicked; not being the worst

  Stands in some rank of praise. [ToGoneril.] I’ll go with thee:

  Thy fifty yet doth double five-and-twenty,

  And thou art twice her love.

  Gon.

  Hear me, my lord.

  What need you five-and-twenty, ten, or five,

  To follow in a house, where twice so many

  Have a command to tend you?

  Reg.

  What need one?

  Lear.

  O! reason not the need; our basest beggars

  Are in the poorest thing superfluous:

  Allow not nature more than nature needs,

  Man’s life is cheap as beast’s. Thou art a lady;

  If only to go warm were gorgeous,

  Why, nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear’st,

  Which scarcely keeps thee warm. But, for true need,—

  You heavens, give me that patience, patience I need!

  You see me here, you gods, a poor old man,

  As full of grief as age; wretched in both!

  If it be you that stir these daughters’ hearts

  Against their father, fool me not so much

  To bear it tamely; touch me with noble anger,

  And let not women’s weapons, water-drops,

  Stain my man’s cheeks! No, you unnatural hags,

  I will have such revenges on you both

  That all the world shall—I will do such things,—

  What they are yet I know not,—but they shall be

  The terrors of the earth. You think I’ll weep;

  No, I’ll not weep:

  I have full cause of weeping, but this heart

  Shall break into a hundred thousand flaws

  Or ere I’ll weep. O fool! I shall go mad.

  [ExeuntLear, Gloucester, Kent,and Fool.

  Corn.

  Let us withdraw; ’twill be a storm.

  [Storm heard at a distance.

  Reg.

  This house is little: the old man and his people

  Cannot be well bestow’d.

  Gon.

  ’Tis his own blame; hath put himself from rest,

  And must needs taste his folly.

  Reg.

  For his particular, I’ll receive him gladly,

  But not one follower.

  Gon.

  So am I purpos’d.

  Where is my Lord of Gloucester?

  Corn.

  Follow’d the old man forth. He is return’d.

  Re-enterGloucester.

  Glo.

  The king is in high rage.

  Corn.

  Whither is he going?

  Glo.

  He calls to horse; but will I know not whither.

  Corn.

  ’Tis best to give him way; he leads himself.

  Gon.

  My lord, entreat him by no means to stay.

  Glo.

  Alack! the night comes on, and the bleak winds

  Do sorely ruffle; for many miles about

  There’s scarce a bush.

  Reg.

  O! sir, to wilful men,

  The injuries that they themselves procure

  Must be their schoolmasters. Shut up your doors;

  He is attended with a desperate train,

  And what they may incense him to, being apt

  To have his ear abus’d, wisdom bids fear.

  Corn.

  Shut up your doors, my lord; ’tis a wild night:

  My Regan counsels well: come out o’ the storm.

  [Exeunt.

  ACT III.

  Scene I.—

  A Heath.

  A storm, with thunder and lightning. EnterKentand a Gentleman, meeting.

  Kent.

  Who’s here, beside foul weather?

  Gent.

  One minded like the weather, most unquietly.

  Kent.

  I know you. Where’s the king?

  Gent.

  Contending with the fretful elements;

  Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea,

  Or swell the curled waters ’bove the main,

  That things might change or cease; tears his white hair,

  Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage,

  Catch in their fury, and make nothing of;

  Strives in his little world of man to out-scorn

  The to-and-fro-conflicting wind and rain.

  This night, wherein the cub-drawn bear would couch,

  The lion and the belly-pinched wolf

  Keep their fur dry, unbonneted he runs,

  And bids what will take all.

  Kent.

  But who is with him?

  Gent.

  None but the fool, who labours to out-jest

  His heart-struck injuries.

  Kent.

  Sir, I do know you;

  And dare, upon the warrant of my note,

  Commend a dear thing to you. There is division,

  Although as yet the face of it be cover’d

  With mutual cunning, ’twixt Albany and Cornwall;

  Who have—as who have not, that their great stars

  Thron’d and set high—servants, who seem no less,

  Which are to France the spies and speculations

  Intelligent of our state; what hath been seen,

  Either in snuffs and packings of the dukes,

  Or the hard rein which both of them have borne

  Against the old kind king; or something deeper,

  Whereof perchance these are but furnishings;

  But, true it is, from France there comes a power

  Into this scatter’d kingdom; who already,

  Wise in our negligence, have secret feet

  In some of our best ports, and are at point

  To show their open banner. Now to you:

  If on my credit you dare build so far

  To make your speed to Dover, you shall find

  Some that will thank you, making just report

  Of how unnatural and bemadding sorrow

  The king hath cause to plain.

  I am a gentleman of blood and breeding,

  And from some knowledge and assurance offer

  This office to you.

  Gent.

  I will talk further with you.

  Kent.

  No, do not.

  For confirmation that I am much more

  Than my out-wall, open this purse, and take

  What it contains. If you shall see Cordelia,—

  As doubt not but you shall,—show her this ring,

  And she will tell you who your fellow is

  That yet you do not know. Fie on this storm!

  I will go seek the king.

  Gent.

  Give me your hand. Have you no more to say?

  Kent.

  Few 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 severally.

  Scene II.—

  Another Part of the Heath. Storm still.

  EnterLearand 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 man nor fool.

  Lear.

  Rumble thy bellyfull 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 have with two pernicious daughters join’d

  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 his head in has a good head-piece.

  • The cod-piece 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.

  EnterKent.

  Lear.

  No, I will be the pattern of all patience; I will say nothing.

  Kent.

  Who’s there?

  Fool.

  Marry, here’s grace and a cod-piece; 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. Since I was man

  Such sheets of fire, such bursts of horrid thunder,

  Such groans of roaring wind and rain, I never

  Remember to have heard; man’s nature cannot carry

  The affliction nor the fear.

  Lear.

  Let the great gods,

  That keep this dreadful pother o’er our heads,

  Find out their enemies now. Tremble, thou wretch,

  That hast within thee undivulged crimes,

  Unwhipp’d of justice; hide thee, thou bloody hand;

  Thou perjur’d, and thou simular of virtue

  That art incestuous; caitiff, to pieces shake,

  That under covert and convenient seeming

  Hast practis’d on man’s life; close pent-up guilts,

  Rive your concealing continents, and cry

  These dreadful summoners grace. I am a man

  More sinn’d against than sinning.

  Kent.

  Alack! bare-headed!

  Gracious my lord, hard by here is a hovel;

  Some friendship will it lend you ’gainst the tempest;

  Repose you there while I to this hard house,—

  More harder than the stone whereof ’tis rais’d,—

  Which even but now, demanding after you,

  Denied me to come in, return and force

  Their scanted courtesy.

  Lear.

  My wits begin to turn.

  Come on, my boy. How dost, my boy? Art cold?

  I am cold myself. Where is this straw, my fellow?

  The art of our necessities is strange,

  That can make vile things precious. Come, your hovel.

  Poor fool and knave, I have one part in my heart

  That’s sorry yet for thee.

  Fool.

  • He that has a little tiny wit,
  • With hey, ho, the wind and the rain,
  • Must make content with his fortunes fit,
  • Though the rain it raineth every day.

  Lear.

  True, my good boy. Come, bring us to this hovel.

  [ExeuntLearandKent.

  Fool.

  This is a brave night to cool a courtezan.

  I’ll speak a prophecy ere I go:

  • When priests are more in word than matter;
  • When brewers mar their malt with water;
  • When nobles are their tailors’ tutors;
  • No heretics burn’d, but wenches’ suitors;
  • When every case in law is right;
  • No squire in debt, nor no poor knight;
  • When slanders do not live in tongues;
  • Nor cutpurses come not to throngs;
  • When usurers tell their gold i’ the field;
  • And bawds and whores do churches build;
  • Then shall the realm of Albion
  • Come to great confusion:
  • Then comes the time, who lives to see ’t,
  • That going shall be us’d with feet.

  This prophecy Merlin shall make; for I live before his time.

  [Exit.

  Scene III.—

  A Room inGloucester’sCastle.

  EnterGloucesterandEdmund.

  Glo.

  Alack, alack! Edmund, I like not this unnatural dealing. When I desired their leave that I might pity him, they took from me the use of mine own house; charged me, on pain of their perpetual displeasure, neither to speak of him, entreat for him, nor any way sustain him.

  Edm.

  Most savage, and unnatural!

  Glo.

  Go to; say you nothing. There is division between the dukes, and a worse matter than that. I have received a letter this night; ’tis dangerous to be spoken; I have locked the letter in my closet. These injuries the king now bears will be revenged home; there’s part of a power already footed; we must incline to the king. I will seek him and privily relieve him; go you and maintain talk with the duke, that my charity be not of him perceived. If he ask for me, I am ill and gone to bed. If I die for it, as no less is threatened me, the king, my old master, must be relieved. There is some strange thing toward, Edmund; pray you, be careful.

  [Exit.

  Edm.

  This courtesy, forbid thee, shall the duke

  Instantly know; and of that letter too:

  This seems a fair deserving, and must draw me

  That which my father loses; no less than all:

  The younger rises when the old doth fall.

  [Exit.

  Scene IV.—

  The Heath. Before a Hovel.

  EnterLear, Kent,and Fool.

  Kent.

  Here is the place, my lord; good my lord, enter:

  The tyranny of the open night’s too rough

  For nature to endure.

  [Storm still

  Lear.

  Let me alone.

  Kent.

  Good my lord, enter here.

  Lear.

  Wilt break my heart?

  

  King Lear, by R. Smirke.

  Kent.

  I’d rather break mine own. Good my lord, enter.

  Lear.

  Thou think’st ’tis much that this contentious storm

  Invades us to the skin: so ’tis to thee;

  But where the greater malady is fix’d,

  The lesser is scarce felt. Thou’dst shun a bear;

  But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,

  Thou’dst meet the bear i’ the mouth. When the mind’s free

  The body’s delicate; the tempest in my mind

  Doth from my senses take all feeling else

  Save what beats there. Filial ingratitude!

  Is it not as this mouth should tear this hand

  For lifting food to ’t? But I will punish home:

  No, I will weep no more. In such a night

  To shut me out! Pour on; I will endure.

  In such a night as this! O Regan, Goneril!

  Your old kind father, whose frank heart gave all,—

  O! that way madness lies; let me shun that;

  No more of that.

  Kent.

  Good, my lord, enter here.

  Lear.

  Prithee, go in thyself; seek thine own ease:

  This tempest will not give me leave to ponder

  On things would hurt me more. But I’ll go in.

  [To the Fool.] In, boy; go first. You houseless poverty,—

  Nay, get thee in. I’ll pray, and then I’ll sleep.

  [Fool goes in.

  Poor naked wretches, wheresoe’er you are,

  That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,

  How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides,

  Your loop’d and window’d raggedness, defend you

  From seasons such as these? O! I have ta’en

  Too little care of this. Take physic, pomp;

  Expose thyself to feel what wretches feel,

  That thou mayst shake the superflux to them,

  And show the heavens more just.

  Edg.

  [Within.] Fathom and half, fathom and half! Poor Tom!

  [The Fool runs out from the hovel.

  Fool.

  Come not in here, nuncle; here’s a spirit.

  Help me! help me!

  Kent.

  Give me thy hand. Who’s there?

  Fool.

  A spirit, a spirit: he says his name’s poor Tom.

  Kent.

  What art thou that dost grumble there i’ the straw?

  Come forth.

  EnterEdgardisguised as a madman.

  Edg.

  Away! the foul fiend follows me!

  Through the sharp hawthorn blow the winds.

  Hum! go to thy cold bed and warm thee.

  Lear.

  Didst thou give all to thy two daughters?

  And art thou come to this?

  Edg.

  Who gives anything to poor Tom? whom the foul fiend hath led through fire and through flame, through ford and whirlpool, o’er bog and quagmire; that hath laid knives under his pillow, and halters in his pew; set ratsbane by his porridge; made him proud of heart, to ride on a bay trotting-horse over four-inched bridges, to course his own shadow for a traitor. Bless thy five wits! Tom’s a-cold. O! do de, do de, do de. Bless thee from whirlwinds, starblasting, and taking! Do poor Tom some charity, whom the foul fiend vexes. There could I have him now, and there, and there again, and there.

  [Storm still.

  Lear.

  What! have his daughters brought him to this pass?

  Couldst thou save nothing? Didst thou give them all?

  Fool.

  Nay, he reserved a blanket, else we had been all shamed.

  Lear.

  Now all the plagues that in the pendulous air

  Hang fated o’er men’s faults light on thy daughters!

  Kent.

  He hath no daughters, sir.

  Lear.

  Death, traitor! nothing could have subdu’d nature

  To such a lowness, but his unkind daughters.

  Is it the fashion that discarded fathers

  Should have thus little mercy on their flesh?

  Judicious punishment! ’twas this flesh begot

  Those pelican daughters.

  Edg.

  Pillicock sat on Pillicock-hill:

  Halloo, halloo, loo, loo!

  Fool.

  This cold night will turn us all to fools and madmen.

  Edg.

  Take heed o’ the foul fiend. Obey thy parents; keep thy word justly; swear not; commit not with man’s sworn spouse; set not thy sweet heart on proud array. Tom’s a-cold.

  Lear.

  What hast thou been?

  Edg.

  A servingman, proud in heart and mind; that curled my hair, wore gloves in my cap, served the lust of my mistress’s heart, and did the act of darkness with her; swore as many oaths as I spake words, and broke them in the sweet face of heaven; one that slept in the contriving of lust, and waked to do it. Wine loved I deeply, dice dearly, and in woman out-paramoured the Turk: false of heart, light of ear, bloody of hand; hog in sloth, fox in stealth, wolf in greediness, dog in madness, lion in prey. Let not the creaking of shoes nor the rustling of silks betray thy poor heart to woman: keep thy foot out of brothels, thy hand out of plackets, thy pen from lenders’ books, and defy the foul fiend. Still through the hawthorn blows the cold wind; says suum, mun ha no nonny. Dolphin my boy, my boy; sessa! let him trot by.

  [Storm still.

  Lear.

  Why, thou wert better in thy grave than to answer with thy uncovered body this extremity of the skies. Is man no more than this? Consider him well. Thou owest the worm no silk, the beast no hide, the sheep no wool, the cat no perfume. Ha! here’s three on’s are sophisticated; thou art the thing itself; unaccommodated man is no more but such a poor, bare, forked animal as thou art. Off, off, you lendings! Come; unbutton here.

  [Tearing off his clothes.

  Fool.

  Prithee, nuncle, be contented; ’tis a naughty night to swim in. Now a little fire in a wide field were like an old lecher’s heart; a small spark, all the rest on’s body cold. Look! here comes a walking fire.

  EnterGloucesterwith a torch.

  Edg.

  This is the foul fiend Flibbertigibbet: he begins at curfew, and walks till the first cock; he gives the web and the pin, squints the eye, and makes the harelip; mildews the white wheat, and hurts the poor creature of earth.

  • Swithold footed thrice the old;
  • He met the night-mare, and her nine-fold;
  • Bid her alight,
  • And her troth plight,
  • And aroint thee, witch, aroint thee!

  Kent.

  How fares your Grace?

  Lear.

  What’s he?

  Kent.

  Who’s there? What is’t you seek?

  Glo.

  What are you there? Your names?

  Edg.

  Poor Tom; that eats the swimming frog; the toad, the tadpole, the wall-newt, and the water; that in the fury of his heart, when the foul fiend rages, eats cow-dung for sallets; swallows the old rat and the ditch-dog; drinks the green mantle of the standing pool; who is whipped from tithing to tithing, and stock-punished, and imprisoned; who hath had three suits to his back, six shirts to his body, horse to ride, and weapon to wear;

  • But mice and rats and such small deer
  • Have been Tom’s food for seven long year.

  Beware my follower. Peace, Smulkin! peace, thou fiend.

  Glo.

  What! hath your Grace no better company?

  Edg.

  The prince of darkness is a gentleman;

  Modo he’s call’d, and Mahu.

  Glo.

  Our flesh and blood, my lord, is grown so vile,

  That it doth hate what gets it.

  Edg.

  Poor Tom’s a-cold.

  Glo.

  Go in with me. My duty cannot suffer

  To obey in all your daughters’ hard commands:

  Though their injunction be to bar my doors,

  And let this tyrannous night take hold upon you,

  Yet have I ventur’d to come seek you out

  And bring you where both fire and food is ready.

  Lear.

  First let me talk with this philosopher.

  What is the cause of thunder?

  Kent.

  Good my lord, take his offer; go into the house.

  Lear.

  I’ll talk a word with this same learned Theban.

  What is your study?

  Edg.

  How to prevent the fiend, and to kill vermin.

  Lear.

  Let me ask you one word in private.

  Kent.

  Importune him once more to go, my lord;

  His wits begin to unsettle.

  Glo.

  Canst thou blame him?

  [Storm still.

  His daughters seek his death. Ah! that good Kent;

  He said it would be thus, poor banish’d man!

  Thou sayst the king grows mad; I’ll tell thee, friend,

  I am almost mad myself. I had a son,

  Now outlaw’d from my blood; he sought my life,

  But lately, very late; I lov’d him, friend,

  No father his son dearer; true to tell thee,

  [Storm continues.

  The grief hath craz’d my wits. What a night’s this!

  I do beseech your Grace,—

  Lear.

  O! cry you mercy, sir.

  Noble philosopher, your company.

  Edg.

  Tom’s a-cold.

  Glo.

  In, fellow, there, into the hovel: keep thee warm.

  Lear.

  Come, let’s in all.

  Kent.

  This way, my lord.

  Lear.

  With him;

  I will keep still with my philosopher.

  Kent.

  Good my lord, soothe him; let him take the fellow.

  Glo.

  Take him you on.

  Kent.

  Sirrah, come on; go along with us.

  Lear.

  Come, good Athenian.

  Glo.

  No words, no words: hush.

  Edg.

  • Child Rowland to the dark tower came,
  • His word was still, Fie, foh, and fum,
  • I smell the blood of a British man.
  • [Exeunt.

  Scene V.—

  A Room inGloucester’sCastle.

  EnterCornwallandEdmund.

  Corn.

  I will have my revenge ere I depart his house.

  Edm.

  How, my lord, I may be censured, that nature thus gives way to loyalty, something fears me to think of.

  Corn.

  I now perceive it was not altogether your brother’s evil disposition made him seek his death; but a provoking merit, set a-work by a reproveable badness in himself.

  Edm.

  How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be just! This is the letter he spoke of, which approves him an intelligent party to the advantages of France. O heavens! that this treason were not, or not I the detector!

  Corn.

  Go with me to the duchess.

  Edm.

  If the matter of this paper be certain, you have mighty business in hand.

  Corn.

  True, or false, it hath made thee Earl of Gloucester. Seek out where thy father is, that he may be ready for our apprehension.

  Edm.

  [Aside.] If I find him comforting the king, it will stuff his suspicion more fully. I will persever in my course of loyalty, though the conflict be sore between that and my blood.

  Corn.

  I will lay trust upon thee; and thou shalt find a dearer father in my love.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene VI.—

  A Chamber in a Farmhouse adjoining the Castle.

  EnterGloucester, Lear, Kent, Fool, andEdgar.

  Glo.

  Here is better than the open air; take it thankfully. I will piece out the comfort with what addition I can: I will not be long from you.

  Kent.

  All the power of his wits has given way to his impatience. The gods reward your kindness!

  [ExitGloucester.

  Edg.

  Frateretto calls me, and tells me Nero is an angler in the lake of darkness. Pray, innocent, and beware the foul fiend.

  Fool.

  Prithee, nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman!

  Lear.

  A king, a king!

  Fool.

  No; he’s a yeoman that has a gentleman to his son; for he’s a mad yeoman that sees his son a gentleman before him.

  Lear.

  To have a thousand with red burning spits

  Come hizzing in upon ’em,—

  Edg.

  The foul fiend bites my back.

  Fool.

  He’s mad that trusts in the tameness of a wolf, a horse’s health, a boy’s love, or a whore’s oath.

  Lear.

  It shall be done; I will arraign them straight.

  [ToEdgar.] Come, sit thou here, most learned justicer;

  [To the Fool.] Thou, sapient sir, sit here. Now, you she foxes!

  Edg.

  Look, where he stands and glares! wantest thou eyes at trial, madam?

  Come o’er the bourn, Bessy, to me,—

  Fool.

  • Her boat hath a leak,
  • And she must not speak
  • Why she dares not come over to thee.

  Edg.

  The foul fiend haunts poor Tom in the voice of a nightingale. Hopdance cries in Tom’s belly for two white herring. Croak not, black angel; I have no food for thee.

  Kent.

  How do you, sir? Stand you not so amaz’d:

  Will you lie down and rest upon the cushions?

  Lear.

  I’ll see their trial first. Bring in their evidence.

  [ToEdgar.] Thou robed man of justice, take thy place;

  [To the Fool.] And thou, his yoke-fellow of equity,

  Bench by his side. [ToKent.] You are o’ the commission,

  Sit you too.

  Edg.

  Let us deal justly.

  • Sleepest or wakest thou, jolly shepherd?
  • Thy sheep be in the corn,
  • And for one blast of thy minikin mouth,
  • Thy sheep shall take no harm.

  Purr! the cat is grey.

  Lear.

  Arraign her first; ’tis Goneril. I here take my oath before this honourable assembly, she kicked the poor king her father.

  Fool.

  Come hither, mistress. Is your name Goneril?

  Lear.

  She cannot deny it.

  Fool.

  Cry you mercy, I took you for a joint-stool.

  Lear.

  And here’s another, whose warp’d looks proclaim

  What store her heart is made on. Stop her there!

  Arms, arms, sword, fire! Corruption in the place!

  False justicer, why hast thou let her ’scape?

  Edg.

  Bless thy five wits!

  Kent.

  O pity! Sir, where is the patience now

  That you so oft have boasted to retain?

  Edg.

  [Aside.] My tears begin to take his part so much,

  They’ll mar my counterfeiting.

  Lear.

  The little dogs and all,

  Tray, Blanch, and Sweet-heart, see, they bark at me.

  Edg.

  Tom will throw his head at them.

  Avaunt, you curs!

  • Be thy mouth or black or white,
  • Tooth that poisons if it bite;
  • Mastiff, greyhound, mongrel grim,
  • Hound or spaniel, brach or lym;
  • Or bobtail tike or trundle-tail;
  • Tom will make them weep and wail:
  • For, with throwing thus my head,
  • Dogs leap the hatch, and all are fled.

  Do de, de, de. Sessa! Come, march to wakes and fairs and market-towns. Poor Tom, thy horn is dry.

  Lear.

  Then let them anatomize Regan, see what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in nature that makes these hard hearts? [ToEdgar.] You, sir, I entertain you for one of my hundred; only I do not like the fashion of your garments: you will say, they are Persian attire; but let them be changed.

  Kent.

  Now, good my lord, lie here and rest awhile.

  Lear.

  Make no noise, make no noise; draw the curtains: so, so, so. We’ll go to supper i’ the morning: so, so, so.

  Fool.

  And I’ll go to bed at noon.

  Re-enterGloucester.

  Glo.

  Come hither, friend: where is the king my master?

  Kent.

  Here, sir; but trouble him not, his wits are gone.

  Glo.

  Good friend, I prithee, take him in thy arms;

  I have o’erheard a plot of death upon him.

  There is a litter ready; lay him in ’t,

  And drive toward Dover, friend, where thou shalt meet

  Both welcome and protection. Take up thy master:

  If thou shouldst dally half an hour, his life,

  With thine, and all that offer to defend him,

  Stand in assured loss. Take up, take up;

  And follow me, that will to some provision

  Give thee quick conduct.

  Kent.

  Oppress’d nature sleeps:

  This rest might yet have balm’d thy broken sinews,

  Which, if convenience will not allow,

  Stand in hard cure.—[To the Fool.] Come, help to bear thy master;

  Thou must not stay behind.

  Glo.

  Come, come, away.

  [ExeuntKent, Gloucester,and the Fool, bearing awayLear.

  Edg.

  When we our betters see bearing our woes,

  We scarcely think our miseries our foes.

  Who alone suffers suffers most i’ the mind,

  Leaving free things and happy shows behind;

  But then the mind much sufferance doth o’erskip,

  When grief hath mates, and bearing fellowship.

  How light and portable my pain seems now,

  When that which makes me bend makes the king bow;

  He childed as I father’d! Tom, away!

  Mark the high noises, and thyself bewray

  When false opinion, whose wrong thought defiles thee,

  In thy just proof repeals and reconciles thee.

  What will hap more to-night, safe ’scape the king!

  Lurk, lurk.

  [Exit

  Scene VII.—

  A Room inGloucester’sCastle.

  EnterCornwall, Regan, Goneril, Edmund,and Servants.

  Corn.

  Post speedily to my lord your husband; show him this letter: the army of France is landed. Seek out the traitor Gloucester.

  [Exeunt some of the Servants.

  Reg.

  Hang him instantly.

  Gon.

  Pluck out his eyes.

  Corn.

  Leave him to my displeasure. Edmund, keep you our sister company: the revenges we are bound to take upon your traitorous father are not fit for your beholding. Advise the duke, where you are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our posts shall be swift and intelligent betwixt us. Farewell, dear sister: farewell, my Lord of Gloucester.

  EnterOswald.

  How now? Where’s the king?

  Osw.

  My Lord of Gloucester hath convey’d him hence:

  Some five or six and thirty of his knights,

  Hot questrists after him, met him at gate;

  Who, with some other of the lord’s dependants,

  Are gone with him toward Dover, where they boast

  To have well-armed friends.

  Corn.

  Get horses for your mistress.

  Gon.

  Farewell, sweet lord, and sister.

  Corn.

  Edmund, farewell.

  [ExeuntGoneril, Edmund,andOswald.

  Go seek the traitor Gloucester,

  Pinion him like a thief, bring him before us.

  [Exeunt other Servants.

  Though well we may not pass upon his life

  Without the form of justice, yet our power

  Shall do a courtesy to our wrath, which men

  May blame but not control. Who’s there? The traitor?

  Re-enter Servants, withGloucester.

  Reg.

  Ingrateful fox! ’tis he.

  Corn.

  Bind fast his corky arms.

  Glo.

  What mean your Graces? Good my friends, consider

  You are my guests: do me no foul play, friends

  Corn.

  Bind him, I say.

  [Servants bind him.

  Reg.

  Hard, hard. O filthy traitor!

  Glo.

  Unmerciful lady as you are, I’m none.

  Corn.

  To this chair bind him. Villain, thou shalt find—

  [Reganplucks his beard.

  Glo.

  By the kind gods, ’tis most ignobly done

  To pluck me by the beard.

  Reg.

  So white, and such a traitor!

  Glo.

  Naughty lady,

  These hairs, which thou dost ravish from my chin,

  Will quicken, and accuse thee: I am your host:

  With robbers’ hands my hospitable favours

  You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?

  Corn.

  Come, sir, what letters had you late from France?

  Reg.

  Be simple-answer’d, for we know the truth.

  Corn.

  And what confederacy have you with the traitors

  Late footed in the kingdom?

  Reg.

  To whose hands have you sent the lunatic king?

  Speak.

  Glo.

  I have a letter guessingly set down,

  Which came from one that’s of a neutral heart,

  And not from one oppos’d.

  Corn.

  Cunning.

  Reg.

  And false.

  Corn.

  Where hast thou sent the king?

  Glou.

  To Dover.

  Reg.

  Wherefore to Dover? Wast thou not charg’d at peril—

  Corn.

  Wherefore to Dover? Let him answer that.

  Glo.

  I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.

  Reg.

  Wherefore to Dover?

  Glo.

  Because I would not see thy cruel nails

  Pluck out his poor old eyes; nor thy fierce sister

  In his anointed flesh stick boarish fangs.

  The sea, with such a storm as his bare head

  In hell-black night endur’d, would have buoy’d up,

  And quench’d the stelled fires;

  Yet, poor old heart, he holp the heavens to rain.

  If wolves had at thy gate howl’d that dern time,

  Thou shouldst have said, ‘Good porter, turn the key,’

  All cruels else subscrib’d: but I shall see

  The winged vengeance overtake such children.

  Corn.

  See ’t shalt thou never. Fellows, hold the chair.

  Upon these eyes of thine I’ll set my foot.

  Glo.

  He that will think to live till he be old,

  Give me some help! O cruel! O ye gods!

  [Gloucester’seye put out.

  Reg.

  One side will mock another; the other too.

  Corn.

  If you see vengeance.—

  First Serv.

  Hold your hand, my lord:

  I have serv’d you ever since I was a child,

  But better service have I never done you

  Than now to bid you hold.

  Reg.

  How now, you dog!

  First Serv.

  If you did wear a beard upon your chin,

  I’d shake it on this quarrel. What do you mean?

  Corn.

  My villain!

  [Draws.

  First Serv.

  Nay then, come on, and take the chance of anger.

  [Draws. They fight.Cornwallis wounded.

  Reg.

  Give me thy sword. A peasant stand up thus!

  [Takes a sword and runs at him behind.

  First Serv.

  O! I am slain. My lord, you have one eye left

  To see some mischief on him. O!

  [Dies.

  Corn.

  Lest it see more, prevent it. Out, vile jelly!

  Where is thy lustre now?

  Glo.

  All dark and comfortless. Where’s my son Edmund?

  Edmund, enkindle all the sparks of nature

  To quit this horrid act.

  Reg.

  Out, treacherous villain!

  Thou call’st on him that hates thee; it was he

  That made the overture of thy treasons to us,

  Who is too good to pity thee.

  Glo.

  O my follies! Then Edgar was abus’d.

  Kind gods, forgive me that, and prosper him!

  Reg.

  Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell

  His way to Dover. [Exit one withGloucester.] How is ’t, my lord? How look you?

  Corn.

  I have receiv’d a hurt. Follow me, lady.

  Turn out that eyeless villain; throw this slave

  Upon the dunghill. Regan, I bleed apace:

  Untimely comes this hurt. Give me your arm.

  [ExitCornwallled byRegan.

  Sec. Serv.

  I’ll never care what wickedness I do

  If this man come to good.

  Third Serv.

  If she live long,

  And, in the end, meet the old course of death,

  Women will all turn monsters.

  Sec. Serv.

  Let’s follow the old earl, and get the Bedlam

  To lead him where he would: his roguish madness

  Allows itself to any thing.

  Third Serv.

  Go thou; I’ll fetch some flax, and whites of eggs,

  To apply to his bleeding face. Now, heaven help him!

  [Exeunt severally.

  ACT IV.

  Scene I.—

  The Heath.

  EnterEdgar.

  Edg.

  Yet better thus, and known to be contemn’d,

  Than still contemn’d and flatter’d. To be worst,

  The lowest and most dejected thing of fortune,

  Stands still in esperance, lives not in fear:

  The lamentable change is from the best;

  The worst returns to laughter. Welcome, then,

  Thou unsubstantial air that I embrace:

  The wretch that thou hast blown unto the worst

  Owes nothing to thy blasts. But who comes here?

  EnterGloucester,led by an old Man.

  My father, poorly led? World, world, O world!

  But that thy strange mutations make us hate thee,

  Life would not yield to age.

  Old Man.

  O my good lord!

  I have been your tenant, and your father’s tenant,

  These fourscore years.

  Glo.

  Away, get thee away; good friend, be gone;

  Thy comforts can do me no good at all;

  Thee they may hurt.

  Old Man.

  You cannot see your way.

  Glo.

  I have no way, and therefore want no eyes;

  I stumbled when I saw. Full oft ’tis seen,

  Our means secure us, and our mere defects

  Prove our commodities. Ah! dear son Edgar.

  The food of thy abused father’s wrath;

  Might I but live to see thee in my touch,

  I’d say I had eyes again.

  Old Man.

  How now! Who’s there?

  Edg.

  [Aside.] O gods! Who is ’t can say, ‘I am at the worst?’

  I am worse than e’er I was.

  Old Man.

  ’Tis poor mad Tom.

  Edg

  [Aside.] And worse I may be yet; the worst is not,

  So long as we can say, ‘This is the worst.’

  Old Man.

  Fellow, where goest?

  Glo.

  Is it a beggar-man?

  Old Man.

  Madman and beggar too.

  Glo.

  He has some reason, else he could not beg.

  I’ the last night’s storm I such a fellow saw,

  Which made me think a man a worm: my son

  Came then into my mind; and yet my mind

  Was then scarce friends with him: I have heard more since.

  As flies to wanton boys, are we to the gods;

  They kill us for their sport.

  Edg.

  [Aside.] How should this be?

  Bad is the trade that must play fool to sorrow,

  Angering itself and others.—[ToGloucester.] Bless thee, master!

  Glo.

  Is that the naked fellow?

  Old Man.

  Ay, my lord.

  Glo.

  Then, prithee, get thee gone. If, for my sake,

  Thou wilt o’ertake us, hence a mile or twain,

  I’ the way toward Dover, do it for ancient love;

  And bring some covering for this naked soul

  Who I’ll entreat to lead me.

  Old Man.

  Alack, sir! he is mad.

  Glo.

  ’Tis the times’ plague, when madmen lead the blind.

  Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure;

  Above the rest, be gone.

  Old Man.

  I’ll bring him the best ’parel that I have,

  Come on ’t what will.

  [Exit.

  Glo.

  Sirrah, naked fellow,—

  Edg.

  Poor Tom’s a-cold. [Aside.] I cannot daub it further.

  Glo.

  Come hither, fellow.

  Edg.

  [Aside.] And yet I must. Bless thy sweet eyes, they bleed.

  Glo.

  Know’st thou the way to Dover?

  Edg.

  Both stile and gate, horse-way and footpath. Poor Tom hath been scared out of his good wits: bless thee, good man’s son, from the foul fiend! Five fiends have been in poor Tom at once; of lust, as Obidicut; Hobbididance, prince of dumbness; Mahu, of stealing; Modo, of murder; and Flibbertigibbet, of mopping and mowing; who since possesses chambermaids and waiting-women. So, bless thee, master!

  Glo.

  Here, take this purse, thou whom the heavens’ plagues

  Have humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched

  Makes thee the happier: heavens, deal so still!

  Let the superfluous and lust-dieted man,

  That slaves your ordinance, that will not see

  Because he doth not feel, feel your power quickly;

  So distribution should undo excess,

  And each man have enough. Dost thou know Dover?

  Edg.

  Ay, master.

  Glo.

  There is a cliff, whose high and bending head

  Looks fearfully in the confined deep;

  Bring me but to the very brim of it,

  And I’ll repair the misery thou dost bear;

  With something rich about me; from that place

  I shall no leading need.

  Edg.

  Give me thy arm:

  Poor Tom shall lead thee.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene II.—

  Before theDuke of Albany’sPalace.

  EnterGonerilandEdmund.

  Gon.

  Welcome, my lord; I marvel our mild husband

  Not met us on the way. [EnterOswald.] Now, where’s your master?

  Osw.

  Madam, within; but never man so chang’d.

  I told him of the army that was landed;

  He smil’d at it: I told him you were coming;

  His answer was, ‘The worse:’ of Gloucester’s treachery,

  And of the loyal service of his son,

  When I inform’d him, then he call’d me sot,

  And told me I had turn’d the wrong side out:

  What most he should dislike seems pleasant to him;

  What like, offensive.

  Gon.

  [ToEdmund.] Then, shall you go no further.

  It is the cowish terror of his spirit

  That dares not undertake; he’ll not feel wrongs

  Which tie him to an answer. Our wishes on the way

  May prove effects. Back, Edmund, to my brother;

  Hasten his musters and conduct his powers:

  I must change arms at home, and give the distaff

  Into my husband’s hands. This trusty servant

  Shall pass between us; ere long you are like to hear,

  If you dare venture in your own behalf,

  A mistress’s command. Wear this; spare speech;

  [Giving a favour.

  Decline your head: this kiss, if it durst speak,

  Would stretch thy spirits up into the air.

  Conceive, and fare thee well.

  Edm.

  Yours in the ranks of death.

  Gon.

  My most dear Gloucester!

  [ExitEdmund.

  O! the difference of man and man!

  To thee a woman’s services are due:

  My fool usurps my bed.

  Osw

  Madam, here comes my lord.

  [Exit.

  EnterAlbany.

  Gon.

  I have been worth the whistle.

  Alb.

  O Goneril!

  You are not worth the dust which the rude wind

  Blows in your face. I fear your disposition:

  That nature, which contemns its origin,

  Cannot be border’d certain in itself;

  She that herself will sliver and disbranch

  From her material sap, perforce must wither

  And come to deadly use.

  Gon.

  No more; the text is foolish.

  Alb.

  Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile;

  Filths savour but themselves. What have you done?

  Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d?

  A father, and a gracious aged man,

  Whose reverence the head-lugg’d bear would lick,

  Most barbarous, most degenerate! have you madded.

  Could my good brother suffer you to do it?

  A man, a prince, by him so benefited!

  If that the heavens do not their visible spirits

  Send quickly down to tame these vile offences,

  It will come,

  Humanity must perforce prey on itself,

  Like monsters of the deep.

  Gon.

  Milk-liver’d man!

  That bear’st a cheek for blows, a head for wrongs;

  Who hast not in thy brows an eye discerning

  Thine honour from thy suffering; that not know’st

  Fools do those villains pity who are punish’d

  Ere they have done their mischief. Where’s thy drum?

  France spreads his banners in our noiseless land,

  With plumed helm thy slayer begins threats,

  Whilst thou, a moral fool, sitt’st still, and criest

  ‘Alack! why does he so?’

  Alb.

  See thyself, devil!

  Proper deformity seems not in the fiend

  So horrid as in woman.

  Gon.

  O vain fool!

  Alb.

  Thou changed and self-cover’d thing, for shame,

  Be-monster not thy feature. Were ’t my fitness

  To let these hands obey my blood,

  They are apt enough to dislocate and tear

  Thy flesh and bones; howe’er thou art a fiend,

  A woman’s shape doth shield thee.

  Gon.

  Marry, your manhood.—Mew!

  Enter a Messenger.

  Alb.

  What news?

  Mess.

  O! my good lord, the Duke of Cornwall’s dead;

  Slain by his servant, going to put out

  The other eye of Gloucester.

  Alb.

  Gloucester’s eyes!

  Mess.

  A servant that he bred, thrill’d with remorse,

  Oppos’d against the act, bending his sword

  To his great master; who, thereat enrag’d,

  Flew on him, and amongst them fell’d him dead;

  But not without that harmful stroke, which since

  Hath pluck’d him after.

  Alb.

  This shows you are above,

  You justicers, that these our nether crimes

  So speedily can venge! But, O poor Gloucester!

  Lost he his other eye?

  Mess.

  Both, both, my lord.

  This letter, madam, craves a speedy answer;

  ’Tis from your sister.

  Gon.

  [Aside.] One way I like this well;

  But being widow, and my Gloucester with her,

  May all the building in my fancy pluck

  Upon my hateful life: another way,

  This news is not so tart. [To Messenger.] I’ll read and answer.

  [Exit.

  Alb.

  Where was his son when they did take his eyes?

  Mess.

  Come with my lady hither.

  Alb.

  He is not here.

  Mess.

  No, my good lord; I met him back again.

  Alb.

  Knows he the wickedness?

  Mess.

  Ay, my good lord; ’twas he inform’d against him,

  And quit the house on purpose that their punishment

  Might have the freer course.

  Alb.

  Gloucester, I live

  To thank thee for the love thou show’dst the king,

  And to revenge thine eyes. Come hither, friend:

  Tell me what more thou knowest.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene III.—

  The French Camp, near Dover.

  EnterKentand a Gentleman.

  Kent.

  Why the King of France is so suddenly gone back know you the reason?

  Gent.

  Something he left imperfect in the state, which since his coming forth is thought of; which imports to the kingdom so much fear and danger, that his personal return was most required and necessary.

  Kent.

  Who hath he left behind him general?

  Gent.

  The Marshal of France, Monsieur la Far.

  Kent.

  Did your letters pierce the queen to any demonstration of grief?

  Gent.

  Ay, sir; she took them, read them in my presence;

  And now and then an ample tear trill’d down

  Her delicate cheek; it seem’d she was a queen

  Over her passion; who, most rebel-like,

  Sought to be king o’er her.

  Kent.

  O! then it mov’d her.

  Gent.

  Not to a rage; patience and sorrow strove

  Who should express her goodliest. You have seen

  Sunshine and rain at once; her smiles and tears

  Were like a better way; those happy smilets

  That play’d on her ripe lip seem’d not to know

  What guests were in her eyes; which parted thence,

  As pearls from diamonds dropp’d. In brief,

  Sorrow would be a rarity most belov’d,

  If all could so become it.

  Kent.

  Made she no verbal question?

  Gent.

  Faith, once or twice she heav’d the name of ‘father’

  Pantingly forth, as if it press’d her heart;

  Cried, ‘Sisters! sisters! Shame of ladies! sisters!

  Kent! father! sisters! What, i’ the storm? i’ the night?

  Let pity not be believed!’ There she shook

  The holy water from her heavenly eyes,

  And clamour-moisten’d, then away she started

  To deal with grief alone.

  Kent.

  It is the stars,

  The stars above us, govern our conditions;

  Else one self mate and make could not beget

  Such different issues. You spoke not with her since?

  Gent.

  No.

  Kent.

  Was this before the king return’d?

  Gent.

  No, since.

  Kent.

  Well, sir, the poor distress’d Lear’s i’ the town,

  Who sometime, in his better tune, remembers

  What we are come about, and by no means

  Will yield to see his daughter.

  Gent.

  Why, good sir?

  Kent.

  A sovereign shame so elbows him: his own unkindness,

  That stripp’d her from his benediction, turn’d her

  To foreign casualties, gave her dear rights

  To his dog-hearted daughters,—these things sting

  His mind so venomously that burning shame

  Detains him from Cordelia.

  Gent.

  Alack! poor gentleman.

  Kent.

  Of Albany’s and Cornwall’s powers you heard not?

  Gent.

  ’Tis so, they are afoot.

  Kent.

  Well, sir, I’ll bring you to our master Lear,

  And leave you to attend him. Some dear cause

  Will in concealment wrap me up awhile;

  When I am known aright, you shall not grieve

  Lending me this acquaintance. I pray you, go

  Along with me.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene IV.—

  The Same. A Tent.

  Enter with drum and colours,Cordelia, Doctor, and Soldiers.

  Cor.

  Alack! ’tis he: why, he was met even now

  As mad as the vex’d sea; singing aloud;

  Crown’d with rank fumiter and furrow weeds,

  With burdocks, hemlock, nettles, cuckoo-flowers,

  Darnel, and all the idle weeds that grow

  In our sustaining corn. A century send forth;

  Search every acre in the high-grown field,

  And bring him to our eye.

  [Exit an Officer.

  What can man’s wisdom

  In the restoring his bereaved sense?

  He that helps him take all my outward worth.

  Phy.

  There is means, madam;

  Our foster-nurse of nature is repose,

  The which he lacks; that to provoke in him,

  Are many simples operative, whose power

  Will close the eye of anguish.

  Cor.

  All bless’d secrets,

  All you unpublish’d virtues of the earth,

  Spring with my tears! be aidant and remediate

  In the good man’s distress! Seek, seek for him,

  Lest his ungovern’d rage dissolve the life

  That wants the means to lead it.

  Enter a Messenger.

  Mess.

  News, madam;

  The British powers are marching hitherward.

  Cor.

  ’Tis known before; our preparation stands

  In expectation of them. O dear father!

  It is thy business that I go about;

  Therefore great France

  My mourning and important tears hath pitied,

  No blown ambition doth our arms incite,

  But love, dear love, and our ag’d father’s right,

  Soon may I hear and see him!

  [Exeunt.

  Scene V.—

  A Room inGloucester’sCastle.

  EnterReganandOswald.

  Reg.

  But are my brother’s powers set forth?

  Osw.

  Ay, madam.

  Reg.

  Himself in person there?

  Osw.

  Madam, with much ado:

  Your sister is the better soldier.

  Reg.

  Lord Edmund spake not with your lord at home?

  Osw.

  No, madam.

  Reg.

  What might import my sister’s letter to him?

  Osw.

  I know not, lady.

  Reg.

  Faith, he is posted hence on serious matter.

  It was great ignorance, Gloucester’s eyes being out,

  To let him live; where he arrives he moves

  All hearts against us. Edmund, I think, is gone,

  In pity of his misery, to dispatch

  His nighted life; moreover, to descry

  The strength o’ the enemy.

  Osw.

  I must needs after him, madam, with my letter.

  Reg.

  Our troops set forth to-morrow; stay with us,

  The ways are dangerous.

  Osw.

  I may not, madam;

  My lady charg’d my duty in this business.

  Reg.

  Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you

  Transport her purposes by word? Belike,

  Something—I know not what. I’ll love thee much,

  Let me unseal the letter.

  Osw.

  Madam, I had rather—

  Reg.

  I know your lady does not love her husband;

  I am sure of that: and at her late being here

  She gave strange ceilliades and most speaking looks

  To noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosom.

  Osw.

  I, madam!

  Reg.

  I speak in understanding; you are, I know’t:

  Therefore I do advise you, take this note:

  My lord is dead; Edmund and I have talk’d,

  And more convenient is he for my hand

  Than for your lady’s. You may gather more.

  If you do find him, pray you, give him this,

  And when your mistress hears thus much from you,

  I pray desire her call her wisdom to her:

  So, fare you well.

  If you do chance to hear of that blind traitor,

  Preferment falls on him that cuts him off.

  Osw.

  Would I could meet him, madam: I would show

  What party I do follow.

  Reg.

  Fare thee well.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene VI.—

  The Country near Dover.

  EnterGloucester,andEdgardressed like a peasant.

  Glo.

  When shall I come to the top of that same hill?

  Edg.

  You do climb up it now; look how we labour.

  Glo.

  Methinks the ground is even.

  Edg.

  Horrible steep:

  Hark! do you hear the sea?

  Glo.

  No, truly.

  Edg.

  Why, then you other senses grow imperfect

  By your eyes’ anguish.

  Glo.

  So may it be, indeed.

  Methinks thy voice is alter’d, and thou speak’st

  In better phrase and matter than thou didst.

  Edg.

  Y’are much deceiv’d; in nothing am I chang’d

  But in my garments.

  Glo.

  Methinks you’re better spoken.

  Edg.

  Come on, sir; here’s the place: stand still.

  How fearful

  And dizzy ’tis to cast one’s eyes so low!

  The crows and choughs that wing the midway air

  Show scarce so gross as beetles; half way down

  Hangs one that gathers samphire, dreadful trade!

  Methinks he seems no bigger than his head.

  The fishermen that walk upon the beach

  Appear like mice, and yond tall anchoring bark

  Diminish’d to her cock, her cock a buoy

  Almost too small for sight. The murmuring surge,

  That on the unnumber’d idle pebbles chafes,

  Cannot be heard so high. I’ll look no more,

  Lest my brain turn, and the deficient sight

  Topple down headlong.

  Glo.

  Set me where you stand.

  Edg.

  Give me your hand; you are now within a foot

  Of the extreme verge: for all beneath the moon

  Would I not leap upright.

  Glo.

  Let go my hand.

  Here, friend, ’s another purse; in it a jewel

  Well worth a poor man’s taking: fairies and gods

  Prosper it with thee! Go thou further off;

  Bid me farewell, and let me hear thee going.

  Edg.

  Now fare you well, good sir.

  Glo.

  With all my heart.

  Edg.

  Why I do trifle thus with his despair

  Is done to cure it.

  Glo.

  O you mighty gods!

  This world I do renounce, and, in your sights,

  Shake patiently my great affliction off;

  If I could bear it longer, and not fall

  To quarrel with your great opposeless wills,

  My snuff and loathed part of nature should

  Burn itself out. If Edgar live, O, bless him!

  Now, fellow, fare thee well.

  [He falls forward.

  Edg.

  Gone, sir: farewell.

  [Aside.] And yet I know not how conceit may rob

  The treasury of life when life itself

  Yields to the theft; had he been where he thought

  By this had thought been past. Alive or dead?

  [ToGloucester.] Ho, you sir! friend! Hear you, sir? speak!

  Thus might he pass indeed; yet he revives.

  What are you, sir?

  Glo.

  Away and let me die.

  Edg.

  Hadst thou been aught but gossamer, feathers, air,

  So many fathom down precipitating,

  Thou’dst shiver’d like an egg; but thou dost breathe,

  Hast heavy substance, bleed’st not, speak’st, art sound.

  Ten masts at each make not the altitude

  Which thou hast perpendicularly fell:

  Thy life’s a miracle. Speak yet again.

  Glo.

  But have I fallen or no?

  Edg.

  From the dread summit of this chalky bourn.

  Look up a-height; the shrill-gorg’d lark so far

  Cannot be seen or heard: do but look up.

  Glo.

  Alack! I have no eyes.

  Is wretchedness depriv’d that benefit

  To end itself by death? ’Twas yet some comfort,

  When misery could beguile the tyrant’s rage,

  And frustrate his proud will.

  Edg.

  Give me your arm:

  Up: so. How is ’t? Feel you your legs? You stand.

  Glo.

  Too well, too well.

  Edg.

  This is above all strangeness.

  Upon the crown o’ the cliff, what thing was that

  Which parted from you?

  Glo.

  A poor unfortunate beggar.

  Edg.

  As I stood here below methought his eyes

  Were two full moons; he had a thousand noses,

  Horns whelk’d and wav’d like the enridged sea:

  It was some fiend; therefore, thou happy father,

  Think that the clearest gods, who make them honours

  Of men’s impossibilities, have preserv’d thee.

  Glo.

  I do remember now; henceforth I’ll bear

  Affliction till it do cry out itself

  ‘Enough, enough,’ and die. That thing you speak of

  I took it for a man; often ’twould say

  ‘The fiend, the fiend:’ he led me to that place.

  Edg.

  Bear free and patient thoughts. But who comes here?

  EnterLear,fantastically dressed with flowers.

  The safer sense will ne’er accommodate

  His master thus.

  Lear.

  No, they cannot touch me for coining;

  I am the king himself.

  Edg.

  O thou side-piercing sight!

  Lear.

  Nature’s above art in that respect. There’s your press-money. That fellow handles his bow like a crow-keeper: draw me a clothier’s yard. Look, look! a mouse. Peace, peace! this piece of toasted cheese will do ’t. There’s my gauntlet; I’ll prove it on a giant. Bring up the brown bills. O! well flown, bird; i’ the clout, i’ the clout: hewgh! Give the word.

  Edg.

  Sweet marjoram.

  Lear.

  Pass.

  Glo.

  I know that voice.

  Lear.

  Ha! Goneril, with a white beard! They flatter’d me like a dog, and told me I had white hairs in my beard ere the black ones were there. To say ‘ay’ and ‘no’ to everything I said! ‘Ay’ and ‘no’ too was no good divinity. When the rain came to wet me once and the wind to make me chatter, when the thunder would not peace at my bidding, there I found ’em, there I smelt ’em out. Go to, they are not men o’ their words: they told me I was every thing; ’tis a lie, I am not ague-proof.

  Glo.

  The trick of that voice I do well remember:

  Is ’t not the king?

  Lear.

  Ay, every inch a king:

  When I do stare, see how the subject quakes.

  I pardon that man’s life. What was thy cause?

  Adultery?

  Thou shalt not die: die for adultery! No:

  The wren goes to ’t, and the small gilded fly

  Does lecher in my sight.

  Let copulation thrive; for Gloucester’s bastard son

  Was kinder to his father than my daughters

  Got ’tween the lawful sheets.

  To ’t luxury, pell-mell! for I lack soldiers.

  Behold yond simpering dame,

  Whose face between her forks presageth snow;

  That minces virtue, and does shake the head

  To hear of pleasure’s name;

  The fitchew nor the soiled horse goes to ’t

  With a more riotous appetite.

  Down from the waist they are Centaurs,

  Though women all above:

  But to the girdle do the gods inherit,

  Beneath is all the fiends’:

  There’s hell, there’s darkness, there is the sulphurous pit,

  Burning, scalding, stench, consumption; fie, fie, fie! pah, pah! Give me an ounce of civet, good apothecary, to sweeten my imagination: there’s money for thee.

  Glo.

  O! let me kiss that hand!

  Lear.

  Let me wipe it first; it smells of mortality.

  Glo.

  O ruin’d piece of nature! This great world

  Shall so wear out to nought. Dost thou know me?

  Lear.

  I remember thine eyes well enough.

  Dost thou squiny at me? No, do thy worst, blind Cupid; I’ll not love. Read thou this challenge; mark but the penning of it.

  Glo.

  Were all the letters suns, I could not see.

  Edg.

  [Aside.] I would not take this from report; it is,

  And my heart breaks at it.

  Lear.

  Read.

  Glo.

  What! with the case of eyes?

  Lear.

  O, ho! are you there with me? No eyes in your head, nor no money in your purse? Your eyes are in a heavy case, your purse in a light: yet you see how this world goes.

  Glo.

  I see it feelingly.

  Lear.

  What! art mad? A man may see how this world goes with no eyes. Look with thine ears: see how yound justice rails upon yon simple thief. Hark, in thine ear: change places; and, handy-dandy, which is the justice, which is the thief? Thou hast seen a farmer’s dog bark at a beggar?

  Glo.

  Ay, sir.

  Lear.

  And the creature run from the cur? There thou mightst behold the great image of authority; a dog’s obey’d in office.

  Thou rascal beadle, hold thy bloody hand!

  Why dost thou lash that whore? Strip thine own back;

  Thou hotly lust’st to use her in that kind

  For which thou whipp’st her. The usurer hangs the cozener.

  Through tatter’d clothes small vices do appear;

  Robes and furr’d gowns hide all. Plate sin with gold,

  And the strong lance of justice hurtless breaks;

  Arm it in rags, a pigmy’s straw doth pierce it.

  None does offend, none, I say none; I’ll able ’em:

  Take that of me, my friend, who have the power

  To seal the accuser’s lips. Get thee glass eyes;

  And, like a scurvy politician, seem

  To see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now;

  Pull off my boots; harder, harder; so.

  Edg.

  [Aside.] O! matter and impertinency mix’d;

  Reason in madness!

  Lear.

  If thou wilt weep my fortunes, take my eyes;

  I know thee well enough; thy name is Gloucester:

  Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:

  Thou know’st the first time that we smell the air

  We waul and cry. I will preach to thee: mark.

  Glo.

  Alack! alack the day!

  Lear.

  When we are born, we cry that we are come

  To this great stage of fools. This’ a good block!

  It were a delicate stratagem to shoe

  A troop of horse with felt; I’ll put it in proof,

  And when I have stol’n upon these sons-in-law,

  Then, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill!

  Enter Gentleman, with Attendants.

  Gent.

  O! here he is; lay hand upon him. Sir,

  Your most dear daughter—

  Lear.

  No rescue? What! a prisoner? I am even

  The natural fool of fortune. Use me well;

  You shall have ransom. Let me have surgeons;

  I am cut to the brains.

  Gent.

  You shall have any thing.

  Lear.

  No seconds? All myself?

  Why this would make a man a man of salt,

  To use his eyes for garden water-pots,

  Ay, and laying autumn’s dust.

  Gent.

  Good sir,—

  Lear.

  I will die bravely as a bridegroom. What!

  I will be jovial: come, come; I am a king,

  My masters, know you that?

  Gent.

  You are a royal one, and we obey you.

  Lear.

  Then there’s life in it. Nay, an you get it, you shall get it by running. Sa, sa, sa, sa

  [Exit. Attendants follow.

  Gent.

  A sight most pitiful in the meanest wretch,

  Past speaking of in a king! Thou hast one daughter,

  Who redeems nature from the general curse

  Which twain have brought her to.

  Edg.

  Hail, gentle sir!

  Gent.

  Sir, speed you: what’s your will?

  Edg.

  Do you hear aught, sir, of a battle toward?

  Gent.

  Most sure and vulgar; every one hears that,

  Which can distinguish sound.

  Edg.

  But, by your favour,

  How near’s the other army?

  Gent.

  Near, and on speedy foot; the main descry

  Stands on the hourly thought.

  Edg.

  I thank you, sir: that’s all

  Gent.

  Though that the queen on special cause is here,

  Her army is mov’d on.

  Edg.

  I thank you, sir.

  [Exit Gentleman

  Glo.

  You ever-gentle gods, take my breath from me:

  Let not my worser spirit tempt me again

  To die before you please!

  Edg.

  Well pray you, father.

  Glo.

  Now, good sir, what are you?

  Edg.

  A most poor man, made tame to fortune’s blows;

  Who, by the art of known and feeling sorrows,

  Am pregnant to good pity. Give me your hand,

  I’ll lead you to some biding.

  Glo.

  Hearty thanks:

  The bounty and the benison of heaven

  To boot, and boot!

  EnterOswald.

  Osw.

  A proclaim’d prize! Most happy!

  That eyeless head of thine was first fram’d flesh

  To raise my fortunes. Thou old unhappy traitor,

  Briefly thyself remember: the sword in out

  That must destroy thee.

  Glo.

  Now let thy friendly hand

  Put strength enough to ’t.

  [Edgarinterposes.

  Osw.

  Wherefore, bold peasant,

  Dar’st thou support a publish’d traitor? Hence;

  Lest that infection of his fortune take

  Like hold on thee. Let go his arm.

  Edg.

  Chill not let go, zur, without vurther ’casion.

  Osw.

  Let go, slave, or thou diest.

  Edg.

  Good gentleman, go your gait, and let poor volk pass. An chud ha’ bin zwaggered out of my life, ’twould not ha’ bin zo long as ’tis by a vortnight. Nay, come not near th’ old man; keep out, che vor ye, or ise try whether your costard or my ballow be the harder. Chill be plain with you.

  Osw.

  Out, dunghill!

  Edg.

  Chill pick your teeth, zur. Come; no matter vor your foins.

  [They fight andEdgarknocks him down.

  Osw.

  Slave, thou hast slain me. Villain, take my purse.

  If ever thou wilt thrive, bury my body;

  And give the letters which thou find’st about me

  To Edmund Earl of Gloucester; seek him out

  Upon the English party: O! untimely death.

  [Dies.

  Edg.

  I know thee well: a serviceable villain;

  As duteous to the vices of thy mistress

  As badness would desire.

  Glo.

  What! is he dead?

  Edg.

  Sit you down, father; rest you.

  Let’s see his pockets: these letters that he speaks of

  May be my friends. He’s dead; I am only sorry

  He had no other deaths-man. Let us see:

  Leave, gentle wax; and, manners, blame us not:

  To know our enemies’ minds, we’d rip their hearts;

  Their papers, is more lawful.

  Let our reciprocal vows be remembered. You have many opportunities to cut him off; if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offered. There is nothing done if he return the conqueror; then am I the prisoner, and his bed my gaol; from the loathed warmth whereof deliver me, and supply the place for your labour.

  Your—wife, so I would say—

  Affectionate servant,

  Goneril.

  O undistinguish’d space of woman’s will!

  A plot upon her virtuous husband’s life,

  And the exchange my brother! Here, in the sands,

  Thee I’ll rake up, the post unsanctified

  Of murderous lechers; and in the mature time

  With this ungracious paper strike the sight

  Of the death-practis’d duke. For him ’tis well

  That of thy death and business I can tell.

  Glo.

  The king is mad: how stiff is my vile sense,

  That I stand up, and have ingenious feeling

  Of my huge sorrows! Better I were distract:

  So should my thoughts be sever’d from my griefs,

  And woes by wrong imaginations lose

  The knowledge of themselves.

  [Drums ajar off.

  Edg.

  Give me your hand:

  Far off, methinks, I hear the beaten drum.

  Come, father, I’ll bestow you with a friend.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene VII.—

  A Tent in the French Camp.

  EnterCordelia, Kent, Doctor, and Gentleman.

  Cor.

  O thou good Kent! how shall I live and work

  To match thy goodness? My life will be too short,

  And every measure fail me.

  Kent.

  To be acknowledg’d, madam, is o’erpaid.

  All my reports go with the modest truth,

  Nor more nor clipp’d, but so.

  Cor.

  Be better suited:

  These weeds are memories of those worser hours:

  I prithee, put them off.

  Kent.

  Pardon me, dear madam;

  Yet to be known shortens my made intent:

  My boon I make it that you know me not

  Till time and I think meet.

  Cor.

  Then be ’t so, my good lord.—[To the Doctor.] How does the king?

  Doc.

  Madam, sleeps still.

  Cor.

  O you kind gods,

  Cure this great breach in his abused nature!

  The untun’d and jarring senses, O! wind up

  Of this child-changed father!

  Doc.

  So please your majesty

  That we may wake the king? he hath slept long.

  Cor.

  Be govern’d by your knowledge, and proceed

  I’ the sway of your own will. Is he array’d?

  EnterLearin his chair, carried by Servants.

  Gent.

  Ay, madam; in the heaviness of sleep,

  We put fresh garments on him.

  Doc.

  Be by, good madam, when we do awake him;

  I doubt not of his temperance.

  Cor.

  Very well.

  [Music.

  Doc.

  Please you, draw near. Louder the music there.

  Cor.

  O my dear father! Restoration, hang

  Thy medicine on my lips, and let this kiss

  Repair those violent harms that my two sisters

  Have in thy reverence made!

  Kent.

  Kind and dear princess!

  Cor.

  Had you not been their father, these white flakes

  Had challeng’d pity of them. Was this a face

  To be expos’d against the warring winds?

  To stand against the deep dread-bolted thunder?

  In the most terrible and nimble stroke

  Of quick cross lightning? to watch—poor perdu!—

  With this thin helm? Mine enemy’s dog,

  Though he had bit me, should have stood that night

  Against my fire. And wast thou fain, poor father,

  To hovel thee with swine and rogues forlorn,

  In short and musty straw? Alack, alack!

  ’Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once

  Had not concluded all. He wakes; speak to him.

  Doc.

  Madam, do you; ’tis fittest.

  Cor.

  How does my royal lord? How fares your majesty?

  Lear.

  You do me wrong to take me out o’ the grave;

  Thou art a soul in bliss; but I am bound

  Upon a wheel of fire, that mine own tears

  Do scald like molten lead.

  Cor.

  Sir, do you know me?

  Lear.

  You are a spirit, I know; when did you die?

  Cor.

  Still, still, far wide.

  Doc.

  He’s scarce awake; let him alone awhile.

  Lear.

  Where have I been? Where am I? Fair day-light?

  I am mightily abus’d. I should even die with pity

  To see another thus. I know not what to say.

  I will not swear these are my hands: let’s see;

  I feel this pin prick. Would I were assur’d

  Of my condition!

  Cor.

  O! look upon me, sir,

  And hold your hands in benediction o’er me.

  No, sir, you must not kneel.

  Lear.

  Pray, do not mock me:

  I am a very foolish fond old man,

  Fourscore and upward, not an hour more or less;

  And, to deal plainly,

  I fear I am not in my perfect mind.

  Methinks I should know you and know this man;

  Yet I am doubtful: for I am mainly ignorant

  What place this is, and all the skill I have

  Remembers not these garments; nor I know not

  Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me;

  For, as I am a man, I think this lady

  To be my child Cordelia.

  Cor.

  And so I am, I am.

  Lear.

  Be your tears wet? Yes, faith. I pray, weep not:

  If you have poison for me, I will drink it.

  I know you do not love me; for your sisters

  Have, as I do remember, done me wrong:

  You have some cause, they have not.

  Cor.

  No cause, no cause.

  Lear.

  Am I in France?

  Kent.

  In your own kingdom, sir.

  Lear.

  Do not abuse me.

  Doc.

  Be comforted, good madam; the great rage,

  You see, is kill’d in him; and yet it is danger

  To make him even o’er the time he has lost.

  Desire him to go in; trouble him no more

  Till further settling.

  Cor.

  Will ’t please your highness walk?

  Lear.

  You must bear with me.

  Pray you now, forget and forgive: I am old and foolish.

  [ExeuntLear, Cordelia, Doctor, and Attendants.

  Gent.

  Holds it true, sir, that the Duke of Cornwall was so slain?

  Kent.

  Most certain, sir.

  Gent.

  Who is conductor of his people?

  Kent.

  As ’tis said, the bastard son of Gloucester.

  Gent.

  They say Edgar, his banished son, is with the Earl of Kent in Germany.

  Kent.

  Report is changeable. ’Tis time to look about; the powers of the kingdom approach apace.

  Gent.

  The arbitrement is like to be bloody.

  Fare you well, sir.

  [Exit.

  Kent.

  My point and period will be throughly wrought,

  Or well or ill, as this day’s battle’s fought.

  [Exit.

  ACT V.

  Scene I.—

  The British Camp near Dover.

  Enter, with drum and colours,Edmund, Regan, Officers, Soldiers, and Others.

  Edm.

  Know of the duke if his last purpose hold,

  Or whether since he is advis’d by aught

  To change the course; he’s full of alteration

  And self-reproving; bring his constant pleasure.

  [To an Officer, who goes out.

  Reg.

  Our sister’s man is certainly miscarried.

  Edm.

  ’Tis to be doubted, madam.

  Reg.

  Now, sweet lord,

  You know the goodness I intend upon you:

  Tell me, but truly, but then speak the truth,

  Do you not love my sister?

  Edm.

  In honour’d love.

  Reg.

  But have you never found my brother’s way

  To the forefended place?

  Edm.

  That thought abuses you.

  Reg.

  I am doubtful that you have been conjunct

  And bosom’d with her, as far as we call hers.

  Edm.

  No, by mine honour, madam.

  Reg.

  I never shall endure her: dear my lord,

  Be not familiar with her.

  Edm.

  Fear me not.

  She and the duke her husband!

  Enter with drums and colours,Albany, Goneril,and Soldiers.

  Gon.

  [Aside.] I had rather lose the battle than that sister

  Should loosen him and me.

  Alb.

  Our very loving sister, well be-met.

  Sir, this I heard, the king is come to his daughter,

  With others; whom the rigour of our state

  Forc’d to cry out. Where I could not be honest

  I never yet was valiant: for this business,

  It toucheth us, as France invades our land,

  Not bolds the king, with others, whom, I fear,

  Most just and heavy causes make oppose.

  Edm.

  Sir, you speak nobly.

  Reg.

  Why is this reason’d?

  Gon.

  Combine together ’gainst the enemy;

  For these domestic and particular broils

  Are not the question here.

  Alb.

  Let’s then determine

  With the ancient of war on our proceeding.

  Edm.

  I shall attend you presently at your tent.

  Reg.

  Sister, you’ll go with us?

  Gon.

  No.

  Reg.

  ’Tis most convenient; pray you, go with us.

  Gon.

  [Aside.] O, ho! I know the riddle. [Aloud.] I will go.

  EnterEdgar,disguised.

  Edg.

  If e’er your Grace had speech with man so poor,

  Hear me one word.

  Alb.

  I’ll overtake you. Speak.

  [ExeuntEdmund, Regan, Goneril, Officers, Soldiers, and Attendants.

  Edg.

  Before you fight the battle, ope this letter.

  If you have victory, let the trumpet sound

  For him that brought it: wretched though I seem,

  I can produce a champion that will prove

  What is avouched there. If you miscarry,

  Your business of the world hath so an end,

  And machination ceases. Fortune love you!

  Alb.

  Stay till I have read the letter.

  Edg.

  I was forbid it.

  When time shall serve, let but the herald cry,

  And I’ll appear again.

  Alb.

  Why, fare thee well: I will o’erlook thy paper.

  [ExitEdgar.

  Re-enterEdmund.

  Edm.

  The enemy’s in view; draw up your powers.

  Here is the guess of their true strength and forces

  By diligent discovery; but your haste

  Is now urg’d on you.

  Alb.

  We will greet the time.

  [Exit.

  Edm.

  To both these sisters have I sworn my love;

  Each jealous of the other, as the stung

  Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take?

  Both? one? or neither? Neither can be enjoy’d

  If both remain alive: to take the widow

  Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril;

  And hardly shall I carry out my side,

  Her husband being alive. Now then, we’ll use

  His countenance for the battle; which being done

  Let her who would be rid of him devise

  His speedy taking off. As for the mercy

  Which he intends to Lear, and to Cordelia,

  The battle done, and they within our power,

  Shall never see his pardon; for my state

  Stands on me to defend, not to debate.

  [Exit.

  Scene II.—

  A Field between the two Camps.

  Alarum within. Enter, with drum and colours,Lear, Cordelia,and their Forces; and exeunt. EnterEdgarandGloucester.

  Edg.

  Here, father, take the shadow of this tree

  For your good host; pray that the right may thrive.

  If ever I return to you again,

  I’ll bring you comfort.

  Glo.

  Grace go with you, sir!

  [ExitEdgar.

  Alarum; afterwards a retreat. Re-enterEdgar.

  Edg.

  Away, old man! give me thy hand: away!

  King Lear hath lost, he and his daughter ta’en.

  Give me thy hand; come on.

  Glo.

  No further, sir; a man may rot even here.

  Edg.

  What! in ill thoughts again? Men must endure

  Their going hence, even as their coming hither:

  Ripeness is all. Come on.

  Glo.

  And that’s true too.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene III.—

  The British Camp, near Dover.

  Enter, in conquest, with drum and colours,Edmund; LearandCordelia,prisoners; Officers, Soldiers, &c.

  Edm.

  Some officers take them away: good guard,

  Until their greater pleasures first be known

  That are to censure them.

  Cor.

  We are not the first

  Who, with best meaning, have incurr’d the worst.

  For thee, oppressed king, am I cast down;

  Myself could else out-frown false Fortune’s frown.

  Shall we not see these daughters and these sisters?

  Lear.

  No, no, no, no! Come, let’s away to prison;

  We two alone will sing like birds i’ the cage:

  When thou dost ask me blessing, I’ll kneel down,

  And ask of thee forgiveness: so we’ll live,

  And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh

  At gilded butterflies, and hear poor rogues

  Talk of court news; and we’ll talk with them too,

  Who loses and who wins; who’s in, who’s out;

  And take upon’s the mystery of things,

  As if we were God’s spies: and we’ll wear out,

  In a wall’d prison, packs and sets of great ones

  That ebb and flow by the moon.

  Edm.

  Take them away.

  Lear.

  Upon such sacrifices, my Cordelia,

  The gods themselves throw incense. Have I caught thee?

  He that parts us shall bring a brand from heaven,

  And fire us hence like foxes. Wipe thine eyes;

  The goujeres shall devour them, flesh and fell,

  Ere they shall make us weep: we’ll see ’em starve first.

  Come.

  [ExeuntLearandCordelia,guarded.

  Edm.

  Come hither, captain; hark,

  Take thou this note; [Giving a paper.] go follow them to prison:

  One step I have advanc’d thee; if thou dost

  As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way

  To noble fortunes; know thou this, that men

  Are as the time is; to be tender-minded

  Does not become a sword; thy great employment

  Will not bear question; either say thou’lt do’t,

  Or thrive by other means.

  Offi.

  I’ll do’t, my lord.

  Edm.

  About it; and write happy when thou hast done.

  Mark,—I say, instantly, and carry it so

  As I have set it down.

  Offi.

  I cannot draw a cart nor eat dried oats;

  If it be man’s work I will do it.

  [Exit.

  Flourish. EnterAlbany, Goneril, Regan, Officers, and Attendants.

  Alb.

  Sir, you have show’d to-day your valiant strain,

  And fortune led you well; you have the captives

  Who were the opposites of this day’s strife;

  We do require them of you, so to use them

  As we shall find their merits and our safety

  May equally determine.

  Edm.

  Sir, I thought it fit

  To send the old and miserable king

  To some retention, and appointed guard;

  Whose age has charms in it, whose title more,

  To pluck the common bosom on his side,

  And turn our impress’d lances in our eyes

  Which do command them. With him I sent the queen;

  My reason all the same; and they are ready

  To-morrow, or at further space, to appear

  Where you shall hold your session. At this time

  We sweat and bleed; the friend hath lost his friend,

  And the best quarrels, in the heat, are curs’d

  By those that feel their sharpness;

  The question of Cordelia and her father

  Requires a fitter place.

  Alb.

  Sir, by your patience,

  I hold you but a subject of this war,

  Not as a brother.

  Reg.

  That’s as we list to grace him:

  Methinks our pleasure might have been demanded,

  Ere you had spoke so far. He led our powers,

  Bore the commission of my place and person;

  The which immediacy may well stand up,

  And call itself your brother.

  Gon.

  Not so hot;

  In his own grace he doth exalt himself

  More than in your addition.

  Reg.

  In my rights,

  By me invested, he compeers the best.

  Gon.

  That were the most, if he should husband you.

  Reg.

  Jesters do oft prove prophets.

  Gon.

  Holla, holla!

  That eye that told you so look’d but a-squint.

  Reg.

  Lady, I am not well; else I should answer

  From a full-flowing stomach. General,

  Take thou my soldiers, prisoners, patrimony;

  Dispose of them, of me; the walls are thine;

  Witness the world, that I create thee here

  My lord and master.

  Gon.

  Mean you to enjoy him?

  Alb.

  The let-alone lies not in your good will.

  Edm.

  Nor in thine, lord.

  Alb.

  Half-blooded fellow, yes.

  Reg.

  [ToEdmund.] Let the drum strike, and prove my title thine.

  Alb.

  Stay yet; hear reason. Edmund, I arrest thee

  On capital treason; and, in thy arrest,

  This gilded serpent. [Pointing toGoneril.] For your claim, fair sister,

  I bar it in the interest of my wife;

  ’Tis she is sub-contracted to this lord,

  And I, her husband, contradict your bans.

  If you will marry, make your love to me,

  My lady is bespoke.

  Gon.

  An interlude!

  Alb.

  Thou art arm’d, Gloucester; let the trumpet sound:

  If none appear to prove upon thy person

  Thy heinous, manifest, and many treasons,

  There is my pledge; [Throws down a glove.] I’ll prove it on thy heart,

  Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing less

  Than I have here proclaim’d thee.

  Reg.

  Sick! O sick!

  Gon.

  [Aside.] If not, I’ll ne’er trust medicine.

  Edm.

  There’s my exchange: [Throws down a glove.] what in the world he is

  That names me traitor, villain-like be lies.

  Call by thy trumpet: he that dares approach,

  On him, on you, who not? I will maintain

  My truth and honour firmly.

  Alb.

  A herald, ho!

  Edm.

  A herald, ho! a herald!

  Alb.

  Trust to thy single virtue; for thy soldiers,

  All levied in my name, have in my name

  Took their discharge.

  Reg.

  My sickness grows upon me.

  Alb.

  She is not well; convey her to my tent.

  [ExitRegan,led.

  Come hither, herald,

  Enter a Herald.

  Let the trumpet sound,—

  And read out this.

  Offi.

  Sound, trumpet!

  [A trumpet sounds.

  Her.

  If any man of quality or degree within the lists of the army will maintain upon Edmund, supposed Earl of Gloucester, that he is a manifold traitor, let him appear at the third sound of the trumpet. He is bold in his defence.

  Edm.

  Sound!

  [First Trumpet.

  Her.

  Again!

  [Second Trumpet.

  Her.

  Again!

  [Third Trumpet.

  [Trumpet answers within.

  EnterEdgar,armed, with a Trumpet before him.

  Alb.

  Ask him his purposes, why he appears

  Upon this call o’ the trumpet.

  Her.

  What are you?

  Your name? your quality? and why you answer

  This present summons?

  Edg.

  Know, my name is lost;

  By treason’s tooth bare-gnawn and canker-bit:

  Yet am I noble as the adversary

  I come to cope.

  Alb.

  Which is that adversary?

  Edg.

  What’s he that speaks for Edmund Earl of Gloucester?

  Edm.

  Himself: what sayst thou to him?

  Edg.

  Draw thy sword,

  That, if my speech offend a noble heart,

  Thy arm may do thee justice; here is mine:

  Behold, it is the privilege of mine honours,

  My oath, and my profession: I protest,

  Maugre thy strength, youth, place, and eminence,

  Despite thy victor sword and fire-new fortune,

  Thy valour and thy heart, thou art a traitor,

  False to thy gods, thy brother, and thy father,

  Conspirant ’gainst this high illustrious prince,

  And, from the extremest upward of thy head

  To the descent and dust below thy foot,

  A most toad-spotted traitor. Say thou ‘No,’

  This sword, this arm, and my best spirits are bent

  To prove upon thy heart, whereto I speak,

  Thou liest.

  Edm.

  In wisdom I should ask thy name;

  But since thy outside looks so fair and war-like,

  And that thy tongue some say of breeding breathes,

  What safe and nicely I might well delay

  By rule of knighthood, I disdain and spurn;

  Back do I toss these treasons to thy head,

  With the hell-hated lie o’erwhelm thy heart,

  Which, for they yet glance by and scarcely bruise,

  This sword of mine shall give them instant way,

  Where they shall rest for ever. Trumpets, speak!

  [Alarums. They fight.Edmundfalls.

  Alb.

  Save him, save him!

  Gon.

  This is practice, Gloucester:

  By the law of arms thou wast not bound to answer

  An unknown opposite; thou art not vanquish’d,

  But cozen’d and beguil’d.

  Alb.

  Shut your mouth, dame,

  Or with this paper shall I stop it. Hold, sir;

  Thou worse than any name, read thine own evil:

  No tearing, lady; I perceive you know it.

  [Gives the letter toEdmund.

  Gon.

  Say, if I do, the laws are mine, not thine:

  Who can arraign me for ’t?

  [Exit.

  Alb.

  Most monstrous!

  Know’st thou this paper?

  Edm.

  Ask me not what I know.

  Alb.

  Go after her: she’s desperate; govern her.

  [Exit an Officer.

  Edm.

  What you have charg’d me with, that have I done,

  And more, much more; the time will bring it out:

  ’Tis past, and so am I. But what art thou

  That hast this fortune on me? If thou’rt noble,

  I do forgive thee.

  Edg.

  Let’s exchange charity.

  I am no less in blood than thou art, Edmund;

  If more, the more thou hast wrong’d me.

  My name is Edgar, and thy father’s son.

  The gods are just, and of our pleasant vices

  Make instruments to plague us:

  The dark and vicious place where thee he got

  Cost him his eyes.

  Edm.

  Thou hast spoken right, ’tis true;

  The wheel is come full circle; I am here.

  Alb.

  Methought thy very gait did prophesy

  A royal nobleness: I must embrace thee:

  Let sorrow split my heart, if ever I

  Did hate thee or thy father.

  Edg.

  Worthy prince, I know ’t.

  Alb.

  Where have you hid yourself?

  How have you known the miseries of your father?

  Edg.

  By nursing them, my lord. List a brief tale;

  And, when ’tis told, O! that my heart would burst,

  The bloody proclamation to escape

  That follow’d me so near,—O! our lives’ sweetness,

  That we the pain of death would hourly die

  Rather than die at once!—taught me to shift

  Into a madman’s rags, to assume a semblance

  That very dogs disdain’d: and in this habit

  Met I my father with his bleeding rings,

  Their precious stones new lost; became his guide,

  Led him, begg’d for him, sav’d him from despair;

  Never,—O fault!—reveal’d myself unto him,

  Until some half hour past, when I was arm’d;

  Not sure, though hoping, of this good success,

  I ask’d his blessing, and from first to last

  Told him my pilgrimage: but his flaw’d heart,—

  Alack! too weak the conflict to support;

  ’Twixt two extremes of passion, joy and grief,

  Burst smilingly.

  Edm.

  This speech of yours hath mov’d me,

  And shall perchance do good; but speak you on;

  You look as you had something more to say.

  Alb.

  If there be more, more woeful, hold it in;

  For I am almost ready to dissolve,

  Hearing of this.

  Edg.

  This would have seem’d a period

  To such as love not sorrow; but another,

  To amplify too much, would make much more,

  And top extremity.

  Whilst I was big in clamour came there a man,

  Who, having seen me in my worst estate,

  Shunn’d my abhorr’d society; but then, finding

  Who ’twas that so endur’d, with his strong arms

  He fasten’d on my neck, and bellow’d out

  As he’d burst heaven; threw him on my father;

  Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him

  That ever ear receiv’d; which in recounting

  His grief grew puissant, and the strings of life

  Began to crack: twice then the trumpet sounded,

  And there I left him tranc’d.

  Alb.

  But who was this?

  Edg.

  Kent, sir, the banish’d Kent; who in disguise

  Follow’d his enemy king, and did him service

  Improper for a slave.

  Enter a Gentleman, with a bloody knife.

  Gent.

  Help, help! O help!

  Edg.

  What kind of help?

  Alb.

  Speak, man.

  Edg.

  What means that bloody knife?

  Gent.

  ’Tis hot, it smokes;

  It came even from the heart of—O! she’s dead.

  Alb.

  Who dead? speak, man.

  Gent.

  Your lady, sir, your lady: and her sister

  By her is poison’d; she confesses it.

  Edm.

  I was contracted to them both: all three

  Now marry in an instant.

  Edg.

  Here comes Kent.

  Alb.

  Produce the bodies, be they alive or dead:

  This judgment of the heavens, that makes us tremble,

  Touches us not with pity.

  [Exit Gentleman.

  EnterKent.

  O! is this he?

  The time will not allow the compliment

  Which very manners urges.

  Kent.

  I am come

  To bid my king and master aye good-night;

  Is he not here?

  Alb.

  Great thing of us forgot!

  Speak, Edmund, where’s the king? and where’s Cordelia?

  Seest thou this object, Kent?

  [The bodies ofGonerilandReganare brought in.

  Kent.

  Alack! why thus?

  Edm.

  Yet Edmund was belov’d:

  The one the other poison’d for my sake,

  And after slew herself.

  Alb.

  Even so. Cover their faces.

  Edm.

  I pant for life: some good I mean to do

  Despite of mine own nature. Quickly send,

  Be brief in it, to the castle; for my writ

  Is on the life of Lear and on Cordelia.

  Nay, send in time.

  Alb.

  Run, run! O run!

  Edg.

  To whom, my lord? Who has the office? send

  Thy token of reprieve.

  Edm.

  Well thought on: take my sword,

  Give it the captain.

  Alb.

  Haste thee, for thy life.

  [ExitEdgar.

  Edm.

  He hath commission from my wife and me

  To hang Cordelia in the prison, and

  To lay the blame upon her own despair,

  That she fordid herself.

  Alb.

  The gods defend her! Bear him hence awhile.

  [Edmundis borne off.

  EnterLear,withCordeliadead in his arms;Edgar, Officer, and Others.

  Lear.

  Howl, howl, howl, howl! O! you are men of stones:

  Had I your tongues and eyes, I’d use them so

  That heaven’s vaults should crack. She’s gone for ever.

  I know when one is dead, and when one lives;

  She’s dead as earth. Lend me a looking-glass;

  If that her breath will mist or stain the stone,

  Why, then she lives.

  Kent.

  Is this the promis’d end?

  Edg.

  Or image of that horror?

  Alb.

  Fall and cease?

  Lear.

  This feather stirs; she lives! if it be so,

  It is a chance which does redeem all sorrows

  That ever I have felt.

  Kent.

  [Kneeling.] O, my good master!

  Lear.

  Prithee, away.

  Edg.

  ’Tis noble Kent, your friend.

  Lear.

  A plague upon you, murderers, traitors all!

  I might have sav’d her; now, she’s gone for ever!

  Cordelia, Cordelia! stay a little. Ha!

  What is ’t thou sayst? Her voice was ever soft,

  Gentle and low, an excellent thing in woman.

  I kill’d the slave that was a hanging thee.

  Off.

  ’Tis true, my lord, he did.

  Lear.

  Did I not, fellow?

  I have seen the day, with my good biting falchion

  I would have made them skip: I am old now,

  And these same crosses spoil me. Who are you?

  Mine eyes are not o’ the best: I’ll tell you straight.

  Kent.

  If fortune brag of two she lov’d and hated,

  One of them we behold.

  Lear.

  This is a dull sight. Are you not Kent?

  Kent.

  The same,

  Your servant Kent. Where is your servant Caius?

  Lear.

  He’s a good fellow, I can tell you that;

  He’ll strike, and quickly too. He’s dead and rotten.

  Kent.

  No, my good lord; I am the very man—

  Lear.

  I’ll see that straight.

  Kent.

  That, from your first of difference and decay,

  Have follow’d your sad steps.

  Lear.

  You are welcome hither.

  Kent.

  Nor no man else; all’s cheerless, dark, and deadly:

  Your eldest daughters have fordone themselves,

  And desperately are dead.

  Lear.

  Ay, so I think.

  Alb.

  He knows not what he says, and vain it is

  That we present us to him.

  Edg.

  Very bootless.

  Enter an Officer.

  Off.

  Edmund is dead, my lord.

  Alb.

  That’s but a trifle here.

  You lords and noble friends, know our intent;

  What comfort to this great decay may come

  Shall be applied: for us, we will resign,

  During the life of this old majesty,

  To him our absolute power:—[ToEdgarandKent.] You, to your rights;

  With boot and such addition as your honours

  Have more than merited. All friends shall taste

  The wages of their virtue, and all foes

  The cup of their deservings. O! see, see!

  Lear.

  And my poor fool is hang’d! No, no, no life!

  Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,

  And thou no breath at all? Thou’lt come no more,

  Never, never, never, never, never!

  Pray you, undo this button: thank you, sir.

  Do you see this? Look on her, look, her lips,

  Look there, look there!

  [Dies.

  Edg.

  He faints!—my lord, my lord!

  Kent.

  Break, heart; I prithee, break.

  Edg.

  Look up, my lord.

  Kent.

  Vex not his ghost: O! let him pass; he hates him

  That would upon the rack of this tough world

  Stretch him out longer.

  Edg.

  He is gone, indeed.

  Kent.

  The wonder is he hath endur’d so long:

  He but usurp’d his life.

  Alb.

  Bear them from hence. Our present business

  Is general woe. [ToKentandEdgar.] Friends of my soul, you twain

  Rule in this realm, and the gor’d state sustain.

  Kent.

  I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;

  My master calls me, I must not say no.

  Alb.

  The weight of this sad time we must obey;

  Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.

  The oldest hath borne most: we that are young,

  Shall never see so much, nor live so long.

  [Exeunt, with a dead march.

• Back to Top

  3: Sessions V and VI: Measure for Measure

  “Of government so the properties to unfold.” So begins this “ghastly” comedy, which presents some of the behavior we might expect from a “machiavellian.” The plot includes intrique, character flaws, deception, power grabs, and a surprise resolution of the tangled conflicts. The reading for Session V (Acts I-III) highlights a number of perennial issues in politics and ethics: leadership, delegation of authority, corruption in office, sex and power, crime and punishment. What does Shakespeare’s treatment of these themes tell us about liberty, responsibility and prudence, both personal and political?

  In all Shakespeare’s political plays, disorder gives way to order in the end, usually at a high cost in blood and treasure. In Measure for Measure (Session VI, Acts IV-V), however, the guilty are spared the worst, justice is restored, and the cracked bond of society is repaired and solmenized in marriage. This conclusion directs us to reflect on the role of mercy and forgiveness as a function of justice (both public and private), as well as the relation between social institutions (e.g., marriage) and civil society.

  William Shakespeare, The Complete Works of William Shakespeare (The Oxford Shakespeare), ed. with a glossary by W.J. Craig M.A. (Oxford University Press, 1916).

  Accessed from oll.libertyfund.org/title/1615 on 2008-08-20

  The text is in the public domain.

  ---

  MEASURE FOR MEASURE

  DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

  VINCENTIO,	the Duke.
  ANGELO,	Lord Deputy in the Duke’s absence.
  ESCALUS,	an Ancient Lord, joined with Angelo in the deputation.
  CLAUDIO,	a young Gentleman.
  LUCIO,	a Fantastic.
  Two other like Gentlemen.
  VARRIUS,	a Gentleman attending on the Duke.
  PROVOST.
  THOMAS, }	two Friars.
  PETER, }
  A Justice.
  ELBOW,	a simple Constable.
  FROTH,	a foolish Gentleman.
  POMPEY,	Tapster to Mistress Overdone.
  ABHORSON,	an Executioner.
  BARNARDINE,	a dissolute Prisoner.
  ISABELLA,	sister to Claudio.
  MARIANA,	betrothed to Angelo.
  JULIET,	beloved of Claudio.
  FRANCISCA,	a Nun.
  MISTRESS OVERDONE,	a Bawd.
  Lords, Officers, Citizens, Boy, and Attendants.

  Scene.—Vienna.

  ACT I.

  Scene I.—

  An Apartment in theDuke’sPalace.

  EnterDuke, Escalus, Lords, and Attendants.

  Duke.

  Escalus.

  Escal.

  My lord?

  Duke.

  Of government the properties to unfold,

  Would seem in me to affect speech and discourse,

  Since I am put to know that your own science

  Exceeds, in that, the lists of all advice

  My strength can give you: then no more remains,

  But that, to your sufficiency, as your worth is able,

  And let them work. The nature of our people,

  Our city’s institutions, and the terms

  For common justice, you’re as pregnant in,

  As art and practice hath enriched any

  That we remember. There is our commission,

  [Giving it.

  From which we would not have you warp. Call hither,

  I say, bid come before us Angelo.

  [Exit an Attendant.

  What figure of us think you he will bear?

  For you must know, we have with special soul

  Elected him our absence to supply,

  Lent him our terror, drest him with our love,

  And given his deputation all the organs

  Of our own power: what think you of it?

  Escal.

  If any in Vienna be of worth

  To undergo such ample grace and honour,

  It is Lord Angelo.

  Duke.

  Look where he comes.

  EnterAngelo.

  Ang.

  Always obedient to your Grace’s will,

  I come to know your pleasure.

  Duke.

  Angelo,

  There is a kind of character in thy life,

  That, to th’ observer doth thy history

  Fully unfold. Thyself and thy belongings

  Are not thine own so proper, as to waste

  Thyself upon thy virtues, they on thee.

  Heaven doth with us as we with torches do,

  Not light them for themselves; for if our virtues

  Did not go forth of us, ’twere all alike

  As if we had them not. Spirits are not finely touch’d

  But to fine issues, nor Nature never lends

  The smallest scruple of her excellence,

  But, like a thrifty goddess, she determines

  Herself the glory of a creditor,

  Both thanks and use. But I do bend my speech

  To one that can my part in him advertise;

  Hold, therefore, Angelo:

  [Tendering his commission.

  In our remove be thou at full ourself;

  Mortality and mercy in Vienna

  Live in thy tongue and heart. Old Escalus,

  Though first in question, is thy secondary.

  Take thy commission.

  [Giving it.

  Ang.

  Now, good my lord,

  Let there be some more test made of my metal,

  Before so noble and so great a figure

  Be stamp’d upon it.

  Duke.

  No more evasion:

  We have with a leaven’d and prepared choice

  Proceeded to you; therefore take your honours.

  Our haste from hence is of so quick condition

  That it prefers itself, and leaves unquestion’d

  Matters of needful value. We shall write to you,

  As time and our concernings shall importune,

  How it goes with us; and do look to know

  What doth befall you here. So, fare you well:

  To the hopeful execution do I leave you

  Of your commissions.

  Ang.

  Yet, give leave, my lord,

  That we may bring you something on the way.

  Duke.

  My haste may not admit it;

  Nor need you, on mine honour, have to do

  With any scruple: your scope is as mine own,

  So to enforce or qualify the laws

  As to your soul seems good. Give me your hand;

  I’ll privily away: I love the people,

  But do not like to stage me to their eyes.

  Though it do well, I do not relish well

  Their loud applause and Aves vehement,

  Nor do I think the man of safe discretion

  That does affect it. Once more, fare you well.

  Ang.

  The heavens give safety to your purposes!

  Escal.

  Lead forth and bring you back in happiness!

  Duke.

  I thank you. Fare you well.

  [Exit.

  Escal.

  I shall desire you, sir, to give me leave

  To have free speech with you; and it concerns me

  To look into the bottom of my place:

  A power I have, but of what strength and nature

  I am not yet instructed.

  Ang.

  ’Tis so with me. Let us withdraw together,

  And we may soon our satisfaction have

  Touching that point.

  Escal.

  I’ll wait upon your honour.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene II.—

  A Street.

  EnterLucioand two Gentlemen.

  Lucio.

  If the Duke with the other dukes come not to composition with the King of Hungary, why then, all the dukes fall upon the king.

  First Gent.

  Heaven grant us its peace, but not the King of Hungary’s!

  Second Gent.

  Amen.

  Lucio.

  Thou concludest like the sanctimonious pirate, that went to sea with the Ten Commandments, but scraped one out of the table.

  Second Gent.

  ‘Thou shalt not steal?’

  Lucio.

  Ay, that he razed.

  First Gent.

  Why, ’twas a commandment to command the captain and all the rest from their functions: they put forth to steal. There’s not a soldier of us all, that, in the thanksgiving before meat, doth relish the petition well that prays for peace.

  Second Gent.

  I never heard any soldier dislike it.

  Lucio.

  I believe thee, for I think thou never wast where grace was said.

  Second Gent.

  No? a dozen times at least.

  First Gent.

  What, in metre?

  Lucio.

  In any proportion or in any language.

  First Gent.

  I think, or in any religion.

  Lucio.

  Ay; why not? Grace is grace, despite of all controversy: as, for example, thou thyself art a wicked villain, despite of all grace.

  First Gent.

  Well, there went but a pair of shears between us.

  Lucio.

  I grant; as there may between the lists and the velvet: thou art the list.

  First Gent.

  And thou the velvet: thou art good velvet; thou art a three-piled piece, I warrant thee. I had as lief be a list of an English kersey as be piled, as thou art piled, for a French velvet. Do I speak feelingly now?

  Lucio.

  I think thou dost; and, indeed, with most painful feeling of thy speech: I will, out of thine own confession, learn to begin thy health; but, whilst I live, forget to drink after thee.

  First Gent.

  I think I have done myself wrong, have I not?

  Second Gent.

  Yes, that thou hast, whether thou art tainted or free.

  Lucio.

  Behold, behold, where Madam Mitigation comes! I have purchased as many diseases under her roof as come to—

  Second Gent.

  To what, I pray?

  Lucio.

  Judge.

  Second Gent.

  To three thousand dolours a year.

  First Gent.

  Ay, and more.

  Lucio.

  A French crown more.

  First Gent.

  Thou art always figuring diseases in me; but thou art full of error: I am sound.

  Lucio.

  Nay, not as one would say, healthy; but so sound as things that are hollow: thy bones are hollow; impiety has made a feast of thee.

  EnterMistress Overdone.

  First Gent.

  How now! which of your hips has the most profound sciatica?

  Mrs. Ov.

  Well, well; there’s one yonder arrested and carried to prison was worth five thousand of you all.

  Second Gent.

  Who’s that, I pray thee?

  Mrs. Ov.

  Marry, sir, that’s Claudio, Signior Claudio.

  First Gent.

  Claudio to prison! ’tis not so.

  Mrs. Ov.

  Nay, but I know ’tis so: I saw him arrested; saw him carried away; and, which is more, within these three days his head to be chopped off.

  Lucio.

  But, after all this fooling, I would not have it so. Art thou sure of this?

  Mrs. Ov.

  I am too sure of it; and it is for getting Madam Julietta with child.

  Lucio.

  Believe me, this may be: he promised to meet me two hours since, and he was ever precise in promise-keeping.

  Second Gent.

  Besides, you know, it draws something near to the speech we had to such a purpose.

  First Gent.

  But most of all, agreeing with the proclamation.

  Lucio.

  Away! let’s go learn the truth of it.

  [ExeuntLucioand Gentlemen.

  Mrs. Ov.

  Thus, what with the war, what with the sweat, what with the gallows and what with poverty, I am custom-shrunk.

  EnterPompey.

  How now! what’s the news with you?

  Pom.

  Yonder man is carried to prison.

  Mrs. Ov.

  Well: what has he done?

  Pom.

  A woman.

  Mrs. Ov.

  But what’s his offence?

  Pom.

  Groping for trouts in a peculiar river.

  Mrs. Ov.

  What, is there a maid with child by him?

  Pom.

  No; but there’s a woman with maid by him. You have not heard of the proclamation, have you?

  Mrs. Ov.

  What proclamation, man?

  Pom.

  All houses of resort in the suburbs of Vienna must be plucked down

  Mrs. Ov.

  And what shall become of those in the city?

  Pom.

  They shall stand for seed: they had gone down too, but that a wise burgher put in for them.

  Mrs. Ov.

  But shall all our houses of resort in the suburbs be pulled down?

  Pom.

  To the ground, mistress.

  Mrs. Ov.

  Why, here’s a change indeed in the commonwealth! What shall become of me?

  Pom.

  Come; fear not you: good counsellors lack no clients: though you change your place, you need not change your trade; I’ll be your tapster still. Courage! there will be pity taken on you; you that have worn your eyes almost out in the service, you will be considered.

  Mrs. Ov.

  What’s to do here, Thomas tapster?

  Let’s withdraw.

  Pom.

  Here comes Signior Claudio, led by the provost to prison; and there’s Madam Juliet.

  [Exeunt.

  EnterProvost, Claudio, Juliet,and Officers.

  Claud.

  Fellow, why dost thou show me thus to the world?

  Bear me to prison, where I am committed.

  Prov.

  I do it not in evil disposition,

  But from Lord Angelo by special charge.

  Claud.

  Thus can the demi-god Authority

  Make us pay down for our offence’ by weight.

  The words of heaven; on whom it will, it will;

  On whom it will not, so: yet still ’tis just.

  Re-enterLucioand two Gentlemen.

  Lucio.

  Why, how now, Claudio! whence comes this restraint?

  Claud.

  From too much liberty, my Lucio, liberty:

  As surfeit is the father of much fast,

  So every scope by the immoderate use

  Turns to restraint. Our natures do pursue—

  Like rats that ravin down their proper bane,—

  A thirsty evil, and when we drink we die.

  Lucio.

  If I could speak so wisely under an arrest, I would send for certain of my creditors. And yet, to say the truth, I had as lief have the foppery of freedom as the morality of imprisonment. What’s thy offence, Claudio?

  Claud.

  What but to speak of would offend again.

  Lucio.

  What, is’t murder?

  Claud.

  No.

  Lucio.

  Lechery?

  Claud.

  Call it so.

  Prov.

  Away, sir! you must go.

  Claud.

  One word, good friend. Lucio, a word with you.

  [Takes him aside.

  Lucio.

  A hundred, if they’ll do you any good.

  Is lechery so looked after?

  Claud.

  Thus stands it with me: upon a true contract

  I got possession of Julietta’s bed:

  You know the lady; she is fast my wife,

  Save that we do the denunciation lack

  Of outward order: this we came not to,

  Only for propagation of a dower

  Remaining in the coffer of her friends,

  From whom we thought it meet to hide our love

  Till time had made them for us. But it chances

  The stealth of our most mutual entertainment

  With character too gross is writ on Juliet.

  Lucio.

  With child, perhaps?

  Claud.

  Unhappily, even so.

  And the new deputy now for the duke,—

  Whether it be the fault and glimpse of newness,

  Or whether that the body public be

  A horse whereon the governor doth ride,

  Who, newly in the seat, that it may know

  He can command, lets it straight feel the spur;

  Whether the tyranny be in his place,

  Or in his eminence that fills it up,

  I stagger in:—but this new governor

  Awakes me all the enrolled penalties

  Which have, like unscour’d armour, hung by the wall

  So long that nineteen zodiacs have gone round,

  And none of them been worn; and, for a name,

  Now puts the drowsy and neglected act

  Freshly on me: ’tis surely for a name.

  Lucio.

  I warrant it is: and thy head stands so tickle on thy shoulders that a milkmaid, if she be in love, may sigh it off. Send after the duke and appeal to him.

  Claud.

  I have done so, but he’s not to be found.

  I prithee, Lucio, do me this kind service.

  This day my sister should the cloister enter,

  And there receive her approbation:

  Acquaint her with the danger of my state;

  Implore her, in my voice, that she make friends

  To the strict deputy; bid herself assay him:

  I have great hope in that; for in her youth

  There is a prone and speechless dialect,

  Such as move men; beside, she hath prosperous art

  When she will play with reason and discourse,

  And well she can persuade.

  Lucio.

  I pray she may: as well for the encouragement of the like, which else would stand under grievous imposition, as for the enjoying of thy life, who I would be sorry should be thus foolishly lost at a game of tick-tack. I’ll to her.

  Claud.

  I thank you, good friend Lucio.

  Lucio.

  Within two hours.

  Claud.

  Come, officer, away!

  [Exeunt.

  Scene III.—

  A Monastery.

  EnterDukeandFriar Thomas.

  Duke.

  No, holy father; throw away that thought:

  Believe not that the dribbling dart of love

  Can pierce a complete bosom. Why I desire thee

  To give me secret harbour, hath a purpose

  More grave and wrinkled than the aims and ends

  Of burning youth.

  Fri. T.

  May your Grace speak of it?

  Duke.

  My holy sir, none better knows than you

  How I have ever lov’d the life remov’d,

  And held in idle price to haunt assemblies

  Where youth, and cost, and witless bravery keeps.

  I have deliver’d to Lord Angelo—

  A man of stricture and firm abstinence—

  My absolute power and place here in Vienna,

  And he supposes me travell’d to Poland;

  For so I have strew’d it in the common ear,

  And so it is receiv’d. Now, pious sir,

  You will demand of me why I do this?

  Fri. T.

  Gladly, my lord.

  Duke.

  We have strict statutes and most biting laws,—

  The needful bits and curbs to headstrong steeds,—

  Which for this fourteen years we have let sleep;

  Even like an o’ergrown lion in a cave,

  That goes not out to prey. Now, as fond fathers,

  Having bound up the threat’ning twigs of birch,

  Only to stick it in their children’s sight

  For terror, not to use, in time the rod

  Becomes more mock’d than fear’d; so our decrees,

  Dead to infliction, to themselves are dead,

  And liberty plucks justice by the nose;

  The baby beats the nurse, and quite athwart

  Goes all decorum.

  Fri. T.

  It rested in your Grace

  T’ unloose this tied-up justice when you pleas’d;

  And it in you more dreadful would have seem’d

  Than in Lord Angelo.

  Duke.

  I do fear, too dreadful:

  Sith ’twas my fault to give the people scope,

  ’Twould be my tyranny to strike and gall them

  For what I bid them do: for we bid this be done,

  When evil deeds have their permissive pass

  And not the punishment. Therefore, indeed, my father,

  I have on Angelo impos’d the office,

  Who may, in the ambush of my name, strike home,

  And yet my nature never in the sight

  To do it slander. And to behold his sway,

  I will, as ’twere a brother of your order,

  Visit both prince and people: therefore, I prithee,

  Supply me with the habit, and instruct me

  How I may formally in person bear me

  Like a true friar. Moe reasons for this action

  At our more leisure shall I render you;

  Only, this one: Lord Angelo is precise;

  Stands at a guard with envy; scarce confesses

  That his blood flows, or that his appetite

  Is more to bread than stone: hence shall we see,

  If power change purpose, what our seemers be.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene IV.—

  A Nunnery.

  EnterIsabellaandFrancisca.

  Isab.

  And have you nuns no further privileges?

  Fran.

  Are not these large enough?

  Isab.

  Yes, truly: I speak not as desiring more,

  But rather wishing a more strict restraint

  Upon the sisterhood, the votarists of Saint Clare.

  Lucto.

  [Within.] Ho! Peace be in this place!

  Isab.

  Who’s that which calls?

  Fran.

  It is a man’s voice. Gentle Isabella,

  Turn you the key, and know his business of him:

  You may, I may not; you are yet unsworn.

  When you have vow’d, you must not speak with men

  But in the presence of the prioress:

  Then, if you speak, you must not show your face,

  Or, if you show your face, you must not speak.

  He calls again; I pray you, answer him.

  [Exit.

  Isab.

  Peace and prosperity! Who is’t that calls?

  EnterLucio.

  Lucio.

  Hail, virgin, if you be, as those cheek-roses

  Proclaim you are no less! Can you so stead me

  As bring me to the sight of Isabella,

  A novice of this place, and the fair sister

  To her unhappy brother Claudio?

  Isab.

  Why ‘her unhappy brother?’ let me ask;

  The rather for I now must make you know

  I am that Isabella and his sister.

  Lucio.

  Gentle and fair, your brother kindly greets you:

  Not to be weary with you, he’s in prison.

  Isab.

  Woe me! for what?

  Lucio.

  For that which, if myself might be his judge,

  He should receive his punishment in thanks:

  He hath got his friend with child.

  Isab.

  Sir, make me not your story.

  Lucio.

  It is true.

  I would not, though ’tis my familiar sin

  With maids to seem the lapwing and to jest,

  Tongue far from heart, play with all virgins so:

  I hold you as a thing ensky’d and sainted;

  By your renouncement an immortal spirit,

  And to be talk’d with in sincerity,

  As with a saint.

  Isab.

  You do blaspheme the good in mocking me.

  Lucio.

  Do not believe it. Fewness and truth, ’tis thus:

  Your brother and his lover have embrac’d:

  As those that feed grow full, as blossoming time

  That from the seedness the bare fallow brings

  To teeming foison, even so her plenteous womb

  Expresseth his full tilth and husbandry.

  Isab.

  Some one with child by him? My cousin Juliet?

  Lucio.

  Is she your cousin?

  Isab.

  Adoptedly; asschool-maids change their names

  By vain, though apt affection.

  Lucio.

  She it is.

  Isab.

  O! let him marry her.

  Lucio.

  This is the point.

  The duke is very strangely gone from hence;

  Bore many gentlemen, myself being one,

  In hand and hope of action; but we do learn

  By those that know the very nerves of state,

  His givings out were of an infinite distance

  From his true-meant design. Upon his place,

  And with full line of his authority,

  Governs Lord Angelo; a man whose blood

  Is very snow-broth; one who never feels

  The wanton stings and motions of the sense,

  But doth rebate and blunt his natural edge

  With profits of the mind, study and fast.

  He,—to give fear to use and liberty,

  Which have for long run by the hideous law,

  As mice by lions, hath pick’d out an act,

  Under whose heavy sense your brother’s life

  Falls into forfeit: he arrests him on it,

  And follows close the rigour of the statute,

  To make him an example. All hope is gone,

  Unless you have the grace by your fair prayer

  To soften Angelo; and that’s my pith of business

  Twixt you and your poor brother.

  Isab.

  Doth he so seek his life?

  Lucio.

  He’s censur’d him

  Already; and, as I hear, the provost hath

  A warrant for his execution.

  Isab.

  Alas! what poor ability’s in me

  To do him good?

  Lucio.

  Assay the power you have.

  Isab.

  My power? alas! I doubt—

  Lucio.

  Our doubts are traitors,

  And make us lose the good we oft might win,

  By fearing to attempt. Go to Lord Angelo,

  And let him learn to know, when maidens sue,

  Men give like gods; but when they weep and kneel,

  All their petitions are as freely theirs

  As they themselves would owe them.

  Isab.

  I’ll see what I can do.

  Lucio.

  But speedily.

  Isab.

  I will about it straight;

  No longer staying but to give the Mother

  Notice of my affair. I humbly thank you:

  Commend me to my brother; soon at night

  I’ll send him certain word of my success.

  Lucio.

  I take my leave of you.

  Isab.

  Good sir, adieu.

  [Exeunt.

  ACT II.

  Scene I.—

  A Hall inAngelo’sHouse.

  EnterAngelo, Escalus,a Justice, Provost, Officers, and other Attendants.

  Ang.

  We must not make a scarecrow of the law,

  Setting it up to fear the birds of prey,

  And let it keep one shape, till custom make it

  Their perch and not their terror.

  Escal.

  Ay, but yet

  Let us be keen and rather cut a little,

  Than fall, and bruise to death. Alas! this gentleman,

  Whom I would save, had a most noble father.

  Let but your honour know,—

  Whom I believe to be most strait in virtue,—

  That, in the working of your own affections,

  Had time coher’d with place or place with wishing,

  Or that the resolute acting of your blood

  Could have attain’d the effect of your own purpose,

  Whether you had not, some time in your life,

  Err’d in this point which now you censure him,

  And pull’d the law upon you.

  Ang.

  ’Tis one thing to be tempted, Escalus,

  Another thing to fall. I not deny,

  The jury, passing on the prisoner’s life,

  May in the sworn twelve have a thief or two

  Guiltier than him they try; what’s open made to justice,

  That justice seizes: what know the laws

  That thieves do pass on thieves? ’Tis very pregnant,

  The jewel that we find, we stoop and take it

  Because we see it; but what we do not see

  We tread upon, and never think of it.

  You may not so extenuate his offence

  For I have had such faults; but rather tell me,

  When I, that censure him, do so offend,

  Let mine own judgment pattern out my death,

  And nothing come in partial. Sir, he must die.

  Escal.

  Be it as your wisdom will.

  Ang.

  Where is the provost?

  Prov.

  Here, if it like your honour.

  Ang.

  See that Claudio

  Be executed by nine to-morrow morning:

  Bring him his confessor, let him be prepar’d;

  For that’s the utmost of his pilgrimage.

  [ExitProvost.

  Escal.

  Well, heaven forgive him, and forgive us all!

  Some rise by sin, and some by virtue fall:

  Some run from brakes of ice, and answer none,

  And some condemned for a fault alone.

  EnterElbowand Officers, withFrothandPompey.

  Elb.

  Come, bring them away: if these be good people in a common-weal that do nothing but use their abuses in common houses, I know no law: bring them away.

  Ang.

  How now, sir! What’s your name, and what’s the matter?

  Elb.

  If it please your honour, I am the poor duke’s constable, and my name is Elbow: I do lean upon justice, sir; and do bring in here before your good honour two notorious benefactors.

  Ang.

  Benefactors! Well; what benefactors are they? are they not malefactors?

  Elb.

  If it please your honour, I know not well what they are; but precise villains they are, that I am sure of, and void of all profanation in the world that good Christians ought to have.

  Escal.

  This comes off well: here’s a wise officer.

  Ang.

  Go to: what quality are they of? Elbow is your name? why dost thou not speak, Elbow?

  Pom.

  He cannot, sir: he’s out at elbow.

  Ang.

  What are you, sir?

  Elb.

  He, sir! a tapster, sir; parcel-bawd; one that serves a bad woman, whose house, sir, was, as they say, plucked down in the suburbs; and now she professes a hot-house, which, I think, is a very ill house too.

  Escal.

  How know you that?

  Elb.

  My wife, sir, whom I detest before heaven and your honour,—

  Escal.

  How! thy wife?

  Elb.

  Ay, sir; whom, I thank heaven, is an honest woman,—

  Escal.

  Dost thou detest her therefore?

  Elb.

  I say, sir, I will detest myself also, as well as she, that this house, if it be not a bawd’s house, it is pity of her life, for it is a naughty house.

  Escal.

  How dost thou know that, constable?

  Elb.

  Marry, sir, by my wife; who, if she had been a woman cardinally given, might have been accused in fornication, adultery, and all uncleanliness there.

  Escal.

  By the woman’s means?

  Elb.

  Ay, sir, by Mistress Overdone’s means; but as she spit in his face, so she defied him.

  Pom.

  Sir, if it please your honour, this is not so.

  Elb.

  Prove it before these varlets here, thou honourable man, prove it.

  Escal.

  [ToAngelo.] Do you hear how he misplaces?

  Pom.

  Sir, she came in, great with child, and longing,—saving your honour’s reverence,—for stewed prunes. Sir, we had but two in the house, which at that very distant time stood, as it were, in a fruit-dish, a dish of some three-pence; your honours have seen such dishes; they are not China dishes, but very good dishes.

  Escal.

  Go to, go to: no matter for the dish, sir.

  Pom.

  No, indeed, sir, not of a pin; you are therein in the right: but to the point. As I say, this Mistress Elbow, being, as I say, with child, and being great-bellied, and longing, as I said, for prunes, and having but two in the dish, as I said, Master Froth here, this very man, having eaten the rest, as I said, and, as I say, paying for them very honestly; for, as you know, Master Froth, I could not give you three-pence again.

  Froth.

  No, indeed.

  Pom.

  Very well: you being then, if you be remembered, cracking the stones of the foresaid prunes,—

  Froth.

  Ay, so I did, indeed.

  Pom.

  Why, very well: I telling you then, if you be remembered, that such a one and such a one were past cure of the thing you wot of, unless they kept very good diet, as I told you,—

  Froth.

  All this is true.

  Pom.

  Why, very well then.—

  Escal.

  Come, you are a tedious fool: to the purpose. What was done to Elbow’s wife, that he hath cause to complain of? Come me to what was done to her.

  Pom.

  Sir, your honour cannot come to that yet.

  Escal.

  No, sir, nor I mean it not.

  Pom.

  Sir, but you shall come to it, by your honour’s leave. And, I beseech you, look into Master Froth here, sir; a man of fourscore pound a year, whose father died at Hallowmas. Was’t not at Hallowmas, Master Froth?

  Froth.

  All-hallownd eve.

  Pom.

  Why, very well: I hope here be truths. He, sir, sitting, as I say, in a lower chair, sir; ’twas in the Bunch of Grapes, where indeed, you have a delight to sit, have you not?

  Froth.

  I have so, because it is an open room and good for winter.

  Pom.

  Why, very well then: I hope here be truths.

  Ang.

  This will last out a night in Russia,

  When nights are longest there: I’ll take my leave,

  And leave you to the hearing of the cause,

  Hoping you’ll find good cause to whip them all.

  Escal.

  I think no less. Good morrow to your lordship.

  [ExitAngelo.

  Now, sir, come on: what was done to Elbow’s wife, once more?

  Pom.

  Once, sir? there was nothing done to her once.

  Elb.

  I beseech you, sir, ask him what this man did to my wife.

  Pom.

  I beseech your honour, ask me.

  Escal.

  Well, sir, what did this gentleman to her?

  Pom.

  I beseech you, sir, look in this gentleman’s face. Good Master Froth, look upon his honour; ’tis for a good purpose. Doth your honour mark his face?

  Escal.

  Ay, sir, very well.

  Pom.

  Nay, I beseech you, mark it well.

  Escal.

  Well, I do so.

  Pom.

  Doth your honour see any harm in his face?

  Escal.

  Why, no.

  Pom.

  I’ll be supposed upon a book, his face is the worst thing about him. Good, then; if his face be the worst thing about him, how could Master Froth do the constable’s wife any harm? I would know that of your honour.

  Escal.

  He’s in the right. Constable, what say you to it?

  Elb.

  First, an’ it like you, the house is a respected house; next, this is a respected fellow, and his mistress is a respected woman.

  Pom.

  By this hand, sir, his wife is a more respected person than any of us all.

  Elb.

  Varlet, thou liest: thou liest, wicked varlet. The time is yet to come that she was ever respected with man, woman, or child.

  Pom.

  Sir, she was respected with him before he married with her.

  Escal.

  Which is the wiser here? Justice, or Iniquity? Is this true?

  Elb.

  O thou caitiff! O thou varlet! O thou wicked Hannibal! I respected with her before I was married to her? If ever I was respected with her, or she with me, let not your worship think me the poor duke’s officer. Prove this, thou wicked Hannibal, or I’ll have mine action of battery on thee.

  Escal.

  If he took you a box o’ th’ ear, you might have your action of slander too.

  Elb.

  Marry, I thank your good worship for it. What is’t your worship’s pleasure I shall do with this wicked caitiff?

  Escal.

  Truly, officer, because he hath some offences in him that thou wouldest discover if thou couldst, let him continue in his courses till thou knowest what they are.

  Elb.

  Marry, I thank your worship for it. Thou seest, thou wicked varlet, now, what’s come upon thee: thou art to continue now, thou varlet, thou art to continue.

  Escal.

  Where were you born, friend?

  Froth.

  Here in Vienna, sir.

  Escal.

  Are you of fourscore pounds a year?

  Froth.

  Yes, an’t please you, sir.

  Escal.

  So. [ToPompey.] What trade are you of, sir?

  Pom.

  A tapster; a poor widow’s tapster.

  Escal.

  Your mistress’ name?

  Pom.

  Mistress Overdone.

  Escal.

  Hath she had any more than one husband?

  Pom.

  Nine, sir; Overdone by the last.

  Escal.

  Nine!—Come hither to me, Master Froth. Master Froth, I would not have you acquainted with tapsters; they will draw you, Master Froth, and you will hang them. Get you gone, and let me hear no more of you.

  Froth.

  I thank your worship. For mine own part, I never come into any room in a taphouse, but I am drawn in.

  Escal.

  Well: no more of it, Master Froth: farewell. [ExitFroth.]—Come you hither to me, Master tapster. What’s your name, Master tapster?

  Pom.

  Pompey.

  Escal.

  What else?

  Pom.

  Bum, sir.

  Escal.

  Troth, and your bum is the greatest thing about you, so that, in the beastliest sense, you are Pompey the Great. Pompey, you are partly a bawd, Pompey, howsoever you colour it in being a tapster, are you not? come, tell me true: it shall be the better for you.

  Pom.

  Truly, sir, I am a poor fellow that would live.

  Escal.

  How would you live, Pompey? by being a bawd? What do you think of the trade, Pompey? is it a lawful trade?

  Pom.

  If the law would allow it, sir.

  Escal.

  But the law will not allow it, Pompey; nor it shall not be allowed in Vienna.

  Pom.

  Does your worship mean to geld and splay all the youth of the city?

  Escal.

  No, Pompey.

  Pom.

  Truly, sir, in my humble opinion, they will to’t then. If your worship will take order for the drabs and the knaves, you need not to fear the bawds.

  Escal.

  There are pretty orders beginning, I can tell you: it is but heading and hanging.

  Pom.

  If you head and hang all that offend that way but for ten year together, you’ll be glad to give out a commission for more heads. If this law hold in Vienna ten year, I’ll rent the fairest house in it after threepence a bay. If you live to see this come to pass, say, Pompey told you so.

  Escal.

  Thank you, good Pompey; and, in requital of your prophecy, hark you: I advise you, let me not find you before me again upon any complaint whatsoever; no, not for dwelling where you do: if I do, Pompey, I shall beat you to your tent, and prove a shrewd Cæsar to you. In plain dealing, Pompey, I shall have you whipt. So, for this time, Pompey, fare you well.

  Pom.

  I thank your worship for your good counsel;—[Aside.] but I shall follow it as the flesh and fortune shall better determine.

  Whip me! No, no; let carman whip his jade;

  The valiant heart’s not whipt out of his trade.

  [Exit.

  Escal.

  Come hither to me, Master Elbow; come hither, Master constable. How long have you been in this place of constable?

  Elb.

  Seven year and a half, sir.

  Escal.

  I thought, by your readiness in the office, you had continued in it some time. You say, seven years together?

  Elb.

  And a half, sir.

  Escal.

  Alas! it hath been great pains to you! They do you wrong to put you so oft upon ’t. Are there not men in your ward sufficient to serve it?

  Elb.

  Faith, sir, few of any wit in such matters. As they are chosen, they are glad to choose me for them: I do it for some piece of money, and go through with all.

  Escal.

  Look you bring me in the names of some six or seven, the most sufficient of your parish.

  Elb.

  To your worship’s house, sir?

  Escal.

  To my house. Fare you well.

  [ExitElbow.

  What’s o’clock, think you?

  Just.

  Eleven, sir.

  Escal.

  I pray you home to dinner with me.

  Just.

  I humbly thank you.

  Escal.

  It grieves me for the death of Claudio;

  But there is no remedy.

  Just.

  Lord Angelo is severe.

  Escal.

  It is but needful:

  Mercy is not itself, that oft looks so;

  Pardon is still the nurse of second woe.

  But yet, poor Claudio! There’s no remedy.

  Come, sir.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene II.—

  Another Room in the Same.

  EnterProvostand a Servant.

  Serv.

  He’s hearing of a cause: he will come straight:

  I’ll tell him of you.

  Prov.

  Pray you, do. [Exit Serv.] I’ll know

  His pleasure; may be he will relent. Alas!

  He hath but as offended in a dream:

  All sects, all ages smack of this vice, and he

  To die for it!

  EnterAngelo.

  Ang.

  Now, what’s the matter, provost?

  Prov.

  Is it your will Claudio shall die to-morrow?

  Ang.

  Did I not tell thee, yea? hadst thou not order?

  Why dost thou ask again?

  Prov.

  Lest I might be too rash.

  Under your good correction, I have seen,

  When, after execution, Judgment hath

  Repented o’er his doom.

  Ang

  Go to; let that be mine:

  Do you your office, or give up your place,

  And you shall well be spar’d.

  Prov.

  I crave your honour’s pardon.

  What shall be done, sir, with the groaning Juliet?

  She’s very near her hour.

  Ang.

  Dispose of her

  To some more fitter place; and that with speed.

  Re-enter Servant.

  Serv.

  Here is the sister of the man condemn’d

  Desires access to you.

  Ang.

  Hath he a sister?

  Prov.

  Ay, my good lord; a very virtuous maid,

  And to be shortly of a sisterhood,

  If not already.

  Ang.

  Well, let her be admitted.

  [Exit Servant.

  See you the fornicatress be remov’d:

  Let her have needful, but not lavish, means;

  There shall be order for’t.

  EnterIsabellaandLucio.

  Prov.

  God save your honour!

  [Offering to retire.

  Ang.

  Stay a little while.—[ToIsab.] You’re welcome: what’s your will?

  Isab.

  I am a woful suitor to your honour,

  Please but your honour hear me.

  Ang.

  Well; what’s your suit?

  Isab.

  There is a vice that most I do abhor,

  And most desire should meet the blow of justice,

  For which I would not plead, but that I must;

  For which I must not plead, but that I am

  At war ’twixt will and will not.

  Ang.

  Well; the matter?

  Isab.

  I have a brother is condemn’d to die:

  I do beseech you, let it be his fault,

  And not my brother.

  Prov.

  [Aside.] Heaven give thee moving graces!

  Ang.

  Condemn the fault, and not the actor of it?

  Why, every fault’s condemn’d ere it be done.

  Mine were the very cipher of a function,

  To fine the faults whose fine stands in record,

  And let go by the actor.

  Isab.

  O just, but severe law!

  I had a brother, then.—Heaven keep your honour!

  [Retiring.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] Give’t not o’er so: to him again, entreat him;

  Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown;

  You are too cold; if you should need a pin,

  You could not with more tame a tongue desire it.

  To him. I say!

  Isab.

  Must he needs die?

  Ang.

  Maiden, no remedy.

  Isab.

  Yes; I do think that you might pardon him,

  And neither heaven nor man grieve at the mercy.

  Ang.

  I will not do’t.

  Isab.

  But can you, if you would?

  Ang.

  Look, what I will not, that I cannot do.

  Isab.

  But might you do’t, and do the world no wrong,

  If so your heart were touch’d with that remorse

  As mine is to him?

  Ang.

  He’s sentenc’d: ’tis too late.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] You are too cold.

  Isab.

  Too late? why, no; I, that do speak a word,

  May call it back again. Well, believe this,

  No ceremony that to great ones ’longs,

  Not the king’s crown, nor the deputed sword,

  The marshal’s truncheon, nor the judge’s robe,

  Become them with one half so good a grace

  As mercy does.

  If he had been as you, and you as he,

  You would have slipt like him; but he, like you,

  Would not have been so stern.

  Ang.

  Pray you, be gone.

  Isab.

  I would to heaven I had your potency,

  And you were Isabel! should it then be thus?

  No; I would tell what ’twere to be a judge,

  And what a prisoner.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] Ay, touch him; there’s the vein.

  Ang.

  Your brother is a forfeit of the law,

  And you but waste your words.

  Isab.

  Alas! alas!

  Why, all the souls that were were forfeit once;

  And He that might the vantage best have took,

  Found out the remedy. How would you be,

  If He, which is the top of judgment, should

  But judge you as you are? O! think on that,

  And mercy then will breathe within your lips,

  Like man new made.

  Ang.

  Be you content, fair maid;

  It is the law, not I, condemn your brother:

  Were he my kinsman, brother, or my son,

  It should be thus with him: he must die to-morrow.

  Isab.

  To-morrow! O! that’s sudden! Spare him, spare him!

  He’s not prepar’d for death. Even for our kitchens

  We kill the fowl of season: shall we serve heaven

  With less respect than we do minister

  To our gross selves? Good, good my lord, bethink you:

  Who is it that hath died for this offence?

  There’s many have committed it.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] Ay, well said.

  Ang.

  The law hath not been dead, though it hath slept:

  Those many had not dar’d to do that evil,

  If that the first that did th’ edict infringe

  Had answer’d for his deed: now ’tis awake,

  Takes note of what is done, and, like a prophet,

  Looks in a glass, that shows what future evils,

  Either new, or by remissness new-conceiv’d,

  And so in progress to be hatch’d and born,

  Are now to have no successive degrees,

  But, ere they live, to end.

  Isab.

  Yet show some pity.

  Ang.

  I show it most of all when I show justice;

  For then I pity those I do not know,

  Which a dismiss’d offence would after gall,

  And do him right, that, answering one foul wrong,

  Lives not to act another. Be satisfied:

  Your brother dies to-morrow: be content.

  Isab.

  So you must be the first that gives this sentence,

  And he that suffers. O! it is excellent

  To have a giant’s strength, but it is tyrannous

  To use it like a giant.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] That’s well said.

  Isab.

  Could great men thunder

  As Jove himself does, Jove would ne’er be quiet,

  For every pelting, petty officer

  Would use his heaven for thunder; nothing but thunder.

  Merciful heaven!

  Thou rather with thy sharp and sulphurous bolt

  Split’st the unwedgeable and gnarled oak

  Than the soft myrtle; but man, proud man,

  Drest in a little brief authority,

  Most ignorant of what he’s most assur’d,

  His glassy essence, like an angry ape,

  Plays such fantastic tricks before high heaven

  As make the angels weep; who, with our spleens,

  Would all themselves laugh mortal.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] O, to him, to him, wench! He will relent:

  He’s coming: I perceive’t.

  Prov.

  [Aside.] Pray heaven she win him!

  Isab.

  We cannot weigh our brother with ourself:

  Great men may jest with saints; ’tis wit in them,

  But, in the less foul profanation.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] Thou’rt in the right, girl: more o’ that.

  Isab.

  That in the captain’s but a choleric word,

  Which in the soldier is flat blasphemy.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] Art advis’d o’ that? more on ’t.

  Ang.

  Why do you put these sayings upon me?

  Isab.

  Because authority, though it err like others,

  Hath yet a kind of medicine in itself,

  That skins the vice o’ the top. Go to your bosom;

  Knock there, and ask your heart what it doth know

  That’s like my brother’s fault: if it confess

  A natural guiltiness such as is his,

  Let it not sound a thought upon your tongue

  Against my brother’s life.

  Ang.

  She speaks, and ’tis

  Such sense that my sense breeds with it. Fare you well.

  Isab.

  Gentle my lord, turn back.

  Ang.

  I will bethink me. Come again to-morrow.

  Isab.

  Hark how I’ll bribe you. Good my lord, turn back.

  Ang.

  How! bribe me?

  Isab.

  Ay, with such gifts that heaven shall share with you.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] You had marr’d all else.

  Isab.

  Not with fond sicles of the tested gold,

  Or stones whose rates are either rich or poor

  As fancy values them; but with true prayers

  That shall be up at heaven and enter there

  Ere sun-rise: prayers from preserved souls,

  From fasting maids whose minds are dedicate

  To nothing temporal.

  Ang.

  Well; come to me to-morrow.

  Lucio.

  [Aside toIsab.] Go to; ’tis well: away!

  Isab.

  Heaven keep your honour safe!

  Ang.

  [Aside.] Amen:

  For I am that way going to temptation,

  Where prayers cross.

  Isab.

  At what hour to-morrow

  Shall I attend your lordship?

  Ang.

  At any time ’fore noon.

  Isab.

  Save your honour!

  [ExeuntIsabella, Lucio,andProvost.

  Ang.

  From thee; even from thy virtue!

  What’s this? what’s this? Is this her fault or mine?

  The tempter or the tempted, who sins most?

  Ha!

  Not she; nor doth she tempt: but it is I,

  That, lying by the violet in the sun,

  Do as the carrion does, not as the flower,

  Corrupt with virtuous season. Can it be

  That modesty may more betray our sense

  Than woman’s lightness? Having waste ground enough,

  Shall we desire to raze the sanctuary,

  And pitch our evils there? O, fie, fie, fie!

  What dost thou, or what art thou, Angelo?

  Dost thou desire her foully for those things

  That make her good? O, let her brother live!

  Thieves for their robbery have authority

  When judges steal themselves. What! do I love her,

  That I desire to hear her speak again,

  And feast upon her eyes? What is’t I dream on?

  O cunning enemy, that, to catch a saint,

  With saints dost bait thy hook! Most dangerous

  Is that temptation that doth goad us on

  To sin in loving virtue: never could the strumpet,

  With all her double vigour, art and nature,

  Once stir my temper; but this virtuous maid

  Subdues me quite. Ever till now,

  When men were fond, I smil’d and wonder’d how.

  [Exit.

  Scene III.—

  A Room in a Prison.

  EnterDuke,disguised as a friar, andProvost.

  Duke.

  Hail to you, provost! so I think you are.

  Prov.

  I am the provost. What’s your will, good friar?

  Duke.

  Bound by my charity and my bless’d order,

  I come to visit the afflicted spirits

  Here in the prison: do me the common right

  To let me see them and to make me know

  The nature of their crimes, that I may minister

  To them accordingly.

  Prov.

  I would do more than that, if more were needful.

  Look, here comes one: a gentlewoman of mine,

  Who, falling in the flaws of her own youth,

  Hath blister’d her report. She is with child,

  And he that got it, sentenc’d; a young man

  More fit to do another such offence,

  Than die for this.

  EnterJuliet.

  Duke.

  When must he die?

  Prov.

  As I do think, to-morrow.

  [ToJuliet.] I have provided for you: stay a while,

  And you shall be conducted.

  Duke.

  Repent you, fair one, of the sin you carry?

  Juliet.

  I do, and bear the shame most patiently.

  Duke.

  I’ll teach you how you shall arraign your conscience,

  And try your penitence, if it be sound,

  Or hollowly put on.

  Juliet.

  I’ll gladly learn.

  Duke.

  Love you the man that wrong’d you?

  Juliet.

  Yes, as I love the woman that wrong’d him.

  Duke.

  So then it seems your most offenceful act

  Was mutually committed?

  Juliet.

  Mutually.

  Duke.

  Then was your sin of heavier kind than his.

  Juliet.

  I do confess it, and repent it, father.

  Duke.

  ’Tis meet so, daughter: but lest you do repent,

  As that the sin hath brought you to this shame,

  Which sorrow is always toward ourselves, not heaven,

  Showing we would not spare heaven as we love it,

  But as we stand in fear,—

  Juliet.

  I do repent me, as it is an evil,

  And take the shame with joy.

  Duke.

  There rest.

  Your partner, as I hear, must die to-morrow,

  And I am going with instruction to him.

  God’s grace go with you! Benedicite!

  [Exit.

  Juliet.

  Must die to-morrow! O injurious love,

  That respites me a life, whose very comfort

  Is still a dying horror!

  Prov.

  ’Tis pity of him.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene IV.—

  A Room inAngelo’sHouse.

  EnterAngelo.

  Ang.

  When I would pray and think, I think and pray

  To several subjects: heaven hath my empty words,

  Whilst my invention, hearing not my tongue,

  Anchors on Isabel: heaven in my mouth,

  As if I did but only chew his name,

  And in my heart the strong and swelling evil

  Of my conception. The state, whereon I studied,

  Is like a good thing, being often read,

  Grown fear’d and tedious; yea, my gravity,

  Wherein, let no man hear me, I take pride,

  Could I with boot change for an idle plume,

  Which the air beats for vain. O place! O form!

  How often dost thou with thy case, thy habit,

  Wrench awe from fools, and tie the wiser souls

  To thy false seeming! Blood, thou art blood:

  Let’s write good angel on the devil’s horn,

  ’Tis not the devil’s crest.

  Enter a Servant.

  How now! who’s there?

  Serv.

  One Isabel, a sister,

  Desires access to you.

  Ang.

  Teach her the way.

  [Exit Servant.

  O heavens!

  Why does my blood thus muster to my heart,

  Making both it unable for itself,

  And dispossessing all my other parts

  Of necessary fitness?

  So play the foolish throngs with one that swounds;

  Come all to help him, and so stop the air

  By which he should revive: and even so

  The general, subject to a well-wish’d king,

  Quit their own part, and in obsequious fondness

  Crowd to his presence, where their untaught love

  Must needs appear offence.

  EnterIsabella.

  How now, fair maid!

  Isab.

  I am come to know your pleasure.

  Ang.

  That you might know it, would much better please me,

  Than to demand what ’tis. Your brother cannot live.

  Isab.

  Even so. Heaven keep your honour!

  Ang.

  Yet may he live awhile; and, it may be,

  As long as you or I: yet he must die.

  Isab.

  Under your sentence?

  Ang.

  Yea.

  Isab.

  When, I beseech you? that in his reprieve,

  Longer or shorter, he may be so fitted

  That his soul sicken not.

  Ang.

  Ha! fie, these filthy vices! It were as good

  To pardon him that hath from nature stolen

  A man already made, as to remit

  Their saucy sweetness that do coin heaven’s image

  In stamps that are forbid: ’tis all as easy

  Falsely to take away a life true made,

  As to put metal in restrained means

  To make a false one.

  Isab.

  ’Tis set down so in heaven, but not in earth.

  Ang.

  Say you so? then I shall pose you quickly.

  Which had you rather, that the most just law

  Now took your brother’s life; or, to redeem him,

  Give up your body to such sweet uncleanness

  As she that he hath stain’d?

  Isab.

  Sir, believe this,

  I had rather give my body than my soul.

  Ang.

  I talk not of your soul. Our compell’d sins

  Stand more for number than for accompt.

  Isab.

  How say you?

  Ang.

  Nay, I’ll not warrant that; for I can speak

  Against the thing I say. Answer to this:

  I, now the voice of the recorded law,

  Pronounce a sentence on your brother’s life:

  Might there not be a charity in sin

  To save this brother’s life?

  Isab.

  Please you to do’t,

  I’ll take it as a peril to my soul;

  It is no sin at all, but charity.

  Ang.

  Pleas’d you to do’t, at peril of your soul,

  Were equal poise of sin and charity.

  Isab.

  That I do beg his life, if it be sin,

  Heaven let me bear it! you granting of my suit,

  If that be sin, I’ll make it my morn prayer

  To have it added to the faults of mine,

  And nothing of your answer.

  Ang.

  Nay, but hear me.

  Your sense pursues not mine: either you are ignorant,

  Or seem so craftily; and that’s not good.

  Isab.

  Let me be ignorant, and in nothing good,

  But graciously to know I am no better.

  Ang.

  Thus wisdom wishes to appear most bright

  When it doth tax itself; as these black masks

  Proclaim an enshield beauty ten times louder

  Than beauty could, display’d. But mark me;

  To be received plain, I’ll speak more gross:

  Your brother is to die.

  Isab.

  So.

  Ang.

  And his offence is so, as it appears

  Accountant to the law upon that pain.

  Isab.

  True.

  Ang.

  Admit no other way to save his life,—

  As I subscribe not that, nor any other,

  But in the loss of question,—that you, his sister,

  Finding yourself desir’d of such a person,

  Whose credit with the judge, or own great place,

  Could fetch your brother from the manacles

  Of the all-building law; and that there were

  No earthly mean to save him, but that either

  You must lay down the treasures of your body

  To this suppos’d, or else to let him suffer;

  What would you do?

  Isab.

  As much for my poor brother, as myself:

  That is, were I under the terms of death,

  Th’ impression of keen whips I’d wear as rubies,

  And strip myself to death, as to a bed

  That, longing, have been sick for, ere I’d yield

  My body up to shame.

  Ang.

  Then must your brother die.

  Isab.

  And ’twere the cheaper way:

  Better it were a brother died at once,

  Than that a sister, by redeeming him,

  Should die for ever.

  Ang.

  Were not you then as cruel as the sentence

  That you have slander’d so?

  Isab.

  Ignomy in ransom and free pardon

  Are of two houses: lawful mercy

  Is nothing kin to foul redemption.

  Ang.

  You seem’d of late to make the law a tyrant;

  And rather prov’d the sliding of your brother

  A merriment than a vice.

  Isab.

  O, pardon me, my lord! it oft falls out,

  To have what we would have, we speak not what we mean.

  I something do excuse the thing I hate,

  For his advantage that I dearly love.

  Ang.

  We are all frail.

  Isab.

  Else let my brother die,

  If not a feodary, but only he

  Owe and succeed thy weakness.

  Ang.

  Nay, women are frail too.

  Isab.

  Ay, as the glasses where they view themselves,

  Which are as easy broke as they make forms.

  Women! Help heaven! men their creation mar

  In profiting by them. Nay, call us ten times frail,

  For we are soft as our complexions are,

  And credulous to false prints.

  Ang.

  I think it well:

  And from this testimony of your own sex,—

  Since I suppose we are made to be no stronger

  Than faults may shake our frames,—let me be bold;

  I do arrest your words. Be that you are,

  That is, a woman; if you be more, you’re none;

  If you be one, as you are well express’d

  By all external warrants, show it now,

  By putting on the destin’d livery.

  Isab.

  I have no tongue but one: gentle my lord,

  Let me entreat you speak the former language.

  Ang.

  Plainly conceive, I love you.

  Isab.

  My brother did love Juliet; and you tell me

  That he shall die for’t.

  Ang.

  He shall not, Isabel, if you give me love.

  Isab.

  I know your virtue hath a licence in’t.

  Which seems a little fouler than it is,

  To pluck on others.

  Ang.

  Believe me, on mine honour,

  My words express my purpose.

  Isab.

  Ha! little honour to be much believ’d,

  And most pernicious purpose! Seeming, seeming!

  I will proclaim thee, Angelo; look for’t:

  Sign me a present pardon for my brother,

  Or with an outstretch’d throat I’ll tell the world aloud

  What man thou art.

  Ang.

  Who will believe thee, Isabel?

  My unsoil’d name, the austereness of my life,

  My vouch against you, and my place i’ the state,

  Will so your accusation overweigh,

  That you shall stifle in your own report

  And smell of calumny. I have begun;

  And now I give my sensual race the rein:

  Fit thy consent to my sharp appetite;

  Lay by all nicety and prolixious blushes,

  That banish what they sue for; redeem thy brother

  By yielding up thy body to my will,

  Or else he must not only die the death,

  But thy unkindness shall his death draw out

  To lingering sufferance. Answer me to-morrow,

  Or, by the affection that now guides me most,

  I’ll prove a tyrant to him. As for you,

  Say what you can, my false o’erweighs your true.

  [Exit.

  Isab.

  To whom should I complain? Did I tell this,

  Who would believe me? O perilous mouths!

  That bear in them one and the self-same tongue,

  Either of condemnation or approof,

  Bidding the law make curt’sy to their will;

  Hooking both right and wrong to th’ appetite,

  To follow as it draws. I’ll to my brother:

  Though he hath fallen by prompture of the blood,

  Yet hath he in him such a mind of honour,

  That, had he twenty heads to tender down

  On twenty bloody blocks, he’d yield them up,

  Before his sister should her body stoop

  To such abhorr’d pollution.

  Then, Isabel, live chaste, and, brother, die:

  More than our brother is our chastity.

  I’ll tell him yet of Angelo’s request,

  And fit his mind to death, for his soul’s rest.

  [Exit.

  ACT III.

  Scene I.—

  A Room in the Prison.

  EnterDuke,as a friar,Claudio,andProvost.

  Duke.

  So then you hope of pardon from Lord Angelo?

  Claud.

  The miserable have no other medicine

  But only hope:

  I have hope to live, and am prepar’d to die.

  Duke.

  Be absolute for death; either death or life

  Shall thereby be the sweeter. Reason thus with life:

  If I do lose thee, I do lose a thing

  That none but fools would keep: a breath thou art,

  Servile to all the skyey influences,

  That dost this habitation, where thou keep’st,

  Hourly afflict. Merely, thou art death’s fool;

  For him thou labour’st by thy flight to shun,

  And yet run’st toward him still. Thou art not noble:

  For all th’ accommodations that thou bear’st

  Are nurs’d by baseness. Thou art by no means valiant;

  For thou dost fear the soft and tender fork

  Of a poor worm. Thy best of rest is sleep,

  And that thou oft provok’st; yet grossly fear’st

  Thy death, which is no more. Thou art not thyself;

  For thou exist’st on many a thousand grains

  That issue out of dust. Happy thou art not;

  For what thou hast not, still thou striv’st to get,

  And what thou hast, forget’st. Thou art not certain;

  For thy complexion shifts to strange effects,

  After the moon. If thou art rich, thou’rt poor;

  For, like an ass whose back with ingots bows,

  Thou bear’st thy heavy riches but a journey,

  And death unloads thee. Friend hast thou none;

  For thine own bowels, which do call thee sire,

  The mere effusion of thy proper loins,

  Do curse the gout, serpigo, and the rheum,

  For ending thee no sooner. Thou hast nor youth nor age;

  But, as it were, an after-dinner’s sleep,

  Dreaming on both; for all thy blessed youth

  Becomes as aged, and doth beg the alms

  Of palsied eld; and when thou art old and rich,

  Thou hast neither heat, affection, limb, nor beauty,

  To make thy riches pleasant. What’s yet in this

  That bears the name of life? Yet in this life

  Lie hid moe thousand deaths: yet death we fear,

  That makes these odds all even.

  Claud.

  I humbly thank you.

  To sue to live, I find I seek to die,

  And, seeking death, find life: let it come on.

  Isab.

  [Within.] What ho! Peace here; grace and good company!

  Prov.

  Who’s there? come in: the wish deserves a welcome.

  Duke.

  Dear sir, ere long I’ll visit you again.

  Claud.

  Most holy sir, I thank you.

  EnterIsabella.

  Is.

  My business is a word or two with Claudio.

  Prov.

  And very welcome. Look, signior; here’s your sister.

  Duke.

  Provost, a word with you.

  Prov.

  As many as you please.

  Duke.

  Bring me to hear them speak, where I may be conceal’d.

  [ExeuntDukeandProvost.

  Claud.

  Now, sister, what’s the comfort?

  Isab.

  Why, as all comforts are; most good, most good indeed.

  Lord Angelo, having affairs to heaven,

  Intends you for his swift ambassador,

  Where you shall be an everlasting leiger:

  Therefore, your best appointment make with speed;

  To-morrow you set on.

  Claud.

  Is there no remedy?

  Isab.

  None, but such remedy, as to save a head

  To cleave a heart in twain.

  Claud.

  But is there any?

  Isab.

  Yes, brother, you may live:

  There is a devilish mercy in the judge,

  If you’ll implore it, that will free your life,

  But fetter you till death.

  Claud.

  Perpetual durance?

  Isab.

  Ay, just; perpetual durance, a restraint,

  Though all the world’s vastidity you had,

  To a determin’d scope.

  Claud.

  But in what nature?

  Isab.

  In such a one as, you consenting to’t,

  Would bark your honour from that trunk you bear,

  And leave you naked.

  Claud.

  Let me know the point.

  Isab.

  O, I do fear thee, Claudio; and I quake,

  Lest thou a feverous life shouldst entertain,

  And six or seven winters more respect

  Than a perpetual honour. Dar’st thou die?

  The sense of death is most in apprehension,

  And the poor beetle, that we tread upon,

  In corporal sufferance finds a pang as great

  As when a giant dies.

  Claud.

  Why give you me this shame?

  Think you I can a resolution fetch

  From flowery tenderness? If I must die,

  I will encounter darkness as a bride,

  And hug it in mine arms.

  Isab.

  There spake my brother: there my father’s grave

  Did utter forth a voice. Yes, thou must die:

  Thou art too noble to conserve a life

  In base appliances. This outward-sainted deputy,

  Whose settled visage and deliberate word

  Nips youth i’ the head, and follies doth enmew

  As falcon doth the fowl, is yet a devil;

  His filth within being cast, he would appear

  A pond as deep as hell.

  Claud.

  The prenzie Angelo?

  Isab.

  O, ’tis the cunning livery of hell,

  The damned’st body to invest and cover

  In prenzie guards! Dost thou think, Claudio?

  If I would yield him my virginity,

  Thou mightst be freed.

  Claud.

  O heavens! it cannot be.

  Isab.

  Yes, he would give’t thee, from this rank offence,

  So to offend him still. This night’s the time

  That I should do what I abhor to name,

  Or else thou diest to-morrow.

  Claud.

  Thou shalt not do’t.

  Isab.

  O! were it but my life,

  I’d throw it down for your deliverance

  As frankly as a pin.

  Claud.

  Thanks, dear Isabel.

  Isab.

  Be ready, Claudio, for your death to-morrow.

  Claud.

  Yes. Has he affections in him,

  That thus can make him bite the law by the nose,

  When he would force it? Sure, it is no sin;

  Or of the deadly seven it is the least.

  Isab.

  Which is the least?

  Claud.

  If it were damnable, he being so wise,

  Why would he for the momentary trick

  Be perdurably fin’d? O Isabel!

  Isab.

  What says my brother?

  Claud.

  Death is a fearful thing.

  Isab.

  And shamed life a hateful.

  Claud.

  Ay, but to die, and go we know not where;

  To lie in cold obstruction and to rot;

  This sensible warm motion to become

  A kneaded clod; and the delighted spirit

  To bathe in fiery floods, or to reside

  In thrilling region of thick-ribbed ice;

  To be imprison’d in the viewless winds,

  And blown with restless violence round about

  The pendant world; or to be worse than worst

  Of those that lawless and incertain thoughts

  Imagine howling: ’tis too horrible!

  The weariest and most loathed worldly life

  That age, ache, penury and imprisonment

  Can lay on nature is a paradise

  To what we fear of death.

  Isab.

  Alas! alas!

  Claud.

  Sweet sister, let me live:

  What sin you do to save a brother’s life,

  Nature dispenses with the deed so far

  That it becomes a virtue.

  Isab.

  O you beast!

  O faithless coward! O dishonest wretch!

  Wilt thou be made a man out of my vice?

  Is’t not a kind of incest, to take life

  From thine own sister’s shame? What should I think?

  Heaven shield my mother play’d my father fair;

  For such a warped slip of wilderness

  Ne’er issu’d from his blood. Take my defiance;

  Die, perish! Might but my bending down

  Reprieve thee from thy fate, it should proceed.

  I’ll pray a thousand prayers for thy death,

  No word to save thee.

  Claud.

  Nay, hear me, Isabel.

  Isab.

  O, fie, fie, fie!

  Thy sin’s not accidental, but a trade.

  Mercy to thee would prove itself a bawd:

  ’Tis best that thou diest quickly.

  [Going.

  Claud.

  O hear me, Isabella.

  Re-enterDuke.

  Duke.

  Vouchsafe a word, young sister, but one word.

  Isab.

  What is your will?

  Duke.

  Might you dispense with your leisure, I would by and by have some speech with you: the satisfaction I would require is likewise your own benefit.

  Isab.

  I have no superfluous leisure: my stay must be stolen out of other affairs; but I will attend you a while.

  Duke.

  [Aside toClaudio.] Son, I have overheard what hath past between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her; only he hath made an assay of her virtue to practise his judgment with the disposition of natures. She, having the truth of honour in her, hath made him that gracious denial which he is most glad to receive: I am confessor to Angelo, and I know this to be true; therefore prepare yourself to death. Do not satisfy your resolution with hopes that are fallible: to-morrow you must die; go to your knees and make ready.

  Claud.

  Let me ask my sister pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it.

  Duke.

  Hold you there: farewell.

  [ExitClaudio.

  Re-enterProvost.

  Provost, a word with you.

  Prov.

  What’s your will, father?

  Duke.

  That now you are come, you will be gone. Leave me awhile with the maid: my mind promises with my habit no loss shall touch her by my company.

  Prov.

  In good time.

  [Exit.

  Duke.

  The hand that hath made you fair hath made you good: the goodness that is cheap in beauty makes beauty brief in goodness; but grace, being the soul of your complexion, shall keep the body of it ever fair. The assault that Angelo hath made to you, fortune hath conveyed to my understanding; and, but that frailty hath examples for his falling, I should wonder at Angelo. How would you do to content this substitute, and to save your brother?

  Isab.

  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.

  Isab.

  Let me hear you speak further. 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?

  Isab.

  I have heard of the lady, and good words went with her name.

  Duke.

  She should this Angelo have married; was affianced to her by oath, and the nuptial appointed: between which time of the contract, and limit of the solemnity, her brother Frederick was wracked 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.

  Isab.

  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.

  Isab.

  What a merit were it in death to take this poor maid from the world! What corruption in this life, that it will let this man live! But how out of this can she avail?

  Duke.

  It is a rupture that you may easily heal; and the cure of it not only saves your brother, but keeps you from dishonour in doing it.

  Isab.

  Show me how, good father.

  Duke.

  This forenamed maid hath yet in her the continuance of her first affection: his unjust unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, hath, like an impediment in the current, made it more violent and unruly. Go you to Angelo: answer his requiring with a plausible obedience: agree with his demands to the point; only refer yourself to this advantage, first, that your stay with him may not be long, that the time may have all shadow and silence in it, and the place answer to convenience. This being granted in course, and now follows all, we shall advise this wronged maid to stead up your appointment, go in your place; if the encounter acknowledge itself hereafter, it may compel him to her recompense; and here by this is your brother saved, your honour untainted, the poor Mariana advantaged, and the corrupt deputy scaled. The maid will I frame and make fit for his attempt. If you think well to carry this, as you may, the doubleness of the benefit defends the deceit from reproof. What think you of it?

  Isab.

  The image of it gives me content already, and I trust it will grow to a most prosperous perfection.

  Duke.

  It lies much in your holding up. Haste you speedily to Angelo: if for this night he entreat you to his bed, give him promise of satisfaction. I will presently to St. Luke’s; there, at the moated grange, resides this dejected Mariana: at that place call upon me, and dispatch with Angelo, that it may be quickly.

  Isab.

  I thank you for this comfort. Fare you well, good father.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene II.—

  The Street before the Prison.

  EnterDuke,as a friar; to himElbow, Pompey,and Officers.

  Elb.

  Nay, if there be no remedy for it, but that you will needs buy and sell men and women like beasts, we shall have all the world drink brown and white bastard.

  Duke.

  O heavens! what stuff is here?

  Pom.

  ’Twas never merry world, since, of two usuries, the merriest was put down, and the worser allowed by order of law a furred gown to keep him warm; and furred with fox and lamb skins too, to signify that craft, being richer than innocency, stands for the facing.

  Elb.

  Come your way, sir. Bless you, good father friar.

  Duke.

  And you, good brother father. What offence hath this man made you, sir?

  Elb.

  Marry, sir, he hath offended the law: and, sir, we take him to be a thief too, sir; for we have found upon him, sir, a strange picklock, which we have sent to the deputy.

  Duke.

  Fie, sirrah: a bawd, a wicked bawd!

  The evil that thou causest to be done,

  That is thy means to live. Do thou but think

  What ’tis to cram a maw or clothe a back

  From such a filthy vice: say to thyself,

  From their abominable and beastly touches

  I drink, I eat, array myself, and live.

  Canst thou believe thy living is a life,

  So stinkingly depending? Go mend, go mend.

  Pom.

  Indeed, it does stink in some sort, sir; but yet, sir, I would prove—

  Duke.

  Nay, if the devil have given thee proofs for sin,

  Thou wilt prove his. Take him to prison, officer;

  Correction and instruction must both work

  Ere this rude beast will profit.

  Elb.

  He must before the deputy, sir; he has given him warning. The deputy cannot abide a whoremaster: if he be a whoremonger, and comes before him, he were as good go a mile on his errand.

  Duke.

  That we were all, as some would seem to be,

  From our faults, as faults from seeming, free!

  Elb.

  His neck will come to your waist,—a cord, sir.

  Pom.

  I spy comfort: I cry, bail. Here’s a gentleman and a friend of mine.

  EnterLucio.

  Lucio.

  How now, noble Pompey! What, at the wheels of Cæsar? Art thou led in triumph? What, is there none of Pygmalion’s images, newly made woman, to he had now, for putting the hand in the pocket and extracting it clutched? What reply? ha? What say’st thou to this tune, matter and method? Is’t not drowned i’ the last rain, ha? What sayest thou Trot? Is the world as it was, man? Which is the way? Is it sad, and few words, or how? The trick of it?

  Duke.

  Still thus, and thus, still worse!

  Lucio.

  How doth my dear morsel, thy mistress? Procures she still, ha?

  Pom.

  Troth, sir, she hath eaten up all her beef, and she is herself in the tub.

  Lucio.

  Why, ’tis good; it is the right of it; it must be so: ever your fresh whore and your powdered bawd: an unshunned consequence; it must be so. Art going to prison, Pompey?

  Pom.

  Yes, faith, sir.

  Lucio.

  Why, ’tis not amiss, Pompey. Farewell. Go, say I sent thee thither. For debt, Pompey? or how?

  Elb.

  For being a bawd, for being a bawd.

  Lucio.

  Well, then, imprison him. If imprisonment be the due of a bawd, why, ’tis his right: bawd is he, doubtless, and of antiquity too; bawd-born. Farewell, good Pompey. Commend me to the prison, Pompey. You will turn good husband now, Pompey; you will keep the house.

  Pom.

  I hope, sir, your good worship will be my bail.

  Lucio.

  No, indeed will I not, Pompey; it is not the wear. I will pray, Pompey, to increase your bondage: if you take it not patiently, why, your mettle is the more. Adieu, trusty Pompey. Bless you, friar.

  Duke.

  And you.

  Lucio.

  Does Bridget paint still, Pompey, ha?

  Elb.

  Come your ways, sir; come.

  Pom.

  You will not bail me then, sir?

  Lucio.

  Then, Pompey, nor now. What news abroad, friar? What news?

  Elb.

  Come your ways, sir; come.

  Lucio.

  Go to kennel, Pompey; go.

  [ExeuntElbow, Pompeyand Officers.

  What news, friar, of the duke?

  Duke.

  I know none. Can you tell me of any?

  Lucio.

  Some say he is with the Emperor of Russia; other some, he is in Rome: but where is he, think you?

  Duke.

  I know not where; but wheresoever, I wish him well.

  Lucio.

  It was a mad fantastical trick of him to steal from the state, and usurp the beggary he was never born to. Lord Angelo dukes it well in his absence; he puts transgression to’t.

  Duke.

  He does well in’t.

  Lucio.

  A little more lenity to lechery would do no harm in him: something too crabbed that way, friar.

  Duke.

  It is too general a vice, and severity must cure it.

  Lucio.

  Yes, in good sooth, the vice is of a great kindred; it is well allied; but it is impossible to extirp it quite, friar, till eating and drinking be put down. They say this Angelo was not made by man and woman after this downright way of creation: is it true, think you?

  Duke.

  How should he be made, then?

  Lucio.

  Some report a sea-maid spawn’d him; some that he was begot between two stock-fishes. 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 generative; 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 cod-piece 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.

  Lucio.

  O, sir, you are deceived.

  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 to-morrow or no?

  Duke.

  Why should he die, sir?

  Lucio.

  Why? for filling a bottle with a tundish. 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 not 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.

  [Exit.

  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?

  EnterEscalus, Provost,and Officers withMistress Overdone.

  Escal.

  Go; away with her to prison!

  Mrs. Ov.

  Good my lord, be good to me; your honour is accounted a merciful man; good my lord.

  Escal.

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

  Prov.

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

  Mrs. Ov.

  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!

  Escal.

  That fellow is a fellow of much licence: let him be called before us. Away with her to prison! Go to; no more words. [Exeunt Officers withMistress Overdone.] Provost, my brother Angelo will not be altered; Claudio must die to-morrow. 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.

  Prov.

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

  Escal.

  Good even, good father.

  Duke.

  Bliss and goodness on you!

  Escal.

  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.

  Escal.

  What news abroad i’ the world?

  Duke.

  None, but there is so great a fever on goodness, that the dissolution of it must cure it: novelty is only in request; and 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?

  Escal.

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

  Duke.

  What pleasure was he given to?

  Escal.

  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 is he resolved to die.

  Escal.

  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.

  Escal.

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

  Duke.

  Peace be with you!

  [ExeuntEscalusandProvost.

  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 many likeness made in crimes,

  Making practice on the times,

  To draw with idle spiders’ strings

  Most pond’rous and substantial things!

  Craft against vice I must apply:

  With Angelo to-night shall lie

  His old betrothed but despis’d:

  So disguise shall, by the disguis’d,

  Pay with falsehood false exacting,

  And perform an old contracting.

  [Exit.

  ACT IV.

  Scene I.—

  The moated Grange at St. Luke’s.

  EnterMarianaand a Boy: Boy sings.

  • 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 seal’d in vain,
  • seal’d in vain.

  Mari.

  Break off thy song, and haste thee quick away:

  Here comes a man of comfort, whose advice

  Hath often still’d my brawling discontent.

  [Exit Boy.

  EnterDuke,disguised as before.

  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 displeas’d, but pleas’d 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 to-day? much upon this time have I promised here to meet.

  Mari.

  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; may be I will call upon you anon, for some advantage to yourself.

  Mari.

  I am always bound to you.

  [Exit.

  EnterIsabella.

  Duke.

  Very well met, and well come.

  What is the news from this good deputy?

  Isab.

  He hath a garden circummur’d with brick,

  Whose western side is with a vineyard back’d;

  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 upon him.

  Duke.

  But shall you on your knowledge find this way?

  Isab.

  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?

  Isab.

  No, none, but only a repair i’ the dark;

  And that I have possess’d 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.

  Re-enterMariana.

  I pray you, be acquainted with this maid;

  She comes to do you good.

  Isab.

  I do desire the like.

  Duke.

  Do you persuade yourself that I respect you?

  Mari.

  Good friar, I know you do, and oft 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.

  Mari.

  Will’t please you walk aside?

  [ExeuntMarianaandIsabella.

  Duke.

  O place and greatness! millions of false eyes

  Are stuck upon thee: volumes of report

  Run with these false and most contrarious quests

  Upon thy doings: thousand escapes of wit

  Make thee the father of their idle dream,

  And rack thee in their fancies!

  Re-enterMarianaandIsabella.

  Welcome! How agreed?

  Isab.

  She’ll take the enterprise upon her, father,

  If you advise it.

  Duke.

  It is not my consent,

  But my entreaty too.

  Isab.

  Little have you to say

  When you depart from him, but, soft and low,

  ‘Remember now my brother.’

  Mari.

  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.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene II.—

  A Room in the Prison.

  EnterProvostandPompey.

  Prov.

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

  Pom.

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

  Prov.

  Come, sir, leave me your snatches, and yield me a direct answer. To-morrow 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.

  Pom.

  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.

  Prov.

  What ho, Abhorson! Where’s Abhorson, there?

  EnterAbhorson.

  Abhor.

  Do you call, sir?

  Prov.

  Sirrah, here’s a fellow will help you to-morrow 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.

  Abhor.

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

  Prov.

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

  [Exit.

  Pom.

  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?

  Abhor.

  Ay, sir; a mystery.

  Pom.

  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.

  Abhor.

  Sir, it is a mystery.

  Pom.

  Proof?

  Abhor.

  Every true man’s apparel fits your thief.

  Pom.

  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.

  Re-enterProvost.

  Prov.

  Are you agreed?

  Pom.

  Sir, I will serve him; for I do find that your hangman is a more penitent trade than your bawd, he doth often ask forgiveness.

  Prov.

  You, sirrah, provide your block and your axe to-morrow four o’clock.

  Abhor.

  Come on, bawd; I will instruct thee in my trade; follow.

  Pom.

  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.

  Prov.

  Call hither Barnardine and Claudio:

  [ExeuntPompeyandAbhorson.

  The one has my pity; not a jot the other,

  Being a murderer, though he were my brother.

  EnterClaudio.

  Look, here’s the warrant, Claudio, for thy death:

  ’Tis now dead midnight, and by eight to-morrow

  Thou must be made immortal. Where’s Barnardine?

  Claud.

  As fast lock’d up in sleep as guiltless labour

  When it lies starkly in the traveller’s bones;

  He will not wake.

  Prov.

  Who can do good on him?

  Well, go; prepare yourself. [Knocking within.] But hark, what noise?—

  Heaven give your spirits comfort!—[ExitClaudio.] By and by.

  I hope it is some pardon or reprieve

  For the most gentle Claudio.

  EnterDuke,disguised as before.

  Welcome, father.

  Duke.

  The best and wholesom’st spirits of the night

  Envelop you, good provost! Who call’d here of late?

  Prov.

  None since the curfew rung.

  Duke.

  Not Isabel?

  Prov.

  No.

  Duke.

  They will, then, ere’t be long.

  Prov.

  What comfort is for Claudio?

  Duke.

  There’s some in hope.

  Prov.

  It is a bitter deputy.

  Duke.

  Not so, not so: his life is parallel’d

  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 meal’d with that

  Which he corrects, then were he tyrannous;

  But this being so, he’s just.—[Knocking within.] Now are they come.

  [ExitProvost.

  This is a gentle provost: seldom when

  The steeled gaoler is the friend of men.

  [Knocking.

  How now! What noise? That spirit’s possess’d with haste

  That wounds the unsisting postern with these strokes.

  Re-enterProvost.

  Prov.

  There he must stay until the officer

  Arise to let him in; he is call’d up.

  Duke.

  Have you no countermand for Claudio yet,

  But he must die to-morrow?

  Prov.

  None, sir, none.

  Duke.

  As near the dawning, provost, as it is,

  You shall hear more ere morning.

  Prov.

  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

  Profess’d the contrary.

  Enter a Messenger.

  This is his lordship’s man.

  Duke.

  And here comes Claudio’s pardon.

  Mes.

  [Giving a paper.] 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.

  Prov.

  I shall obey him.

  [Exit Messenger.

  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 the offender friended.

  Now, sir, what news?

  Prov.

  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.

  Prov.

  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 this afternoon?

  Prov.

  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.

  Prov.

  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?

  Prov.

  Most manifest, and not denied by himself.

  Duke.

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

  Prov.

  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.

  Prov.

  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 Angalo 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.

  Prov.

  Pray, sir, in what?

  Duke.

  In the delaying death.

  Prov.

  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.

  Prov.

  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.

  Prov.

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

  Duke.

  Were you sworn to the duke or to the deputy?

  Prov.

  To him, and to his substitutes.

  Duke.

  You will think you have made no offence, if the duke avouch the justice of your dealing?

  Prov.

  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.

  Prov.

  I know them both.

  Duke.

  The contents of this is the return of the duke: you shall anon over-read if 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, his entering into some monastery; but, by chance, nothing of what is writ. Look, the 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 amaz’d, but this shall absolutely resolve you. Come away; it is almost clear dawn.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene III.—

  Another Room in the Same.

  EnterPompey.

  Pom.

  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-colour’d satin, which now peaches him a beggar. Then have we young Dizy, and young Master Deep-vow, and Master Copperspur, and Master Starve-lackey the rapier and dagger man, and young Drop-heir that kill’d lusty Pudding, and Master Forthlight, 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.’

  EnterAbhorson.

  Abhor.

  Sirrah, bring Barnardine hither.

  Pom.

  Master Barnardine! you must rise and be hanged, Master Barnardine.

  Abhor.

  What ho! Barnardine!

  Barnar.

  [Within.] A pox o’ your throats!

  Who makes that noise there? What are you?

  Pom.

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

  Barnar.

  [Within.] Away! you rogue, away!

  I am sleepy.

  Abhor.

  Tell him he must awake, and that quickly too.

  Pom.

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

  Abhor.

  Go in to him, and fetch him out.

  Pom.

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

  Abhor.

  Is the axe upon the block, sirrah?

  Pom.

  Very ready, sir.

  EnterBarnardine.

  Barnar.

  How now, Abhorson! what’s the news with you?

  Abhor.

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

  Barnar.

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

  Pom.

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

  Abhor.

  Look you, sir; here comes your ghostly father: do we jest now, think you?

  EnterDuke,disguised as before.

  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.

  Barnar.

  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.

  Barnar.

  I swear I will not die to-day for any man’s persuasion.

  Duke.

  But hear you.

  Barnar.

  Not a word: if you have anything to say to me, come to my ward; for thence will not I to day.

  [Exit.

  EnterProvost.

  Duke.

  Unfit to live or die. O, gravel heart!

  After him fellows: bring him to the block.

  [ExeuntAbhorsonandPompey.

  Prov.

  Now, sir, how do you find the prisoner?

  Duke.

  A creature unprepar’d, unmeet for death;

  And, to transport him in the mind he is

  Were damnable.

  Prov.

  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 inclin’d,

  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

  Prefix’d by Angelo. See this be done,

  And sent according to command, whiles I

  Persuade this rude wretch willingly to die.

  Prov.

  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 the under generation, you shall find

  Your safety manifested.

  Prov.

  I am your free dependant.

  Duke.

  Quick, dispatch,

  And send the head to Angelo.

  [ExitProvost.

  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-balanc’d form,

  We shall proceed with Angelo.

  Re-enterProvost.

  Prov.

  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.

  Prov.

  I’ll make all speed.

  [Exit.

  Isab.

  [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.

  EnterIsabella.

  Isab.

  Ho! by your leave.

  Duke.

  Good morning to you, fair and gracious daughter.

  Isab.

  The better, given me by so holy a man.

  Hath yet the deputy sent my brother’s pardon?

  Duke.

  He hath releas’d him, Isabel, from the world:

  His head is off and sent to Angelo.

  Isab.

  Nay, but it is not so.

  Duke.

  It is no other: show your wisdom, daughter,

  In your close patience.

  Isab.

  O! I will to him and pluck out his eyes!

  Duke.

  You shall not be admitted to his sight.

  Isab.

  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 to-morrow; nay, dry your eyes:

  One of our covent, 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.

  Isab.

  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 to-night. 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?

  EnterLucio.

  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 to-morrow. By my troth, Isabel, I loved thy brother: if the old fantastical duke of dark corners had been at home, he had lived.

  [ExitIsabella.

  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 takest 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 inAngelo’sHouse.

  EnterAngeloandEscalus.

  Escal.

  Every letter he hath writ hath disvouched other.

  Ang.

  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?

  Escal.

  I guess not.

  Ang.

  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?

  Escal.

  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.

  Ang.

  Well, I beseech you, let it be proclaim’d:

  Betimes i’ the morn I’ll call you at your house;

  Give notice to such men of sort and suit

  As are to meet him.

  Escal.

  I shall, sir: fare you well.

  Ang.

  Good night.—

  [ExitEscalus.

  This deed unshapes me quite, makes me unpregnant

  And dull to all proceedings. A deflower’d maid,

  And by an eminent body that enforc’d

  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 liv’d,

  Save that his riotous youth, with dangerous sense,

  Might in the times to come have ta’en revenge,

  By so receiving a dishonour’d life

  With ransom of such shame. Would yet he had liv’d!

  Alack! when once our grace we have forgot,

  Nothing goes right: we would, and we would not.

  [Exit.

  Scene V.—

  Fields without the Town.

  EnterDuke,in his own habit, andFriar Peter.

  Duke.

  These letters at fit time deliver me.

  [Giving letters.

  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 Valentinus, Rowland, and to Crassus,

  And bid them bring the trumpets to the gate;

  But send me Flavius first.

  F. Peter.

  It shall be speeded well.

  [Exit.

  EnterVarrius.

  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.

  [Exeunt.

  Scene VI.—

  Street near the City Gate.

  EnterIsabellaandMariana.

  Isab.

  To speak so indirectly I am loath:

  I would say the truth; but to accuse him so,

  That is your part: yet I’m advis’d to do it;

  He says, to veil full purpose.

  Mari.

  Be rul’d by him.

  Isab.

  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.

  Mari.

  I would, Friar Peter—

  Isab.

  O, peace! the friar is come.

  EnterFriar Peter.

  F. 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 ent’ring: therefore hence, away!

  [Exeunt.

  ACT V.

  Scene I.—

  A public Place near the City Gate.

  Mariana,veiled,Isabella,andFriar Peter,at their stand. EnterDuke, Varrius, Lords, Angelo, Escalus, Lucio, Provost, Officers, and Citizens at several doors.

  Duke.

  My very worthy cousin, fairly met!

  Our old and faithful friend, we are glad to see you.

  Ang.

  Happy return be to your royal Grace!

  Escal.

  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.

  Ang.

  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 razure 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 PeterandIsabellacome forward.

  F. Peter.

  Now is your time: speak loud and kneel before him.

  Isab.

  Justice, O royal duke! Vail your regard

  Upon a wrong’d, I’d 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.

  Isab.

  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 believ’d,

  Or wring redress from you. Hear me, O, hear me, here!

  Ang.

  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,—

  Isab.

  By course of justice!

  Ang.

  And she will speak most bitterly and strange.

  Isab.

  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,

  A hypocrite, a virgin-violator;

  Is it not strange, and strange?

  Duke.

  Nay, it is ten times strange.

  Isab.

  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 the end of reckoning.

  Duke.

  Away with her! poor soul,

  She speaks this in the infirmity of sense.

  Isab.

  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 touch’d 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.

  Isab.

  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?

  Isab.

  I am the sister of one Claudio,

  Condemn’d upon the act of fornication

  To lose his head; condemn’d 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 desir’d her

  To try her gracious fortune with Lord Angelo

  For her poor brother’s pardon.

  Isab.

  That’s he indeed.

  Duke.

  You were not bid to speak.

  Lucio.

  No, my good lord;

  Nor wish’d 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.

  Isab.

  This gentleman told somewhat of my tale,—

  Lucio.

  Right.

  Duke.

  It may be right; but you are in the wrong

  To speak before your time. Proceed.

  Isab.

  I went

  To this pernicious caitiff deputy.

  Duke.

  That’s somewhat madly spoken.

  Isab.

  Pardon it;

  The phrase is to the matter.

  Duke.

  Mended again: the matter; proceed.

  Isab.

  In brief, to set the needless process by,

  How I persuaded, how I pray’d, and kneel’d,

  How he refell’d 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!

  Isab.

  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 suborn’d 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 weigh’d thy brother by himself,

  And not have cut him off. Some one hath set you on:

  Confess the truth, and say by whose advice

  Thou cam’st here to complain.

  Isab.

  And is this all?

  Then, O you blessed ministers above,

  Keep me in patience; and, with ripen’d time

  Unfold the evil which is here wrapt up

  In countenance! Heaven shield your Grace from woe,

  As I, thus wrong’d, 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?

  Isab.

  One that I would were here, Friar Lodowick.

  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 swing’d him soundly.

  Duke.

  Words against me! This’ 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.

  F. Peter.

  Bless’d be your royal Grace!

  I have stood by, my lord, and I have heard

  Your royal ear abus’d. First, hath this woman

  Most wrongfully accus’d 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?

  F. 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 villanously; believe it.

  F. 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 accus’d,

  Her shall you hear disproved to her eyes,

  Till she herself confess it.

  Duke.

  Good friar, let’s hear it.

  [Isabellais carried off guarded; andMarianacomes forward.

  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.

  Mari.

  Pardon, my lord; I will not show my face

  Until my husband bid me.

  Duke.

  What, are you married?

  Mari.

  No, my lord.

  Duke.

  Are you a maid?

  Mari.

  No, my lord.

  Duke.

  A widow, then?

  Mari.

  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.

  Mari.

  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!

  Lucio.

  Well, my lord.

  Duke.

  This is no witness for Lord Angelo.

  Mari.

  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.

  Ang.

  Charges she moe than me?

  Mari.

  Not that I know.

  Duke.

  No? you say your husband.

  Mari.

  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.

  Ang.

  This is a strange abuse. Let’s see thy face.

  Mari.

  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 vow’d contract,

  Was fast belock’d in thine: this is the body

  That took away the match from Isabel,

  And did supply thee at thy garden-house

  In her imagin’d person.

  Duke.

  Know you this woman?

  Lucio.

  Carnally, she says.

  Duke.

  Sirrah, no more!

  Lucio.

  Enough, my lord.

  Ang.

  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 disvalu’d

  In levity: since which time of five years

  I never spake with her, saw her, nor heard from her,

  Upon my faith and honour.

  Mari.

  Noble prince,

  As there comes light from heaven and words from breath,

  As there is sense in truth and truth in virtue,

  I am affianc’d 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.

  Ang.

  I did but smile till now:

  Now, good my lord, give me the scope of justice;

  My patience here is touch’d. 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 unto 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 seal’d in approbation? You, Lord Escalus,

  Sit with my cousin; lend him your kind pains

  To find out this abuse, whence ’tis deriv’d.

  There is another friar that set them on;

  Let him be sent for.

  F. 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.

  [ExitProvost.

  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 awhile will leave you;

  But stir not you, till you have well determin’d

  Upon these slanderers.

  Escal.

  My lord, we’ll do it throughly.—

  [ExitDuke.

  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 villanous speeches of the duke.

  Escal.

  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.

  Escal.

  Call that same Isabel here once again:

  I would speak with her. [Exit an Attendant.]

  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.

  Escal.

  Say you?

  Lucio.

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

  Escal.

  I will go darkly to work with her.

  Lucio.

  That’s the way: for women are light at midnight.

  Re-enter Officers withIsabella.

  Escal.

  [ToIsab.] 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.

  Escal.

  In very good time: speak not you to him, till we call upon you.

  EnterDuke,disguised as a friar, andProvost.

  Lucio.

  Mum.

  Escal.

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

  Duke.

  ’Tis false.

  Escal.

  How! know you where you are?

  Duke.

  Respect to your great place! and let the devil

  Be sometime honour’d for his burning throne.

  Where is the duke? ’tis he should hear me speak.

  Escal.

  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.

  Escal.

  Why, thou unreverend and unhallow’d friar!

  Is’t not enough thou hast suborn’d 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 the duke himself.

  To tax him with injustice? take him hence;

  To the 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’er-run the stew: laws for all faults,

  But faults so countenanc’d, that the strong statutes

  Stand like the forfeits in a barber’s shop,

  As much in mock as mark.

  Escal.

  Slander to the state! Away with him to prison!

  Ang.

  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 bald-pate: 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 flesh-monger, 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.

  Ang.

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

  Escal.

  Such a fellow is not to be talk’d withal.

  Away with him to prison! Where is the provost?

  Away with him to prison! Lay bolts enough on him, let him speak no more. Away with those giglots too, and with the other confederate companion!

  [TheProvostlays hands on theDuke.

  Duke.

  Stay, sir; stay awhile.

  Ang.

  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 sheepbiting face, and be hanged an hour! Will’t not off?

  [Pulls off the friar’s hood, and discovers theDuke.]

  Duke.

  Thou art the first knave that e’er made a duke.

  First, provost, let me bail these gentle three.

  [ToLucio.] 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.

  [ToEscalus.] What you have spoke I pardon; sit you down:

  We’ll borrow place of him. [ToAngelo.] 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.

  Ang.

  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 look’d 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?

  Ang.

  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.

  [ExeuntAngelo, Mariana, Friar Peter,andProvost.

  Escal.

  My lord, I am more amaz’d 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

  Attorney’d at your service.

  Isab.

  O, give me pardon,

  That I, your vassal, have employ’d and pain’d

  Your unknown sovereignty!

  Duke.

  You are pardon’d, 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 obscur’d 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 brain’d 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.

  Isab.

  I do, my lord.

  Re-enterAngelo, Mariana, Friar Peter,andProvost.

  Duke.

  For this new-married man approaching here,

  Whose salt imagination yet hath wrong’d

  Your well-defended honour, you must pardon

  For Mariana’s sake. But as he adjudg’d 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 stoop’d to death, and with like haste.

  Away with him!

  Mari.

  O, my most gracious lord!

  I hope you will not mock me with a husband.

  Duke.

  It is your husband mock’d 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 withal,

  To buy you a better husband.

  Mari.

  O my dear lord!

  I crave no other, nor no better man.

  Duke.

  Never crave him; we are definitive.

  Mari.

  [Kneeling.] Gentle my liege,—

  Duke.

  You do but lose your labour.

  Away with him to death! [ToLucio.] Now, sir, to you.

  Mari.

  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.

  Mari.

  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.

  Isab.

  [Kneeling.] Most bounteous sir,

  Look, if it please you, on this man condemn’d,

  As if my brother liv’d. I partly think

  A due sincerity govern’d 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 perish’d by the way. Thoughts are no subjects;

  Intents but merely thoughts.

  Mari.

  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?

  Prov.

  It was commanded so.

  Duke.

  Had you a special warrant for the deed?

  Prov.

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

  Duke.

  For which I do discharge you of your office:

  Give up your keys.

  Prov.

  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 reserv’d alive.

  Duke.

  What’s he?

  Prov.

  His name is Barnardine.

  Duke.

  I would thou hadst done so by Claudio.

  Go, fetch him hither: let me look upon him.

  [ExitProvost.

  Escal.

  I am sorry, one so learned and so wise

  As you, Lord Angelo, have still appear’d,

  Should slip so grossly, both in the heat of blood,

  And lack of temper’d judgment afterward.

  Ang.

  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.

  Re-enterProvost,withBarnardine, Claudiomuffled, andJuliet.

  Duke.

  Which is that Barnardine?

  Prov.

  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 condemn’d:

  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?

  Prov.

  This is another prisoner that I sav’d,

  That should have died when Claudio lost his head,

  As like almost to Claudio as himself.

  [UnmufflesClaudio.

  Duke.

  [ToIsabella.] If he be like your brother, for his sake

  Is he pardon’d; 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 quickening 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.—

  [ToLucio.] You, sirrah, that knew me for a fool, a coward,

  One all of luxury, an ass, a madman:

  Wherein have I so deserv’d 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.

  Whipp’d first, sir, and hang’d after.

  Proclaim it, provost, round about the city,

  If any woman’s wrong’d 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 finish’d,

  Let him be whipp’d and hang’d.

  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.

  She, Claudio, that you wrong’d, look you restore.

  Joy to you, Mariana! love her, Angelo:

  I have confess’d 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:

  The 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.

  [Exeunt.