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James Boswell [1821], The plays and poems of William Shakspeare, with the corrections and illustrations of various commentators: comprehending A Life of the Poet, and an enlarged history of the stage, by the late Edmond Malone. With a new glossarial index (J. Deighton and Sons, Cambridge) [word count] [S10201]. To look up a word in a dictionary, select the word with your mouse and press 'd' on your keyboard.
PRELIMINARY REMARKS.
No one has hitherto been lucky enough to discover the romance
on which Shakspeare may be supposed to have founded this play,
the beauties of which could not secure it from the criticism of
Ben Jonson, whose malignity appears to have been more than
equal to his wit. In the introduction to Bartholomew Fair, he
says: “If there be never a servant monster in the fair, who can
help it, he says, nor a nest of antiques? He is loth to make
nature afraid in his plays, like those that beget Tales, Tempests,
and such like drolleries.”
Steevens. I was informed by the late Mr. Collins of Chichester, that
Shakspeare's Tempest, for which no origin is yet assigned, was
formed on a romance called Aurelio and Isabella, printed in
Italian, Spanish, French, and English, in 1588. But though
this information has not proved true on examination, an useful
conclusion may be drawn from it, that Shakspeare's story is somewhere
to be found in an Italian novel, at least that the story preceded
Shakspeare. Mr. Collins had searched this subject with
no less fidelity than judgement and industry; but his memory
failing in his last calamitous indisposition, he probably gave me
the name of one novel for another. I remember he added a circumstance,
which may lead to a discovery,—that the principal
character of the romance, answering to Shakspeare's Prospero,
was a chemical necromancer, who had bound a spirit like Ariel
to obey his call, and perform his services. It was a common pretence
of dealers in the occult sciences to have a demon at command.
At least Aurelio, or Orelio, was probably one of the
names of this romance, the production and multiplicity of gold
being the grand object of alchemy. Taken at large, the magical
part of the Tempest is founded on that sort of philosophy which
was practised by John Dee and his associates, and has been called
the Rosicrucian. The name Ariel came from the Talmudistick
mysteries with which the learned Jews had infected this science.
T. Warton. Mr. Theobald tells us that The Tempest must have been
written after 1609, because the Bermuda Islands, which are
mentioned in it, were unknown to the English until that year;
but this is a mistake. He might have seen in Hackluyt, 1600,
folio, a description of Bermuda, by Henry May, who was shipwrecked
there in 1593. It was however one of our author's last works. In 1598, he
played a part in the original Every Man in his Humour. Two of
the characters are Prospero and Stephano. Here Ben Jonson
taught him the pronunciation of the latter word, which is always
right in The Tempest: And always wrong in his earlier play, The Merchant of Venice,
which had been on the stage at least two or three years before
its publication in 1600: —So little did Mr. Capell know of his author, when he idly supposed
his school literature might perhaps have been lost by the
dissipation of youth, or the busy scene of publick life!
Farmer. This play must have been written before 1614, when Jonson
sneers at it in his Bartholomew Fair. In the latter plays of
Shakspeare, he has less of pun and quibble than in his early ones.
In The Merchant of Venice, he expressly declares against them.
This perhaps might be one criterion to discover the dates of his
plays.
Blackstone. See Mr. Malone's Attempt to ascertain the Order of Shakspeare's
Plays, and a Note on “The cloud-capp'd towers,” &c.
Act IV.
Steevens. A hope has long been entertained, that at some time or other
the romance or tale might be found, that furnished Shakspeare
with the materials on which he formed this beautiful comedy.
But after having ascertained the precise fact that unquestionably
gave rise to it, and after the perusal of some rare and curious
pieces of his age, of which a more particular account will presently
be given, I am firmly persuaded that no such tale or romance
will ever be found, or indeed ever existed. In constructing many other plays, our poet frequently formed
his drama on some story that he met with, either adopting it as
he found it, or making some alterations; and in both cases, generally
adding some new and original characters of his own invention.
Such we know was the process in the formation of Twelfth-Night,
All's Well That Ends Well, Measure for Measure, The
Winter's Tale, and some others. But here, as we have already
seen, the title and part of the story were suggested to him by the
tremendous tempest, which, in July, 1609, dispersed the fleet
carrying supplies from England to the infant colony in Virginia,
and wrecked the vessel in which Sir George Somers and the other
principal commanders had sailed, on one of the Bermuda islands.
In strict propriety, the circumstances attending that disaster,
having furnished an important part of the story of the piece before
us, ought now to be recited in the first place; but as it was necessary
to state them minutely in a former volume for the purpose
of ascertaining its date, I shall here only refer the reader to the
Essay, in which a very ample detail of them may be found.* note
The occurrence of the tempest, from the extraordinary circumstances
which attended it, and the interest that it excited in a
numerous body of his contemporaries, [forced] itself upon his
notice; and yet supplied him with but a single, though important
event. Hence, before it could be used for a dramatick purpose,
it became necessary to form a fable that would accord with this
incident; for surely it must be allowed to be in the highest degree
improbable, that, just when the occasion demanded it, he should
have found a tale corresponding in its principal parts with the
story of The Tempest, as we now have it; in which an usurper
was represented as having been assailed at sea by a furious storm,
similar in its effects to that in his contemplation, and wrecked on
an enchanted and almost desert island, inhabited only by a savage,
an aërial spirit, a young lady, and her father, the rightful prince,
whom that usurper had despoiled of his dukedom. It follows,
therefore, that our poet, on this occasion, must have taken a
course somewhat different from what he usually pursued; and
that, in order to avail himself of the popular topick thus presented
to him, he was under the necessity of adopting such incidents as
he could either invent or quickly find, taking care that they should
sufficiently harmonize with the particular fact on which he had
already determined to write a play. Of that part of the story which was suggested by the disastrous
storm above mentioned, enough has already been said; and with
respect to all the rest of the fable, it was, I am persuaded, in a
great measure, of his own invention; set on work and aided in a
slight degree, partly by a play written about twenty years before
by one of his dramatick predecessors, whose reputation then stood
extremely high, and to whom he has other similar obligations;
partly, by the sixth metrical tale of George Turberville, one of
the most distinguished poets of his time; and partly by the popular
histories of voyages of discovery with which Shakspeare
doubtless was perfectly conversant.
That it may be seen whether what I have now suggested be
well founded, it will be necessary to review the principal circumstances
that occur in The Tempest, of which the story is shortly
this:— Prospero, Duke of Milan, being fond of study and retirement,
delegates his power in a great measure to his younger brother,
Antonio, who confederates with Alonso, King of Naples, in order
to deprive his elder brother of his dukedom, and to obtain it absolutely
for himself; and to induce that King to assist him in
effectuating this unjust and wicked scheme, he promises to pay
tribute, and to do homage, to Naples, or, in other words, to
make Milan a fief to that crown. Alonso having agreed to assist
him on that condition, by their joint efforts: Prospero, who was
extremely popular, and whom therefore they could not venture to
kill, was hurried away with his daughter Miranda, the heir of his
dukedom, and at three years old first put on board a bark, and
finally into an old and rotten boat without sail or hulling,
with only some fresh water and a scanty supply of provisions,
together with a few books and some of his more costly and
splendid garments, with which he was furnished by the humanity
of Gonzalo, an old courtier. By the Divine mercy they arrived
safely on a desert island, about twelve years before the commencement
of the play. Miranda being at that time an infant, had no
recollection of ever having seen a man. On this island, on
which they found no human creature but a savage named Caliban,
their mansion was only a poor cell, where Prospero amused his
solitary hours with educating and instructing his daughter. Alonso, who had been his inveterate enemy, having agreed to
marry his daughter Claribel to the King of Tunis, for that purpose
goes thither by sea, accompanied by his brother Sebastian, his
son Ferdinand, his daughter already mentioned, and some of his
courtiers; together with Antonio, the usurping Duke of Milan.
Having left the lady with her husband at Tunis, they embarked
again in several ships, intending to return to Naples; and after
sailing for some time, they came near the island on which the
banished Duke of Milan and his daughter lived. Prospero, who
had studied the necromantick art, and therefore could at his pleasure
command the elements, finding his enemies now in his
power, raises a great tempest, that wrecks the King's ship only,
which is safely lodged in a deep nook of the isle, so that none of
the passengers are lost. The rest of the fleet, after having been
dispersed by the storm, meet in consort, and return in great grief
to Naples, supposing that the vessel which carried the King was
lost, and, consequently, that he had perished. Ferdinand, the King's son, by the management of Prospero,
being separated from his father, and landed on a different part of
the island, Alonso, supposing him drowned, is plunged in extreme
grief for his loss. Ferdinand, however, being preserved, is by
Prospero's art brought to the same part of the island where he and
Miranda reside; and on seeing the lady falls at once in love with
her. She is no less struck with him; and after some little difficulty,
Prospero consents to their marriage. In the mean while he confines Alonso, and those who had
landed with him, in a lime-grove near his cell, under the charge
of one of his spirits named Ariel. After having for some time,
punished his brother Antonio, and his confederate the King of
Naples, together with their followers, who, being terrified by demons,
become distracted, his generous nature inclines him to
pardon them all; which he accordingly does, extending the
same mercy to Caliban and his accomplices, who had conspired
to murder him; and after having shown them his power by “an
airy charm,” he resolves to break his staff, to drown his book, and
to abjure the necromantick art for ever. He then gives Alonso
the pleasing intelligence of the safety of his son, and his marriage
to Miranda, and introduces them to their father; and having informed
the King that he would accompany him to Naples, to be
present at the solemnization of the marriage of Ferdinand and
Miranda, and afterwards resume his dukedom at Milan, he concludes
the play by an Epilogue soliciting the favour of the audience. Independent of the magick of this comedy, and all that concerns
Miranda, Ariel, and Caliban, the plot, as appears from this
slight sketch of it, is very simple; and, as far as relates to the
marriage of Clanvil, at Tunis, was, I imagine, suggested by one
of Turberville's tales; the rest, independent of the tempest (the
origin of which has been given elsewhere) was, I conceive, suggested
by a play written by Robert Green, and entitled “The
comical history of Alphonsus, King of Arragon,” which was
printed in 1599, but must have been written several years before,
the author having died in the year 1592. In the first scene of Greene's play, which, though denominated
a comedy, has no claim whatsoever to that title, being in truth a
most sad dramatick history, Carinus, the father of Alphonsus,
informs him, that he (Carinus) is the rightful heir to the crown
of Arragon; but that his father, Ferdinandus, was several years
ago put to death by his (Ferdinandus') younger brother, in consequence
of which cruel act, Flaminius, the son of that brother,
at that moment possessed the crown of Arragon. On this information,
Alphonsus, in spite of his father's entreaties, vows he
will endeavour to recover the crown; and for that purpose, having
left his father, he tenders his services to Belinus, King of Naples,
then at war with the usurping King of Arragon, on condition that,
if he should be victorious, he shall have whatever he demands,
even the crown of Arragon itself. Belinus agrees to this condition,
and Alphonsus engages in the battle, which had at this
time commenced: and having killed his kinsman, Flaminius, the
usurper of Arragon, he claims the crown, and obtains it; but on
his insisting that the King of Naples should do him homage, they
quarrel, and Alphonsus turns his arms against Belinus; who, in
spite of the support which he derived from his ally the Duke
of Milan, and a considerable body of forces which that Prince
had brought with him to the combat, is completely routed,
and obliged to fly for succour to Amurach, Emperor of the
Turks. The Duke of Milan having been a principal agent in assisting
the younger brother of Ferdinandus, the grandfather of Alphonsus,
to deprive Ferdinandus of his life, to banish Carinus and himself,
the rightful heirs of Arragon, and to transmit the crown
wrongfully to Flaminius. Alphonsus, now invested with regal
power, had particular pleasure in depriving him of his dukedom:
a feeling which he indulges immediately after the battle, by
creating Miles, one of his followers, Duke of Milan, in his room:
Lelius, another follower, he makes King of Naples, in the room
of the fugitive Belinus; and to Albinius, one of the generals of the
routed king, he gives the crown of Arragon; intending himself
to pursue Belinus, even to the foot of Amurach's throne. The deposed Duke of Milan, having escaped from the battle with
life, flies, we are not told whither, and is afterwards introduced in
great distress, having wandered about without food for three days.
In this unhappy state (like Antonio in The Tempest) he meets
Carinus, the man whom he had so grievously wronged, near the
cell in which that unfortunate prince had lived for twenty years.
Carinus soon recognizes his old enemy, and, after some conversation,
stabs him; and having previously learned from him that
Alphonsus had overcome the King of Naples and recovered the
crown of Arragon, he determines to go immediately to Naples,
to witness his son's elevation to his new dignity. With the remainder
of this play—the war of Alphonsus against Belinus and
Amurach, and his final marriage with Iphigena, Amurach's
daughter, we have no concern. Undoubtedly Shakspeare was induced to place a magician in his
desert island, by the accounts of the Bermudas, recently published
before he wrote this play. This magician he has named Prospero;
and it seems to me in the highest degree probable that the
thought of making Prospero Duke of Milan—of deposing him by
the artifice of a younger brother, in confederacy with the King of
Naples,—and of banishing the Duke, together with his daughter,
the rightful and sole heir of the dukedom,—was suggested by the
circumstance of the King of Arragon's being deprived of his
crown and life by his younger brother, with the aid of the Duke
of Milan, an active agent in effectuating that measure, and in banishing
Carinus and his son, Alphonsus, the rightful heirs of the
crown of Arragon, who fly to a remote country, and fix their residence
in the woods, in a miserable cell. Shakspeare, according
to his usual course, twisted the story to his own purpose. In
Greene's play, the Duke of Milan, instead of being the principal
personage, being a subordinate coadjutor with the younger brother
of Ferdinandus, in depriving his elder brother of a crown;
in Shakspeare's comedy, the King of Naples being confederate
with the younger brother of the Duke of Milan in depriving his
elder brother of his dukedom. The circumstances,—that Shakspeare's
king is king of Naples; and that a king of Naples is also
introduced in Greene's play; that a requisition of homage, though
not in the same form, nor for the same end, occurs in each of
these pieces—that the name of Ferdinand is found in both, though
in the Tempest he is the son, and in the history of Alphonsus
the father:—and that Greene's Duke is Duke of Milan, and in
the hour of distress is brought to the cell of the man whom he
had highly injured aud contributed to banish; all these circumstances,
I say, appear to me to add great probability to what has
been now suggested. The hints, however, furnished by Greene,
are so slight, that their adoption detracts no more from the merit
of Shakspeare than his having formed The Winter's Tale on the
same writer's Dorastus and Faunia. And still slighter is that supplied by the sixth tragical tale of
Turberville, which merely, I imagine, induced our author to
marry the daughter of Alonso to a king of Tunis. The argument
of that tale is as follows: William, King of Sicily, had a grandson named Gerbino, a very
accomplished knight, the fame of whose deserts had reached
the daughter of the King of Tunis, who at that time paid tribute to
the King of Sicily. The beauty and accomplishments of this lady
had also reached Gerbino, and so strongly excited his curiosity,
that he sent some merchants under the pretence of selling his
jewels, &c. to present his respects to her, and to bring him a more
particular description of her person. In consequence of their report
a correspondence took place between them, and they plighted
their troth to each other. In the mean while the King of Granate (Granada) had heard
of the great beauty of the daughter of the King of Tunis, and
made proposals of marriage to her in due form, and her father
consented to the match, to the great distress of the lady. The King of Tunis having had some intimation that his daughter
(whose name is not given) was attached to Gerbino, was apprehensive
that he might molest her in her passage by sea to the
King of Granada, to whom she was to be espoused; and therefore
sent an embassy to the King of Sicily, the grandfather of Gerbino,
to secure his friendship, and to obtain his promise that none of
his subjects should attack the vessel which was to carry his
daughter to Granada: which the Sicilian King knowing nothing
of his grandson's passion, faithfully promises, and sends his
gauntlet as a pledge of his good faith, to be carried with the lady
in a new ship which her father ordered to be built at Carthage
for her conveyance. The lady having heard how she was to be disposed of, immediately
sent a messenger to Gerbino at Palermo, to inform him of
this event, and that now was his time to give a proof of his courage,
and to save her from being made the wife of another. On
this intelligence, having provided two gallies well furnished with
rowers, he remained in Sardinia till his beloved mistress should
pass by. On observing her vessel approach, he embarked. The
Saracens on board her ship, showed him the gauntlet; which
was to be their passport; but to little purpose. Gerbino having
seen the lady on the poop of the ship for the first time, became
still more enamoured of her beauty; and tauntingly observed on
the production of the gauntlet, that having not brought his falcon
with him, he had no need of a glove, and that unless they resigned
the lady to him, he would destroy their ship and them. As
this requisition could not be complied with, the fight commences,
and after some time, the Saracens bring the lady on deck, and
having killed her, throw her limbs into the sea, telling Gerbino he
might thus possess her. In revenge for this insult, Gerbino destroyed
their ship; and having collected the fragments of the
body of his mistress, returns to Sicily, where his grandfather, for
his not having paid due respect to his gauntlet, orders him to be
executed. Such is Turberville's tale* note, formed on the fourth novel
of the fourth day of Boccace. Here too, I conceive Shakspeare twisted the story to his own
purpose; for in this tale we find the daughter of the King of Tunis
carried by sea to be married to the heir of Granada, and before she
arrives at her husband's court, destroyed and thrown into the deep:
In The Tempest, the King of Naples proceeds with his daughter
to Tunis, where she arrives in safety, and is married to the King;
and her father and brother are afterwards shipwrecked in their return
to Naples. There is, it must be acknowledged, nothing uncommon
between the two stories, except a passage by sea for the
purpose of marriage at Tunis, and a disaster attending that event;
in the one case preceding the marriage, in the other following it;
in one the bride sets out from Naples, arrives safe at Tunis, and is
married there; but her friends who accompany her are afterwards
plunged in the sea by a storm, from which, however, they suffer
but little: in the other the lady sets out from Tunis, but does not
arrive at the place of her destination, her own friends choosing to
throw her into the sea, rather than suffer her to be taken forcibly
out of their hands by a lover who they conceived had no title to
her.—Turberville's tale therefore is not produced as bearing any
striking resemblance to that part of The Tempest, with which it is
here placed in juxtaposition; but merely as it might have led our
poet,—when for the purpose of giving dignity to his storm he
found it expedient to introduce a royal party on the sea,—to make
the business that should place them on that element, the celebration
of a marriage at Tunis.* note With respect to the magick of this piece, it was unquestionably
Shakspeare's own. The popular notions that the Bermuda
Islands were an enchanted region possessed by devils, naturally
suggested the necromancy of Prospero and the agency of Ariel and
the other ministering spirits introduced in The Tempest; yet, necromancy
had been employed on the stage before our author's time.
In an old play, of which but one copy is known to exist, entitled
“The rare Triumphes of Love and Fortune, Plaide before the
Queenes most excellent majestie, wherein are manie fine conceites
with great delight,” 4to. 1589† note. Romelio, on a false charge
having been banished by Duke Phyzantius, assumes the disguise
of a hermit, takes refuge in a cave, and studies the black art,
which he practises with such success that he strikes Armenio, the
Duke's son, dumb; and then assuming the character of an uplandish
Physician, he by his art cures him again and restores him
to his speech. Hermione, his son, who is in love with Fidelia,
the Duke's daughter, is so disgusted with necromancy, that in his
father's absence he resolves to burn his books, which being done
the father loses his power, and goes mad. Previously to this act,
Hermione enters with some of his father's books under his arm,
and recites the following lines:
Here clearly is no other archetype than what many of the romances
of the time would have furnished. It is one of the first
principles of necromancy, that when the books of the magician are
destroyed, his power is at an end; and accordingly Prospero when
be abjures magick, says, he will bury his staff or rod, and “deeper
than ever plummet sounded drown his book.” We have now considered the several parts of the story of this
piece. It remains only to investigate and trace the character of
Caliban, which, though in some respects invented by our author,
was yet not entirely without an archetype. This archetype, as my
very learned friend Dr. Vincent, Dean of Westminster, suggests
to me, may be found in Pigafetta's Account of Magliani's, or, as
we call him, Magellan's Voyage to the Southern Pole; and I entirely
agree with him in thinking that the Savage, who came
aboard his ship, by that voyager called a Patagonian, was the remote
progenator of the servant-monster in The Tempest. Of this
savage our poet found a particular account in Robert Eden's History
of Travaile, 4to. 1577, which çontains an abbreviated translation
of Pigafetta's work. Eden's book being far from common, it
will be proper here to extract from it what relates to our present
subject: “Departyng from hence (says the translator) they sayled to the
49 degree and a halfe under the pole antartike; where being wyntered,
they were inforced to remayne there for the space of two
monethes; all which tyme they saw no man: except that one day
by chaunce they espyed a man of the stature of a giant, who came
to the haven dounsing and singyng, and shortly after seemed to
cast dust over his head. The captayne sent one of his men to the
shore, with the shippe boate, who made the lyke signe of peace.
The which thyng the giant seeing, was out of feare, and came with
the captayne's servant, to his presence, into a little ilande. When
he sawe the captayne with certayne of his company about him, he
was greatly amased, and made signes, holding up his hande to heaven,
signifying thereby, that our men came from thence. This
giant was so byg, that the head of one of our men of a meane stature
came but to his waste. He was of good corporation, and well
made in all partes of his bodie, with a large visage painted with
divers colours, but for the most parte, yelow. Uppon his cheekes
were paynted two hartes, and red circles about his eyes. The
heare of his head was coloured whyte, and his apparell was the
skynne of a beast sowde togeather. This beast (as seemed unto
us,) had a large head, and great eares lyke unto a mule, with the
body of a camell and tayle of a horse. The feete of the giant were
foulded in the sayde skynne, after the manner of shooes. He had
in his hande a bygge and shorte bowe, the sleyng whereof was
made of a sinewe of that beaste. He had also a bundle of long
arrowes made of reedes, feathered after the manner of ours, typte
with sharpe stones, in the stead of iron heades. The captayne
caused him to eate and drinke, and gave him many thinges and
among other a great looking glasse, in the which as soone as he
sawe his own lykeness, was sodaynly afrayde, and started backe
with suche violence, that hee overthrewe two that stood nearest
about him. When the captayne had thus gyven him certayne
haukes belles, and other great belles, with also a lookyng glasse,
a combe, and a payre of beades of glasse, he sent him to lande
with foure of his own men well armed. Shortly after, they sawe
an other giant of somewhat greater stature with his bowe and
arrowes in his hande. As hee drew nearer unto our men, hee
layde his hande on his head, and poynted up towards heaven,
and our men dyd the lyke. The captayne sent his shippe boate
to bring him to a litle ilande, beyng in the haven. This giant
was very tractable and pleasaunt. He soong and daunsed, and
in his daunsing lefte the print of his feete on the ground.—After other xv dayes were past, there came foure other giantes,
without any weapons but had hid their bowes and arrowes in certaine
bushes. The captayne retayned two of these, which were
youngest and best made. He tooke them by a deceite, in this
maner;—that giving them knyves, sheares, looking glasses, belles,
beades of chrystal and such other trifles, he so fylled their handes,
that they coulde holde no more; then caused two payre of
shackels of iron to be put on their legges, making signes that he
would also give them those chaynes, which they lyked very well,
because they were made of bright and shining metall. And
whereas they could not carry them bycause theyr handes were
full, the other giantes would have caryed them, but the captayne
would not suffer them. When they felt the shackels fast about
theyr legges, they began to doubt; but the captayne dyd put them
in comfort, and bade them stande still. In fine, when they sawe
how they were deceived, they roared lyke bulles, and cryed uppon
their great devill, Setebos, to help them.—They say, that when
any of them dye, there appeare x or xii devils, leaping and daunsing
about the bodie of the dead, and seeme to have their bodies
paynted with divers colours, and that among other there is one
seene bigger then the residue, who maketh great mirth and rejoysing.
This great Devyll they call Setebos, and call the lesse
Cheleule. One of these giantes which they tooke, declared by
signes that he had seene devylles with two hornes above their
heades, with long heare downe to theyr feete, and that they caste
foorth fyre at theyr throates, both before and behind. The captayne
named these people Palagoni. The most parte of them
weare the skynnes of such beastes whereof I have spoken before.
They lyve of raw fleshe, and a certayne sweete roote which they
call capar.” When various passages in this comedy, and the language,
dress, and general demeanour of Caliban* note are considered; there
can, I think, be little doubt that in the formation of that character
Shakspeare had the foregoing passages in his thoughts. Holland's
translation of Pliny also, I think, furnished him with some
traits of his monster. In the first chapter of the seventh book of
the Natural History, which treats of the “strange and wondrous
shapes of sundrie nations,” we find the following passage:
“Tanson writeth that the Choromandæ are a savage and wild
people: distinct voice, and speech they have none† note
Spenser, in the dedication of his Wild Man, Fairy Queen,
book vi. c. iv. st. 11: [for a special purpose, however, the great
poet has given some other tints to his portrait.] I may add, that having formed the character of his savage by
blending together these several descriptions, and made him the
offspring of a devil and Sycorax; he also in its composition availed
himself of the current notions prevalent in his own time respecting
the Devil and the Powke or Robin Goodfellow, as appears from
various passages in this comedy* note
The names of the principal characters in this play are, Alonso, Sebastian, Prospero, Antonio, Ferdinand, Gonzalo, Adrian, Francisco, Caliban, Miranda, and Ariel. I had long entertained a notion that several of these names were suggested to Shakspeare, by some book of voyages, which he had recently read before he sat down to write it. And the perusal of Eden's History of Travaile, 1577, already mentioned, abundantly confirms that opinion; for there are found the names of Alonso, Ferdinand, (which was likewise presented to him by Greene's play,) Sebastian, Gonzales (which he has changed to Gonzalo), and Antonio† note
; a circumstance that adds some support to what has been already suggested concerning the character of Caliban, being partly formed on some passages in that book. The name of Adrian, which does not, I think, occur in that work, was probably borrowed from Adrian Gilbert, a great voyager, the brother of Sir Humphrey Gilbert, and the half-brother of Sir Walter Ralegh. That of Ariel was taken from the sacred writings: “Woe to Ariel, to Ariel, the city where David dwelt!” Isaiah, xxix. l. See also the fourth and sixth verses, which may have particularly struck our author, and induced him thus to denominate Prospero's principal ministering spirit: “And thou [Ariel] shalt be brought down, and shalt speak out of the ground, and thy speech shall be low out of the dust, and thy voice shall be, as of one that hath a familiar spirit, out of the ground, and thy speech shall whisper out of the dust.”—“Thou shalt be visited of the Lord of Hosts with thunder, and with earthquake, and great noise, with storm and tempest, and the flame of devouring fire.” Caliban, as was long since observed by Dr. Farmer, is merely the metathesis of Canibal. Of the Canibals a long account is given by Eden, ubi supra. The name of Claribel introduced in this play, though not one of the persons represented, is found in the old History of George Lord Faulconbridge, which was printed in the reign of Queen Elizabeth. She there appears as the concubine of Richard the First, and mother of the Lord Faulconbridge. But in the present instance, the name most probably was taken from Spenser's Faery Queene, book ii. c. iv. where Claribell, the betrothed mistress of Phaon is introduced: “‘&lblank; a lady fayre, of great degree, “‘The which was born of noble parentage, “‘And sat in highest seat of dignitie.’” * note
The origin of Setebos, who, like Claribel, is only spoken of, has been already pointed out; and an ingenious critick has with great probability shown that the name of Sycorax may have been ormed from a passage in Batman's revised translation of Bartholome de Proprietatibus, edit. 1582, lib. xiii. c. 10* note. Though Greene's play presented the name of Alphonsus (which is the same as Alphonzo or Alonzo,) and Ferdinand, I think it not improbable that our poet may have also had in his thoughts Dent's translation of the History of Philip de Comines, folio, 1596, p. 293; where an account is given of the conduct of Alphonso or Alonzo, the second king of Naples, and his son Ferdinand, (a prince of twenty-four years of age,) when their capital was assailed by Charles the Eighth of France, instigated by Lewis Sforza, who wished to wrest the duchy of Milan from his nephew, the reigning Duke. In the opposite page we find these words: “Notwithstanding he [Pope Alexander the Sixth,] held still in prison the Cardinall Ascoigne [Asconius] his Vice-Chancellor, and brother to the duke of Milan, and Prospero Calonne, some said by their own accord:” and a little lower we have—“under the leading of the Lord Rodolph of Mantua, and the Lord Galeot of Mirandala.” Did not these personages suggest the names of Prospero and (by contraction,) Miranda? Prospero, however, had before been introduced in the scene in the original representation of Every Man in his Humour, and was indeed the name of a riding master in London in Shakspeare's time, who probably was a Neapolitan. From these statements it should seem that the sources from which the names of the several characters in this comedy were drawn, were as various as those from which the story of the piece itself was derived. The three principal incidents of The Tempest, independent of the magick, we have seen, are, the storm, and consequent shipwreck on a desert island; the previous deposition of the Duke of Milan, and the banishment of him and his daughter; and the marriage of the daughter of the King of Naples to the King of Tunis. Having found disjecti membra poetæ, the ground and seed-plot of the first of these incidents, in a real fact of the time; of the second, in a dramatick fiction of a writer with whom Shakspeare was well acquainted, and to whom in another instance in the year immediately preceding he was indebted; and the hint, at least, which might have given rise to the third; it is, I conceive, unnecessary, and would be in vain, to seek for any tale or novel comprizing a connected series of circumstances and adventures, similar to those which form the subject of this comedy. In uniting two very different events in this play, and connecting that of the storm with the fabricated story of the Duke of Milan, (formed probably, in a certain degree, on some of the circumstances in Greene's Alphonsus,) he has only followed the course which he appears to have pursued in The Merchant of Venice; for the story of the bond, and that of the caskets, are two distinct tales, wholly independent of each other; and no narrative has yet been found in which they were united previously to the appearance of that play. The hints which gave rise to the beautiful comedy before us, are so slight that they leave our author in full possession of the highest praise that the most original and transcendent genius can claim. The character of Prospero considered, not as Duke of Milan, but as the father of Miranda, and a magician; those of Miranda herself, of Ariel, and of Caliban (in a great measure), and all the comick characters, in which our poet took great delight, and of which he had an inexhaustible fund in his mind, are unquestionably all the creatures of his own boundless imagination. Malone. However well founded Mr. Malone may be in supposing that many suggestions as to the conduct of the fable in this play were derived from the sources he has pointed out, yet I cannot but still be of opinion that there was some novel which Mr. Collins had seen, such as he described. “His disorder (as Johnson has decribed it in his Lives of the Poets) was not alienation of mind, but general laxity and feebleness, a deficiency rather of his vital than intellectual powers.” Such a person was much more likely to have confounded in his memory two books which he had met with nearly at the same time, than to have fancied that he had read what existed only in his own imagination. Nor does it follow, as Mr. Malone objects, that he must have happened to meet with this story just at the very time he wanted it. We may suppose that he had stored up in his memory a variety of such materials, quæ mox depromere possit. Besides, it is not said that the storm made any part of the novel, but that it principally appeared to have suggested the magical part of The Tempest. I have indeed been told by a friend that he had some years ago actually perused an Italian novel which answered to Mr. Collins's description; but as it cannot be now recovered, I shall not venture to say any thing more upon that point. Boswell.
note.
PERSONS REPRESENTED* [Footnote:
TEMPEST.
Enter Mariners wet.
| |||
Volume 15: King John
PRELIMINARY REMARKS.
The edition of 1611 has no mention of Rowley, nor in the account
of Rowley's works is any mention made of his conjunction
with Shakspeare in any play. King John was reprinted, in two
parts, in 1622. The first edition that I have found of this play, in
its present form, is that of 1623, in folio. The edition of 1591
I have not seen.
Johnson. Dr. Johnson mistakes, when he says there is no mention, in
Rowley's works, of any conjunction with Shakspeare. The Birth
of Merlin is ascribed to them jointly, though I cannot believe
Shakspeare had any thing to do with it. Mr. Capell is equally
mistaken, when he says, (Pref. p. 15) that Rowley is called his
partner in the title-page of The Merry Devil of Edmonton. There must have been some tradition, however erroneous, upon
which Mr. Pope's account was founded. I make no doubt that
Rowley wrote the first King John; and, when Shakspeare's play
was called for, and could not be procured from the players, a piratical
bookseller reprinted the old one, with W. Sh. in the title-page
Farmer. The elder play of King John was first published in 1591.
Shakspeare has preserved the greatest part of the conduct of it,
as well as some of the lines. A few of those I have pointed out,
and others I have omitted as undeserving notice. The number of
quotations from Horace, and similar scraps of learning scattered
over this motley piece, ascertain it to have been the work of a
scholar. It contains likewise a quantity of rhyming Latin, and
ballad-metre; and in a scene where the Bastard is represented as
plundering a monastery, there are strokes of humour, which seem,
from their particular turn, to have been most evidently produced
by another hand than that of our author. Of this historical drama there is a subsequent edition in 1611,
printed for John Helme, whose name appears before none of the
genuine pieces of Shakspeare. I admitted this play some years
ago as our author's own, among the twenty which I published
from the old editions; but a more careful perusal of it, and a further
conviction of his custom of borrowing plots, sentiments, &c.
disposes me to recede from that opinion.
Steevens. A play entitled The Troublesome Raigne of John King of England,
in two parts, was printed in 1591, without the writer's name.
It was written, I believe, either by Robert Greene, or George
Peele; and certainly preceded this of our author. Mr. Pope, who
is very inaccurate in matters of this kind, says that the former was
printed in 1611, as written by W. Shakspeare and W. Rowley.
But this is not true. In the second edition of this old play, in
1611, the letters W. Sh. were put into the title-page to deceive
the purchaser, and to lead him to suppose the piece was Shakspeare's
play, which, at that time, was not published,—See a more
minute account of this fraud in An Attempt to Ascertain the Order
of Shakspeare's Plays, vol. ii. Our author's King John was
written, I imagine, in 1596. The reasons on which this opinion
is founded may be found in that Essay.
Malone. Though this play have the title of The Life and Death of King
John, yet the action of it begins at the thirty-fourth year of his
life, and takes in only some transactions of his reign to the time
of his demise, being an interval of about seventeen years.
Theobald. It takes in the whole of his reign, which lasted only seventeen
years: his accession was in 1199, and his death in 1216.
Malone. Hall, Holinshed, Stowe, &c. are closely followed, not only in
the conduct, but sometimes in the very expressions, throughout
the following historical dramas; viz. Macbeth, this play, Richard II.
Henry IV. two parts, Henry V. Henry VI. three parts, Richard III.
and Henry VIII. A booke called The Historie of Lord Faulconbridge, bastard
Son to Richard Cordelion, was entered at Stationers' Hall,
Nov. 29, 1614; but I have never met with it, and therefore know
not whether it was the old black letter history, or a play upon
the same subject. For the original King John, see Six old Plays
on which Shakspeare founded, &c. published by S. Leacroft,
Charing-cross.
Steevens. The Historie of Lord Faulconbridge, &c. is a prose narrative,
in bl. l. The earliest edition that I have seen of it was printed in
1616. But by an entry on the Stationers' Registers, 29th November,
1614, it appears that there had been an old edition of the tract entitled
The History of George W. Faulconbridge, the son of Richard
Cordelion, and that the copy had been assigned by [William]
Barley to Thomas Beale. A book entitled Richard Cur de Lion was entered on the Stationers'
books in 1558.
A play called The Funeral of Richard Cordelion, was written
by Robert Wilson, Henry Chettle, Anthony Mundy, and Michael
Drayton, and first exhibited in the year 1598. See The Historical
Account of The English Stage, vol. iii.
Malone.
PERSONS REPRESENTED.
King John.
KING JOHN.
Re-enter Sheriff, with Robert Faulconbridge, and
Philip, his bastard Brother8 note
Trumpets sound. Enter Citizens upon the walls.
Enter King John, King Philip, Lewis, Blanch,
Elinor, Bastard, Austria, and Attendants.
Enter Constance.
Enter the Bastard.
Re-enter Bigot and Attendants, who bring in King John in a Chair.
he thought Mr. Malone's theory might be controverted.
I cannot think he was successful in his
efforts; but as his pamphlet was privately printed,
and bore on its title-page that it was “not published,
nor intended to be;” I should not think myself
justified in making it the subject of discussion.
Boswell.
THE following Account of the circumstances attending
the storm by which Sir George Somers
was shipwrecked on the island of Bermuda, in the
year 1609, which unquestionably gave rise to
Shakspeare's Tempest, and suggested to him the
title, as well as some incidents, of that admirable
comedy, was written some years ago, and shown to
a highly valued friend* note, whose literary attainments
and love of curious inquiry always incline him to
lend a favourable ear to the researches of others. The immediate connexion between Shakspeare's
play and the tempest above alluded to, not having
been noticed by any preceding editor or commentator,
I conceived this discovery, which forms the
subject of the following pages, to be exclusively
my own; but the Observations on this poet by a
learned and ingenious critick† note
published within these few days, have shown me
my mistake in this respect, the same notion having
also struck the author of that valuable and entertaining
work. That gentleman, however, whose
remarks abundantly evince that his candour is equal
to his learning and judgment, I doubt not, will be
pleased to find his statement on this subject strengthened
and confirmed by authentick evidence, and
the true date of this delightful comedy indisputably
ascertained.
THE TEMPEST, 1611.
In the Essay on the Chronological Order of
Shakspeare's Plays, published in 1790, I observed,
that probably some particular and late misfortune
at sea gave rise to the comedy now under our consideration,
and induced our poet to denominate it
The Tempest. On further investigation of this
subject, and after perusing some curious and very
scarce tracts of that time, which I had not then
seen, I have no doubt that my conjecture was perfectly
well founded, and that the leading circumstance
of this play, from which its title is derived,
was suggested to Shakspeare by a recent disaster,
which doubtless engaged much of the conversation
of his contemporaries,—the dreadful hurricane that
dispersed the fleet of Sir George Somers and Sir
Thomas Gates, in July 1609, on their passage with
a large supply of provisions and men for the infant
colony in Virginia; by which the Admiral ship, as
it was called, having those commanders on board,
was separated from the rest of the fleet, and wrecked
on the island of Bermuda. The principal circumstances
indeed correspond so precisely, that at the
first view it may appear strange, that the true origin
of this comedy was not long since found out; but
the wonder on that head will cease, when it is considered
how very difficult it is to ascertain the minute
particulars of an event that happened near two
hundred years ago, and that accident alone can
furnish us with the volumes which composed
Shakspeare's library. Without the aid of those
tracts in which the various circumstances of this
misadventure were related, the resemblance between
certain passages in the play and the archetype
on which it was formed, could not be discovered.
I may add, that our poet himself also, in
some measure, contributed to lead the most sedulous
inquirer astray, by very properly making the
scene of his piece an island at a considerable distance
from Bermuda, in order to give the magical
part of his drama a certain mysterious dignity
which Bermuda itself, then the general topick of
conversation, could not have had. Without having
read Tacitus, he well knew that omne ignotum
pro magnifico est; that an unknown island
would give a larger scope to his imagination, and
make a greater impression on theatrical spectators,
than one of which the more enlightened part of his
audience had recently read a minute and circumstantial
account.—Unquestionably, however, the
circumstance of Bermuda's having been considered
an enchanted island gave rise to the magick of The
Tempest, and was immediately in his thoughts
during its composition. Our poet's great patron, the Earl of Southampton,
had early shown a strong disposition to encourage
voyages of discovery; in which a principal motive
that actuated him and other distinguished persons
of those times, seems to have been the hope of
civilizing and converting the savages of remote
countries to Christianity. In the year 1605, in
conjunction with his brother-in-law, Lord Arundel,
of Wardour, he had fitted out a ship under the
command of Captain George Weymouth, with a
view to make discoveries on the coast of Virginia.
On what part of the large district which then bore
that name he landed, is not exactly known; but a
very intelligent writer supposes that he sailed up
the river of Connecticut. His stay, however, was
very short: for after having for some time explored
the country, and carried on some traffick with the
natives, from whom he had taken five Indians as
hostages during his intercourse with them, finding
reason to believe that some treachery was intended
towards him, he speedily set sail for England, where
he arrived on the 18th of July, after an absence of
about three months; bringing with him the Indians
above-mentioned. Two of those savages, Namontack
and Machumps, lived to sail for their own
country with Sir George Somers in 1609; another,
named Tantum, sailed for Virginia with Captain
Smith in 1614; and the other two probably died
in London, and one of them (or some other Indian)
was exhibited as a show after his death, a circumstance
to which Shakspeare has alluded in the second
act of this comedy, Sc. II.; and which, though
then unacquainted with these particulars, I formerly
suggested, as likely to contribute some aid
in fixing the date of The Tempest: but if even the
day of the death of either of them were known, it
would only ascertain a time before which the play
could not have been composed, unless it were
shewn that some Indian had previously died, and
been exhibited in London; and I am now not under
the necessity of having recourse to such uncertain
grounds of conjecture, as I shall be able to point
out the precise period when this beautiful comedy
was written and first represented. In 1608, Captain Harlow was sent to Cape Cod
by Lord Southampton and some of the inhabitants
of the isle of Wight, of which he was Governour,
and brought back with him five Indians, one of
whom was named Epinew, or Epinow, a man of
extraordinary stature and strength, who was exhibited
for money in various parts of London. I have mentioned the voyages of Captains Weymouth
and Harlow, because they were undertaken
partly at the charge of Lord Southampton, and
must on that account alone have attracted our
poet's notice, and drawn his attention to the colonial
projects that took place at this period. Men's
thoughts indeed were then so strongly directed
towards the new world, that the successes and miscarriages
of the several adventurers who went there
could not but have been a very general topick of
conversation, as is evinced by the various publicaon
those subjects* note
A new charter having been granted in May 1609,
to the Company for making a plantation and settlement
in Virginia, it was resolved by the Treasurer
and Council of that Company to send thither immediately
a large supply of men and provisions.
Of the disaster which befell the fleet employed on
that occasion, the following clear and succinct account
has been given by a very sensible modern
historian. To his narrative I shall subjoin the more
minute and particular relation of one engaged in
this adventure, as well as that printed by authority
of the Council; which will fully shew that the incidents
attending it suggested to Shakspeare the
leading circumstance of this comedy: “The New Charter,” says the Reverend Mr.
Stith, “was granted to the Earls of Salisbury,
Suffolk, Southampton, Pembroke, and other
peers, to the number of twenty-one; to the Honourable
George Percy and Francis West, Esquires;
to Sir Humphrey Weld, Lord Mayor of London,
and ninety-eight other knights; and to Dr. Mathew
Sutcliff, with a great multitude more of doctors,
esquires, gentlemen, officers, merchants and citizens,
together with many corporations and companies
of London. So many persons of great
power, interest, and fortune, engaging in the enterprise,
and the Lord Delaware with the other gentlemen
of distinction being appointed to the several
offices [of Captain General, &c.] soon drew in such
large sums of money, that they dispatched away
Sir Thomas Gates, [who had been constituted by
the Council for Virginia, Lieutenant-General,] Sir
George Somers, [Admiral,] and Captain Newport,
[Vice-Admiral,] with nine ships and five hundred
people. These three gentlemen had each of them
a commission,—who first arrived to call in the old.
But because they could not agree for place, it was
concluded that they should all go in one ship, called
the Sea-venture. They sailed from England the
latter end of May* note, 1609; but the 25th of July
the admiral-ship was parted from the rest
of the fleet by the tail of a hurricane, having
on board the three commanders, an hundred and
fifty men, their new commission and bills of lading,
together with all manner of instructions and directions,
and the best part of their provisions. She
arrived not, but was foundered at Bermudas, as
shall be hereafter related. A small catch likewise
perished in the hurricane; but the seven other
ships came safe” [to Virginia.]† note. “It hath been before said (continues the historian)
that the Admiral-ship, with Sir Thomas Gates,
Sir George Somers, and Captain Newport, on
board was separated from the rest of the fleet in a
storm. She was so racked and torn by the violent
working of the sea, and became so shattered and
leaky, that the water rose in the hold above two
tire of hogsheads; and they were obliged to stand
up to their middles, with kettles, buckets, and other
vessels to bail it out. And thus they bailed and
pumped three days and nights, without intermission;
and yet the water seemed rather to gain
upon them than decrease. At last, all being utterly
spent with labour, and seeing no hope, in
man's apprehension, but of presently sinking, they
resolved to shut up the hatches, and to commit
themselves to the mercy of the sea, and God's
good providence. In this dangerous and desperate
state, some who had good and comfortable
waters, fetched them, and drank to one another, as
taking their last leaves, till a more happy and
joyful meeting in the other world. But it pleased
God in his most gracious providence, so to guide
their ship to her best advantage, that they were all
preserved and came safe to shore. “For Sir George Somers had sat all this time
upon the poop, scarce allowing himself leisure either
to eat or sleep, cunning the ship* note, and keeping
her upright, or she must otherwise, long before this,
have foundered. As he there sat looking wishfully
about, he most happily and unexpectedly descried
land. This welcome news, as if it had been a voice
from heaven, hurried them all above hatches, to
see what they could scarce believe. But thereby
improvdiently forsaking their work, they gave such
an advantage to their greedy enemy, the sea, that
they were very nigh being swallowed up. But none
were now to be urged to do his best. Although
they knew it to be Bermudas, a place then dreaded
and shunned by all men, yet they spread all the
sail, and did every thing else, in their power, to
reach the land. It was not long before the ship
struck upon a rock, but a surge of the sea cast
her from thence, and so from one to another, till
she was most luckily thrown up between
two, as upright as if she had been on the
stocks. And now the danger was, lest the billows
overtaking her, should in an instant have
dashed and shivered her to pieces. But all on a
sudden the wind lay, and gave place to a calm, and
the sea became so peaceable and still, that with
the greatest conveniency and ease they unshipped
all their goods, victuals, and people, and in their
boats, with extreme joy, almost to amazement,
arrived in safety without the loss of a man,
although more than a league from the shore* note. “How these islands came by the name of Bermudas
is not certainly agreed. Some say, that
they were so named after John Bermudaz, a
Spaniard, who first discovered them about the year
1522. Others report, that a Spanish ship called
The Bermudas was cast away upon them, as she
was carrying hogs to the West-Indies; which swam
ashore and increased to incredible numbers. But
they had been in all times before infamous and terrible
to mariners, for the wreck of many Spanish,
Dutch, and French vessels. They were therefore,
with the usual elegance of the sea style, by many
called The Isle of Devils, and were esteemed
the hell or purgatory of seamen, the most dangerous,
unfortunate, and forlorn place in the world.
“But the safe arrival of this company is not
more strange and providential, than their feeding
and support was beyond all their hope or expectation:
for they found it the richest, pleasantest,
and most healthful place they had ever seen. Being
safe on shore, they dispersed themselves, some to
search the islands for food and water, and others to
get ashore what they could, from the ship. Sir
George Somers had not ranged far, before he
found such a fishery, that in half an hour he took
with a hook and line as many as sufficed the whole
company. In some places they were so thick in
the coves, and so big, that they were afraid to venture
in amongst them.—Two of these rock-fish
would have loaded a man, neither could any where
be found fatter or more excellent fish than they
were. Besides, there were infinite numbers of mullets,
pilchards, and other small fry; and by making
a fire in the night they would take vast quantities
of large craw-fish. As for hogs, they found them
in that abundance, that at their first hunting they
killed thirty-two. And there were likewise multitudes
of excellent birds in their seasons; and the
greatest facility to make their cabins with palmeta
leaves. This caused them to live in such plenty,
ease, and comfort, that many forgot all other
places, and never desired to return from thence* note.” Such is the narrative collected from authentick
papers of those times, and published at Williamsburg,
about sixty years ago, by the historian of
Virginia, which I have thought it proper to lay before
the reader in the first instance, because it describes
this misadventure in a very lively manner,
and is extremely well written. But from these
facts, it must be acknowledged, no satisfactory
and decisive conclusion can be drawn respecting the
date of this play, unless it can be shewn that they
were known by Shakspeare. I shall therefore proceed
to state not only how, but when, he became
acquainted with the peculiar circumstances attending
this disaster, to which he has alluded in The
Tempest; so as by this means, with the aid of
other documents, to ascertain precisely the time of
its composition. It has already been mentioned that seven ships
of Sir George Somers's fleet got to the place of
their destination, Virginia. Having landed about
three hundred and fifty persons, they set sail for
their own country. Two of them were wrecked
and perished on the point of Ushant; and “the
rest of the fleet (says a writer of those times) returned
to England in 1610, ship after ship, laden
with nothing but bad reports and letters of discouragement;
and, which added the more to our
crosse, they brought us newes, that the admiral-ship,
with the two knights and Captain Newport,
were missing, severed in a mightie storme outward,
and could not be heard of, which we therefore
yeelded as lost for many moneths together; and
so that virgine voyage, as I may terme it, which
went out smiling on her lovers with pleasant lookes,
after her wearie travailes did thus return with a rent
and disfigured face, for which how justly her friends
took occasion of sorrow, and others to insult and
scoffe, let men of reason judge* note.” The account of this disaster probably reached
England some time in December 1609, and was
brought either by Captain Smith, the former Governour
of Virginia, who left it at Michaelmas in that
year, or by the first of the five ships that arrived in
an English port. To dispel the gloom which this
ill news spread among the undertakers who had
fitted out the fleet, the Council of Virginia very
speedily issued out a pamphlet, which was published
either in December 1609, or early in January
1609–10, with a view of preventing the bad effects
that any exaggerated reports of this calamity might
produce. In this piece, after stating that Sir Thomas Gates,
Sir George Somers, and Captain Newport, with
seven ships and two pinnaces, sailed from Falmouth
on the 8th of June [1609], they add, that “in the
height of the Canaries, short of the West-Indies
150 leagues, on St. James's day, a terrible tempest
overtook them, and lasted in extremity forty-eight
hours, which scattered the whole fleet, and
wherein some of them spent their masts, and others
were much distressed.” Within three days, (they say
in substance) four of the fleet met in consort, and
hearing no news of the Admiral, they bore away for
the bay of Virginia, and arrived in the King's River on
the 11th of August. In eleven days afterwards arrived
two more; they having resolved to steer, not for
Barwada, (as originally determined in case of separation,)
but for that harbour; “which,” (say the
Council) “doubtless the Admiral himself did not
observe, but obeyed his own directions, and is the
true or probable cause of his being cast so far into
suspicion; where [whereas] perhaps bound in with
winde, or perhaps enforced to stay the masting or
mending somewhat in his ship, torn or lost in the
tempest, we doubt not but by the mercy of God
hee is safe, with the pinnace* note which attended him,
and shall both, or are by this time arrived at our
colony.” Not long afterwards (this tract informs us) one of
the pinnaces arrived in the river or bay of Virginia;
making seven out of the nine vessels that had
sailed from England. Four hundred persons were
landed from the several ships; “who being put
ashore without their Governour or any order from
him, (all the commissioners and principal persons
being aboord him,) no man would acknowledge a
superior, nor could from this headlesse and unbridled
multitude be any thing expected but disorder
and ryot, nor any counsell prevent or foresee
the successe of these wayes.” Still further to dispel the gloom which had arisen
on this failure, after stating the difficulties the
Spaniards had experienced in similar settlements,
the Council add,—“But to come hence to our purpose:
That which seems to dishearten or shake our
first grounds in this supplye, ariseth from two principal
sources, of which one was the cause of the
other; first, the tempest; and can any man expect
to answer for that? next, the absence of the
Governor, (an effect of the former,) for the loss of
him is in suspense, and much reason of his safetye
against some doubt; and the hand of God reacheth
all the earth.” They further inform the publick, that to redeem
the defects and misadventures of the last supply,
they had resolved to send forth the Lord De
la Ware as Governor, by the last of January
[1609–10]* note.
Not content with giving this statement of their
affairs, in the month of January or February 1609–10,
they issued out a paper, which bears the title of “A Publication by the Counsell of Virginia, touching the plantation there.
“Howsoever it came to pass by God's appointment
that governes all things, that the fleet of
eight shippes lately sent to Virginea, by meanes the
Admirall, wherein were shipped the chief Governours,
Sir Thomas Gates, Sir George Sommers,
and Captain Newport, by tempestuous windes and
forcible current were driven so farre to the westward,
that they could not in so convenient time recover
Cape Henrie, and the port in Virginea, as by
returne of the same fleete to answere the expectation
of the Adventurers, in some measure; “By occasion whereof some few of those unruly
youths sent thither, (beeing of most leaud and bad
condition, and such as no ground can hold,) for
want of good directions there were suffered by
stealth to get aboard the shippes returning thence,
and are come for England againe, giving out in all
places where they come, (to colour their own misbehaviour
and the cause of their returne with some
pretence,) most vile and scandalous reports, both of
the country it self, and of the cariage of the business
there:
“Which hath also given occasion that sundry
false rumours, and despightful speeches, have beene
devised and given out by men that seeme of better
sort, being such as lie at home, and doe gladly take
all occasions to cheere them selves with the prevention
of happy success in any action of publicke
good, disgracing both the action and actors of such
honourable enterprises, as whereof they neither
know nor understand the true intents and honest
ends; “Which howsoever for a time it may deterre and
keepe backe the hands and helpe of many well-disposed
men, yet men of wisdome and better resolution
doe well conceive and know that these devices
infused into the tongues and heades of such devisors,
by the father of untruths, doe serve for nothing
else but as a cloke to cover the wretched and leaud
prancks of the one sort, and the stupidity and backwardness
of the other, to advance any commendable
action that taxeth their purse, and tendeth not
wholly to their own advantage. “And therefore those of his Majesties Counsell
in this honourable plantation, the Lords, Knights,
Gentlemen, and Merchants, interessed therein,
rightly considering that as in all other good services,
so in this, much losse and detriment may
many waies arise and grow to the due meanes and
manner of proceeding, which yet no way toucheth
nor empeacheth the action it self, nor the ends of
it, which do still remaine entire and safe upon
the same grounds of those manifold christian duties,
whereon it was first resolved, are so farre from
yielding or giving way to any hindrance or impeachment
of their cheerfull going on, that many of them,
both honourable and worshipfull, have given their
hands and subscribed to contribute againe and
againe to new supplies, if need require. “And further they doe instantly prepare and
make ready a certain number of good shippes
with all necessaries, for the Right Honourable Lord
De la Ware, who intendeth, (God assisting) to be
ready with all expedition to second the aforesaid
Generals, which we doubt not are long since
safely arrived at their wished port in
Virginia. “And for that former experience hath too dearely
taught, how much and manie waies it hurteth, to
suffer parents to disbourden them selves of lascivious
sonnes, masters of bad servants, and wives
of ill husbands, and soe to clogge the businesse
with such an idle crue as did thrust them selves
in the last voiage, that will rather starve for hunger,
then lay their hands to any labour: “It is therefore resolved, that no such unnecessary
person shall now be accepted, but onely such
sufficient, honest, and good artificers, as
Bricklayers,
Mineral men,
Bakers,
Gun-founders,
Fishermen,
Plough-wrights,
Brewers,
Sawyers,
Fowlers,
Vine-dressers.
Surgeons,
and
Physicians for the body, and learned Divines to
instruct the Colony, and to teach the infidels to
worship the true God: of which so many as will
repaire to the house of Sir Thomas Smith, Treasurer
of the Company, to proffer their service in
this action, before the number be full, and will
put in good suretie to be readie to attend the said
Honourable Lord in the voyage, shall be entertained
with those reasonable and good conditions,
as shall answer and be agreeable to each man's
sufficiency in his several profession.* note” In April or May, 1610, Lord De la Ware, with
three ships, sailed for Virginia, and arrived at
James-Town on the 9th of June. Here first he
learned, that Sir Thomas Gates and Sir George
Somers were not lost, as had been supposed in
England, the two knights having arrived at Virginia
about a fortnight before him, in two cedar vessels
that they had built at Bermuda, from which they
sailed on the 10th of May, after having spent about
nine months on that island. Shortly afterwards,
(June 19, 1610* note,) the new Governour sent Sir
George Somers for a fresh supply of victuals to
Bermuda, where he died, Nov. 9, 1610, as appears
by an inquisition taken at Dorchester on the 26th
of July, 1611† note
During a great part of the year 1610, the fate of
Somers and Gates was not known in England; but
the latter, having been sent home by Lord Delaware,
arrived there in August or September, 1610;
and before the end of that year, in order to quiet
the minds of those who were concerned in this adventure,
and to assure the publick of the safety of
Sir George Somers, and those who had accompanied
him in the Sea-adventure, the Council of
Virginia published a Narrative of the disasters which
had befallen the fleet that had been sent out in
1609, from materials furnished by Sir Thomas
Gates. Previously however to its appearance, one Jourdan,
who probably returned from Virginia in the
same ship with that gentleman, pursuing a course
which we have seen practised in our own time, and
availing himself of the publick curiosity, anticipated
the authentick account by hastily drawing up a
narrative of this disastrous voyage, which appears
to have been issued out very expeditiously; for his
Dedication, which is addressed “to Master John
Fitzjames, Esquire, Justice of Peace in Dorsetshire,”
is dated on the 13th of October, 1610; but from
an apprehension, doubtless, that his publication
might have been forbidden by authority, if any previous
notice of it had been given, this pamphlet
was published without a license, not being entered
in the Stationers' Register. It is entitled, “A Discovery
of the Bermudas, otherwise called the isle
of divels; by Sir Thomas Gates, Sir George
Somers, and Captain Newport, with divers others* note.”
Though the substance of this narrative has already
been given in Mr. Stith's detail of the disaster produced
by the storm of July, 1609, it is necessary
to repeat some part of it, because here and in the
subsequent tract published by authority, it was,
that Shakspeare found those materials of which he
has availed himself in the comedy now under our
consideration. Jourdan, after informing his reader that he was
one of those who sailed from England with Sir
George Somers and Sir Thomas Gates, in the
Sea-adventure† note, proceeds to relate the circumstances
of the storm which happened on the 25th
of July, 1609. They were bound for Virginia, and
at that time in thirty degrees, north latitude. The
whole crew, amounting to one hundred and fifty
persons, weary with pumping, had given all for
lost, and began to drink their strong waters, and
to take leave of each other, intending to
commit themselves to the mercy of the sea. Sir
George Somers, who had sat three days and nights
on the poop, with no food and little rest, at length
descried land, and encouraged them (many from
weariness having fallen asleep) to continue
at the pumps. They complied; and fortunately
the ship was driven and jammed between two
rocks, “fast lodged and locked for further budging.”
One hundred and fifty persons got ashore;
and by means of their boat and skiff, for this was
“half a mile from land,” they saved such part of
their goods and provisions as the water had not
spoiled, all the tackling and much of the iron of
their ship, which was of great service to them in
fitting out another vessel to carry them to Virginia. “But our delivery,” says Jourdan, “was not
more strange in falling so opportunely and happily
upon the land, as [than] our feeding and provision
was, beyond our hopes, and all men's expectations,
most admirable; for the Islands of the Bermudas,
as every man knoweth that hath heard or read of
them, were never inhabited by any christian or
heathen people, but ever esteemed and reputed a
most prodigious and inchanted place, affording
nothing but gusts, storms, and foul weather; which
made every navigator and mariner to avoid them as
Scylla and Charybdis, or as they would shunne the
Divell himself: and no man was ever heard to
make for this place, but as, against their wils, they
have, by storms and dangerousnesse of the rocks
lying seven leagues into the sea, suffered shipwracke.
Yet did we finde there the ayre so
temperate and the country so aboundantly
fruitfull of all fit necessaries for the sustentation
and preservation of man's life, that, most in a manner
of all our provision of bread, beere, and victuall,
being quite spoyled in lying long drowned in salt
water, notwithstanding we were there for the space
of nine months (few days over or under) we were
not only well refreshed, comforted, and with good
satiety contented, but out of the aboundance
thereof provided us some reasonable quantity and
proportion of provision to carry us for Virginia, and
to maintain our selves and that company we found
there:—wherefore my opinion sincerely of this
island is, that whereas it hath beene, and is still
accounted the most dangerous, unfortunate, and
forlorne place of the world, it is in truth the richest,
healthfullest, and pleasing land, (the quantity and
bignesse thereof considered,) and meerely naturall,
as ever man set foote upon.” On the 28th of July they landed. They all then
began to search for provision. In half an hour Sir
Thomas Gates took as many fishes with hookes, as
sufficed the whole company for one day. When a
man stept into the water, the fish came round
about him. “These fishes were very fat and
sweete, and of that proportion and bignesse, that
three of them will conveniently lade two men:
those we called rock-fish. Besides, there are
such aboundance of mullets, that with a seane
might be taken at one draft one thousand at the
least; and infinite store of pilchards.” There was
also a great plenty of cray-fish. The country afforded
such an abundance of hogs, that Sir George
Somers, who hunted them, brought in thirty-two
at one time. “There is fowle in great aboundance in the
islands, where they breed, that there hath beene
taken in two or three howres a thousand at the
least, being of the bignesse of a good pigeon. “Another sea-fowle there is, that lyeth in little
holes in the ground, like unto a coney-hole, and
are in great numbers; exceeding good meat, very
fat and sweet, (those we had in the winter,) and
their egges are white, and of that bignesse, that
they are not to be knowne from hen-egges.” The birds he describes as exceedingly tame: they
came so near them, that they killed many of them
with a stick. They found great store of tortoises
or turtles; prickled pears in abundance, which
continued green on the trees all the year. The
island, he adds, was supplied with many mulberry
trees, white and red, palmits and cedar trees; and
no venemous creature was found there. Having built their new cedar bark* note, they set sail
from the Bermudas, May 10, 1610, (leaving, as appears
by other accounts, three men behind,) and
landed on the coast of Virginia, May 24, when they
found sixty persons only living and in distress. On
this account they determined to return to England;
and accordingly embarked, June 8, 1610, at James-Town
for Newfoundland, to get provisions for their
voyage; when fortunately, having got half way
down the river, they met Lord De la Ware, who
arrived from England with three ships. After
a while, Lord De la Ware sent Sir George Somers,
“a man of sixty years of age,” to Bermuda, for
provisions. He embarked at James-Town in the
small cedar bark of thirty tons, which he had built
at Bermuda, June 19, 1610; and the writer concludes
with a hearty wish for his good success and
safe return. To dissipate the gloom and despondency occasioned
by the disaster of the former year, and to
shew the practicability and probable advantages of
settling a colony in Virginia, were the principal objects
of the pamphlet published under the authority
of the Council in the latter end of 1610; which is
written with a vigour, animation, and elegance
rarely found in the tracts of those times. Though
that part of it with which alone we are concerned,
or in other words, which relates to Bermuda, differs
but little in substance from the account that preceded
it, relating nearly the same facts and events
in much better language, it is yet necessary to be
briefly noticed; because Shakspeare assuredly would
not neglect to peruse this authentick narrative* note
“True it is,” (says this Narrative,) “that when
Sir Thomas Gates, Sir George Summers, and Captaine
Newport, were in the height of 27, and the
24th of July, 1609, there arose such a storme, as if
Jonas had been flying unto Tarshish: the heavens
were obscured, and made an Egyptian night of
three daies perpetuall horror; the women lamented;
the hearts of the passengers failed; the experience
of the sea-captaines was amased; the skill of the
marriners was confounded; the ship most violently
leaked; and though two thousand tunne of water
by pumping from Tuesday noone till Fryday noone
was discharged, notwithstanding, the ship was halfe
filled with water: and those which laboured to
keepe others from drowning, were halfe drowned
themselves in labouring. But God, that heard
Jonas crying out of the belly of hell, he pittied the
distresses of his servants; for behold, in the last period
of necessitie, Sir George Summers descryed
land, which was by so much the more joyfull, by
how much their danger was despairefull. The
islands on which they fell, were the Bermudos; a
place hardly accessable, through the invironing
rocks and dangers: notwithstanding, they were
forced to runne their ship on shoare, which through
God's providence fell betwixt two rockes, that
caused her to stand firme, and not immediately to
be broken; God continuing his mercie unto them,
that with their long boats they transported to land
before night all their company, men, women, and
children, to the number of one hundred and fiftie;
they carryed to shoare all the provision of unspent
and unspoyled victuals, all their furniture and tackling
of the ship, leaving nothing but bared ribs as a
pray unto the ocean. “These islands of the Bermudos have ever been
accounted as an inchaunted pile of rockes, and
a desert inhabitation for divels; but all the
fairies of the rocks were but flocks of birds, and all
the divels that haunted the woods were but heards
of swine. Yea, and when Acosta, in his first booke
of the hystories of the Indies, averreth, that though
in the Continent there were diverse beasts and cattell,
yet in the islands of Hispaniola, Jamaica, Marguarita,
and Dominica, there was not one hoofe, it
increaseth the wonder how our people in the Bermudos
found such abundance of hogs, that for nine
moneths' space they plentifully sufficed; and yet
the number seemed not much diminished.—Again;
as in the great famine of Israell God commanded
Elias to flie to the brooke Cedron, and there fed
him by ravens, so God provided for our disconsolate
people in the midst of the sea by foules; but with
an admirable difference: unto Elias the ravens
brought meat, unto our men the foules brought
themselves for meate; for when they whisteled or
made any strange noyse, the foules would come
and sit on their shoulders; they would suffer them
selves to be taken and weighed by our men, who
would make choise of the fattest and fairest, and
let flie the leane and lightest: an accident I take
it, that cannot be parallel'd by any hystorie, except
when God sent abundance of quayles to feed his
Israel in the barren wildernesse. Lastly, they found
the berries of cedar, the palmeto tree, the prickle
peare, sufficient fish, plenty of tortoises, and divers
other kinds which sufficed to sustaine nature. They
found diversity of woods, which ministred materials
for the building of two pinaces, according to the direction
of the three provident Governours. “Consider all these things together. At the instant
of neede they descryed land; halfe an hower
more had buried their memorial in the sea. If they
had fel by night, what expectation of light from an
uninhabited desart? They fell betwixt a laberinth
of rockes, which they conceive are mouldred into
the sea by thunder and lightning. This was not
Ariadne's threed, but the direct line of God's providence.
If it had not beene so neere land, their
companie or provision had perished by water; if
they had not found hogs, and foule, and fish, they
had perished by famine: if there had not beene
fuell, they had perished by want of fire: if there
had not beene timber, they could not have transported
them selves to Virginia, but must have beene
forgotten for ever. Nimium timet, qui Deo non
credit; he is too impiously fearefull, that will not
trust in God so powerfull. “What is there in all this tragicall-comædie,
that should discourage us with impossibilitie of the
enterprise? when of all the fleete, one onely ship
by a secret leake was indangered, and yet in the
gulfe of despaire was so graciously preserved. Quæ
videtur pœna, est medicina; that which we accompt
a punishment of evill, is but a medecine against
evill* note.” From the preceding statements it appears, that
during a great part of the year 1610, it was supposed
in England, that the ship containing the
Lieutenant-Governor of the settlement in Virginia,
and Sir George Somers the Admiral, which had
been separated from the rest of the fleet, was lost;
but Shakspeare, when he wrote his play, knew
that it was safe; a circumstance ascertained by
Jourdan's pamphlet, and that issued out by the
Council; and therefore this comedy could not have
been written till after their publication, or at least
the publication of one of them: unless we suppose
that our poet had the very earliest intelligence
of the arrival of Sir Thomas Gates in August or
September in that year: and even on that supposition
the play must have been composed subsequently
to that period. However that may have
been it is reasonable to suppose that it was not
produced on the stage till the winter or spring of
1611, and we may safely ascribe it to the early
part of that year. That it was performed before
the middle of 1611, we have already seen† note.
It now remains to shew that Shakspeare, when
he wrote The Tempest, had in view the particular
disaster of which so ample an account has been
given. To fix as nearly as possible the exact time
of his writing it, I have said that he knew that the
Admiral-ship was safe; and this appears by the following
lines, which manifestly allude to that circumstance
and several others attending the tempest
that dispersed Somers's fleet, and finally
wrecked the vessel he was in, in one of the Bermuda
islands.
It is obvious, that we have here a covert allusion
to several circumstances minutely described in the
papers quoted in the preceding pages; to the circumstance
of the Admiral-ship being separated
from the rest of Somers's fleet, and after a tremendous
tempest, being jammed between two of the
Bermuda rocks, and “fast lodged and lock'd” as
Jourdan expresses it, “for further budging* note;” to
the disaster happening very near the shore, and not
a single person having perished† note; to the mariners
having fallen asleep from excessive fatigue‡ note; to the
dispersion of the other ships; to the greater part
of them meeting again, as the Council of the Virginia
Company have it, “in consort§ note;” and to all
those who were thus dispersed and thus met again,
being “bound sadly” for Virginia, supposing that
the vessel which carried their Governour was lost,
and that his “great person had perished&sign; note.” In
various other passages in the second Act,—where
the preservation of Alonzo and his companions
is termed “miraculous;” where Stephano asks,
“have we devils here?”—where the same person
makes a very free use of his bottle, and liberally imparts
it to Caliban and Trinculo* note
Having thus, I hope decisively, ascertained the
date of this comedy, it is unnecessary to consider
any other of the notes of time, which it may furnish.
In this light the Masque, in the fourth Act, has
been represented; having been supposed to refer
to the consummation (in 1610) of the marriage of
the young Earl of Essex with Lady Frances Howard* note, to whom he had been betrothed in 1606:
but, not to insist on their cohabitation having taken
place in the year 1609, as appears from the depositions
in the suit for a divorce instituted by the
Countess some years afterwards, this masque may
be more justly as well as more obviously accounted
for, by the prevailing fashion of the perdiod when I
have shewn it was written; a fashion which gave
birth to a similar exhibition in the play of Timon
of Athens, produced not long before. Equally inconclusive
is the circumstance of the exhibition of
the dead Indian, alluded to in the second Act, which,
as I have already observed, proves nothing precisely;
for it might have taken place at any time between
1605 and 1611. Dryden, probably on the authority of Sir William
D'Avenant, tells us, that The Tempest was a very
popular and successful play; which may well be
believed, when it is considered, that, in addition to
its own intrinsick excellence, it had also the adventitious
merit of temporary allusion and reference to
interesting circumstances, which had been the subject
of discourse during an entire year preceding its
representation; topicks so embellished by poesy, and
so blended with fictions of the happiest kind, that a
single disastrous event appears to have been converted
by the magical hand of Shakspeare almost
into a Fairy Tale.
An unexpected circumstance induces me to add
some observations to the preceding tract.—Early
in the last year [1808] a few copies of it having been
printed without any view of publication, they were
distributed among my friends and acquaintance,
accompanied with an entreaty, written in each
copy, that no part of it should be communicated
to the publick. Such was the import of my request,
though not couched precisely in these words.
Notwithstanding this request, it has been reviewed,
on the first of January 1809, in one of the monthly
publications; and a minute account has been given
of all the proofs here adduced for the purpose of
shewing the origin of the title and part of the story
of Shakspeare's Tempest, and of ascertaining the
time when it was written. On the propriety of this
proceeding I shall not enlarge; more especially, as
I have learned that the writer in question was induced
to take this step, in consequence of verbal
misinformation conveyed to him, I know not by
whom, by which he considered himself released
from the restriction which my written request was
intended to impose. The author of the paper alluded
to, however, having asserted, that the foregoing
discovery, as he is pleased to call it, was
suggested many years ago by Mr. Capell; and a
principal object of this premature publication seeming
to have been, to prevent my erroneously supposing
that I have any claim to it, I take an early
opportunity of examining whether his notion on this
subject is founded in truth, or on an entire misapprehension
of the import and object of what has
been stated in the preceding pages. And, to avoid all confusion and misunderstanding,
I will first shew what this discovery is not.
and then, what it is. The discovery which I pretend
to have made, is not,—that Sir George Somers,
having in 1609 been shipwrecked on one of the
Bermuda islands, where he died,—and various accounts
of those islands having been afterwards published,
in which they are represented as having
been formerly considered to be “enchanted, and inhabited
by witches and devils, which grew by reason
of accustomed monstrous thunder, storm, and
tempest, near unto them,”—Shakspeare was hence
induced, some years afterwards, in his comedy of
The Tempest, to characterise Bermoothes (or Bermudas)
by the epithet—still-vex'd; and that in
the formation of this play, the delineation of Sycorax
and her sorceries, the character of
Caliban, and the magick of Prospero, were derived
from the same fountain, that is, from the accounts
of the Bermudas. This, I say, is not what
I pretend to have discovered; but That the tremendous storm, which in July 1609,
separated and dispersed the fleet of ships that then
sailed for Virginia, under the command of Sir
George Somers and others, and finally wrecked his
vessel on one of the Bermuda islands,—together
with the peculiar incidents and circumstances attending
that dispersion and shipwreck, gave rise to,
and were the immediate origin of, the play of The
Tempest, and the title by which it was distinguished;
—that to these incidents there is a covert
reference in various passages of that comedy;—and
that the fate of Somers not having been known
in England for about fifteen months after he left it,
that is, not till about September or October in the
year 1610, during all which time it was feared and
generally believed, that he was lost; and the poet,
as appears from a passage in his play, having known
that he had landed on one of the Bermuda islands
in safety; it necessarily follows, that this comedy
was written after the news of that event had reached
England; and, as I know that it had “a being and
a name” in the autumn of 1611, the date of the play
is fixed and ascertained with uncommon precision,
between the end of the year 1610, and the Autumn
of 1611; and it may with great probability be ascribed
to the Spring of the latter year.—This is
what I undertook to prove, and this I presume to
to say, I have proved. But, says the writer in question, all this may be
true; but this is not Mr. Malone's discovery but
Mr. Capell's, and by way of proving the truth of
this assertion, the following passage from that gentleman's
Notes on Shakspeare has been adduced;
—vol. ii. part ii. p. 58; 4to.
“The idea of Arïel's character, of his performances
at least, which are describ'd in what precedes
this similitude, [“the fever of the mad,”]
was catched from Haklyit, as will be evident to a
viewer of that extract which is first [second] of those
which are made in The School [of Shakspeare]
from that writer: and by another, enter'd too in
that work, is that epithet's fitness [“still-vex'd”]
confirm'd, which at p. 14, 13, [i. e. p. 14. l. 13,
of Mr. Capell's edition of Shakspeare's plays] characterizes
the islands, there intitl'd Bermoothes,
in the extract—Bermudas.” [Dr. Johnson once said, speaking of Mr. Capell's
Preface to his edition, “If the man would have
come to me, I would have endeavoured to ‘endow
his purpose with words;’ for as it is, ‘he doth gabble
monstrously.’ With the same charitable view
it may be observed, that the first of the extracts here
referred-to, which is taken from the third volume
of Hakluyt's Voyages, contains merely a description
of the light, that, in storms, sometimes runs “upon
the top of the maine-yarde and maine-maste,” and
is denominated, according to that writer, cuerpo
santo. The second extract referred-to, is, a passage
in a play of Thomas Middleton's entitled Any
thing for a quiet life, in which the Bermuda islands
are said to have been formerly infested with
“thunder, with frightful lightning, and amazing
noises:” “but now, (adds the speaker,) the enchantment
broke, 'tis the land of peace, where hogs
and tobacco yield fair increase.” This comedy was
not printed till 1662; but appears from internal
evidence, to have been written about the year 1619,
three years after Shakspeare's death!] “But though (proceeds Mr. Capell) we have in
honesty given this extract, [that quoted from
Middleton's play,] and said of it as above, 'tis not
from an opinion that the compound referr'd-to
[“still-vex'd”] sprang from thence; which should
rather have been the offspring of some fuller and
later relations, by print or otherwise, which
should not have been gathered earlier than
1612,—perhaps later. These are the reasons:
In 1609, Sir George Sommers, (of whom the islands
were also called Sommer islands, the first
Englishman certainly, and for aught appears, the
first European, who set his foot on them, was cast
upon them by shipwreck; stay'd a year on them;
return'd to them again from Virginia, and then
dy'd on them. That colony calls them within its
limits; and the then majority of it sold them to
some particulars, members of their society; who
in April 1612, ‘sent thither a ship with sixty persons,
who arrived, and remayn'd there very safely.’
The furnisher of these particulars and of the extract
that follows them, speaking of the islands
themselves, says further, ‘they were of all nations
said and supposed to be enchanted and inhabited
with witches and devils, which grew by
reason of accustomed monstrous thunder, storme
and tempest, neere unto them.’ Now as these
particulars must, from the nature of them, have
been the subject as well of writings as talk, at
at the time they were passing, the presumption
is, first, that the afore-mention'd epithet [“still-vex'd”]
rose from them; and next, that they
were also suggesters of Sycorax and her sorceries,
of the preternatural being subjected
to her, and of Prospero's magick; which, if
it be allow'd, then is this play prov'd by it a late
composition; and weight added to the opinion
that makes it the Poet's last; a circumstance that
might determine the Players to place it foremost
in their publish'd collection.—Stratford, his place
of birth and of residence, was burnt in 1614,
which should in reason have drawn him thither,
and in 16 he dy'd. The extracts, and what relates
to these islands, we have from Howe's Continuation
of Stowe; (edition 1631, fol. bl. l.) their
name in him is Bermodes and Bermodies, which,
as well as Bermoothes, (the poet's spelling,) are
defective attempts to give in English the Spanish
sound of Bermudas.” This is the whole that Mr. Capell has said upon
this subject; and between this statement and mine
the writer in question, on repeated and mature consideration,
sees so little difference, that in his apprehension,
the passage just now quoted fully warrants
his conclusion; namely, that the discovery
which I pretend to have made, was previously made
by Mr. Capell. The matter here in controversy lies in so narrow
a compass, that it admits of little illustration or
amplification: where no arguments have been adduced
in support of an opinion, there is nothing to
be confuted. In some questions of a complex and
difficult nature, when many specious observations
are urged by ingenious men, in support of contrary
tenets, an attentive consideration and sound judgment
are requisite, to separate truth from falsehood,
and to form a just decision;—but here are no opposing
probabilities to be balanced, and no reasoning
to be sifted and examined: on the one side,
we have a series of connected proofs, all leading to
the same conclusion; on the other a mere assertion
with scarcely one colourable suggestion to support
it. In the passage relied upon as furnishing a desive
proof of what has been asserted, Sir George
Somers, and the misfortune that befel him, as has
been already observed, are indeed mentioned; but
the notice of this gentleman, and of his shipwreck,
is merely historical and incidental. The writer
was naturally led to mention that circumstance, in
order to attain the object that he had in view;
which was only to shew that the opinions vulgarly
entertained concerning the Bermuda islands gave
rise to the magick of The Tempest. Mr. Capell's
language is in general so quaint, perverse, cloudy,
and almost unintelligible, that two men of the
quickest apprehension, and soundest judgment,
might often find it extremely difficult to ascertain
his meaning; and might perhaps, in many cases
ascribe to the same passage interpretations of a totally
opposite and contrary import: but here, in
spite of all the awkwardness of his language, it is
demonstrable, that the notice of Sir George Somers
is merely incidental, and introduced solely as
“a greese or step” to the Bermuda Islands, and to
the opinions which prevailed concerning them; and
he is extremely particular in the conclusion that he
meant to have drawn from this statement; which
is not, that the storm of 1609, that wrecked Somers
there, gave rise to the play; but that the supposed
enchantments belonging to those islands on which
he was wrecked, gave rise, some years afterwards,
in the first place, to the epithet applied to them by
the poet; and secondly, produced the character of
Caliban, the delineation of Sycorax and her Sorceries,
and the magick of Prospero. This, and this
only, it is manifest, is the conclusion which he
meant to draw; and for this purpose only was Sir
George Somers, or his shipwreck at Bermuda,
mentioned. With respect to the notions entertained by the
vulgar that the Bermudas were enchanted islands,
and to the circumstances which made it probable
that Shakspeare had those notions in view when he
wrote this comedy; and that the beings with which
he has peopled his enchanted island, and the magick
of Prospero, were in some measure derived
from thence; all this was known to Dr. Farmer,
Bishop Percy, Mr. Steevens, and others; (though
not one of them could ascertain at what precise
period Shakspeare attained the knowledge requisite
for the formation of this drama:) and each of those
gentlemen may be said to have anticipated the present
writer in his discovery, with as much propriety
as Mr. Capell.
The remark indeed of a much elder editor, Mr.
Theobald, is so material on this part of our present
disquisition, that I shall here transcribe it. It is
observable, that his Note is on the very same words
(“the still-vex'd Bermoothes,”) which gave rise to
the remark of Mr. Capell, inserted above: “So this word [Bermoothes] has hitherto been
mistakenly written in all the books. There are
about 400 islands in North America, the principal
of which was called Bermuda, from a Spaniard
of that name, who first discovered them. They
are likewise called Summer Islands, from Sir
George Summers, who in 1609, made that
voyage; and viewing them, probably first brought
the English acquainted with them, and invited
them afterwards to settle a plantation there.—
But why ‘still-vex'd Bermudas?’ The soil is
celebrated for its beauty and fruitfulness, and the
air is so very temperate and serene, that people
live there to a great age, and are seldom troubled
with sickness. But then, on the other hand,
these islands are so surrounded with rocks on all
sides, that without a perfect knowledge of the
passage a small vessel cannot be brought to haven.
Again, we are told, that they are subject
to violent storms, sometimes with terrible clattering
of thunder, and dismal flashing of lightning.
—And besides, Sir George Summers, when
he made the discovery, was actually shipwreck'd
on the coast. This, I take it, might be
a sufficient foundation for our author's using the
epithet still-vex'd.”
Here we see, that Mr. Theobald knew, as well
as Mr. Capell, of the shipwreck of Somers, if that
be any thing to the purpose. It is now above
seventy years since this remark was made; and I
ask, whether in that period any man, any woman, or
any child, ever supposed that Theobald was acquainted
with the origin of The Tempest; or thought
that the import of the foregoing passage was, that
this comedy immediately took its rise from the
shipwreck of Somers at Bermuda? And I say further,
that he who should maintain that Theobald
was acquainted with the peculiar circumstances
which produced this play, might do so with much
more probability that he who should ascribe that
knowledge to Mr. Capell; for though Theobald
knew nothing of the matter, he has here said nothing
by which his ignorance of its true origin can
be decisively proved: while on the other hand,
Capell was so little aware of any immediate connection
or relation between the storm that shipwrecked
Somers and the play, and so far was he
from supposing that this circumstance was its immediate
origin, that he has almost expressly declared
his ignorance on the subject; carefully separating
the drama from the event that gave birth to it,
and assuming that some years must have elapsed
between that event and the construction of the play;
during which time, according to his theory, the
notions concerning the enchantment ascribed to
these islands became well known, and at last in
the year 1612 or 1613 reached the ear of Shakspeare.
If, however, it should be objected that Mr.
Theobald has no pretensions to this discovery, because
it does not appear from his note that he had
any knowledge of the magical character of the
Bermudas, then I say, that Dr. Farmer, Mr. Steevens,
and Bishop Percy, who had Theobald's note
before them, and who knew from thence (if from no
other quarter) of the shipwreck of Somers, and
whose own notes shew that they were perfectly
apprized of the magical character of the Bermudas,
have as good a title to this discovery as Mr. Capell:
yet I am confident, if one thousand competent
judges were asked, whether they believed that
the three gentlemen above-named had the slightest
knowledge, or even suspicion, of the true and
immediate origin of this play as stated in the preceding
tract, that without one dissentient voice,
they would instantly answer in the negative. Though Mr. Capell's words decisively shew the
futility of the conclusion founded upon them, some
other circumstances ought not to be omitted, in the
consideration of this question, if indeed it can be
made a question for a moment. It should therefore
be remembered, that Mr. Capell wrote and
published an express account of what he conceived
to be the origin of all Shakspeare's plays; and that
in that account in speaking of The Tempest, he
has not introduced the slightest notice of the
storm which dispersed Sir George Somers's fleet,
or of his shipwreck;—that if he had known any of
the incidents attending that dispersion and wreck,
which are alluded to in this comedy, he would unquestionably
have stated them, and the respective
passages with which they correspond;—that not
having done so, it is clear, he knew nothing
of them; and therefore never could have thought
or supposed that the misadventure of Somers and
his companions was the immediate origin of this
beautiful comedy. That Mr. Steevens and the other gentlemen
whom I have mentioned, were acquainted with the
disaster of Somers, cannot be doubted; because
they all had occasion, from what is said in this
comedy concerning the Bermudas, to consider
when, and by whom, those islands were discovered,
and what opinions were entertained respecting
them. But it is manifest, that neither they nor
Mr. Capell had the slightest suspicion that the
storm which dispersed Somers's fleet, and wrecked
his vessel on these islands, gave rise to the play;
nor did any one of them know when the accounts
of that disaster first arrived in England, or at what
precise period the history of these events became
generally known, by means of the various pamphlets
published concerning them. I have a right
to assume that they were ignorant of these circumstances,
because, if they had been apprized of them,
unquestionably they would not have concealed their
knowledge.—With respect to myself, I certainly
had no notion of the true origin of this comedy, till
in the year 1800 or 1801 I read Jourdan's narrative
of the disaster that befel his Admiral: when
the passage in The Tempest, in which an account
is given of the dispersion of Alonzo's fleet,
and that the king's ship was, by those who escaped
the peril of the storm, supposed to be lost, as well
as the peculiar manner in which that ship is said to
have been preserved, struck me so forcibly, that I
thought Shakspeare must have had the incidents
attending Somers's voyage, immediately in view,
when he wrote his comedy. Our poet himself, as
I have already observed, drew us all away from the
true scent, by placing the scene of his play at a distance
from the island where the ship of Somers was
wrecked; and no printed account of his disaster, or
concerning the Bermudas, having been met with,
prior to the year 1612, an opinion generally prevailed,
that the play was produced at a later period.
This circumstance was still in contemplation, and
drew away every investigator of the subject
from its real and immediate source; nor could
its origin and true date have been easily discovered
and ascertained, without the aid of those pamphlets,
and other papers, of which I have availed
myself on this occasion, particularly the two tracts
published in the latter end of the year 1610. With
what difficulty and trouble the various pieces perused
and compared for this purpose were procured,
their respective dates, precisely ascertained by the
aid of the entries in the Stationers' Registers, and
the correspondence established between the extraordinary
circumstances of Sir George Somers's
disaster, and the various passages of this comedy in
which they are covertly alluded to, will not readily
be conceived by those who have not been engaged
in similar researches. They who have had occasion
to trace and to collect all the minute particulars
of an event that happened two centuries ago, well
know the tedious difficulties and frequent disappointments
attending on such dark and remote
enquiries.
Next section
The Troublesome Reign of King John was written in two parts,
by W. Shakspeare and W. Rowley, and printed 1611. But the
present play is entirely different, and infinitely superior to it.
Pope.Prince Henry, his Son; afterwards King Henry III.
Arthur, Duke of Bretagne, Son of Geffrey, late Duke
of Bretagne, the elder Brother of King John.
William Mareshall, Earl of Pembroke.
Geffrey Fitz-Peter, Earl of Essex, Chief Justiciary of England.
William Longsword, Earl of Salisbury1 note.
Robert Bigot, Earl of Norfolk.
Hubert de Burgh, Chamberlain to the King.
Robert Faulconbridge, Son of Sir Robert Faulconbridge.
Philip Faulconbridge, his Half-brother, bastard
Son to King Richard the First.
James Gurney, Servant to Lady Faulconbridge.
Peter of Pomfret, a Prophet.
Philip, King of France.
Lewis, the Dauphin.
Arch-duke of Austria.
Cardinal Pandulph, the Pope's Legate.
Melun, a French Lord.
Chatillon, Ambassador from France to King John.
Elinor, the Widow of King Henry II. and Mother of King John.
Constance, Mother to Arthur.
Blanch, Daughter to Alphonso, King of Castile, and Niece to King John.
Lady Faulconbridge, Mother to the Bastard, and Robert Faulconbridge.
Lords, Ladies, Citizens of Angiers, Sheriff, Heralds,
Officers, Soldiers, Messengers, and other Attendants.
[Citizen], [French Herald], [English Herald], [Attendant 1], [Messenger]
SCENE, sometimes in England, and sometimes in France.
John, Queen Elinor, Pembroke,
Essex, Salisbury, and Others, with Chatillon.
Now, say, Chatillon, what would France with us?
Thus, after greeting, speaks the king of France,
In my behaviour2 note
, to the majesty,
The borrow'd majesty of England here.
A strange beginning;—borrow'd majesty!
Silence, good mother; hear the embassy.
Philip of France, in right and true behalf
Of thy deceased brother Geffrey's son,
Arthur Plantagenet, lays most lawful claim
To this fair island, and the territories;
To Ireland, Poictiers, Anjou, Touraine, Maine:
Desiring thee to lay aside the sword,
Which sways usurpingly these several titles;
And put the same into young Arthur's hand,
Thy nephew, and right royal sovereign.
What follows, if we disallow of this?
The proud control2 note
To enforce these rights so forcily withheld.
Here have we war for war, and blood for blood,
Controlment for controlment: so answer France3 note
Then take my king's defiance from my mouth,
The furthest limit of my embassy.
Bear mine to him, and so depart in peace:
Be thou as lightning4 note
in the eyes of France;
For ere thou canst report I will be there,
The thunder of my cannon shall be heard:
So, hence! Be thou the trumpet of our wrath,
And sullen presage5 note
An honourable conduct let him have:—
Pembroke, look to't: Farewell, Chatillon.
What now, my son? have I not ever said,
How that ambitious Constance would not cease,
Till she had kindled France, and all the world,
Upon the right and party of her son?
This might have been prevented, and made whole,
With very easy arguments of love;
Which now the manage6 note
of two kingdoms must
With fearful bloody issue arbitrate.
Our strong possession, and our right, for us.
Your strong possession, much more than your right;
Or else it must go wrong with you, and me:
So much my conscience whispers in your ear;
Which none but heaven, and you, and I, shall hear.
My liege, here is the strangest controversy,
Come from the country to be judg'd by you,
That e'er I heard: Shall I produce the men?
Let them approach.—
[Exit Sheriff.
Our abbies, and our priories, shall pay
.
This expedition's charge.—What men are you?
Your faithful subject I, a gentleman,
Born in Northamptonshire; and eldest son,
As I suppose, to Robert Faulconbridge;
A soldier, by the honour-giving hand
Of Cœur-de-lion knighted in the field.
What art thou?
The son and heir to that same Faulconbridge.
Is that the elder, and art thou the heir?
You came not of one mother then, it seems.
Most certain of one mother, mighty king,
That is well known; and, as I think, one father:
But, for the certain knowledge of that truth,
I put you o'er to heaven, and to my mother;
Of that I doubt, as all men's children may9 note
Out on thee, rude man! thou dost shame thy mother,
And wound her honour with this diffidence.
I, madam? no, I have no reason for it;
That is my brother's plea, and none of mine;
The which if he can prove, 'a pops me out
At least from fair five hundred pound a year:
Heaven guard my mother's honour, and my land!
A good blunt fellow:—Why, being younger born,
Doth he lay claim to thine inheritance?
I know not why, except to get the land.
But once he slander'd me with bastardy:
But whe'r1 note
I be as true begot, or no,
That still I lay upon my mother's head;
But, that I am as well begot, my liege,
(Fair fall the bones that took the pains for me!)
Compare our faces, and be judge yourself.
If old sir Robert did beget us both,
And were our father, and this son like him;—
O old sir Robert, father, on my knee
I give heaven thanks, I was not like to thee.
Why, what a madcap hath heaven lent us here!
He hath a trick of Cœur-de-lion's face2 note
The accent of his tongue affecteth him:
Do you not read some tokens of my son
In the large composition of this man?
Mine eye hath well examined his parts,
And finds them perfect Richard.—Sirrah, speak,
What doth move you to claim your brother's land?
Because he hath a half-face, like my father;
With that half-face3 note
would he have all my land:
A half-faced groat five hundred pound a year!
My gracious liege, when that my father liv'd,
Your brother did employ my father much;—
Well, sir, by this you cannot get my land;
Your tale must be, how he employ'd my mother.
And once despatch'd him in an embassy
To Germany, there, with the emperor,
To treat of high affairs touching that time;
The advantage of his absence took the king,
And in the mean time sojourn'd at my father's;
Where how he did prevail, I shame to speak:
But truth is truth; large lengths of seas and shores
Between my father and my mother lay4 note
,
(As I have heard my father speak himself,)
When this same lusty gentleman was got.
Upon his death-bed he by will bequeath'd
His lands to me; and took it, on his death5 note
,
That this, my mother's son, was none of his;
And, if he were, he came into the world
Full fourteen weeks before the course of time.
Then, good my liege, let me have what is mine,
My father's land, as was my father's will.
Sirrah, your brother is legitimate;
Your father's wife did after wedlock bear him:
And, if she did play false, the fault was hers;
Which fault lies on the hazards of all husbands
That marry wives. Tell me, how if my brother,
Who, as you say, took pains to get this son,
Had of your father claim'd this son for his?
In sooth, good friend, your father might have kept
This calf, bred from his cow, from all the world6 note
;
In sooth, he might: then, if he were my brother's,
My brother might not claim him; nor your father,
Being none of his, refuse him: This concludes7 note,—
My mother's son did get your father's heir;
Your father's heir must have your father's land.
Shall then my father's will be of no force,
To disposses that child which is not his?
Of no more force to disposses me, sir,
Than was his will to get me, as I think.
Whether hadst thou rather,—be a Faulconbridge,
And like thy brother, to enjoy thy land;
Or the reputed son of Cœur-de-lion,
Lord of thy presence, and no land beside8 note
Madam, an if my brother had my shape,
And I had his, sir Robert his, like him9 note
And if my legs were two such riding-rods,
My arms such eel-skins stuff'd; my face so thin,
That in mine ear I durst not stick a rose,
Lest men should say, Look, where three-farthings goes1 note
And, to his shape, were heir to all this land2 note
'Would I might never stir from off this place,
I'd give it every foot to have this face;
I would not be sir Nob in any case3 note.
I like thee well; Wilt thou forsake thy fortune,
Bequeath thy land to him, and follow me?
I am a soldier, and now bound to France.
Brother, take you my land, I'll take my chance:
Your face hath got five hundred pounds a year;
Yet sell your face for five pence, and 'tis dear.—
Madam, I'll follow you unto the death4 note.
Nay, I would have you go before me thither.
Our country manners give our betters way.
What is thy name?
Philip, my liege; so is my name begun;
Philip, good old sir Robert's wife's eldest son.
From henceforth bear his name whose form thou bear'st:
Kneel thou down Philip, but rise more great5 note
Arise sir Richard, and Plantagenet6 note.
Brother, by the mother's side, give me your hand;
My father gave me honour, yours gave land:—
Now blessed be the hour, by night or day,
When I was got, sir Robert was away.
The very spirit of Plantagenet!—
I am thy grandame, Richard; call me so.
Madam, by chance, but not by truth: What though7 note?
Something about, a little from the right8 note,
In at the window, or else o'er the hatch9 note:
Who dares not stir by day, must walk by night;
And have is have, however men do catch:
Near or far off, well won is still well shot;
And I am I, howe'er I was begot.
Go, Faulconbridge; now hast thou thy desire,
A landless knight makes thee a landed 'squire.—
Come, madam, and come, Richard; we must speed
For France, for France; for it is more than need.
Brother, adieu; Good fortune come to thee!
For thou wast got i' the way of honesty.
[Exeunt all but the Bastard.
A foot of honour1 note better than I was;
But many a many foot of land the worse.
Well, now can I make any Joan a lady:—
Good den2 note
, sir Richard.—God-a-mercy3 note, fellow;—
And if his name be George, I'll call him Peter:
For new-made honour doth forget men's names;
'Tis too respective, and too sociable,
For your conversion4 note
,—
He and his tooth-pick6 note
And when my knightly stomach is suffic'd,
Why then I suck my teeth, and catechise
My picked man of countries8 note
(Thus, leaning on mine elbow, I begin,)
I shall beseech you—That is question now;
And then comes answer like an ABC-book9 note
O sir, says answer, at your best command;
At your employment; at your service, sir:—
No, sir, says question, I, sweet sir, at yours:
And so, ere answer knows what question would,
(Saving in dialogue of compliment1 note
;
And talking of the Alps, and Apennines,
The Pyrenean, and the river Po,)
It draws toward supper in conclusion so.
But this is worshipful society,
And fits the mounting spirit, like myself:
For he is but a bastard to the time2 note,
That doth not smack of observation;
(And so am I, whether I smack, or no;)
And not alone in habit and device,
Exterior form, outward accoutrement;
But from the inward motion to deliver
Sweet, sweet, sweet poison for the age's tooth:
Which, though3 note I will not practise to deceive,
Yet, to avoid deceit, I mean to learn;
For it shall strew the footsteps of my rising.—
But who comes4 note in such haste, in riding robes?
What woman-post is this? hath she no husband,
That will take pains to blow a horn5 note before her?
Enter Lady Faulconbridge and James Gurney6 note.
O me! it is my mother:—How now, good lady?
What brings you here to court so hastily?
Where is that slave, thy brother? where is he?
That holds in chase mine honour up and down?
My brother Robert? old sir Robert's son?
Colbrand7 note
the giant, that same mighty man?
Is it sir Robert's son, that you seek so?
Sir Robert's son! Ay, thou unreverend boy,
Sir Robert's son: Why scorn'st thou at sir Robert?
He is sir Robert's son; and so art thou.
James Gurney, wilt thou give us leave a while?
Good leave8 note
, good Philip.
Philip?—sparrow9 note
!—James,
There's toys abroad1 note
Madam, I was not old sir Robert's son;
Sir Robert might have eat his part in me
Upon Good-friday, and ne'er broke his fast2 note
:
Sir Robert could do well; Marry, (to confess3 note!)
Could he* note get me? Sir Robert could not do it;
We know his handy-work:—Therefore, good mother,
To whom am I beholden for these limbs?
Sir Robert never holp to make this leg.
Hast thou conspired with thy brother too,
That for thine own gain should'st defend mine honour?
What means this scorn, thou most untoward knave?
Knight, knight, good mother,—Basilisco-like4 note
What! I am dubb'd; I have it on my shoulder.
But, mother, I am not sir Robert's son;
I have disclaim'd sir Robert, and my land;
Legitimation, name, and all is gone:
Then, good my mother, let me know my father:
Some proper man, I hope: Who was it, mother?
Hast thou denied thyself a Faulconbridge?
As faithfully as I deny the devil.
King Richard Cœur-de-lion was thy father;
By long and vehement suit I was seduc'd
To make room for him in my husband's bed:—
Heaven lay not my transgression to my charge!—
Thou art5 note the issue of my dear offence,
Which was so strongly urg'd, past my defence.
Now, by this light, were I to get again,
Madam, I would not wish a better father.
Some sins6 note do bear their privilege on earth,
And so doth yours; your fault was not your folly:
Needs must you lay your heart at hisdispose,
Subjécted tribute to commanding love,
Against whose fury and unmatched force
The aweless lion could not wage the fight7 note
,
Nor keep his princely heart from Richard's hand.
He, that perforce robs lions of their hearts,
May easily win a woman's. Ay, my mother,
With all my heart I thank thee for my father!
Who lives and dares but say, thou didst not well
When I was got, I'll send his soul to hell.
Come, lady, I will show thee to my kin;
And they shall say, when Richard me begot,
If thou hadst said him nay, it had been sin:
Who says it was, he lies; I say, 'twas not.
Before Angiers well met, brave Austria.—
Arthur, that great fore-runner of thy blood,
Richard, that robb'd the lion of his heart8 note
And fought the holy wars in Palestine,
By this brave duke came early to his grave9 note
And, for amends to his posterity,
At our importance1 note
hither is he come,
To spread his colours, boy, in thy behalf;
And to rebuke the usurpation
Of thy unnatural uncle, English John:
Embrace him, love him, give him welcome hither.
God shall forgive you Cœur-de-lion's death,
The rather, that you give his offspring life,
Shadowing their right under your wings of war:
I give you welcome with a powerless hand,
But with a heart full of unstained love:
Welcome before the gates of Angiers, duke.
A noble boy! Who would not do thee right?
Upon thy cheek lay I this zealous kiss,
As seal to this indenture of my love;
That to my home I will no more return,
Till Angiers, and the right thou hast in France,
Together with that pale, that white-fac'd shore2 note,
Whose foot spurns back the ocean's roaring tides,
And coops from other lands her islanders,
Even till that England, hedg'd in with the main,
That water-walled bulwark, still secure
And confident from foreign purposes,
Even till that utmost corner of the west
Salute thee for her king: till then, fair boy,
Will I not think of home, but follow arms.
O, take his mother's thanks, a widow's thanks,
Till your strong hand shall help to give him strength,
To make a more requital to your love3 note
.
The peace of heaven is theirs, that lift their swords
In such a just and charitable war.
Well then, to work; our cannon shall be bent
Against the brows of this resisting town.—
Call for our chiefest men of discipline,
To cull the plots of best advantages4 note:—
We'll lay before this town our royal bones,
Wade to the market-place in Frenchmen's blood,
But we will make it subject to this boy.
Stay for an answer to your embassy,
Lest unadvis'd you stain your swords with blood:
My lord Chatillon may from England bring
That right in peace, which here we urge in war;
And then we shall repent each drop of blood,
That hot rash haste so indirectly shed.
A wonder, lady5 note!—lo, upon thy wish,
Our messenger Chatillon is arriv'd.—
What England says, say briefly, gentle lord,
We coldly pause for thee; Chatillon, speak.
Then turn your forces from this paltry siege,
And stir them up against a mightier task.
England, impatient of your just demands,
Hath put himself in arms; the adverse winds,
Whose leisure I have staid, have given him time
To land his legions all as soon as I:
His marches are expedient6 note
to this town,
His forces strong, his soldiers confident.
With him along is come the mother-queen,
An Até, stirring him to blood and strife7 note
With her her niece, the lady Blanch of Spain;
With them a bastard of the king's deceas'd8 note
And all the unsettled humours of the land,
Rash, inconsiderate, firy voluntaries,
With ladies' faces, and fierce dragons' spleens,
Have sold their fortunes at their native homes,
Bearing their birthrights proudly on their backs9 note
,
To make a hazard of new fortunes here.
In brief, a braver choice of dauntless spirits,
Than now the English bottoms have waft o'er1 note
Did never float upon the swelling tide,
To do offence and scath2 note
in Christendom.
The interruption of their churlish drums
[Drums beat.
Cuts off more circumstance: they are at hand,
To parley, or to fight; therefore, prepare.
How much unlook'd for is this expedition!
By how much unexpected, by so much
We must awake endeavour for defence;
For courage mounteth with occasion:
Let them be welcome then, we are prepar'd.
Peace be to France; if France in peace permit
Our just and lineal entrance to our own!
If not; bleed France, and peace ascend to heaven!
Whiles we, God's wrathful agent, do correct
Their proud contempt that beat his peace to heaven.
Peace be to England; if that war return
From France to England, there to live in peace!
England we love; and, for that England's sake,
With burden of our armour here we sweat:
This toil of ours should be a work of thine;
But thou from loving England art so far,
That thou hast under-wrought3 note his lawful king,
Cut off the sequence of posterity,
Outfaced infant state, and done a rape
Upon the maiden virtue of the crown.
Look here upon thy brother Geffrey's face;—
These eyes, these brows, were moulded out of his:
This little abstract doth contain that large,
Which died in Geffrey; and the hand of time
Shall draw this brief4 note
into as huge a volume.
That Geffrey was thy elder brother born,
And this his son; England was Geffrey's right,
And this is Geffrey's5 note
: In the name of God,
How comes it then, that thou art call'd a king,
When living blood doth in these temples beat,
Which owe the crown that thou o'ermasterest?
From whom hast thou this great commission, France,
To draw my answer from thy articles6 note
From that supernal judge, that stirs good thoughts
In any breast of strong authority,
To look into the blots and stains of right7 note
.
That judge hath made me guardian to this boy:
Under whose warrant, I impeach thy wrong;
And, by whose help, I mean to chástise it.
Alack, thou dost usurp authority.
Excuse; it is to beat usurping down.
Who is it, thou dost call usurper, France?
Let me make answer;—thy usurping son.
Out, insolent! thy bastard shall be king;
That thou may'st be a queen, and check the world8 note!
My bed was ever to thy son as true,
As thine was to thy husband: and this boy
Liker in feature to his father Geffrey,
Than thou and John in manners; being as like,
As rain to water, or devil to his dam.
My boy a bastard! By my soul, I think,
His father never was so true begot;
It cannot be, an if thou wert his mother8 note.
There's a good mother, boy, that blots thy father.
There's a good grandam, boy, that would blot thee.
Peace!
Hear the crier9 note.
What the devil art thou?
One that will play the devil, sir, with you,
An 'a may catch your hide and you alone1 note
You are the hare2 note
Whose valour plucks dead lions by the beard;
I'll smoke your skin-coat, an I catch you right;
Sirrah, look to't; i' faith, I will, i' faith.
O, well did he become that lion's robe,
That did disrobe the lion of that robe!
It lies as sightly on the back of him,
As great Alcides' shoes upon an ass3 note
But, ass, I'll take that burden from your back;
Or lay on that, shall make your shoulders crack.
What cracker is this same, that deafs our ears
With this abundance of superfluous breath?
Lewis, determine4 note
Women and fools, break off your conference.—
King John, this is the very sum of all,—
England, and Ireland, Anjou5 note, Touraine, Maine,
In right of Arthur do I claim of thee:
Wilt thou resign them, and lay down thy arms?
My life as soon:—I do defy thee, France.
Arthur of Bretagne, yield thee to my hand;
And, out of my dear love, I'll give thee more
Than e'er the coward hand of France can win:
Submit thee, boy.
Come to thy grandam, child.
Do, child, go to it' grandam, child;
Give grandam kingdom, and it' grandam will
Give it a plum, a cherry, and a fig:
There's a good grandam.
Good my mother, peace!
I would, that I were low laid in my grave;
I am not worth this coil that's made for me.
His mother shames him so, poor boy, he weeps.
Now shame upon you, whe'r she does, or no6 note
His grandam's wrongs, and not his mother's shames,
Draw those heaven-moving pearls from his poor eyes,
Which heaven shall take in nature of a fee;
Ay, with these crystal beads heaven shall be brib'd
To do him justice, and revenge on you.
Thou monstrous slanderer of heaven and earth!
Thou monstrous injurer of heaven and earth!
Call not me slanderer; thou, and thine, usurp
The dominations, royalties, and rights,
Of this oppressed boy: This is thy eldest son's son7 note
,
Infortunate in nothing but in thee;
Thy sins are visited in this poor child;
The cannon of the law is laid on him,
Being but the second generation
Removed from thy sin-conceiving womb.
Bedlam, have done.
I have but this to say,—
That he's not only plagued for her sin,
But God hath made her sin and her the plague8 note
On this removed issue, plagu'd for her,
And with her plague, her sin; his injury
Her injury,—the beadle to her sin;
All punish'd in the person of this child,
And all for her; A plague upon her!
Thou unadvised scold, I can produce
A will, that bars the title of thy son.
Ay, who doubts that? a will! a wicked will;
A woman's will: a canker'd grandam's will!
Peace, lady; pause, or be more temperate:
It ill beseems this presence, to cry aim
To these ill-tuned repetitions9 note
Some trumpet summon hither to the walls
These men of Angiers; let us hear them speak,
Whose title they admit, Arthur's or John's.
Who is it, that hath warn'd us to the walls?
'Tis France, for England.
England, for itself:
You men of Angiers, and my loving subjects,—
You loving men of Angiers, Arthur's subjects,
Our trumpet call'd you to this gentle parle.
For our advantage;—Therefore, hear us first1 note.—
These flags of France, that are advanced here
Before the eye and prospect of your town,
Have hither march'd to your endamagement:
The cannons have their bowels full of wrath:
And ready mounted are they, to spit forth
Their iron indignation 'gainst your walls:
All preparation for a bloody siege,
And merciless proceeding by these French,
Confront your city's eyes2 note, your winking gates3 note
And, but for our approach, those sleeping stones,
That as a waist do girdle you about,
By the compulsion of their ordnance
By this time from their fixed beds of lime
Had been dishabited4 note, and wide havock made
For bloody power to rush upon your peace.
But, on the sight of us, your lawful king,—
Who painfully, with much expedient march,
Have brought a countercheck5 note
before your gates,
To save unscratch'd your city's threaten'd cheeks,—
Behold, the French, amaz'd, vouchsafe a parle:
And now, instead of bullets wrapp'd in fire,
To make a shaking fever in your walls,
They shoot but calm words, folded up in smoke6 note
,
To make a faithless error in your ears:
Which trust accordingly, kind citizens,
And let us in, your king; whose labour'd spirits,
Forwearied7 note
in this action of swift speed,
Crave harbourage within your city walls.
When I have said, make answer to us both.
Lo, in this right hand, whose protection
Is most divinely vow'd upon the right
Of him it holds, stands young Plantagenet;
Son to the elder brother of this man,
And king o'er him, and all that he enjoys:
For this down-trodden equity, we tread
In warlike march these greens before your town;
Being no further enemy to you,
Than the constraint of hospitable zeal,
In the relief of this oppressed child,
Religiously provokes. Be pleased then
To pay that duty, which you truly owe,
To him that owes it8 note
; namely, this young prince:
And then our arms, like to a muzzled bear,
Save in aspéct, have all offence seal'd up;
Our cannons' malice vainly shall be spent
Against the invulnerable clouds of heaven;
And, with a blessed and unvex'd retire,
With unhack'd swords, and helmets all unbruis'd,
We will bear home that lusty blood again,
Which here we came to spout against your town,
And leave your children, wives, and you, in peace.
But if you fondly pass our proffer'd offer,
'Tis not the roundure9 note
of your old-fac'd walls
Can hide you from our messengers of war;
Though all these English, and their discipline,
Were harbour'd in their rude circumference.
Then, tell us, shall your city call us lord,
In that behalf which we have challeng'd it?
Or shall we give the signal to our rage,
And stalk in blood to our possession?
In brief, we are the king of England's subjects;
For him, and in his right, we hold this town.
Acknowledge then the king, and let me in.
That can we not: but he that proves the king,
To him will we prove loyal; till that time,
Have we ramm'd up our gates against the world.
Doth not the crown of England prove the king?
And, if not that, I bring you witnesses,
Twice fifteen thousand hearts of England's breed,—
Bastards, and else.
To verify our title with their lives.
As many, and as well-born bloods as those,—
Some bastards too.
Stand in his face, to contradict his claim.
Till you compound whose right is worthiest,
We, for the worthiest, hold the right from both.
Then God forgive the sin of all those souls,
That to their everlasting residence,
Before the dew of evening fall, shall fleet,
In dreadful trial of our kingdom's king!
Amen, Amen!—Mount, chevaliers! to arms!
St. George,—that swing'd the dragon, and e'er since,
Sits on his horseback at mine hostess' door,
Teach us some fence!—Sirrah, were I at home,
At your den, sirrah, [To Austria.] with your lioness,
I'd set an ox-head to your lion's hide1 note
,
And make a monster of you.
Peace; no more.
O, tremble; for you hear the lion roar.
Up higher to the plain; where we'll set forth,
In best appointment, all our regiments.
Speed then, to take advantage of the field.
It shall be so;—[To Lewis.] and at the other hill
Command the rest to stand.—God, and our right!
You men of Angiers, open wide your gates2 note,
And let young Arthur, duke of Bretagne, in;
Who, by the hand of France, this day hath made
Much work for tears in many an English mother,
Whose sons lie scatter'd on the bleeding ground:
Many a widow's husband groveling lies,
Coldly embracing the discolour'd earth;
And victory, with little loss, doth play
Upon the dancing banners of the French;
Who are at hand, triumphantly display'd,
To enter conquerors, and to proclaim
Arthur of Bretagne, England's king, and yours.
Rejoice, you men of Angiers, ring your bells3 note
;
King John, your king and England's, doth approach,
Commander of this hot malicious day!
Their armours, that march'd hence so silver-bright,
Hither return all gilt with Frenchmen's blood4 note
;
There stuck no plume in any English crest,
That is removed by a staff of France;
Our colours do return in those same hands
That did display them when we first march'd forth;
And, like a jolly troop of huntsmen5 note
, come
Our lusty English, all with purpled hands,
Died in the dying slaughter of their foes:
Open your gates, and give the victors way.
6 noteHeralds, from off our towers we might behold,
From first to last, the onset and retire
Of both your armies; whose equality
By our best eyes cannot be censured7 note
:
Blood hath bought blood, and blows have answer'd blows;
Strength match'd with strength, and power confronted power:
Both are alike; and both alike we like.
One must prove greatest: while they weigh so even,
We hold our town for neither; yet for both.
France, hast thou yet more blood to cast away?
Say, shall the current of our right roam on8 note
Whose passage, vex'd with thy impediment,
Shall leave his native channel, and o'er-swell
With course disturb'd even thy confining shores;
Unless thou let his silver water keep
A peaceful progress to the ocean.
England, thou hast not sav'd one drop of blood,
In this hot trial, more than we of France;
Rather, lost more: And by this hand I swear,
That sways the earth this climate overlooks,—
Before we will lay down our just-borne arms,
We'll put thee down, 'gainst whom these arms we bear,
Or add a royal number to the dead:
Gracing the scroll, that tells of this war's loss,
With slaughter coupled to the name of kings.
Ha, majesty! how high thy glory towers,
When the rich blood of kings is set on fire!
O, now doth death line his dead chaps with steel;
The swords of soldiers are his teeth, his fangs;
And now he feasts, mousing the flesh of men9 note
,
In undetermin'd differences of kings.—
Why stand these royal fronts amazed thus?
Cry, havock, kings1 note
! back to the stained field,
You equal potents2 note
, firy-kindled spirits!
Then let confusion of one part confirm
The other's peace; till then, blows, blood, and death!
Whose party do the townsmen yet admit?
Speak, citizens, for England; who's your king?
The king of England, when we know the king.
Know him in us, that here hold up his right.
In us, that are our own great deputy,
And bear possession of our person here:
Lord of our presence, Angiers, and of you.
A greater power than we, denies all this;
And, till it be undoubted, we do lock
Our former scruple in our strong-barr'd gates:
King'd of our fears3 note
Be by some certain king purg'd and depos'd.
By heaven, these scroyles of Angiers4 note
flout you, kings;
And stand securely on their battlements,
As in a theatre, whence they gape and point
At your industrious scenes5 note
and acts of death.
Your royal presences be rul'd by me;
Do like the mutines of Jerusalem6 note
Be friends awhile7 note, and both conjointly bend
Your sharpest deeds of malice on this town:
By east and west let France and England mount
Their battering cannon, charged to the mouths;
Till their soul-fearing clamours8 note have brawl'd down
The flinty ribs of this contemptuous city:
I'd play incessantly upon these jades,
Even till unfenced desolation
Leave them as naked as the vulgar air.
That done, dissever your united strengths,
And part your mingled colours once again;
Turn face to face, and bloody point to point;
Then, in a moment, fortune shall cull forth
Out of one side her happy minion;
To whom in favour she shall give the day,
And kiss him with a glorious victory.
How like you this wild counsel, mighty states?
Smacks it not something of the policy?
Now, by the sky that hangs above our heads,
I like it well;—France, shall we knit our powers,
And lay this Angiers even with the ground;
Then, after, fight who shall be king of it?
An if thou hast the mettle of a king,—
Being wrong'd, as we are, by this peevish town,—
Turn thou the mouth of thy artillery,
As we will ours, against these saucy walls:
And when that we have dash'd them to the ground,
Why, then defy each other; and, pell-mell,
Make work upon ourselves, for heaven, or hell.
Let it be so:—Say, where will you assault?
We from the west will send destruction
Into this city's bosom.
I from the north.
Our thunder from the south,
Shall rain their drift of bullets on this town.
O prudent discipline! From north to south;
Austria and France shoot in each other's mouth9 note
:
[Aside.
I'll stir them to it:—Come, away, away!
Hear us, great kings: vouchsafe a while to stay,
And I shall show you peace, and fair-faced league;
Win you this city without stroke, or wound;
Rescue those breathing lives to die in beds,
That here comes sacrifices for the field:
Perséver not, but hear me, mighty kings.
Speak on, with favour; we are bent to hear.
That daughter there of Spain, the lady Blanch1 note,
Is near to England; Look upon the years
Of Lewis the Dauphin, and that lovely maid:
If lusty love should go in quest of beauty,
Where should he find it fairer than in Blanch?
If zealous love should go in search of virtue2 note,
Where should he find it purer than in Blanch?
If love ambitious sought a match of birth,
Whose veins bound richer blood than lady Blanch?
Such as she is, in beauty, virtue, birth,
Is the young Dauphin every way complete:
If not complete, O say3 note, he is not she;
And she again wants nothing, to name want,
If want it be not, that she is not he:
He is the half part of a blessed man,
Left to be finished by such a she4 note
And she a fair divided excellence,
Whose fulness of perfection lies in him.
O, two such silver currents, when they join,
Do glorify the banks that bound them in:
And two such shores to two such streams made one,
Two such controlling bounds shall you be, kings,
To these two princes, if you marry them.
This union shall do more than battery can,
To our fast-closed gates; for, at this match,
With swifter spleen5 note
than powder can enforce,
The mouth of passage shall we fling wide ope,
And give you entrance; but, without this match,
The sea enraged is not half so deaf,
Lions more confident, mountains and rocks
More free from motion; no, not death himself
In mortal fury half so peremptory,
As we to keep this city.
Here's a stay,
That shakes the rotten carcase of old death
Out of his rags5 note
! Here's a large mouth, indeed,
That spits forth death, and mountains, rocks, and seas;
Talks as familiarly of roaring lions,
As maids of thirteen do of puppy-dogs!
What cannoneer begot this lusty blood?
He speaks plain cannon, fire, and smoke, and bounce;
He gives the bastinado with his tongue;
Our ears are cudgel'd: not a word of his,
But buffets better than a fist of France:
Zounds! I was never so bethump'd with words,
Since I first call'd my brother's father, dad.
Son, list to this conjunction, make this match;
Give with our niece a dowry large enough:
For by this knot thou shalt so surely tie
Thy now unsur'd assurance to the crown,
That yon green boy shall have no sun to ripe
The bloom that promiseth a mighty fruit.
I see a yielding in the looks of France;
Mark, how they whisper: urge them while their souls
Are capable of this ambition:
Lest zeal, now melted, by the windy breath
Of soft petitions, pity, and remorse,
Cool and congeal again to what it was6 note
Why answer not the double majesties
This friendly treaty of our threaten'd town?
Speak England first, that hath been forward first
To speak unto this city: What say you?
If that the Dauphin there, thy princely son,
Can in this book of beauty read7 note
, I love,
Her dowry shall weigh equal with a queen:
For Anjou8 note
And all that we upon this side the sea
(Except this city now by us besieg'd,)
Find liable to our crown and dignity,
Shall gild her bridal bed; and make her rich
In titles, honours, and promotions,
As she in beauty, education, blood,
Holds hand with any princess of the world.
What say'st thou, boy? look in the lady's face.
I do, my lord, and in her eye I find
A wonder, or a wondrous miracle,
The shadow of myself form'd in her eye;
Which, being but the shadow of your son,
Becomes a sun, and makes your son a shadow:
I do protest, I never lov'd myself,
Till now infixed I beheld myself,
Drawn in the flattering table of her eye9 note
Drawn in the flattering table of her eye!—
Hang'd in the frowning wrinkle of her brow!—
And quarter'd in her heart!—he doth espy
Himself love's traitor: This is pity now,
That hang'd, and drawn, and quarter'd, there should be,
In such a love, so vile a lout as he.
My uncle's will, in this respect, is mine:
If he see aught in you, that makes him like,
That any thing he sees, which moves his liking,
I can with ease translate it to my will;
Or, if you will, (to speak more properly,)
I will enforce it easily to my love.
Further I will not flatter you, my lord,
That all I see in you is worthy love,
Than this,—that nothing do I see in you,
(Though churlish thoughts themselves should be your judge,)
That I can find should merit any hate.
What say these young ones? What say you, my niece?
That she is bound in honour still to do
What you in wisdom shall vouchsafe to say.
Speak then, prince Dauphin; can you love this lady?
Nay, ask me if I can refrain from love;
For I do love her most unfeignedly.
Then do I give Volquessen1 note
Poictiers, and Anjou, these five provinces,
With her to thee; and this addition more,
Full thirty thousand marks of English coin.—
Philip of France, if thou be pleas'd withal,
Command thy son and daughter to join hands.
It likes us well;—Young princes, close your hands2 note.
And your lips too; for, I am well assur'd,
That I did so, when I was first assur'd3 note
.
Now, citizens of Angiers, ope your gates,
Let in that amity which you have made;
For at saint Mary's chapel, presently,
The rites of marriage shall be solemniz'd.—
Is not the lady Constance in this troop?—
I know, she is not; for this match, made up,
Her presence would have interrupted much:
Where is she and her son? tell me, who knows.
She is sad and passionate at your highness' tent4 note
.
And, by my faith, this league, that we have made,
Will give her sadness very little cure.—
Brother of England, how may we content
This widow lady? In her right we came;
Which we, God knows, have turn'd another way,
To our own vantage.
We will heal up all;
For we'll create young Arthur duke of Bretagne,
And earl of Richmond; and this rich fair town
We make him lord of.—Call the lady Constance;
Some speedy messenger bid her repair
To our solemnity:—I trust we shall,
If not fill up the measure of her will,
Yet in some measure satisfy her so,
That we shall stop her exclamation.
Go we, as well as haste will suffer us,
To this unlook'd for unprepared pomp.
Mad world! mad kings! mad composition!
John, to stop Arthur's title in the whole,
Hath willingly departed with a part5 note
:
And France, (whose armour conscience buckled on;
Whom zeal and charity brought to the field,
As God's own soldier,) rounded in the ear6 note
With that same purpose-changer, that sly devil;
That broker, that still breaks the pate of faith;
That daily break-vow; he that wins of all,
Of kings, of beggars, old men, young men, maids,—
Who having no external thing to lose
But the word maid,—cheats the poor maid of that7 note
That smooth-faced gentleman, tickling commodity,—
Commodity, the bias of the world8 note
The world, who of itself is peised well,
Made to run even, upon even ground;
Till this advantage, this vile drawing bias,
This sway of motion, this commodity,
Makes it take head from all indifferency,
From all direction, purpose, course, intent:
And this same bias, this commodity,
This bawd, this broker9 note
, this all-changing word,
Clapp'd on the outward eye of fickle France,
Hath drawn him from his own determin'd aid1 note,
From a resolv'd and honourable war,
To a most base and vile-concluded peace.—
And why rail I on this commodity?
But for because he hath not woo'd me yet:
Not that I have the power to clutch my hand2 note
,
When his fair angels would salute my palm:
But for my hand3 note
, as unattempted yet,
Like a poor beggar, raileth on the rich.
Well, whiles I am a beggar, I will rail,
And say,—there is no sin, but to be rich;
And being rich, my virtue then shall be,
To say,—there is no vice, but beggary:
Since kings break faith upon commodity,
Gain, be my lord! for I will worship thee!
Gone to be married! gone to swear a peace!
False blood to false blood join'd! Gone to be friends!
Shall Lewis have Blanch? and Blanch those provinces?
It is not so; thou hast misspoke, misheard;
Be well advis'd, tell o'er thy tale again:
It cannot be; thou dost but say, 'tis so:
I trust, I may not trust thee; for thy word
Is but the vain breath of a common man:
Believe me, I do not believe thee, man;
I have a king's oath to the contrary.
Thou shalt be punish'd for thus frighting me,
For I am sick, and capable of fears5 note
;
Oppress'd with wrongs, and therefore full of fears;
A widow6 note, husbandless, subject to fears;
A woman, naturally born to fears;
And though thou now confess, thou didst but jest,
With my vex'd spirits I cannot take a truce,
But they will quake and tremble all this day.
What dost thou mean by shaking of thy head?
Why dost thou look so sadly on my son?
What means that hand upon that breast of thine?
Why holds thine eye that lamentable rheum,
Like a proud river peering o'er his bounds7 note
?
Be these sad signs8 note
Then speak again; not all thy former tale,
But this one word, whether thy tale be true.
As true, as, I believe, you think them false,
That give you cause to prove my saying true.
O, if thou teach me to believe this sorrow,
Teach thou this sorrow how to make me die;
And let belief and life encounter so,
As doth the fury of two desperate men,
Which, in the very meeting, fall, and die.—
Lewis marry Blanch! O, boy, then where art thou?
France friend with England! what becomes of me?—
Fellow, be gone; I cannot brook thy sight;
This news hath made thee a most ugly man.
What other harm have I, good lady, done,
But spoke the harm that is by others done?
Which harm within itself so heinous is,
As it makes harmful all that speak of it.
I do beseech, you, madam, be content.
If thou9 note
, that bid'st me be content, wert grim,
Ugly, and sland'rous to thy mother's womb,
Full of unpleasing blots1 note
, and sightless2 note stains,
Lame, foolish, crooked, swart3 note
, prodigious4 note
Patch'd with foul moles, and eye-offending marks,
I would not care, I then would be content;
For then I should not love thee; no, nor thou
Become thy great birth, nor deserve a crown.
But thou art fair; and at thy birth, dear boy!
Nature and fortune join'd to make thee great:
Of nature's gifts thou may'st with lilies boast,
And with the half-blown rose: but fortune, O!
She is corrupted, chang'd, and won from thee;
She adulterates hourly with thine uncle John;
And with her golden hand hath pluck'd on France
To tread down fair respect of sovereignty,
And made his majesty the bawd to theirs.
France is a bawd to fortune, and king John;
That strumpet fortune, that usurping John:—
Tell me, thou fellow, is not France forsworn?
Envenom him with words; or get thee gone,
And leave those woes alone, which I alone,
Am bound to under-bear.
Pardon me, madam,
I may not go without you to the kings.
Thou may'st, thou shalt, I will not go with thee:
I will instruct my sorrows to be proud;
For grief is proud, and makes its owner stoop5 note
To me, and to the state of my great grief,
Let kings assemble6 note
; for my grief's so great,
That no supporter but the huge firm earth
Can hold it up: here I and sorrows sit7 note
Here is my throne, bid kings come bow to it8 note
'Tis true, fair daughter; and this blessed day,
Ever in France shall be kept festival:
To solemnize this day9 note
, the glorious sun
Stays in his course, and plays the alchymist1 note
;
Turning, with splendor of his precious eye,
The meagre cloddy earth to glittering gold:
The yearly course, that brings this day about,
Shall never see it but a holyday2 note.
A wicked day3 note
, and not a holyday!—
[Rising.
What hath this day deserv'd? what hath it done;
That it in golden letters should be set,
Among the high tides4 note, in the kalendar?
Nay, rather, turn this day out of the week5 note
This day of shame, oppression, perjury:
Or, if it must stand still, let wives with child
Pray, that their burdens may not fall this day,
Lest that their hopes prodigiously be cross'd6 note
:
But on this day7 note
, let seamen fear no wreck;
No bargains break, that are not this day made:
This day, all things begun come to ill end;
Yea, faith itself to hollow falsehood change!
By heaven, lady, you shall have no cause
To curse the fair proceedings of this day:
Have I not pawn'd to you my majesty?
You have beguil'd me with a counterfeit,
Resembling majesty8 note
; which, being touch'd, and tried9 note,
Proves valueless: You are forsworn, forsworn;
You came in arms to spill mine enemies' blood,
But now in arms you strengthen it with yours1 note
:
The grappling vigour and rough frown of war,
Is cold in amity and painted peace,
And our oppression hath made up this league:—
Arm, arm, you heavens, against these perjur'd kings!
A widow cries; be husband to me, heavens!
Let not the hours of this ungodly day
Wear out the day2 note in peace; but, ere sunset,
Set armed discord3 note 'twixt these perjur'd kings!
Hear me, O, hear me!
Lady Constance, peace.
War! war! no peace! peace is to me a war.
O Lymoges! O Austria4 note
That bloody spoil: Thou slave, thou wretch, thou coward;
Thou little valiant, great in villainy!
Thou ever strong upon the stronger side!
Thou fortune's champion, that dost never fight
But when her humorous ladyship is by
To teach thee safety! thou art perjur'd too,
And sooth'st up greatness. What a fool art thou,
A ramping fool; to brag, and stamp, and swear,
Upon my party! Thou cold-blooded slave,
Hast thou not spoke like thunder on my side?
Been sworn my soldier? bidding me depend
Upon thy stars, thy fortune, and thy strength?
And dost thou now fall over to my foes?
Thou wear a lion's hide! doff it for shame5 note
,
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs6 note
O, that a man should speak those words to me!
And hang a calf's-sink on those recreant limbs.
Thou dars't not say so, villain, for thy life.
And hang a calf's-skin on those recreant limbs7 note
We like not this; thou dost forget thyself.
Here comes the holy legate of the pope.
Hail, you anointed deputies of heaven!
To thee, king John, my holy errand is.
I Pandulph, of fair Milan cardinal,
And from Pope Innocent the legate here,
Do, in his name, religiously demand,
Why thou against the church, our holy mother,
So wilfully dost spurn; and, force perforce,
Keep Stephen Langton, chosen archbishop
Of Canterbury, from that holy see?
This, in our 'foresaid holy father's name,
Pope Innocent, I do demand of thee.
What earthly name to interrogatories8 note
,
Can task the free breath of a sacred king?
Thou canst not, cardinal, devise a name
So slight, unworthy, and ridiculous,
To charge me to an answer, as the pope.
Tell him this tale; and from the mouth of England,
Add thus much more,—That no Italian priest
Shall tithe or toll in our dominions;
But as we under heaven are supreme head,
So, under him, that great supremacy,
Where we do reign, we will alone uphold,
Without the assistance of a mortal hand:
So tell the pope; all reverence set apart,
To him, and his usurp'd authority.
Brother of England, you blaspheme in this.
Though you, and all the kings of Christendom,
Are led so grossly by this meddling priest,
Dreading the curse that money may buy out;
And, by the merit of vile gold, dross, dust,
Purchase corrupted pardon of a man,
Who, in that sale, sells pardon from himself:
Though you, and all the rest, so grossly led,
This juggling witchcraft with revenue cherish;
Yet I, alone, alone do me oppose
Against the pope, and count his friends my foes.
Then, by the lawful power that I have,
Thou shalt stand curs'd, and excommunicate:
And blessed shall he be, that doth revolt
From his allegiance to an heretick;
And meritorious shall that hand be call'd,
Canonized, and worshipp'd as a saint,
That takes away by any secret course
Thy hateful life9 note
O, lawful let it be,
That I have room with Rome to curse a while!
Good father Cardinal, cry thou, amen,
To my keen curses; for, without my wrong,
There is no tongue hath power to curse him right.
There's law and warrant, lady, for my curse.
And for mine too; when law can do no right,
Let it be lawful, that law bar no wrong:
Law cannot give my child his kingdom here;
For he, that holds his kingdom, holds the law:
Therefore, since law itself is perfect wrong,
How can the law forbid my tongue to curse?
Philip of France, on peril of a curse,
Let go the hand of that arch-heretick;
And raise the power of France upon his head,
Unless he do submit himself to Rome.
Look'st thou pale, France? do not let go thy hand.
Look to that, devil, lest that France repent,
And, by disjoining hands, hell lose a soul,
King Philip, listen to the cardinal.
And hang a calf's-skin on his recreant limbs.
Well, ruffian, I must pocket up these wrongs,
Because—
Your breeches best may carry them1 note
.
Philip, what say'st thou to the cardinal?
What should he say, but as the cardinal?
Bethink you, father; for the difference
Is, purchase of a heavy curse from Rome2 note,
Or the light loss of England for a friend:
Forgo the easier.
That's the curse of Rome.
O Lewis, stand fast, the devil tempts thee here,
In likeness of a new untrimmed bride3 note
The lady Constance speaks not from her faith,
But from her need.
O, if thou grant my need,
Which only lives but by the death of faith,
That need must needs infer this principle,—
That faith would live again, by death of need;
O, then, tread down my need, and faith mounts up;
Keep my need up, and faith is trodden down.
The king is mov'd, and answers not to this.
O, be remov'd from him, and answer well.
Do so, king Philip; hang no more in doubt.
Hang nothing but a calf's-skin, most sweet lout.
I am perplex'd, and know not what to say.
What can'st thou say, but will perplex thee more,
If thou stand excommunicate, and curs'd?
Good reverend father, make my person yours,
And tell me, how you would bestow yourself.
This royal hand and mine are newly knit;
And the conjunction of our inward souls
Married in league, coupled and link'd together
With all religious strength of sacred vows;
The latest breath that gave the sound of words,
Was deep-sworn faith, peace, amity, true love,
Between our kingdoms, and our royal selves;
And even before this truce, but new before,—
No longer than we well could wash our hands,
To clap this royal bargain up of peace,—
Heaven knows, they were besmear'd and overstain'd
With slaughter's pencil; where revenge did paint
The fearful difference of incensed kings:
And shall these hands, so lately purg'd of blood,
So newly join'd in love, so strong in both4 note
Unyoke this seizure, and this kind regreet5 note
?
Play fast and loose with faith? so jest with heaven,
Make such unconstant children of ourselves,
As now again to snatch our palm from palm;
Unswear faith sworn; and on the marriage bed
Of smiling peace to march a bloody host,
And make a riot on the gentle brow
Of true sincerity? O holy sir,
My reverend father, let it not be so:
Out of your grace, devise, ordain, impose
Some gentle order; and then we shall be bless'd
To do your pleasure, and continue friends.
All form is formless, order orderless,
Save what is opposite to England's love.
Therefore, to arms! be champion of our church!
Or let the church, our mother, breathe her curse,
A mother's curse, on her revolting son.
France, thou may'st hold a serpent by the tongue,
A cased lion6 note
A fasting tiger safer by the tooth,
Than keep in peace that hand which thou dost hold.
I may disjoin my hand, but not my faith.
So mak'st thou faith an enemy to faith;
And, like a civil war, set'st oath to oath,
Thy tongue against thy tongue. O, let thy vow
First made to heaven, first be to heaven perform'd;
That is, to be the champion of our church!
What since thou swor'st, is sworn against thyself,
And may not be performed by thyself:
For that, which thou hast sworn to do amiss,
Is not amiss when it is truly done7 note
And being not done, where doing tends to ill,
The truth is then most done not doing it:
The better act of purposes mistook
Is, to mistake again; though indirect,
Yet indirection thereby grows direct,
And falsehood falsehood cures; as fire cools fire,
Within the scorched veins of one new burn'd.
It is religion, that doth make vows kept;
But thou hast sworn against religion8 note
;
By what thou swear'st, against the thing thou swear'st;
And mak'st an oath the surety for thy truth
Against an oath: The truth thou art unsure
To swear, swear only not to be forsworn9 note;
Else, what a mockery should it be to swear?
But thou dost swear only to be forsworn;
And most forsworn, to keep what thou dost swear.
Therefore, thy latter vows, against thy first,
Is in thyself rebellion to thyself:
And better conquest never canst thou make,
Than arm thy constant and thy nobler parts
Against those giddy loose suggestions;
Upon which better part our prayers come in,
If thou vouchsafe them: but, if not, then know,
The peril of our curses light on thee;
So heavy, as thou shalt not shake them off,
But, in despair, die under their black weight.
Rebellion, flat rebellion!
Will't not be?
Will not a calf's-skin stop that mouth of thine?
Father, to arms!
Upon thy wedding day?
Against the blood that thou hast married?
What, shall our feast be kept with slaughter'd men?
Shall braying trumpets1 note
, and loud churlish drums,—
Clamours of hell,—be measures2 note
to our pomp?
O husband, hear me!—ah, alack, how new
Is husband in my mouth!—even for that name,
Which till this time my tongue did ne'er pronounce,
Upon my knee I beg, go not to arms
Against mine uncle.
O, upon my knee,
Made hard with kneeling, I do pray to thee,
Thou virtuous Dauphin, alter not the doom
Fore-thought by heaven.
Now shall I see thy love; What motive may
Be stronger with thee than the name of wife?
That which upholdeth him that thee upholds,
His honour: O, thine honour, Lewis, thine honour!
I muse3 note
, your majesty doth seem so cold,
When such profound respects do pull you on.
I will denounce a curse upon his head.
Thou shalt not need;—England, I'll fall from thee.
O fair return of banish'd majesty!
O foul revolt of French inconstancy!
France, thou shalt rue this hour within this hour.
Old time the clock-setter, that bald sexton time,
Is it as he will? well then, France shall rue.
The sun's o'ercast with blood: Fair day, adieu!
Which is the side that I must go withal?
I am with both: each army hath a hand;
And, in their rage, I having hold of both,
They whirl asunder, and dismember me4 note
Husband, I cannot pray that thou may'st win;
Uncle, I needs must pray that thou may'st lose;
Father, I may not wish the fortune thine;
Grandam, I will not wish thy wishes thrive:
Whoever wins, on that side shall I lose;
Assured loss, before the match be play'd.
Lady, with me; with me thy fortune lies.
There where my fortune lives, there my life dies.
Cousin, go draw our puissance together.—
[Exit Bastard.
France, I am burn'd up with inflaming wrath;
A rage, whose heat hath this condition,
That nothing can allay, nothing but blood,
The blood, and dearest-valu'd blood, of France.
Thy rage shall burn thee up, and thou shalt turn
To ashes, ere our blood shall quench that fire:
Look to thyself, thou art in jeopardy.
No more than he that threats.—To arms let's hie!
Now, by my life, this day grows wondrous hot;
Some airy devil5 note
And pours down mischief. Austria's head, lie there;
While Philip breathes6 note
.
Hubert, keep this boy7 note
:—Philip8 note, make up:
My mother is assailed in our tent9 note
And ta'en, I fear.
My lord, I rescued her;
Her highness is in safety, fear you not:
But on, my liege; for very little pains
Will bring this labour to an happy end.
So shall it be; your grace shall stay behind,
[To Elinor.
So strongly guarded.—Cousin, look not sad:
[To Arthur.
Thy grandam loves thee; and thy uncle will
As dear be to thee as thy father was.
O, this will make my mother die with grief.
Cousin, [To the Bastard.] away for England; haste before:
And, ere our coming, see thou shake the bags
Of hoarding abbots; angels imprisoned
Set thou at liberty1 note: the fat ribs of peace
Must by the hungry now be fed upon2 note
Use our commission in his utmost force.
Bell, book, and candle3 note
When gold and silver becks me to come on.
I leave your highness:—Grandam, I will pray
(If ever I remember to be holy,)
For your fair safety; so I kiss your hand.
Farewell, my gentle cousin.
Coz, farewell.
Come hither, little kinsman; hark, a word.
Come hither, Hubert. O my gentle Hubert,
We owe thee much; within this wall of flesh
There is a soul, counts thee her creditor,
And with advantage means to pay thy love:
And, my good friend, thy voluntary oath
Lives in this bosom, dearly cherished.
Give me thy hand. I had a thing to say,—
But I will fit it with some better time4 note
By heaven, Hubert, I am almost asham'd
To say what good respect I have of thee.
I am much bounden to your majesty.
Good friend, thou hast no cause to say so yet:
But thou shalt have; and creep time ne'er so slow,
Yet it shall come, for me to do thee good.
I had a thing to say,—But let it go:
The sun is in the heaven, and the proud day,
Attended with the pleasures of the world,
Is all too wanton, and too full of gawds5 note
To give me audience:—If the midnight bell
Did, with his iron tongue and brazen mouth,
Sound one into the drowsy race of night6 note
If this same were a church-yard where we stand,
And thou possessed with a thousand wrongs;
Or if that surly spirit, melancholy,
Had bak'd thy blood, and made it heavy, thick;
(Which, else, runs tickling up and down the veins,
Making that idiot, laughter, keep men's eyes,
And strain their cheeks to idle merriment,
A passion hateful to my purposes;)
Or if that thou could'st see me without eyes,
Hear me without thine ears, and make reply
Without a tongue, using conceit alone7 note
,
Without eyes, ears, and harmful sound of words;
Then, in despite of brooded8 note
I would into thy bosom pour my thoughts:
But ah, I will not:—Yet I love thee well;
And, by my troth, I think, thou lov'st me well.
So well, that what you bid me undertake,
Though that my death were adjunct to my act,
By heaven, I'd do't.
Do not I know, thou would'st?
Good Hubert, Hubert, Hubert, throw thine eye
On yon young boy: I'll tell thee what, my friend,
He is a very serpent in my way;
And, wheresoe'er this foot of mine doth tread,
He lies before me: Dost thou understand me?
Thou art his keeper.
And I will keep him so,
That he shall not offend your majesty.
Death.
My lord?
A grave.
He shall not live.
Enough.
I could be merry now: Hubert, I love thee;
Well, I'll not say what I intend for thee:
Remember9 note.—Madam, fare you well:
I'll send those powers o'er to your majesty.
My blessing go with thee!
For England, cousin1 note
Hubert shall be your man, attend on you
With all true duty.—On toward Calais, ho!
So, by a roaring tempest on the flood,
A whole armado2 note
Is scatter'd and disjoin'd from fellowship.
Courage and comfort! all shall yet go well.
What can go well, when we have run so ill?
Are we not beaten? Is not Angiers lost?
Arthur ta'en prisoner? divers dear friends slain?
And bloody England into England gone,
O'erbearing interruption, spite of France?
What he hath won, that hath he fortified:
So hot a speed with such advice dispos'd,
Such temperate order in so fierce a cause4 note
Doth want example: Who hath read, or heard,
Of any kindred action like to this?
Well could I bear that England had this praise,
So we could find some pattern of our shame.
Look, who comes here! a grave unto a soul;
Holding the eternal spirit, against her will,
In the vile prison of afflicted breath5 note
I pr'ythee, lady, go away with me.
Lo, now! now see the issue of your peace!
Patience, good lady! comfort, gentle Constance!
No, I defy6 note
all counsel, all redress,
But that which ends all counsel, true redress,
Death, death:—O amiable lovely death!
Thou odoriferous stench! sound rottenness!
Arise forth from the couch of lasting night,
Thou hate and terror to prosperity,
And I will kiss thy détestable bones;
And put my eye-balls in thy vaulty brows;
And ring these fingers with thy household worms;
And stop this gap of breath7 note with fulsome dust,
And be a carrion monster like thyself:
Come, grin on me; and I will think thou smil'st,
And buss thee as thy wife8 note
! Misery's love9 note
,
O, come to me!
O fair affliction, peace.
No, no, I will not, having breath to cry:—
O, that my tongue were in the thunder's mouth!
Then with a passion would I shake the world;
And rouse from sleep that fell anatomy,
Which cannot hear a lady's feeble voice,
Which scorns a modern invocation1 note
.
Lady, you utter madness, and not sorrow.
Thou art not holy2 note
to belie me so;
I am not mad: this hair I tear, is mine;
My name is Constance; I was Geffrey's wife;
Young Arthur is my son, and he is lost:
I am not mad;—I would to heaven, I were!
For then, 'tis like I should forget myself:
O, if I could, what grief should I forget!—
Preach some philosophy to make me mad,
And thou shalt be canoniz'd, cardinal;
For, being not mad, but sensible of grief,
My reasonable part produces reason
How I may be deliver'd of these woes,
And teaches me to kill or hang myself:
If I were mad, I should forget my son;
Or madly think, a babe of clouts were he:
I am not mad; too well, too well I feel
The different plague of each calamity.
Bind up those tresses3 note: O, what love I note
In the fair multitude of those her hairs!
Where but by chance a silver drop hath fallen,
Even to that drop ten thousand wiry friends4 note
Do glew themselves in sociable grief;
Like true, inseparable, faithful loves,
Sticking together in calamity.
To England, if you will5 note.
Bind up your hairs.
Yes, that I will; And wherefore will I do it?
I tore them from their bonds; and cried aloud,
O that these hands could so redeem my son,
As they have given these hairs their liberty!
But now I envy at their liberty,
And will again commit them to their bonds,
Because my poor child is a prisoner.—
And, father cardinal, I have heard you say,
That we shall see and know our friends in heaven:
If that be true, I shall see my boy again;
For, since the birth of Cain, the first male child,
To him that did but yesterday suspire6 note
,
There was not such a gracious creature born7 note
But now will canker sorrow eat my bud,
And chase the native beauty from his cheek,
And he will look as hollow as a ghost;
As dim and meagre as an ague's fit;
And so he'll die; and, rising so again,
When I shall meet him in the court of heaven
I shall not know him: therefore never, never
Must I behold my pretty Arthur more.
You hold too heinous a respect of grief.
He talks to me, that never had a son8 note
You are as fond of grief, as of your child.
Grief fills the room up of my absent child9 note
,
Lies in his bed, walks up and down with me;
Puts on his pretty looks, repeats his words,
Remembers me of all his gracious parts,
Stuffs out his vacant garments with his form;
Then, have I reason to be fond of grief.
Fare you well: had you such a loss as I,
I could give better comfort1 note
than you do.—
I will not keep this form upon my head,
[Tearing off her head-dress.
When there is such disorder in my wit.
O lord! my boy, my Arthur, my fair son!
My life, my joy, my food, my all the world!
My widow-comfort, and my sorrow's cure!
I fear some outrage, and I'll follow her.
There's nothing in this world, can make me joy2 note:
Life is as tedious as a twice-told tale3 note
,
Vexing the dull ear of a drowsy man;
And bitter shame hath spoil'd the sweet words taste4 note
,
That it yields naught, but shame, and bitterness.
Before the curing of a strong disease,
Even in the instant of repair and health,
The fit is strongest; evils, that take leave,
On their departure most of all show evil:
What have you lost by losing of this day?
All days of glory, joy, and happiness.
If you have won it, certainly, you had.
No, no: when fortune means to men most good,
She looks upon them with a threatening eye.
'Tis strange, to think how much king John hath lost
In this which he accounts so clearly won:
Are not you griev'd, that Arthur is his prisoner?
As heartily, as he is glad he hath him.
Your mind is all as youthful as your blood.
Now hear me speak, with a prophetick spirit;
For even the breath of what I mean to speak
Shall blow each dust, each straw, each little rub,
Out of the path which shall directly lead
Thy foot to England's throne; and, therefore, mark.
John hath seiz'd Arthur; and it cannot be,
That, whiles warm life plays in that infant's veins,
The misplac'd John should entertain an hour,
One minute, nay, one quiet breath of rest:
A scepter, snatch'd with an unruly hand,
Must be as boisterously maintain'd as gain'd:
And he, that stands upon a slippery place,
Makes nice of no vile hold to stay him up:
That John may stand, then Arthur needs must fall;
So be it, for it cannot be but so.
But what shall I gain by young Arthur's fall?
You, in the right of lady Blanch your wife,
May then make all the claim that Arthur did.
And lose it, life and all, as Arthur did.
How green you are, and fresh in this old world5 note!
John lays you plots6 note
For he, that steeps his safety in true blood7 note
Shall find but bloody safety, and untrue.
This act, so evilly born, shall cool the hearts
Of all his people, and freeze up their zeal;
That none so small advantage shall step forth,
To check his reign, but they will cherish it:
No natural exhalation in the sky,
No scape of nature8 note
No common wind, no customed event,
But they will pluck away his natural cause,
And call them meteors, prodigies, and signs,
Abortives, présages, and tongues of heaven,
Plainly denouncing vengeance upon John.
May be, he will not touch young Arthur's life,
But hold himself safe in his prisonment.
O, sir, when he shall hear of your approach,
If that young Arthur be not gone already,
Even at that news he dies; and then the hearts
Of all his people shall revolt from him,
And kiss the lips of unacquainted change;
And pick strong matter of revolt, and wrath,
Out of the bloody fingers' ends of John.
Methinks, I see this hurly all on foot;
And, O, what better matter breeds for you,
Than I have nam'd9 note
!—The bastard Faulconbridge
Is now in England, ransacking the church,
Offending charity: If but a dozen French
Were there in arms, they would be as a call1 note
To train ten thousand English to their side;
Or, as a little snow2 note, tumbled about,
Anon becomes a mountain. O noble Dauphin,
Go with me to the king: 'Tis wonderful,
What may be wrought out of their discontent:
Now that their souls are topfull of offence,
For England go; I will whet on the king.
Strong reasons make strange actions3 note
: Let us go;
If you say, ay, the king will not say, no.
Heat me these irons hot; and, look thou stand
Within the arras: when I strike my foot
Upon the bosom of the ground, rush forth:
And bind the boy, which you shall find with me,
Fast to the chair: be heedful: hence, and watch.
I hope, your warrant will bear out the deed.
Uncleanly scruples! Fear not you: look to't.—
[Exeunt Attendants.
Young lad, come forth; I have to say with you.
Good morrow, Hubert.
Good morrow, little prince.
As little prince (having so great a title
To be more prince,) as may be.—You are sad.
Indeed, I have been merrier.
Mercy on me!
Methinks, no body should be sad but I:
Yet, I remember, when I was in France,
Young gentlemen would be as sad as night,
Only for wantonness5 note
So I were out of prison, and kept sheep,
I would be as merry as the day is long;
And so I would be here, but that I doubt
My uncle practises more harm to me:
He is afraid of me, and I of him:
Is it my fault that I was Geffrey's son?
No, indeed, is't not; And I would to heaven,
I were your son, so you would love me, Hubert.
If I talk to him, with his innocent prate
He will awake my mercy, which lies dead:
Therefore I will be sudden, and dispatch.
Are you sick, Hubert? you look pale today:
In sooth, I would you were a little sick;
That I might sit all night, and watch with you:
I warrant, I love you more than you do me.
His words do take possession of my bosom.—
Read here, young Arthur. [Showing a paper.] How now, foolish rheum!
[Aside.
Turning dispiteous torture out of door!
I must be brief; lest resolution drop
Out at mine eyes, in tender womanish tears.—
Can you not read it? is it not fair writ?
Too fairly, Hubert, for so foul effect:
Must you with hot irons burn out both mine eyes?
Young boy, I must.
And will you?
And I will.
Have you the heart? When your head did but ake,
I knit my handkerchief about your brows,
(The best I had, a princess wrought it me,)
And I did never ask it you again:
And with my hand at midnight held your head;
And, like the watchful minutes to the hour,
Still and anon cheer'd up the heavy time;
Saying, What lack you? and, Where lies your grief?
Or, What good love may I perform for you?
Many a poor man's son would have lain still,
And ne'er have spoke a loving word to you;
But you at your sick service had a prince.
Nay, you may think, my love was crafty love,
And call it, cunning; Do, an if you will:
If heaven be pleas'd that you will use me ill,
Why, then you must.—Will you put out mine eyes?
These eyes, that never did, nor never shall,
So much as frown on you?
I have sworn to do it;
And with hot irons must I burn them out.
Ah, none, but in this iron age, would do it!
The iron of itself, though heat red-hot7 note
,
Approaching near these eyes, would drink my tears,
And quench his firy indignation8 note
Even in the matter of mine innocence:
Nay, after that, consume away in rust,
But for containing fire to harm mine eye.
Are you more stubborn-hard than hammer'd iron?
An if an angel should have come to me,
And told me, Hubert should put out mine eyes,
I would not have believ'd him; no tongue, but Hubert's9 note
Come forth.
[Stamps.
Re-enter Attendants, with Cord, Irons, &c.
Do as I bid you do.
O, save me, Hubert, save me! my eyes are out,
Even with the fierce looks of these bloody men.
Give me the iron, I say, and bind him here.
Alas, what need you be so boist'rous-rough?
I will not struggle, I will stand stone-still.
For heaven's sake, Hubert, let me not be bound!
Nay, hear me, Hubert! drive these men away,
And I will sit as quiet as a lamb;
I will not stir, nor wince, nor speak a word,
Nor look upon the iron angerly:
Thrust but these men away, and I'll forgive you,
Whatever torment you do put me to.
Go, stand within; let me alone with him.
I am best pleas'd to be from such a deed.
Alas! I then have chid away my friend;
He hath a stern look, but a gentle heart:—
Let him come back, that his compassion may
Give life to yours.
Come, boy, prepare yourself.
Is there no remedy?
None, but to lose your eyes.
O heaven!—that there were but a mote in yours1 note
A grain, a dust, a gnat, a wand'ring hair,
Any annoyance in that precious sense!
Then, feeling what small things are boist'rous there,
Your vile intent must needs seem horrible.
Is this your promise? go to, hold your tongue.
Hubert, the utterance of a brace of tongues
Must needs want pleading for a pair of eyes:
Let me not hold my tongue; let me not, Hubert!
Or, Hubert, if you will, cut out my tongue2 note,
So I may keep mine eyes; O, spare mine eyes;
Though to no use, but still to look on you!
Lo, by my troth, the instrument is cold,
And would not harm me.
I can heat it, boy.
No, in good sooth; the fire is dead with grief3 note,
Being create for comfort, to be us'd
In undeserv'd extremes: See else yourself;
There is no malice in this burning coal4 note
The breath of heaven hath blown his spirit out,
And strew'd repentant ashes on his head.
But with my breath I can revive it, boy.
And if you do, you will but make it blush,
And glow with shame of your proceedings, Hubert:
Nay, it, perchance, will sparkle in your eyes;
And, like a dog that is compell'd to fight,
Snatch at his master that doth tarre him on5 note
All things, that you should use to do me wrong,
Deny their office: only you do lack
That mercy, which fièrce fire, and iron, extends,
Creatures of note, for mercy-lacking uses.
Well, see to live6 note
For all the treasure that thine uncle owes:
Yet am I sworn, and I did purpose, boy,
With this same very iron to burn them out.
O, now you look like Hubert! all this while
You were disguised.
Peace: no more. Adieu;
Your uncle must not know but you are dead:
I'll fill these dogged spies with false reports.
And, pretty child, sleep doubtless, and secure,
That Hubert, for the wealth of all the world,
Will not offend thee.
O heaven!—I thank you, Hubert.
Silence; no more: Go closely in with me7 note
Much danger do I undergo for thee.
Here once again we sit, once again crown'd8 note,
And look'd upon, I hope, with cheerful eyes.
This once again, but that your highness pleas'd,
Was once superfluous9 note
And that high royalty was ne'er pluck'd off;
The faiths of men ne'er stained with revolt;
Fresh expectation troubled not the land,
With any long'd-for change, or better state.
Therefore, to be possess'd with double pomp,
To guard a title that was rich before1 note
,
To gild refined gold, to paint the lily,
To throw a perfume on the violet,
To smooth the ice, or add another hue
Unto the rainbow, or with taper-light
To seek the beauteous eye of heaven to garnish,
Is wasteful, and ridiculous excess.
But that your royal pleasure must be done,
This act is as an ancient tale new told2 note
And, in the last repeating, troublesome,
Being urged at a time unseasonable.
In this, the antique and well-noted face
Of plain old form is much disfigured:
And, like a shifted wind unto a sail,
It makes the course of thoughts to fetch about;
Startles and frights consideration;
Makes sound opinion sick, and truth suspected,
For putting on so new a fashion'd robe.
When workmen strive to do better than well,
They do confound their skill in covetousness3 note
:
And, oftentimes, excusing of a fault,
Doth make the fault the worse by the excuse;
As patches, set upon a little breach,
Discredit more in hiding of the fault4 note,
Than did the fault before it was so patch'd.
To this effect, before you were new-crown'd,
We breath'd our counsel: but it pleas'd your highness
To overbear it; and we are all well pleas'd;
Since all and every part of what we would5 note,
Doth make a stand at what your highness will.
Some reasons of this double coronation
I have possess'd you with, and think them strong;
And more, more strong, (when lesser is my fear,)
I shall indue you with6 note
What you would have reform'd, that is not well;
And well shall you perceive, how willingly
I will both hear and grant you your requests.
Then I, (as one that am the tongue of these,
To sound the purposes7 note of all their hearts,)
Both for myself and them, (but, chief of all,
Your safety, for the which myself and them
Bend their best studies,) heartily request
The enfranchisement of Arthur; whose restraint
Doth move the murmuring lips of discontent
To break into this dangerous argument,—
If what in rest you have, in right you hold,
Why then your fears, (which, as they say, attend
The steps of wrong,) should move you to mew up
Your tender kinsman8 note
, and to choke his days
With barbarous ignorance, and deny his youth
The rich advantage of good exercise9 note?
That the time's enemies may not have this
To grace occasions, let it be our suit,
That you have bid us ask his liberty;
Which for our goods we do no further ask,
Than whereupon our weal, on your depending,
Counts it your weal, he have his liberty.
Let it be so; I do commit his youth
Enter Hubert.
To your direction.—Hubert, what news with you?
This is the man should do the bloody deed;
He show'd his warrant to a friend of mine:
The image of a wicked heinous fault
Lives in his eye; that close aspéct of his
Does show the mood of a much-troubled breast;
And I do fearfully believe, 'tis done,
What we so fear'd he had a charge to do.
The colour of the king doth come and go,
Between his purpose and his conscience1 note
,
Like heralds 'twixt two dreadful battles set2 note
His passion is so ripe, it needs must break.
And, when it breaks3 note, I fear, will issue thence
The foul corruption of a sweet child's death.
We cannot hold mortality's strong hand:—
Good lords, although my will to give is living,
The suit which you demand is gone and dead:
He tells us, Arthur is deceas'd to-night.
Indeed, we fear'd, his sickness was past cure.
Indeed, we heard how near his death he was,
Before the child himself felt he was sick:
This must be answer'd, either here, or hence.
Why do you bend such solemn brows on me?
Think you, I bear the shears of destiny?
Have I commandment on the pulse of life?
It is apparent foul-play; and 'tis shame,
That greatness should so grossly offer it:
So thrive it in your game! and so farewell.
Stay yet, lord Salisbury; I'll go with thee,
And find the inheritance of this poor child,
His little kingdom of a forced grave.
That blood, which ow'd the breath of all this isle,
Three foot of it doth hold; Bad world the while!
This must not be thus borne: this will break out
To all our sorrows, and ere long, I doubt.
They burn in indignation; I repent;
There is no sure foundation set on blood;
No certain life achiev'd by others' death.—
Enter a Messenger.
A fearful eye thou hast; Where is that blood,
That I have seen inhabit in those cheeks?
So foul a sky clears not without a storm:
Pour down thy weather:—How goes all in France?
From France to England4 note.—Never such a power
For any foreign preparation,
Was levied in the body of a land!
The copy of your speed is learn'd by them;
For, when you should be told they do prepare,
The tidings come, that they are all arriv'd.
O, where hath our intelligence been drunk?
Where hath it slept5 note
? Where is my mother's care?
That such an army could be drawn in France,
And she not hear of it?
My liege, her ear
Is stopp'd with dust; the first of April, died
Your noble mother: And, as I hear, my lord,
The lady Constance in a frenzy died
Three days before: but this from rumour's tongue
I idly heard; if true, or false, I know not.
Withhold thy speed, dreadful occasion!
O, make a league with me, till I have pleas'd
My discontented peers!—What! mother dead?
How wildly then walks my estate in France6 note
Under whose conduct came those powers of France,
That thou for truth giv'st out, are landed here?
Under the Dauphin.
Thou hast made me giddy
With these ill tidings.—Now, what says the world
To your proceedings? do not seek to stuff
My head with more ill news, for it is full.
But, if you be afeard to hear the worst,
Then let the worst, unheard, fall on your head.
Bear with me, cousin; for I was amaz'd7 note
Under the tide: but now I breathe again
Aloft the flood; and can give audience
To any tongue, speak it of what it will.
How I have sped among the clergymen,
The sums I have collected shall express.
But as I travell'd hither through the land,
I find the people strangely fantasied;
Possess'd with rumours, full of idle dreams;
Not knowing what they fear, but full of fear:
And here's a prophet8 note
From forth the streets of Pomfret, whom I found
With may hundreds treading on his heels;
To whom he sung, in rude harsh-sounding rhymes,
That, ere the next Ascension-day at noon,
Your highness should deliver up your crown.
Thou idle dreamer, wherefore didst thou so?
Foreknowing that the truth will fall out so.
Hubert, away with him; imprison him;
And on that day at noon, whereon, he says,
I shall yield up my crown, let him be hang'd.
Deliver him to safety9 note, and return,
For I must use thee.—O my gentle cousin,
[Exit Hubert, with Peter.
Hear'st thou the news abroad, who are arriv'd?
The French, my lord; men's mouths are full of it:
Besides, I met lord Bigot, and lord Salisbury,
(With eyes as red as new-enkindled fire,)
And others more, going to seek the grave
Of Arthur, who, they say1 note, is kill'd to-night
On your suggestion.
Gentle kinsman, go,
And thrust thyself into their companies:
I have a way to win their loves again;
Bring them before me.
I will seek them out.
Nay, but make haste; the better foot before.—
O, let me have no subject enemies,
When adverse foreigners affright my towns
With dreadful pomp of stout invasion!—
Be Mercury, set feathers to thy heels;
And fly, like thought, from them to me again.
The spirit of the time shall teach me speed.
Spoke like a spriteful noble gentleman.—
Go after him; for he, perhaps, shall need
Some messenger betwixt me and the peers;
And be thou he.
With all my heart, my liege.
My mother dead!
My lord, they say, five moons were seen to-night2 note
Four fixed; and the fifth did whirl about
The other four, in wond'rous motion.
Five moons?
Old men, and beldams, in the streets
Do prophecy upon it dangerously:
Young Arthur's death is common in their mouths:
And when they talk of him, they shake their heads,
And whisper one another in the ear;
And he, that speaks, doth gripe the hearer's wrist;
Whilst he, that hears, makes fearful action,
With wrinkled brows, with nods, with rolling eyes3 note
.
I saw a smith stand with his hammer, thus,
The whilst his iron did on the anvil cool,
With open mouth swallowing a tailor's news;
Who, with his shears and measure in his hand,
Standing on slippers, (which his nimble haste
Had falsely thrust upon contráry feet4 note
),
Told of a many thousand warlike French,
That were embattailed and rank'd in Kent:
Another lean unwash'd artificer
Cuts off his tale, and talks of Arthur's death.
Why seek'st thou to possess me with these fears?
Why urgest thou so oft young Arthur's death?
Thy hand hath murder'd him: I had a mighty cause4 note
To wish him dead, but thou hadst none to kill him.
Had none, my lord5 note! why, did you not provoke me?
It is the curse of kings6 note
By slaves, that take their humours for a warrant
To break within the bloody house of life:
And, on the winking of authority,
To understand a law; to know the meaning
Of dangerous majesty, when, perchance, it frowns
More upon humour than advis'd respect7 note
.
Here is your hand and seal for what I did.
O, when the last account 'twixt heaven and earth
Is to be made, then shall this hand and seal
Witness against us to damnation!
How oft the sight of means to do ill deeds,
Makes deeds ill done! Hadest not thou been by,
A fellow by the hand of nature mark'd,
Quoted8 note
This murder had not come into my mind:
But, taking note of thy abhorr'd aspéct,
Finding thee fit for bloody villainy,
Apt, liable, to be employ'd in danger,
I faintly broke with thee of Arthur's death;
And thou, to be endeared to a king,
Made it no conscience to destroy a prince.
My lord,—
Hadst thou but shook thy head9 note
When I spake darkly what I purposed;
Or turn'd an eye of doubt upon my face1 note
,
And bid2 note
Deep shame had struck me dumb, made me break off,
And those thy fears might have wrought fears in me:
But thou didst understand me by my signs,
And didst in signs again parley with sin;
Yea, without stop, didst let thy heart consent,
And, consequently, thy rude hand to act
The deed, which both our tongues held vile to name.—
Out of my sight, and never see me more!
My nobles leave me; and my state is brav'd,
Even at my gates, with ranks of foreign powers:
Nay, in the body of this fleshly land,
This kingdom, this confine of blood and breath,
Hostility and civil tumult reigns
Between my conscience, and my cousin's death.
Arm you against your other enemies,
I'll make a peace between your soul and you.
Young Arthur is alive: This hand of mine
Is yet a maiden and an innocent hand,
Not painted with the crimson spots of blood.
Within this bosom never enter'd yet
The dreadful motion of a murd'rous thought3 note,
And you have slander'd nature in my form;
Which, howsoever rude exteriorly,
Is yet the cover of a fairer mind
Than to be butcher of an innocent child.
Doth Arthur live? O, haste thee to the peers,
Throw this report on their incensed rage,
And make them tame to their obedience!
Forgive the comment that my passion made
Upon thy feature; for my rage was blind,
And foul imaginary eyes of blood
Presented thee more hideous than thou art.
O, answer not; but to my closet bring
The angry lords, with all expedient haste:
I cónjure thee but slowly; run more fast4 note.
The wall is high; and yet will I leap down5 note:—
Good ground, be pitiful, and hurt me not!—
There's few, or none, do know me; if they did,
This ship-boy's semblance hath disguis'd me quite.
I am afraid; and yet I'll venture it.
If I get down, and do not break my limbs,
I'll find a thousand shifts to get away:
As good to die, and go, as die, and stay.
[Leaps down.
O me! my uncle's spirit is in these stones:—
Heaven take my soul, and England keep my bones!
Lords, I will meet him at saint Edmund's Bury;
It is our safety, and we must embrace
This gentle offer of the perilous time.
Who brought that letter from the cardinal?
The count Melun, a noble lord of France;
Whose private with me6 note, of the Dauphin's love,
Is much more general than these lines import.
To-morrow morning let us meet him then.
Or, rather then set forward: for 'twill be
Two long days' journey, lords, or e'er we meet7 note
Once more to-day well met, distemper'd8 note
lords!
The king, by me, requests your presence straight.
The king hath dispossess'd himself of us;
We will not line his thin bestained cloak
With our pure honours, nor attend the foot
That leaves the print of blood where-e'er it walks:
Return, and tell him so; we know the worst.
Whate'er you think, good words, I think, were best.
Our griefs, and not our manners, reason now9 note
.
But there is little reason in your grief;
Therefore, 'twere reason, you had manners now.
Sir, sir, impatience hath his privilege.
'Tis true; to hurt his master, no man else1 note.
This is the prison: What is he lies here?
O death, made proud with pure and princely beauty!
The earth had not a hole to hide this deed.
Murder, as hating what himself hath done,
Doth lay it open, to urge on revenge.
Or, when he doom'd this beauty to a grave,
Found it too precious-princely for a grave.
Sir Richard, what think you? Have you beheld2 note,
Or have you read, or heard? or could you think3 note
?
Or do you almost think, although you see,
That you do see? could thought, without this object,
Form such another? This is the very top,
The height, the crest, or crest unto the crest,
Of murder's arms: this is the bloodiest shame,
The wildest savag'ry, the vilest stroke,
That ever wall-ey'd wrath4 note
, or staring rage,
Presented to the tears of soft remorse.
All murders past do stand excus'd in this:
And this, so sole, and so unmatchable,
Shall give a holiness, a purity,
To the yet-unbegotten sin of times5 note
;
And prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,
Exampled by this heinous spectacle.
It is a damned and a bloody work;
The graceless action of a heavy hand,
If that it be the work of any hand.
If that it be the work of any hand?—
We had a kind of light, what would ensue:
It is the shameful work of Hubert's hand;
The practice, and the purpose, of the king:—
From whose obedience I forbid my soul,
Kneeling before this ruin of sweet life,
And breathing to his breathless excellence
The incense of a vow, a holy vow;
Never to taste the pleasures of the world6 note
,
Never to be infected with delight,
Nor conversant with ease and idleness,
Till I have a set a glory to this hand,
By giving it the worship of revenge7 note
.
Our souls religiously confirm thy words.
Lords, I am hot with haste in seeking you:
Arthur doth live; the king hath sent for you.
O, he is bold, and blushes not at death:—
Avaunt, thou hateful villain, get thee gone!
I am no villain.
Must I rob the law?
Your sword is bright, sir; put it up again8 note
.
Not till I sheath it in a murderer's skin.
Stand back, lord Salisbury, stand back, I say;
By heaven, I think, my sword's as sharp as yours:
I would not have you, lord, forget yourself,
Nor tempt the danger of my true defence9 note;
Lest I, by marking of your rage, forget
Your worth, your greatness, and nobility.
Out, dunghill! dar'st thou brave a nobleman?
Not for my life: but yet I dare defend
My innocent life against an emperor.
Thou art a murderer.
Do not prove me so;
Yet, I am none1 note
: Whose tongue soe'er speaks false,
Not truly speaks; who speaks not truly, lies.
Cut him to pieces.
Keep the peace, I say.
Stand by, or I shall gall you, Faulconbridge.
Thou wert better gall the devil, Salisbury:
If thou but frown on me, or stir thy foot,
Or teach thy hasty spleen to do me shame,
I'll strike thee dead. Put up thy sword betime;
Or I'll so maul you and your toasting-iron2 note
,
That you shall think the devil is come from hell3 note
.
What wilt thou do, renowned Faulconbridge?
Second a villain, and a murderer?
Lord Bigot, I am none.
Who kill'd this prince!
'Tis not an hour since I left him well:
I honour'd him, I lov'd him; and will weep
My date of life out, for his sweet life's loss.
Trust not those cunning waters of his eyes,
For villainy is not without such rheum;
And he, long traded in it, makes it seem
Like rivers of remorse4 note and innocency.
Away, with me, all you whose souls abhor
The uncleanly savours of a slaughter-house;
For I am stifled with this smell of sin.
Away, toward Bury, to the Dauphin there!
There, tell the king, he may inquire us out.
Here's a good world!—Knew you of this fair work?
Beyond the infinite and boundless reach
Of mercy, if thou didst this deed of death,
Art thou damn'd, Hubert.
Do but hear me, sir.
Ha! I'll tell thee what;
Thou art damn'd as black—nay, nothing is so black;
Thou art more deep damn'd than prince Lucifer5 note
:
There is not yet so ugly a fiend of hell
As thou shalt be, if thou didst kill this child6 note.
Upon my soul,—
If thou didst but consent
To this most cruel act, do but despair,
And, if thou want'st a cord, the smallest thread
That ever spider twisted from her womb
Will serve to strangle thee; a rush will be
A beam to hang thee on; or would'st thou drown thyself7 note
,
Put but a little water in a spoon,
And it shall be as all the ocean,
Enough to stifle such a villain up.—
I do suspect thee very grievously.
If I in act, consent, or sin of thought
Be guilty of the stealing that sweet breath
Which was embounded in this beauteous clay,
Let hell want pains enough to torture me!
I left him well.
Go, bear him in thine arms.—
I am amaz'd8 note
, methinks; and lose my way
Among the thorns and dangers of this world.—
How easy dost thou take all England up!
From forth this morsel of dead royalty,
The life, the right, and truth of all this realm
Is fled to heaven; and England now is left
To tug and scamble9 note
The unowed interest1 note
Now, for the bare-pick'd bone of majesty,
Doth dogged war bristle his angry crest,
And snarleth in the gentle eyes of peace:
Now powers from home, and discontents at home,
Meet in one line; and vast confusion waits
(As doth a raven on a sick-fallen beast,)
The imminent decay of wrested pomp2 note
Now happy he, whose cloak and cincture3 note
Hold out this tempest. Bear away that child,
And follow me with speed; I'll to the king:
A thousand businesses are brief in hand,
And heaven itself doth frown upon the land.
Thus have I yielded up into your hand
The circle of my glory.
Take again
[Giving John the Crown.
From this my hand, as holding of the pope,
Your sovereign greatness and authority.
Now keep your holy word: go meet the French;
And from his holiness use all your power
To stop their marches, 'fore we are inflam'd4 note
.
Our discontented counties5 note do revolt;
Our people quarrel with obedience;
Swearing allegiance, and the love of soul,
To stranger blood, to foreign royalty.
This inundation of mistemper'd humour
Rests by you only to be qualified.
Then pause not; for the present time's so sick,
That present medicine must be minister'd,
Or overthrow incurable ensues.
It was my breath that blew this tempest up,
Upon your stubborn usage of the pope:
But, since you are a gentle convertite6 note
,
My tongue shall hush again this storm of war,
And make fair weather in your blustering land.
On this Ascension-day, remember well,
Upon your oath of service to the pope,
Go I to make the French lay down their arms.
Is this Ascension-day? Did not the prophet
Say, that, before Ascension-day at noon,
My crown I should give off? Even so I have:
I did suppose, it should be on constraint;
But, heaven be thank'd, it is but voluntary.
All Kent hath yielded; nothing there holds out,
But Dover castle: London hath receiv'd,
Like a kind host, the Dauphin and his powers:
Your nobles will not hear you, but are gone
To offer service to your enemy;
And wild amazement hurries up and down
The little number of your doubtful friends.
Would not my lords return to me again,
After they heard young Arthur was alive?
They found him dead, and cast into the streets;
An empty casket, where the jewel of life7 note
By some damn'd hand was robb'd and ta'en away.
That villain Hubert told me, he did live.
So, on my soul, he did, for aught he knew.
But wherefore do you droop? why look you sad?
Be great in act, as you have been in thought;
Let not the world see fear, and sad distrust,
Govern the motion of a kingly eye:
Be stirring as the time; be fire with fire;
Threaten the threat'ner, and outface the brow
Of bragging horror: so shall inferior eyes,
That borrow their behaviours from the great,
Grow great by your example, and put on
The dauntless spirit of resolution8 note
.
Away, and glister like the god of war,
When he intendeth to become the field9 note
:
Show boldness, and aspiring confidence.
What shall they seek the lion in his den,
And fright him there? and make him tremble there?
O, let it not be said!—Forage, and run1 note
To meet displeasure further from the doors;
And grapple with him, ere he come so nigh.
The legate of the pope hath been with me,
And I have made a happy peace with him;
And he hath promis'd to dismiss the powers
Led by the Dauphin.
O inglorious league!
Shall we, upon the footing of our land,
Send fair-play orders, and make compromise,
Insinuation, parley, and base truce,
To arms invasive? shall a beardless boy,
A cocker'd silken wanton brave our fields,
And flesh his spirit in a warlike soil,
Mocking the air with colours idly spread2 note
,
And find no check? Let us, my liege, to arms:
Perchance, the cardinal cannot make your peace;
Or if he do, let it at least be said,
They saw we had a purpose of defence.
Have thou the ordering of this present time.
Away then, with good courage; yet, I know,
Our party may well meet a prouder foe3 note
My lord Melun, let this be copied out,
And keep it safe for our remembrance:
Return the precedent5 note to these lords again;
That, having our fair order written down,
Both they, and we, perusing o'er these notes,
May know wherefóre we took the sacrament,
And keep our faiths firm and inviolable.
Upon our sides it never shall be broken.
And, noble Dauphin, albeit we swear
Would bear thee from the knowledge of thyself,
A voluntary zeal, and unurg'd faith,
To your proceedings; yet, believe me, prince,
I am not glad that such a sore of time
Should seek a plaster by contemn'd revolt,
And heal the inveterate canker of one wound,
By making many: O, it grieves my soul,
That I must draw this metal from my side
To be a widow-maker; O, and there,
Where honourable rescue, and defence,
Cries out upon the name of Salisbury:
But such is the infection of the time,
That, for the health and physick of our right,
We cannot deal but with the very hand
Of stern injustice and confused wrong.—
And is't not pity, O my grieved friends!
That we, the sons and children of this isle,
Were born to see so sad an hour as this;
Wherein we step after a stranger march6 note
Upon her gentle bosom, and fill up
Her enemies' ranks, (I must withdraw and weep
Upon the spot of this enforced cause7 note
,)
To grace the gentry of a land remote,
And follow unacquainted colours here?
What, here?—O nation, that thou could'st remove!
That Neptune's arms, who clippeth thee about8 note
,
And grapple thee9 note
Where these two Christian armies might combine
The blood of malice in a vein of league,
And not to-spend it so unneighbourly2 note
A noble temper dost thou show in this;
And great affections, wrestling in thy bosom,
Do make an earthquake of nobility.
O, what a noble combat hast thou fought3 note,
Between compulsion and a brave respect4 note!
Let me wipe off this honourable dew,
That silverly doth progress on thy cheeks:
My heart hath melted at a lady's tears,
Being an ordinary inundation;
But this effusion of such manly drops,
This shower, blown up by tempest of the soul5 note
,
Startles mine eyes, and makes me more amaz'd
Than had I seen the vaulty top of heaven
Figur'd quite o'er with burning meteors.
Lift up thy brow, renowned Salisbury,
And with a great heart heave away this storm:
Commend these waters to those baby eyes,
That never saw the giant world enrag'd;
Nor met with fortune other than at feasts,
Full warm of blood, of mirth, of gossiping.
Come, come; for thou shalt thrust thy hand as deep
Into the purse of rich prosperity,
As Lewis himself:—so, nobles, shall you all,
That knit your sinews to the strength of mine.
Enter Pandulph, attended.
And even there, methinks, an angel spake6 note
:
Look, where the holy legate comes apace,
To give us warrant from the hand of heaven;
And on our actions set the name of right,
With holy breath.
Hail, noble prince of France!
The next is this,—king John hath reconcil'd
Himself to Rome; his spirit is come in,
That so stood out against the holy church,
The great metropolis and see of Rome:
Therefore thy threat'ning colours now wind up,
And tame the savage spirit of wild war;
That, like a lion foster'd up at hand,
It may lie gently at the foot of peace,
And be no further harmful than in show.
Your grace shall pardon me, I will not back;
I am too high-born to be propertied,
To be a secondary at control,
Or useful serving-man, and instrument,
To any sovereign state throughout the world.
Your breath first kindled the dead coal of wars.
Between this chástis'd kingdom and myself,
And brought in matter that should feed this fire;
And now 'tis far too huge to be blown out
With that same weak wind which enkindled it.
You taught me how to know the face of right,
Acquainted me with interest to this land7 note
Yea, thrust this enterprize into my heart;
And come you now to tell me, John hath made
His peace with Rome? What is that peace to me?
I, by the honour of my marriage-bed,
After young Arthur, claim this land for mine;
And, now it is half-conquer'd, must I back,
Because that John hath made his peace with Rome?
Am I Rome's slave? What penny hath Rome borne,
What men provided, what munition sent,
To underprop this action? is't not I,
That undergo this charge? who else but I,
And such as to my claim are liable,
Sweat in this business, and maintain this war?
Have I not heard these islanders shout out,
Vive le roy! as I have bank'd their towns8 note
Have I not here the best cards for the game,
To win this easy match play'd for a crown?
And shall I now give o'er the yielded set?
No, no, on my soul9 note, it never shall be said.
You look but on the outside of this work.
Outside or inside, I will not return
Till my attempt so much be glorified
As to my ample hope was promised
Before I drew this gallant head of war1 note
,
And cull'd these fiery spirits from the world,
To outlook2 note
conquest, and to win renown
Even in the jaws of danger and of death.—
[Trumpet sounds.
What lusty trumpet thus doth summon us?
According to the fair play of the world,
Let me have audience; I am sent to speak:—
My holy lord of Milan, from the king
I come, to learn how you have dealt for him;
And, as you answer, I do know the scope
And warrant limited unto my tongue.
The Dauphin is too wilful-opposite,
And will not temporize with my entreaties;
He flatly says, he'll not lay down his arms.
By all the blood that ever fury breath'd,
The youth says well:—Now hear our English king;
For thus his royalty doth speak in me.
He is prepar'd; and reason too3 note, he should:
This apish and unmannerly approach,
This harness'd masque, and unadvised revel,
This unhair'd sauciness, and boyish troops4 note
,
The king doth smile at; and is well prepar'd
To whip this dwarfish war, these pigmy arms,
From out the circle of his territories.
That hand, which had the strength, even at your door,
To cudgel you, and make you take the hatch5 note
;
To dive, like buckets, in concealed wells6 note
To crouch in litter of your stable planks;
To lie, like pawns, lock'd up in chests and trunks;
To hug with swine; to seek sweet safety out
In vaults and prisons; and to thrill, and shake,
Even at the crying of your nation's crow7 note
Thinking his voice an armed Englishman;—
Shall that victorious hand be feebled here,
That in your chambers gave you chastisement?
No: Know, the gallant monarch is in arms;
And like an eagle o'er his aiery towers8 note
,
To souse annoyance that comes near his nest.—
And you degenerate, you ingrate revolts,
You bloody Neroes, ripping up the womb
Of your dear mother England, blush for shame:
For your own ladies, and pale-visag'd maids,
Like Amazons, come tripping after drums;
Their thimbles into armed gauntlets change,
Their neelds to lances9 note
To fierce and bloody inclination.
There end thy brave, and turn thy face in peace;
We grant, thou canst outscold us: fare thee well;
We hold our time too precious to be spent
With such a brabbler.
Give me leave to speak.
No, I will speak.
We will attend to neither:—
Strike up the drums; and let the tongue of war
Plead for our interest, and our being here.
Indeed, your drums, being beaten, will cry out;
And so shall you, being beaten: Do but start
An echo with the clamour of thy drum,
And even at hand a drum is ready brac'd,
That shall reverberate all as loud as thine;
Sound but another, and another shall,
As loud as thine, rattle the welkin's ear,
And mock the deep-mouth'd thunder: for at hand
(Not trusting to this halting legate here,
Whom he hath us'd rather for sport than need,)
Is warlike John; and in his forehead sits
A bare-ribb'd death9 note
, whose office is this day
To feast upon whole thousands of the French.
Strike up our drums, to find this danger out.
And thou shalt find it, Dauphin, do not doubt.
How goes the day with us? O, tell me, Hubert.
Badly, I fear: How fares your majesty?
This fever, that hath troubled me so long,
Lies heavy on me; O, my heart is sick!
My lord, your valiant kinsman, Faulconbridge,
Desires your majesty to leave the field;
And send him word by me, which way you go.
Tell him, toward Swinstead1 note, to the abbey there.
Be of good comfort; for the great supply,
That was expected by the Dauphin here,
Are wreck'd2 note
three nights ago on Goodwin sands.
This news was brought to Richard3 note
The French fight coldly, and retire themselves.
Ah me! this tyrant fever burns me up,
And will not let me welcome this good news.—
Set on toward Swinstead: to my litter straight;
Weakness possesseth me, and I am faint.
I did not think the king so stor'd with friends.
Up once again; put spirit in the French;
If they miscarry, we miscarry too.
That misbegotten devil, Faulconbridge,
In spite of spite, alone upholds the day.
They say, king John, sore sick, hath left the field.
Lead me to the revolts of England here.
When we were happy, we had other names.
It is the count Melun.
Wounded to death.
Fly, noble English, you are bought and sold4 note
Unthread the rude eye of rebellion5 note
And welcome home again discarded faith.
Seek out king John, and fall before his feet;
For, if the French be lords of this loud day,
He means6 note to recompense the pains you take,
By cutting off your heads: Thus hath he sworn,
And I with him, and many more with me,
Upon the altar at Saint Edmund's-Bury;
Even on that altar, where we swore to you
Dear amity and everlasting love.
May this be possible? may this be true?
Have I not hideous death within my view,
Retaining but a quantity of life;
Which bleeds away, even as a form of wax
Resolveth from his figure 'gainst the fire7 note
What in the world should make me now deceive,
Since I must lose the use of all deceit?
Why should I then be false; since it is true
That I must die here, and live hence by truth?
I say again, if Lewis do win the day,
He is forsworn, if e'er those eyes of yours
Behold another day break in the east:
But even this night,—whose black contagious breath
Already smokes about the burning crest
Of the old, feeble, and day-wearied sun,—
Even this ill night, your breathing shall expire;
Paying the fine of rated treachery8 note,
Even with a treacherous fine of all your lives,
If Lewis by your assistance win the day.
Commend me to one Hubert, with your king;
The love of him,—and this respect besides,
For that my grandsire was an Englishman9 note,—
Awakes my conscience to confess all this.
In lieu whereof, I pray you, bear me hence
From forth the noise and rumour of the field;
Where I may think the remnant of my thoughts
In peace, and part this body and my soul
With contemplation and devout desires.
We do believe thee,—And beshrew my soul
But I do love the favour and the form
Of this most fair occasion, by the which
We will untread the steps of damned flight;
And, like a bated and retired flood,
Leaving our rankness and irregular course1 note
,
Stoop low within those bounds we have o'erlook'd,
And calmly run on in obedience,
Even to our ocean, to our great king John.—
My arm shall give thee help to bear thee hence;
For I do see the cruel pangs of death
Right in thine eye2 note.—Away, my friends! New flight;
And happy newness3 note, that intends old right.
The sun of heaven, methought, was loath to set;
But stay'd, and made the western welkin blush,
When the English measur'd4 note backward their own ground,
In faint retire: O, bravely came we off,
When with a volley of our needless shot,
After such bloody toil, we bid good night;
And wound our tattering5 note
Last in the field, and almost lords of it!
Where is my prince, the Dauphin?
Here:—What news?
The count Melun is slain; the English lords,
By his persuasion, are again fallen off:
And your supply, which you have wish'd so long,
Are cast away, and sunk, on Goodwin sands.
Ah, foul shrewd news!—Beshrew thy very heart!
I did not think to be so sad to-night,
As this hath made me.—Who was he, that said,
King John did fly, an hour or two before
The stumbling night did part our weary powers?
Whoever spoke it, it is true, my lord.
Well; keep good quarter6 note
, and good care to-night;
The day shall not be up so soon as I,
To try the fair adventure of to-morrow.
Who's there? speak, ho! speak quickly, or I shoot.
A friend:—What art thou?
Of the part of England
Whither dost thou go?
What's that to thee? Why may not I demand
Of thine affairs, as well as thou of mine?
Hubert, I think.
Thou hast a perfect thought7 note
:
I will, upon all hazards, well believe
Thou art my friend, that know'st my tongue so well:
Who art thou?
Who thou wilt: an if thou please,
Thou may'st befriend me so much, as to think
I come one way of the Plantagenets.
Unkind remembrance! thou, and eyeless night8 note
,
Have done me shame:—Brave soldier, pardon me,
That any accent, breaking from thy tongue,
Should 'scape the true acquaintance of mine ear.
Come, come; sans compliment, what news abroad?
Why, here walk I, in the black brow of night,
To find you out.
Brief, then; and what's the news?
O, my sweet sir, news fitting to the night,
Black, fearful, comfortless, and horrible.
Show me the very wound of this ill news;
I am no woman, I'll not swoon at it.
The king, I fear, is poison'd by a monk9 note:
I left him almost speechless, and broke out
To acquaint you with this evil; that you might
The better arm you to the sudden time,
Than if you had at leisure known of this1 note
.
How did he take it? who did taste to him?
A monk, I tell you; a resolved villain,
Whose bowels suddenly burst out: the king
Yet speaks, and, peradventure, may recover.
Who didst thou leave to tend his majesty?
Why, know you not? the lords are all come back,
And brought prince Henry in their company2 note
;
At whose request the king hath pardon'd them,
And they are all about his majesty.
Withhold thine indignation, mighty heaven,
And tempt us not to bear above our power!—
I'll tell thee, Hubert, half my power this night,
Passing these flats, are taken by the tide,
These Lincoln washes have devoured them;
Myself, well-mounted, hardly have escap'd.
Away, before! conduct me to the king;
I doubt, he will be dead, or ere I come.
It is too late; the life of all his blood
Is touch'd corruptibly4 note
(Which some suppose the soul's frail dwelling-house,)
Doth, by the idle comments that it makes,
Foretell the ending of mortality.
His highness yet doth speak; and holds belief,
That, being brought into the open air,
It would allay the burning quality
Of that fell poison which assaileth him.
Let him be brought into the orchard here.—
Doth he still rage?
He is more patient
Than when you left him; even now he sung.
O vanity of sickness! fierce extremes,
In their continuance5 note, will not feel themselves.
Death, having prey'd upon the outward parts,
Leaves them invisible; and his siege is now
Against the mind6 note
With many legions of strange fantasies;
Which, in their throng and press to that last hold,
Confound themselves7 note
I am the cygnet8 note to this pale faint swan,
Who chants a doleful hymn to his own death;
And, from the organ-pipe of frailty, sings
His soul and body to their lasting rest.
Be of good comfort, prince; for you are born
To set a form upon that indigest
Which he hath left so shapeless and so rude9 note
.
Ay, marry, now my soul hath elbow-room;
It would not out at windows, nor at doors.
There is so hot a summer in my bosom,
That all my bowels crumble up to dust:
I am a scribbled form, drawn with a pen
Upon a parchment; and against this fire
Do I shrink up.
How fares your majesty?
Poison'd,—ill-fare1 note;—dead, forsook, cast off:
And none of you will bid the winter come2 note,
To thrust his icy fingers in my maw3 note
Nor let my kingdom's rivers take their course
Through my burn'd bosom; nor entreat the north
To make his bleak winds kiss my parched lips,
And comfort me with cold:—I do not ask you much4 note,
I beg cold comfort; and you are so strait5 note,
And so ingrateful, you deny me that.
O, that there were some virtue in my tears,
That might relieve you!
The salt in them is hot.—
Within me is a hell; and there the poison
Is, as a fiend, confin'd to tyrannize
On unreprievable condemned blood.
O, I am scalded with my violent motion,
And spleen of speed to see your majesty.
O cousin, thou art come to set mine eye:
The tackle of my heart is crack'd and burn'd;
And all the shrouds, wherewith my life should sail,
Are turned to one thread, one little hair:
My heart hath one poor string to stay it by,
Which holds but till thy news be uttered;
And then all this thou see'st is but a clod,
And module of confounded royalty7 note
.
The Dauphin is preapring hitherward;
Where, heaven he knows, how we shall answer him:
For, in a night, the best part of my power,
As I upon advantage did remove,
Were in the washes, all unwarily,
Devoured by the unexpected flood8 note.
You breathe these dead news in as dead an ear.—
My liege! my lord!—But now a king,—now thus.
Even so must I run on, and even so stop.
What surety of the world, what hope, what stay,
When this was now a king, and now is clay!
Art thou gone so? I do but stay behind,
To do the office for thee of revenge;
And then my soul shall wait on thee to heaven,
As it on earth hath been thy servant still.—
Now, now, you stars, that move in your right spheres,
Where be your powers? Show now your mended faiths;
And instantly return with me again,
To push destruction, and perpetual shame,
Out of the weak door of our fainting land:
Straight let us seek, or straight we shall be sought;
The Dauphin rages at our very heels.
It seems, you know not then so much as we:
The cardinal Pandulph is within at rest,
Who half an hour since came from the Dauphin;
And brings from him such offers of our peace
As we with honour and respect may take,
With purpose presently to leave this war.
He will the rather do it, when he sees
Ourselves well sinewed to our defence.
Nay, it is in a manner done already;
For many carriages he hath despatch'd
To the sea-side, and put his cause and quarrel
To the disposing of the cardinal:
With whom yourself, myself, and other lords,
If you think meet, this afternoon will post
To cónsummate this business happily.
Let it be so:—And you, my noble prince,
With other princes that may best be spar'd,
Shall wait upon your father's funeral.
At Worcester must his body be interr'd9 note
For so he will'd it.
Thither shall it then.
And happily may your sweet self put on
The lineal state and glory of the land!
To whom, with all submission, on my knee,
I do bequeath my faithful services
And true subjection everlastingly.
And the like tender of our love we make,
To rest without a spot for evermore.
I have a kind soul, that would give you1 note thanks,
And knows not how to do it, but with tears.
O, let us pay the time but needful woe,
Since it hath been beforehand with our griefs2 note
This England never did, (nor never shall,)
Lie at the proud foot of a conqueror,
But when it first did help to wound itself.
Now these her princes are come home again,
Come the three corners of the world in arms,
And we shall shock them: Nought shall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true3 note
.
Smiths,
Shipwrights,
Sturgeon-dressers,
Joyners,
Carpenters,
Gardeners,
Turners,
Coopers,
Saltmakers,
Ironmen, for furnasse and hammer,
Brickmakers,
Hast thou, spirit,
“Perform'd to point the tempest that I bade thee?
“Ariel.
To every article.
“I boarded the king's ship; now on the beak,
“Now in the waist, the deck, in every cabin,
“I flamed amazement.—
“Pro.
Why, that's my spirit.
“But was not this nigh shore?
“Ari.
Close by, my master.
“Pro.
But are they, Ariel, safe?
“Ari.
Not a hair perish'd;
“On their sustaining garments not a blemish,
“But fresher than before; and, as thou bad'st me,
“In troops I have dispers'd them 'bout the isle.—
&stellam; &stellam; &stellam; &stellam; &stellam; &stellam; &stellam; &stellam;
“Pro.
Of the king's ship,
“The mariners, say, how thou hast dispos'd,
“And all the rest o' the fleet?
“Ari.
Safely in harbour
“Is the king's ship; in the deep nook—,
“&lblank; there she's hid;
“The mariners all under hatches stow'd;
“Whom with a charm, join'd to their suffer'd labour,
“I have left asleep: and for the rest o' the fleet,
“Which I dispers'd, they all have met again,
“And are upon the Mediterranean flote
“Bound sadly home for Naples;
“Supposing that they saw the king's ship wreck'd,
“And his great person perish.”
Previous section
James Boswell [1821], The plays and poems of William Shakspeare, with the corrections and illustrations of various commentators: comprehending A Life of the Poet, and an enlarged history of the stage, by the late Edmond Malone. With a new glossarial index (J. Deighton and Sons, Cambridge) [word count] [S10201].
