 As you like it, from Lambs Tales from Shakespeare. During the time that France was divided into provinces, or Dukedoms, as they were called, there reigned in one of these provinces a usurper, who had deposed and banished his elder brother, the lawful Duke. The Duke, who was thus driven from his dominions, retired with a few faithful followers to the forest of Arden, and here the good Duke lived with his loving friends, who had put themselves into a voluntary exile for his sake, while their land and revenues enriched the false usurper. And customs soon made the life of careless ease they led here more sweet to them than the pomp and uneasy splendour of a courteous life. Here they lived like the old Robinhood of England, and to this forest many noble youths daily resorted from the court, and did fleet at the time carelessly as they did who lived in the golden age. In the summer they lay along under the fine shade of the large forest trees, marking the playful sports of the wild deer. And so fond were they of these poor, dappled fools, who seemed to be the native inhabitants of the forest, that it grieved them to be forced to kill them to supply themselves with venison for their food. When the cold winds of winter made the Duke feel the change of his adverse fortune, he would endure it patiently and say, These chilling winds which blow upon my body are true counsellors. They do not flatter, but represent truly to me my condition, and though they bite sharply their tooth is nothing like so keen as that of unkindness and ungratitude. I find that how so ever men speak against adversity, yet some sweet uses are to be extracted from it, like the jewel, precious for medicine, which is taken from the head of the venomous and despised toad. In this manner did the patient Duke draw a useful moral from everything that he saw, and by the help of this moralising turn, in that life of his, remote from public haunts, he could find tongues in trees, books in the running brooks, sermons in stones, and good in everything. The banished Duke had an only daughter, named Rosalind, whom the usurper, Duke Frederick, when he banished her father, still retained in his court as a companion for his own daughter Celia. A strict friendship subsisted between these ladies, which the disagreement between their fathers did not in the least interrupt, Celia striving by every kindness in her power to make amends to Rosalind for the injustice of her own father in deposing the father of Rosalind. And whenever the thoughts of her father's banishment and her own dependence on the false usurper made Rosalind melancholy, Celia's whole care was to comfort and console her. One day, when Celia was talking in her usual kind manner to Rosalind, saying, I praise you, Rosalind, my sweet cousin, be merry! A messenger entered from the Duke to tell them that if they wished to see a wrestling match, which was just going to begin, they must come instantly to the court before the palace, and Celia, thinking it would amuse Rosalind, agreed to go and see it. In those times wrestling, which is only practised now by country clowns, was a favourite sport even in the courts of princes and before fair ladies and princesses. To this wrestling match, therefore, Celia and Rosalind went. They found that it was likely to prove a very tragical sight, for a large and powerful man, who had been long practised in the art of wrestling and had slain many men in contests of this kind, was just going to wrestle with a very young man, who from his extreme youth and inexperience in the art, the beholders all thought would certainly be killed. When the Duke saw Celia and Rosalind, he said, how now, daughter and niece, are you crept hither to see the wrestling? You will take little delight in it, there is such odds in the men. In pity to this young man, I would wish to persuade him from wrestling. Speak to him, ladies, and see if you can move him. The ladies were well pleased to perform this humane office, and first Celia entreated the young stranger that he would desist from the attempt, and then Rosalind spoke so kindly to him, and with such feeling consideration for the danger he was about to undergo, that, instead of being persuaded by her gentle words to forego his purpose, all thoughts were bent to distinguish himself by his courage in this lovely lady's eyes. He refused the request of Celia and Rosalind in such graceful and modest words, that they felt still more concerned for him. He concluded his refusal with saying, I am sorry to deny such fair and excellent ladies anything, but let your fair eyes and gentle wishes go with me to my trial, wherein, if I be conquered, there is one shame that was never gracious. If I am killed, there is one dead that is willing to die. I shall do my friends no wrong, for I have none to lament me. The world no injury, for in it I have nothing, for I only fill up a place in the world which may be better supplied when I have made it empty. And now the wrestling match began. Celia wished the young man's stranger might not be hurt, but Rosalind felt most for him. The friendless state which he said he was in, and that he wished to die, made Rosalind think that he was, like herself, unfortunate, and she pitied him so much and so deep an interest she took in his danger while he was wrestling, that she might almost be said at that moment to have fallen in love with him. The kindness shown this unknown youth by these fair and noble ladies gave him courage and strength, so that he performed wonders, and in the end completely conquered his antagonist, who was so much hurt that for a while he was unable to speak or move. The Duke Frederick was much pleased with the courage and skill shown by this young stranger, and desired to know his name and parentage, meaning to take him under his protection. The stranger said his name was Orlando, and that he was the youngest son of Sir Roland de Bois. Sir Roland de Bois, the father of Orlando, had been dead some years, but when he was living he had been a true subject and dear friend of the banished Duke. Therefore, when Frederick heard Orlando was the son of his banished brother's friend, all his liking for this brave young man was changed into displeasure, and he left the place in very ill humour. Hating to hear the very name of any of his brother's friends, and yet still admiring the valor of the youth, he said, as he went out, that he wished Orlando had been the son of any other man. Rosalind was delighted to hear that her new favourite was the son of her father's old friend, and she said to Celia, my father loved Sir Roland de Bois, and if I had known this young man was his son, I would have added tears to my entreaties before he should have ventured. The ladies then went up to him, and seeing him abashed by the sudden displeasure shown by the Duke, they spoke kind and encouraging words to him, and Rosalind, when they were going away, turned back to speak some more civil things to the brave young son of her father's old friend, and taking a chain from off her neck she said, gentlemen, wear this for me. I am out of suits with fortune, or I would give you a more valuable present." When the ladies were alone, Rosalind's talk being still of Orlando, Celia began to perceive her cousin had fallen in love with the handsome young wrestler, and she said to Rosalind, is it possible you should fall in love so suddenly? Rosalind replied, the Duke, my father, loved his father dearly. But, said Celia, does it therefore follow that you should love his son dearly? For then I ought to hate him, for my father hated his father. Yet I do not hate Orlando. Frederick, being enraged at the sight of Sir Roland de Bois' son, which reminded him of the many friends the banished Duke had among the nobility, and having been for some time displeased with his niece, because the people praised her for her virtues, and pitied her for her good father's sake, his malice suddenly broke out against her. And while Celia and Rosalind were talking of Orlando, Frederick entered the room, and with looks full of anger, Frederick ordered Rosalind instantly to leave the palace and follow her father into banishment, telling Celia, who in vain pleaded for her, that he only suffered Rosalind to stay upon her account. I did not, then, said Celia, entreat you to let her stay, for I was too young at that time to value her. But now that I know her worth, and that we so long have slept together, rose at the same instant, learned, played, and et together, I cannot live out of her company. Frederick replied, Her smoothness, her very silence, and her patience speak to the people, and they pity her. You are a fool to plead for her. You will seem more bright and virtuous when she is gone. Therefore open not your lips in her favour, for the doom which I have passed upon her is irrevocable. When Celia found she could not prevail upon her father to let Rosalind remain with her, she generously resolved to accompany her, and leaving her father's palace that night, she went along with her friend to seek Rosalind's father, the banished Duke, in the Forest of Arden. Before they set out, Celia considered that it would be unsafe for two young ladies to travel in the rich clothes they wear in the wall. She therefore proposed that they should disguise their rank by dressing themselves like country maids. Rosalind said it would be a still greater protection if one of them was to be dressed like a man. And so it was quickly agreed on between them that, as Rosalind was the tallest, she should wear the dress of a young countryman, and Celia should be habited like a country lass, and that they should say they were brother and sister. And Rosalind said she would be called Ganymede, and Celia chose the name of Alina. In this disguise, and taking their money and jewels to defray their expenses, these fair princesses set out on their long travel, for the Forest of Arden was a long way off beyond the boundaries of the Duke's dominions. The Lady Rosalind, or Ganymede, as she must now be called, with her manly garb seemed to have put on a manly courage. The faithful friendship Celia had shown in accompanying Rosalind so many weary miles made the new brother in recompense for this true love exerted cheerful spirit, as if he were indeed Ganymede, the rustic and stout-hearted brother of the gentle villagemaiden Alina. When at last they came to the Forest of Arden, they no longer found the convenient inns and good accommodations they had met with on the road. And being in want of food and rest, Ganymede, who had so merrily cheered his sister with pleasant speeches and happy remarks all the way, now owned to Alina that he was so weary he could find in his heart to disgrace his man's apparel and cry like a woman. And Alina declared she could go no farther. And then again Ganymede tried to recollect that it was a man's duty to comfort and console a woman as the weaker vessel, and to seem courageous to his new sister, he said, Come, have a good heart, my sister Alina. We are now at the end of our travel in the Forest of Arden. But feigned manliness and forced courage would no longer support them. For though they were in the Forest of Arden, they knew not where to find the Duke. And here the travel of these weary ladies might have come to a sad conclusion, for they might have lost themselves and perished for want of food. But providentially, as they were sitting on the grass, almost dying with fatigue and hopeless of any relief, a countryman chanced to pass that way, and Ganymede once more tried to speak with a manly boldness, saying, Shepard, if love or gold can in this desert place procure us entertainment, I pray you bring us where we may rest ourselves, for this young maid, my sister, is much fatigued with travelling and faints for want of food. The man replied that he was only a servant to a Shepard, and that his master's house was just going to be sold, and therefore they would find but poor entertainment, but that if they would go with him they should be welcome to what there was. They followed the man, the near prospect of relief giving them fresh strength, and bought the house and sheep of the Shepard, and took the man who conducted them to the Shepard's house to wait on them. And being by this mean so fortunately provided with a neat cottage and well supplied with provisions, they agreed to stay here till they could learn in what part of the forest the duke dwelt. When they were rested after the fatigue of their journey they began to like their new way of life and almost fancied themselves the Shepard and Shepardess they feigned to be. Yet sometimes Ganymede remembered he had once been the same Lady Rosland who had so dearly loved the brave Orlando because he was the son of old Sir Roland, her father's friend. And though Ganymede thought Orlando was many miles distance, even so many weary miles as they had travelled, yet it soon appeared that Orlando was also in the Forest of Arden. And in this manner the strange event came to pass. Orlando was the youngest son of Sir Roland de Bois, who when he died left him, Orlando being then very young, to the care of his eldest brother Oliver, charging Oliver on his blessing to give his brother a good education and provide for him as became the dignity of their ancient house. Oliver proved an unworthy brother and disregarding the commands of his dying father, he never put his brother to school but kept him at home, untold and entirely neglected. But in his nature and in the noble qualities of his mind Orlando so much resembled his excellent father that without any advantages of education he seemed like a youth who had been bred with the utmost care. And Oliver so envied the fine person and dignified manners of his untutored brother that at last he wished to destroy him. And to effect this he set on people to persuade him to wrestle with the famous wrestler who, as has been before related, had killed so many men. Now it was this cruel brother's neglect of him which made Orlando say he wished to die being so friendless. When, contrary to the wicked hopes he had formed, his brother proved victorious, his envy and malice knew no bounds and he swore he would burn the chamber where Orlando slept. He was overheard making his vow by one that had been an old and faithful servant to their father and that loved Orlando because he resembled Sir Roland. This old man went out to meet him when he returned from the Duke's palace and saw Orlando, the peril his dear young master was in, made him break out into these passionate exclamations. Oh, my gentle master, my sweet master! Oh, you memory of old Sir Roland! Why are you virtuous? Why are you gentle, strong and valiant? And why would you be so fond to overcome the famous wrestler? Your praise has come too swiftly home before you. Orlando, wondering what all this meant, asked him what was the matter and then the old man told him how his wicked brother, envying the love all people bore him and now hearing the fame he had gained by his victory in the Duke's palace, intended to destroy him by setting fire to his chamber that night, and in conclusion advised him to escape the danger he was in by instant flight. And knowing Orlando had no money, Adam, for that was the good old man's name, had brought out with him his own little hoard, and he said, I have five hundred crowns, the thrifty hire I saved under your father and laid by to provision for me when my old limbs should become unfit for service. Take that. See that doth the raidens feed, be comfort to my age. Here is the gold, all this I give to you, let me be your servant, though I look old I will do the service of a younger man in all your business and necessities. Oh, good old man, said Orlando, how well appears in you the constant service of the old world. You are not for the fashion of these times. We will go along together, and before your youthful wages are spent I shall light upon some means for both our maintenance. This faithful servant and his loved master set out, and Orlando and Adam travelled on, uncertain what course to pursue till they came to the forest of Arden, and there they found themselves in the same distress for want of food that Ganymede and Alina had been. They wandered on, seeking some human habitation, till they were almost spent with hunger and fatigue. Adam at last said, Oh, my dear master, I die for want of food, I can go no farther. He then laid himself down, thinking to make that place his grave and bade his dear master farewell. Orlando, seeing him in this weak state, took up his old servant in his arms and carried him under the shelter of some pleasant trees, and he said to him, Cheerly, old Adam, rest your weary limbs here awhile, and do not talk of dying. Orlando then searched about to find some food, and he happened to arrive at that part of the forest where the Duke was, and he and his friends were just going to eat their dinner, this royal Duke being seated on the grass in a rather canopy than the shady covert of some large trees. Orlando, whom hunger had made desperate, drew his sword intending to take their meat by force and said, Forbear indeed no more, I must have your food. The Duke asked him if distress had made him so bold, or if he were a rude despiser of good manners. On this Orlando said he was dying with hunger, and then the Duke told him he was welcome to sit down and eat with them. Orlando, hearing him speak so gently, put up his sword and blushed with shame the rude manner in which he had demanded their food. Pardon me, I pray you, said he. I thought that all things had been savage here, and therefore I put on the countenance of stern command. But whatever men you are that in this desert, under the shade of melancholy boughs, lose and neglect the creeping hours of time, if ever you have looked on better days, if ever you have been where bells have knelt to church, if you ever sat at any good man's feast, if ever from your eyelids you have wiped a tear, and know what it is to pity or be pitied, may gentle speeches now move you to do me human courtesy. The Duke replied, true it is that we are men, as you say, who have seen better days, and though we have now our habitation in this wild forest, we have lived in towns and cities, and have with holy bell been knelt to church, have sat at good men's feasts, and from our eyes have wiped the drops which sacred pity has engendered. Therefore sit you down and take of our refreshment as much as will minister to your wants. There is a poor old man, answered Orlando, who has limped after me many a weary step and pure love, oppressed at once with two sad infirmities, age and hunger, till he be satisfied, I must not touch a bit. Go find him out and bring him hither, said the Duke, we will forbear to eat till you return. Then Orlando went like a doe to find its fawn and give it food, and presently returned bringing Adam in his arms. And the Duke said, set down your venerable burden, you are both welcome. And they fed the old man and cheered his heart, and he revived and recovered his health and strength again. The Duke inquired who Orlando was, and when he found that he was the son of his old friends, a rolander-boys, he took him under his protection, and Orlando and his old servant lived with the Duke in the forest. Orlando arrived in the forest not many days after Ganymede and Elina came there, and, as has been before related, bought the shepherd's cottage. Ganymede and Elina were strangely surprised to find the name of Rosalind carved on trees, and love-sonnets fastened to them, all addressed to Rosalind. And while they were wondering how this could be, they met Orlando, and they perceived a chain which Rosalind had given him about his neck. Orlando little thought that Ganymede was the fair Princess Rosalind, who, by her noble condescension in favour, had so won his heart that he passed his whole time in carving her name upon the trees and writing sonnets in praise of her beauty. But being much pleased with the graceful air of this pretty shepherd youth, he entered into conversation with him, and he thought he saw a likeness in Ganymede to his beloved Rosalind, but that he had none of the dignified deportment of that noble lady, for Ganymede assumed the forward manners often seen in youths when they are between boys and men. And with much arch-ness and humour talked to Orlando of a certain lover, who, said she, haunts our forest and spoils our young trees with carving Rosalind upon their barks, and he does hang odes upon hawfons and elegies on brambles, all praising the same Rosalind. If I could find this lover, I would give him some good counsel that would soon cure him of his love. Orlando confessed that he was the fond lover of whom he spoke, and asked Ganymede to give him the good counsel he talked of. The remedy Ganymede proposed, and the counsel he gave him, was that Orlando should come every day to the cottage where he and his sister Alina dwelt. And then, said Ganymede, I will feign myself to be Rosalind, and you shall feign to court me in the same manner as you would do fantastic ways of whimsical ladies to their lovers, till I make you ashamed of your love. And this is the way I propose to cure you. Orlando had no great faith in the remedy, yet he agreed to come every day to Ganymede's cottage and feign a playful court-trip. And every day Orlando visited Ganymede and Alina, and Orlando called the shepherd Ganymede his Rosalind, and every day talked over all the fine words and flattering compliments which young men delight to use when they court their mistresses. It does not appear, however, that Ganymede made any progress in curing Orlando of his love for Rosalind. Though Orlando thought all this was but a sport of play, not dreaming that Ganymede was his very Rosalind, yet the opportunity had gave him of saying all the fond things he had in his heart, pleased his fancy almost as well as it did Ganymede's, who enjoyed the secret jest in knowing these fine love-speeches were all addressed to the right person. In this manner many days passed pleasantly on with these young people, and the good nature of Alina, seeing it made Ganymede happy, let him have his own way, and was diverted at the court-ship, and did not care to remind Ganymede that the lady Rosalind had not yet made herself known to the Duke her father, whose place of resort in the forest they had learned from Orlando. Ganymede met the Duke one day, and had some talk with him, and the Duke asked of what parentage he came. Ganymede answered that he came of as good parentage as he did, which made the Duke smile, and seeing the Duke look well and happy, Ganymede was content to put off all further explanation for a few days longer. One morning, as Orlando was going to visit Ganymede, he saw a man lying asleep on the ground, and a large green snake had twisted itself about his neck. The snake, seeing Orlando approach, glided away among the bushes. Orlando went nearer, and then he discovered a lioness like crouching with her head on the ground, with a cat-like watch, and said that lions will pray on nothing that is dead or sleeping. It seemed as if Orlando was sent by Providence to free the man from the danger of the snake and lioness, but when Orlando looked in the man's face, he perceived that the sleeper who was exposed to this double peril was his own brother Oliver, who had so cruelly used him, and had threatened to destroy him by fire, and he was almost tempted to leave him a prey to the hungry lioness. But brotherly affection and the gentleness of his nature soon overcame through his sword and attached the lioness and slew her, and thus preserved his brother's life, both from the venomous snake and from the furious lioness. But before Orlando could conquer the lioness she had torn one of his arms with her sharp claws. While Orlando was engaged with the lioness, Oliver awaked, and perceiving that his brother Orlando, whom he had so cruelly treated, was saving him from the fury of a wild beast at the risk of his own life, shame and remorse at once seized him, and he repented of his unworthy conduct to tears his brother's pardon for the injuries he had done him. Orlando rejoiced to see him so penitent and readily forgave him. They embraced each other, and from that hour Oliver loved Orlando with a true brotherly affection, though he had come to the forest bent on his destruction. The wounded Orlando's arm having bled very much he found himself too weak to go to visit Ganymede, and therefore he desired his brother to go and tell Ganymede whom, said Orlando, I in sport to call my Rosalind, the accident which had befallen him. Viva then Oliver went, and told to Ganymede and Alina how Orlando had saved his life, and when he had finished the story of Orlando's bravery and his own providential escape he owned to them that he was Orlando's brother who had so cruelly used him, and then he told them of their reconciliation. The sincere sorrow that Oliver expressed for his offences made such a lively impression on the kind heart of Alina that she instantly fell in love with him, and Oliver, observing how much he pitted the distress he told her he felt his fault, he has suddenly fell in love with her. But while love was thus stealing into the hearts of Alina and Oliver he was no less busy with Ganymede who hearing of the danger Orlando had been in and that he was wounded by the lioness fainted, and when he recovered he pretended that he had counterfeited the swoon in the imaginary character of Rosalind and Ganymede said to Oliver tell your brother Orlando how well I counterfeited a swoon. But Oliver saw by the paleness of his complexion that he did really faint, wondering at the weakness of the young man he said, well, if you did counterfeit take a good heart and counterfeit to be a man. So I do," replied Ganymede truly, but I should have been a woman by right. Oliver made this visit a very long one, and when at last he returned back to his brother he had much news to tell him, for besides the account of Ganymede's fainting at the hearing that Orlando was wounded Oliver told him how he had fallen in love with the fair Shepard of Salina and that she had lent a favourable ear even in this their first interview. And he talked to his brother as if a thing almost settled that he should marry Alina, saying that he so well loved her that he would live here as a Shepard and settle his estate and house at home upon Orlando. You have my consent," said Orlando, let your wedding be tomorrow, and I will invite the Duke and his friends. Go and persuade your Shepardist to agree to this. She is now alone, for look, here comes her brother. Oliver went to Alina, and Ganymede whom Orlando had perceived approaching came to inquire after the health of his wounded friend. When Orlando and Ganymede began to talk over the sudden love which had taken place between Oliver and Alina, Orlando said he had advised his brother to persuade his fair Shepardist to be married on the morrow, and then he added how much he could wish to be married on the same day to his Rosalind. Ganymede, who well approved of this arrangement, said that if Orlando really loved Rosalind as well as he professed to do, he should have his wish, for on the morrow he would engage to make Rosalind happy, and also that Rosalind should be willing to marry Orlando. This seemingly wonderful event which, as Ganymede was the Lady Rosalind he could so easily perform, he pretended he would bring to pass by the aid of magic, which he said he had learned of an uncle who was a famous magician. The fond lover Orlando, half believing and half doubting what he heard, asked Ganymede if he spoke in sober meaning. By my life I do, said Ganymede, therefore put on your best clothes and bid the Duke and your friends to your wedding, and for her to be married tomorrow to Rosalind, she shall be here. The next morning, Oliver having obtained the consent of Alina, they came into the presence of the Duke, and with them also came Orlando. They being all assembled to celebrate this double marriage, and as yet only one of the brides appearing, there was much of wondering and conjecture, but they mostly thought that Ganymede was making a jest of Orlando. The Duke hearing that it was his own daughter that was to be brought in this strange way, asked Orlando what he had promised, and while Orlando was answering that he knew not what to think, Ganymede entered and asked the Duke if he brought his daughter whether he would consent to her marriage with Orlando. That I would, said the Duke, if I had kingdoms to give with her. Ganymede then said to Orlando, and you say you will marry her if I bring her here. That I would, said Orlando, if I were king of many kingdoms. Ganymede and Alina then went out together, and Ganymede in throwing off his male attire, and being once apparel, quickly became Rosalind without the power of magic, and Alina, changing her country garb for her own rich clothes, was with as little trouble transformed into the Lady Celia. While they were gone, the Duke said to Orlando that he thought the shepherd Ganymede very like his daughter Rosalind, and Orlando said he also had observed the resemblance. They had no time to wonder how all this would end, for Rosalind and Celia, in their own clothes, entered, and no longer pretending that it was by the way she came there, Rosalind threw herself on her knees before her father, and begged his blessing. It seemed so wonderful to all present that she should so suddenly appear that it might well have passed for magic, but Rosalind would no longer trifle with her father, and told him the story of her banishment and of her dwelling in the forest as a shepherd boy, her cousin Celia passing as her sister. The Duke ratified the consent he had already given to the marriage, and Orlando and Rosalind, Oliver and though their wedding could not be celebrated in this wild forest with any of the parade of splendor usual on such occasions, yet a happier wedding day was never passed, and while they were eating their venison under the cool shade of the pleasant trees, as if nothing should be wanting to complete the felicity of this good Duke and the true lovers, an unexpected messenger arrived to tell the Duke the joyful news that his Dukedom was restored to him. The usurper enraged at the flight of his daughter Celia, and hearing that every day the earth resorted to the forest of Arden to join the lawful Duke in his exile, much envying that his brother should be so highly respected in his adversity, put himself at the head of a large force and advanced toward the forest, intending to seize his brother and put him with all his faithful followers to the sword. But by a wonderful interposition of Providence, this bad brother was converted from his evil intention, for just as he entered the skirts of the wild forest, he was met by an old religious man, a hermit, with whom he had much respect, and who in the end completely turned his heart from his wicked design. Thenceforward, he became a true penitent, and resolved, relinquishing his unjust dominion, to spend the remainder of his days in a religious house. The first act of his newly conceived penitence was to send a messenger to his brother, as has been related, to offer to restore to him his Dukedom, which he had usurped so long, and with it the lands and revenues of his friends, the faithful followers of his adversity. This joyful news, the Dukedom, came opportunity to heighten the festivity and rejoicings of the wedding of the princesses. Celia complimented her cousin on this good fortune which had happened to the Duke, Roslyn's father, and wished her joy very sincerely, though she herself was no longer heir to the Dukedom. But by this restoration which her father had made, Roslyn was now the heir, so completely was the love of these two cousins, unmixed with anything of jealousy or of envy. The Duke had now an opportunity of respect, and these worthy followers, though they had patiently shared his adverse fortune, were very well pleased to return in peace and prosperity to the place of their lawful Duke. End of story. Two gentlemen of Verona from Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer, please visit LibriVox.org, read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, May 2007. Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare. By Charles and Mary Lamb. Two gentlemen of Verona. There lived in the city of Verona two young gentlemen whose names were Valentine and Proteus, between whom a firm and uninterrupted friendship had long subsisted. They pursued their studies together, and their hours of leisure were always passed in each other's company, except when Proteus visited a lady he was in love with. And these visits to his Proteus for the Fair Julia, were the only topics on which these two friends disagreed. For Valentine, not being himself a lover, was sometimes a little weary of hearing his friend forever talking of his Julia, and then he would laugh at Proteus and in pleasant terms ridicule the passion of love, and declare that no such idle fancy should ever enter his head, greatly preferring, as he said, the free and happy life he led to the anxious hopes and fears of the lover Proteus. One morning Valentine came to Proteus to tell him that they must for a time waited, for that he was going to Milan. Proteus, unwilling to part with his friend, used many arguments to prevail upon Valentine, not to leave him. But Valentine said, cease to persuade me, my loving Proteus, I will not, like a sluggard, wear out my youth and idleness at home. Homekeeping youths have ever homely wits. If your affection were not chained to the sweet glances of your honoured Julia, I would entreat you to accompany me, to see the wonders of the world abroad. But since you are a lover, love on still, and may your love be prosperous. That is the mutual expressions of an alterable friendship. Sweet Valentine Adieu, said Proteus, think on me when you see some rare object worthy of notice in your travels, and wish me partaker of your happiness. Valentine began his journey that same day toward Milan, and when his friend had left him Proteus sat down to write a letter to Julia, which he gave to her maid Lucetta to deliver to her mistress. Julia loved Proteus as well as he did her, but she was a lady of noble spirit, and made in dignity too easily to be won. Therefore she affected to be insensible to his passion, and gave him much uneasiness in the prosecution of his suit. And when Lucetta offered the letter to Julia, she would not receive it, and chiding her maid for taking letters from Proteus, ordered her to leave the room. But she so much wished to see what was written in the letter, that she soon called in her maid again, and when Lucetta returned, she said, what o'clock is it? Lucetta, who knew her mistress without answering her question, again offered the rejected letter. Julia, angry that her maid should thus take the liberty of seeming to know what she really wanted, tore the letter in pieces and threw it on the floor, ordering her maid once more out of the room. As Lucetta was retiring, she stopped to pick up the fragments of the torn letter. But Julia, who meant not so to part with them, said in pretended anger, go get you gone and let the papers lie, you would be fingering them to anger me. That's what she said with the torn fragments. She first made out these words, love-wounded Proteus, and lamenting over these and such like loving words which she made out though they were all torn asunder, or she said, wounded, the expression, love-wounded Proteus giving her that idea. She talked to these kind words, telling them she would lodge them in her bosom as in a bed, till their wounds were healed, and that she would kiss each several piece to make amends. In this manner she went on talking with a lady, finding herself unable to make out the whole, and vexed at her own ingratitude in destroying such sweet and loving words as she called them, she wrote a much kinder letter to Proteus than she had ever done before. Proteus was greatly delighted at receiving this favourable answer to his letter, and while he was reading it, he exclaimed, sweet love, sweet lines, sweet life. In the midst of his raptures he was interrupted by his father. How now, said the old gentleman, what letter are you reading there? A letter from my friend Valentine at Milan. Lend me the letter, said his father, let me see what news. There is no news, my lord, said Proteus, greatly alarmed, but that he writes how well beloved he is of the Duke of Milan, who daily graces him with favours and how he wishes me with him, the partner of his fortune. And how stand you affected to his wish, asked the father. As one relying on your lordship's will and not depending on his friendly wish, said Proteus. Now it happened that Proteus' father had just been talking with a friend on a subject. His friend had said he wondered his lordship suffered his son to spend his youth at home, while most men were sending their sons to seek preferment abroad. Some, said he, to the wars, to try their fortunes there, and some to discover islands far away, and some to study in foreign universities. And there is his companion Valentine. He has gone to the Duke of Milan's court. Your son is fit for any of these things, and it will be a great disadvantage to him in his ripe age not to have travelled in his time. He was very good, and upon Proteus telling him that Valentine wished him with him, the partner of his fortune, he had once determined to send his son to Milan, and without giving Proteus any reason for this sudden resolution, it being the usual habit of this positive old gentleman to command his son, not reason with him, he said, my will is the same as Valentine's wish. And seeing his son look astonished, he added, look not amazed that I so suddenly resolve to be in readiness to go, make no excuses for I am premmetry. Proteus knew it was of no use to make objections to his father, who never suffered him to dispute his will, and he blamed himself for telling his father a non-truth about Julia's letter, which had brought upon him the sad necessity of leaving her. Now that Julia found she was going to lose Proteus for so long a time, she no longer pretended indifference, and they bade each other a mournful farewell with many vows of love and constancy. Proteus and which they both promised to keep forever in remembrance of each other, and thus, taking a sorrowful leave, Proteus set out on his journey to Milan, the abode of his friend Valentine. Valentine was, in reality, what Proteus had feigned to his father, in high favour with the Duke of Milan, and another event it happened to him of which Proteus did not even dream, for Valentine had given up the freedom of which he used so much to boast, and was become as passionate a lover as Proteus. She who had wrought this wondrous change in Valentine was Sylvia, daughter of the Duke of Milan, and she also loved him, but they concealed their love from the Duke because, although he showed much kindness for Valentine and invited him every day to his palace, yet he designed to marry his daughter to a young courtier whose name was Thurio. Sylvia despised this Thurio, for he had none of the fine sense and excellent qualities of Valentine. These two rivals, Thurio and Valentine, were one day on a visit to Sylvia, and Valentine was entertaining Sylvia with turning her back on the table, when the Duke himself entered the room and told Valentine the welcome news of his friend Proteus' arrival. Valentine said if I had wished a thing it would have been to have seen him here, and then he highly praised Proteus to the Duke saying, my Lord, though I have been a truant of my time yet have my friend made use and fair advantage of his days, and is complete in person and in mind in all good grace to grace a gentleman. Welcome him then, according to his daughter Thurio, for Valentine I need not bid him do so. They were here interrupted by the entrance of Proteus, and Valentine introduced him to Sylvia, saying, Sweet Lady, entertain him to be my fellow servant to your ladyship. When Valentine and Proteus had ended their visit, and were alone together, Valentine said, now tell me how all does from whence you came. How did your lady and how thrives your love? Proteus replied, my tales of love used to weary you. I know you joy not I, Proteus, returned Valentine, but that life is altered now. I have done penance for condemning love, for in revenge of my contempt of love, love has chased sleep from my enthralled eyes. Oh, gentle Proteus, love is a mighty lord and hath so humbled me that I confess there is no woe like his correction, nor no such joy on earth as in his service. I now like no discourse except it be of love. Now I can break my fast, dine, sup, and sleep upon the very name of love. This acknowledgement of the change which love had made in the disposition of Valentine was a great triumph to his friend Proteus. But friend Proteus must be called no longer, for the same all-powerful deity love of whom they were speaking, yea, even while they were talking of the change he had made in Valentine, was working in the heart of Proteus, and he, who had till this time been a pattern of true love and perfect friendship, was now, in one short interview with Sylvia, at sight of Sylvia, all his love for Julia vanished away like a dream, nor did his long friendship with Valentine deter him from endeavouring to supplant him in her affections. And although, as it will always be when people of dispositions naturally good become unjust, he had many scruples before he determined to forsake Julia and become the rival of Valentine, yet he at length overcame his sense of duty, and yielded himself up almost without remorse to his new unhappy passion. Valentine imparted to him excellence the whole history of his love, and how carefully they had concealed it from the Duke her father, and told him that, despairing of ever being able to obtain his consent, he had prevailed upon Sylvia to leave her father's palace that night, and go with him to Mantua. Then he showed Proteus a ladder of ropes, by help of which he meant to assist Sylvia to get out of one of the windows of the palace after it was dark. Upon hearing this faithful recital of his friend's dearest secrets, it is hardly possible to be believed, but so go to the Duke and disclose the whole to him. This false friend began his tale with many artful speeches to the Duke, such as that by the laws of friendship he ought to conceal what he was going to reveal, but that the gracious favour the Duke had shown him, and the duty he owed his grace, urged him to tell that which else no worldly good should draw from him. He then told all he had heard from Valentine, not omitting the ladder of ropes and the manner in which Valentine meant to conceal them under a long cloak. The Duke thought Proteus quite a miracle of integrity, in that he preferred telling his friend's intention rather than he would conceal an unjust action, highly commended him, and promised him not to let Valentine know from whom he had learned this intelligence, but by some artifice to make Valentine betray the secret himself. For this purpose the Duke awaited the coming of Valentine in the evening, whom he soon saw hurrying toward the palace, and he perceived somewhat was wrapped within his cloak, which he concluded was the rope ladder. The Duke upon this stopped him, saying, You are fast, Valentine. May it please your grace, said Valentine. There is a messenger that stays to bear my letters to my friends, and I am going to deliver them. Now this falsehood of Valentine's had no better success in the event than the untruth Proteus told his father. Be they of much import, said the Duke. No more, my lord, said Valentine, than to tell my father I am well and happy at your grace's court. Nay, then, said the Duke, no matter. Stay with me awhile. I wish your council about some affairs that concern me He then told Valentine an artful story, as a prelude to draw his secret from him, saying that Valentine knew he wished to match his daughter with Thurio, but that she was stubborn and disobedient to his commands. Neither regarding, said he, that she is my child, nor fearing me as if I were her father. And I may say to thee this pride of hers is draw my love from her. I had thought my age should have been cherished by her childlike duty. I now unresolved to take a wife and turn her out to let her beauty be her wedding-dower. For me and my possession she esteems not. Valentine, wondering where all this would end, made answer. And what would your grace have me to do in all this? Why, said the Duke, the lady I would wish to marry is nice and coy, and does not much esteem my aged eloquence. Besides, the fashion of courtship is much changed since I was young. Now I would willingly have you to be my tutor to instruct me how I am to woo. Valentine gave him a general idea of the dress then practised by young men when they wished to win a fair lady's love, such as presents, frequent visits, and the like. The Duke replied to this that the lady did refuse a present which he sent her, and that she was so strictly kept by her father that no man might have access to her by day. Why, then, said Valentine, you must visit her by night. But at night, said the artful Duke, who was now coming to the drift of his discourse, her doors are fast locked. Valentine then unfortunately proposed that Duke should get into the lady's chamber at night by means of a ladder of ropes, saying he would procure him one fitting for that purpose, and in conclusion advised him to conceal this ladder of ropes under such a cloak as that which he wore now. Lend me your cloak," said the Duke, who had feigned this long story on purpose to have a pretense to get off the cloak. So upon saying these words he caught hold of Valentine's cloak and, throwing it back, he discovered not only the ladder of ropes, but the ladder contained a full account of their intended elopement. The Duke, after upbraiding Valentine for his ingratitude and thus returning the favour he had shown him by endeavouring to steal away his daughter, banished him from the court and city of Milan forever, and Valentine was forced to depart that night without even seeing Sylvia. While Proteus at Milan was thus injuring Valentine, Julia at Verona was regretting the absence of Proteus, and her regard for him at last so far overcame her sense of propriety and resolved to leave Verona and seek her lover at Milan. And to secure herself from danger on the road she dressed her maiden Lucetta and herself in men's clothes, and they set out in this disguise and arrived at Milan soon after Valentine was banished from that city through the treachery of Proteus. Julia entered Milan about noon, and she took up her abode at an inn, and her thoughts being all on her dear Proteus, she entered into conversation with the innkeeper, or host, as he was called, thinking by that means the host was greatly pleased that this handsome young gentleman, as he took her to be, who from his appearance he concluded was of high rank, spoke so familiarly to him, and being a good natured man he was sorry to see him look so melancholy and to amuse his young guest, he offered to take him to hear some fine music with which, he said, a gentleman that evening was going to serenade his mistress. The reason Julia looked so very melancholy was that she did not well know what Proteus would think of the imprudence steps she had taken, for she loved her for her noble maiden pride and dignity of character, and she feared she should lower herself in his esteem. And this it was that made her wear a sad and thoughtful countenance. She gladly accepted the offer of the host to go with him and hear the music, for she secretly hoped she might meet Proteus by the way. But when she came to the palace with that the host conducted a very different effect was produced to what the kind host intended. For there, to her heart sorrow, she beheld her lover, the inconstant Proteus, serenading the lady's Sylvia with music, and addressing discourse of love and admiration to her. And Julia overheard Sylvia from a window talk with Proteus and reproach him for forsaking his own true lady, and for his ingratitude to his friend Valentine. And then Sylvia left the window, not choosing to listen to his music and his fine speeches, for she was a faithful lady to her banished Valentine and abhorred the ungenerous conduct of his false friend Proteus. Though Julia was in despair at just witnessed, yet did she still love the true and Proteus, and hearing that he had lately parted with a servant she contrived with the assistance of her host, the friendly innkeeper, to hire herself to Proteus as a page. And Proteus knew not that she was Julia, and he sent her with letters and presents to her rival Sylvia, and he even sent by her the very ring she gave him as a parting gift of Verona. When she went to that lady with the ring she was most glad to find that Sylvia utterly rejected the suit of Proteus, all the page Sebastian, as she was called, entered into conversation with Sylvia about Proteus's first love, the forsaken Lady Julia. She putting in, as one may say, a good word for herself, she said she knew Julia, as, well, she might, being herself the Julia of whom she spoke, telling how fondly Julia loved her master Proteus and how his unkind neglect would grieve her. And then she, with a pretty equivocation, went on, Julia is about my height and of my complexion, the colour of her eyes divine, and indeed Julia looked a most beautiful youth in her boys attire. Sylvia was moved to pity this lovely lady who was so sadly forsaken by the man she loved, and when Julia offered the ring which Proteus had sent refused it, saying, the more shame for him that he sends me that ring. I will not take it, for I have often heard him say his Julia gave it to him. I lovely gentle youth for pitying her, poor lady. Here is a purse. I give it you for Julia's sake. These comfortable words coming from and rival's tongue cheered the drooping heart of the disguised lady. But to return to the banished Valentine who scarce knew which way to bend his course, being unwilling to return home to his father's disgraced and banished man, as he was wandering over a lonely forest not far distant from Milan, where he had left his heart's dear treasure, the Lady Sylvia, he was set upon by robbers who demanded his money. Valentine told them that he was a man crossed by adversity, that he was going into agony, the clothes he had on being all his riches. The robbers hearing that he was a distressed man and being struck with his noble air and manly behavior, told him if he would live with them and be their chief or captain, they would put themselves under his command, but that if he refused to accept their offer they would kill him. Valentine, who cared little what became of himself, said he would consent to live with them and be their captain, provided they did no outrage on women or poor passengers. Sylvia, of whom we read in ballads, a captain of robbers and outlawed Banditi, and in this situation he was found by Sylvia, and in this manner it came to pass. Sylvia, to avoid marriage with Thurio, whom her father insisted upon her no longer refusing, came at last to the resolution of following Valentine to Mantua, at which place she had heard her lover had taken refuge. But in this account she was misinformed, for he still lived in the forest among the robbers, bearing the name of their captain, but using the authority which they had imposed upon him in no other way than to compel them to show compassion to the travellers they robbed. Sylvia contrived to affect her escape from her father's palace in company with a worthy old gentleman, whose name was Eglamour, whom she took along with her for protection on the road. She had to pass through the forest where Valentine and the Banditi dwelt, and one of these robbers seized on Sylvia, and would also have taken Eglamour, but he escaped. The robber who had taken Sylvia, seeing the terror she was going to be alarmed, for that he was only going to carry her to a cave where his captain lived, and that she need not be afraid, for their captain had an honourable mind and always showed humanity to women. Sylvia found little comfort in hearing she was going to be carried as a prisoner before the captain of a lawless Banditi. Oh, Valentine, she cried, this I endure for thee! But as the robber was conveying her to the cave of his captain he was stopped by Proteus, who still attended by Julia in the disguise of a page, having heard of the fight and raised her steps to this forest. Proteus now rescued her from the hands of the robber. But scarce had she time to thank him for the service he had done her before he began to distress her afresh with his love-suit. And while he was rudely pressing her to consent to marry him, and his page, the forlorn Julia, was standing beside him in great anxiety of mind, fearing lest the great service which Proteus had just done Julia should win her to show him some favour, they were all strangely surprised with the sudden appearance of Valentine, came to console and relieve her. Proteus was courting Sylvia, and he was so much ashamed of being caught by his friend that he was all at once seized with penitence and remorse, and he expressed such a lively sorrow for the entries he had done to Valentine that Valentine, whose nature was noble and generous, even to a romantic degree, not only forgave and restored him to his former place in his friendship, but in a sudden flight of heroism he said, I freely do forgive you, and all the interest I have in Sylvia Julia, who was standing beside her master as a page, hearing this strange offer and fearing Proteus would not be able with this newfound virtue to refuse Sylvia, fainted, and they were all employed in recovering her, else would Sylvia have been offended in being thus made over to Proteus, though she could scarcely think that Valentine would long persevere in this overstrained and too generous act of friendship. When Julia recovered from the fainting fit, she said, I had forgot my master ordered me to deliver this ring to Sylvia. Proteus, looking upon the ring, thought that it was the one he gave to Julia in return for that which he received from her and which he had sent by the supposed page to Sylvia. How is this?" said he. This is Julia's ring. How can you buy it, boy?" Julia answered, Julia herself did give it to me, and Julia herself hath brought it hither. Proteus, now looking earnestly upon her, plainly perceived that the page Sebastian was no other than the lady Julia herself, and the proof she had given of her constancy and true love so wrote in him his love for her returned into his heart, and he took again his own dear lady and joyfully resigned all pretensions to the lady Sylvia to Valentine, who had so well deserved her. Proteus and Valentine were expressing their happiness and reconciliation, and in the love of their faithful ladies, when they were surprised with the sight of the Duke of Milan and Thurio, who came there in pursuit of Sylvia. Thurio first approached and attempted to seize Sylvia, saying, Sylvia is mine. Thurio, keep back. If once again you say that Sylvia is yours, you shall embrace your death. Here she stands. Take but possession of her with a touch. I dare you but to breathe upon my love." Hearing this threat, Thurio, who was a great coward, drew back, and said he cared not for her, and that none but a fool would fight for a girl who loved him not. The Duke, who was a very brave man himself, said now in great anger, the more basin did generate in you then turning to Valentine, he said, I do applaud your spirit, Valentine, and think you worthy of an empress' love. You shall have Sylvia, for you have well deserved her. Valentine then with great humility kissed the Duke's hand and accepted the noble present which he had made him of his daughter with becoming thankfulness, taking occasion of this joyful minute to entreat the good-humoured Duke to pardon the thieves with whom he had associated in the forest, assuring them that when reformed they would and fit for great employment. For the most of them had been banished like Valentine for state offences, rather than for any black crimes they had been guilty of. To this the ready Duke consented, and now nothing remained but that Proteus, the false friend, was ordained by way of penance for his love-prompted faults to be present at the recital of the whole story of his loves and falsehoods before the Duke, and the shame of the recital to his awakened conscience was judged sufficient punishment, and all four returned back to Milan and their nuptials were solemnised in the presence of the Duke with high triumphs and feasting. End of story The Merchant of Venice from Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare This is a LibriVox recording. All LibriVox recordings are in the public domain. For more information or to volunteer please visit LibriVox.org Read by Karen Savage Waco, Texas, May 2007 Tales from Shakespeare by Charles and Mary Lamb Merchant of Venice Shylock the Jew lived at Venice He was a usurer who had amassed an immense fortune by lending money at great interest to Christian merchants Shylock, being a hard-hearted man exacted the payment of the money he lent with such severity that he was much disliked by all good men and particularly by Antonio a young merchant of Venice and Shylock as much hated Antonio because he used to lend money to people in distress and would never take any interest for the money he lent. Therefore, there was great enmity between this covetous Jew and the generous merchant Antonio. Whenever Antonio met Shylock on the Rialto or exchange he used to reproach him with his usuries and hard dealings which the Jew would bear with seeming patience while he secretly meditated revenge. Antonio was the kindest man that lived the best conditioned spirit in doing courtesies. Indeed, he was one in whom the ancient Roman honour more appeared than in any that drew breath in Italy. He was greatly beloved by all his fellow citizens. But the friend who was nearest and dearest to his heart was Bassanio a noble Venetian who having but a small patrimony had nearly exhausted his little fortune by living in too expensive a manner for his slender means as young men of high rank with small fortunes are too apt to do. He wanted money. Antonio assisted him and it seemed as if they had but one heart and one purse between them. One day, Bassanio came to Antonio and told him that he wished to repair his fortune by a wealthy marriage with a lady whom he dearly loved whose father, that was lately dead had left a sole heiress to a large estate and that in her father's lifetime he used to visit at her house when he thought he had observed this lady had sometimes from her eyes sent speechless messages that seemed to say no one welcome suitor but not having money to furnish himself with an appearance befitting the lover of so rich an heiress he besought Antonio to add to the many favours he had shown him by lending him three thousand ducats. Antonio had no money by him at that time to lend his friend but expecting soon to have some ships come home laden with merchandise he said he would go to Shylock, the rich money lender and borrow the money upon the credit of those ships. Antonio and Bassanio went together to Shylock Antonio asked the Jew to lend him three thousand ducats upon any interest he should require to be paid out of the merchandise contained in his ships at sea. On this Shylock thought within himself if I can once catch him on the hip I will feed fat the ancient grudge I bear him he hates our Jewish nation he lends out money gratis and among the merchants he rails at me with my well earned bargains which he calls interest cursed be my tribe if I forgive him Antonio finding he was musing within himself not answer and being impatient for the money said Shylock do you hear will you lend the money to this question the Jew replied senior Antonio on the realto many a time and often you have railed at me about my monies and my usuries and I have borne it with a patient shrug for sufferance is the badge of all our tribe and then you have called me unbeliever cut-float dog and spit upon my Jewish garments and spurned at me with your foot as if I were a cur well then it now appears you need my help and you come to me and say Shylock lend me monies has a dog money is it possible a cur should lend three thousand ducats shall I bend low and say first sir you spit upon me on Wednesday last another time you called me dog and for these curtesies I am to lend you monies Antonio replied I am as like to call you so again to spit on you again and spurn you too if you will lend me this money lend it not to me as to a friend but rather lend it to me as to an enemy that if I break you may better face exact the penalty why look you said Shylock how you storm I would be friends with you and have your love I will forget the shames you have put upon me I will supply your wants and take no interest for my money this seemingly kind offer greatly surprised Antonio and then Shylock still pretending kindness and that all he did was to gain Antonio's love again said he would lend him the three thousand ducats and take no interest for his money only Antonio should go with him to a lawyer and their sign in Mary's sport a bond that if he did not repay the money by a certain day he would forfeit a pound of flesh to be cut off from any part of his body that Shylock pleased content said Antonio I will sign to this bond and say there is much kindness in the Jew Bassanio said Antonio should not sign to such a bond for him but still Antonio insisted that he would sign it for that before the day of payment came his ships would return laden with many times the value of the money Shylock hearing this debate exclaimed oh father Abraham what suspicious people these Christians are their own hard dealings teach them to suspect the thoughts of others I pray you tell me this Bassanio if you should break his day what should I gain by the exact of the forfeiture a pound of man's flesh taken from a man is not so estimable profitable neither as the flesh of mutton or beef I say to buy his favor I offer this friendship if he will take it so if not adieu at last against the advice of Bassanio who not withstanding all the Jew had said of his kind intentions did not like his friend should run the hazard of this shocking penalty for his sake Antonio signed the bond thinking it really was as the Jew said merely in sport the rich heiress that Bassanio wished to marry lived near Venice at a place called Belmont her name was Portia and in the graces of her person and her mind she was nothing inferior to that Portia of whom we read who was Kato's daughter and the wife of Brutus Bassanio being so kindly supplied with money by his friend Antonio at the hazard of his life set out for Belmont with a splendid train and attended by a gentleman of the name of Graciano Bassanio proving successful in his suit Portia in a short time consented to accept of him for a husband Bassanio confessed to Portia that he had no fortune and that his high birth and noble ancestry were all that he could boast of she who loved him for his worthy qualities and had riches enough not to regard wealth in her husband answered with graceful modesty that she would wish herself a thousand times more fair and ten thousand times more rich to be more worthy of him and then the accomplished Portia prettily disbraised herself and said she was an unlessened girl unschooled unpracticed yet not so old but that she could learn and that she would commit her gentle spirit to be directed and governed by him in all things and she said myself and what is mine to you and yours is now converted but yesterday I was a fair mansion queen of myself and mistress over these servants and now this house the servants and myself are yours my lord I give them with this ring presenting a ring to Bassanio Bassanio was so overpowered with gratitude and wonder at the gracious manor in which the rich and noble Portia accepted of a man of his humble fortunes that he could not express his joy and reverence to the dear lady who so honoured him by anything but broken words of love and grace. Graciano and Narissa, Portia's waiting maid, were in attendance upon their lord and lady when Portia so gracefully promised to become the obedient wife of Bassanio and Graciano, wishing Bassanio and the generous lady Joy desired permission to be married at the same time. With all my heart, Graciano, said Bassanio, if you can get a wife. Graciano then said that he loved the lady Portia's fair waiting gentlewoman, Narissa, and that she had promised to be his wife if her lady married Bassanio. When I asked Narissa if this was true, Narissa replied, Madam, it is so if you approve of it. Portia willingly consenting, Bassanio pleasantly said, Then our wedding feast shall be much honoured by your marriage, Graciano. The happiness of this lovers was sadly crossed at this moment by the entrance of a messenger who brought a letter from Antonio containing fearful tidings. When Bassanio read Antonio's letter Portia feared it was to tell him of the death of some dear friend he looked so pale, and inquiring what was the damage had so distressed him, he said, Oh, sweet Portia, here are a few of the unpleasantest words that ever blotted paper. Dental lady, when I first imparted my love to you I freely told you all the wealth I had ran in my veins, but I should have told you that I had less than nothing, being in debt. Bassanio then told Portia what has been here related of his borrowing the money of Antonio, and of Antonio's procuring it of Shylock the Jew, and of the bond by which Antonio had engaged to forfeit a pound of flesh if it was necessary. And then Bassanio read Antonio's letter, the words of which were, Sweet Bassanio, my ships are all lost, my bond to the Jew is forfeited, and since in paying it it is impossible I should live, I could wish to see you at my death. Notwithstanding, use your pleasure. If your love for me do not persuade you to come, let not my letter. Oh, my dear love, said Portia, dispatch all business and be gone. You shall have gold to pay the money twenty times over before this kind of Bassanio's fault, and as you are so dearly bought I will dearly love you. Portia then said she would be married to Bassanio before he set out, to give him a legal right to her money, and that same day they were married, and Grasiano was also married to Narissa, and Bassanio and Grasiano, the instant they were married, set out in great haste for Venice, where Bassanio found Antonio in prison. The day of payment being passed, the cruel Jew would not accept of the money which Bassanio offered him, a pound of Antonio's flesh. A day was appointed to try this shocking cause before the Duke of Venice, and Bassanio awaited in dreadful suspense the event of the trial. When Portia parted with her husband, she spoke cheeringly to him, and bade him bring his dear friend along with him when he returned. Yet she feared it would go hard with Antonio, and when she was left alone she began to think and consider within herself if she could by any means be instrumental in saving the life of her husband, when she wished to honour her Bassanio she had said to him with such a meek and wife-like grace that she would submit in all things to be governed by his superior wisdom. Yet being now called forth into action by the peril of her honoured husband's friend, she did nothing doubt her powers. And by the so guidance of her own true and perfect judgment, at once resolved to go herself to Venice and speak in Antonio's defence. Portia had a relation who was a man stating the case to him desired his opinion, and that with his advice he would also send her the dress worn by a counsellor. When the messenger returned he brought letters from Bellario of advice, how to proceed, and also everything necessary for her equipment. Portia dressed herself and her maid Narissa in men's apparel, and putting on the robes of a counsellor she took Narissa along with her as a clerk, setting out immediately they arrived at Venice on the very day of the trial. The cause was just going to be heard at the Leonard House when Portia entered this High Court of Justice and presented a letter from Bellario in which that Leonard counsellor wrote to the Duke saying he would have come himself to plead for Antonio, but that he was prevented by sickness, and he requested that the Leonard Young Doctor Balthasar so he called Portia, might be permitted to plead in his stead. This, the Duke granted, much wondering of the youthful appearance of the stranger who was prettily disguised by her counsellor's robes and her large wig. Portia looked around her and she saw the merciless Jew, and she saw Balsanio, but he knew her not in her disguise. He was standing beside Antonio in an agony of distress and fear for his friend. The importance of the arduous task Portia had engaged in gave this tender lady courage and she boldly proceeded in the duty she had undertaken to perform. And first of all she addressed herself to Shylock, and allowing that he had a right by the Venetian Lord to have the forfeit expressed in the bond, the quality of mercy, as would have softened any heart but that I'm feeling Shylock's, saying that it dropped as the gentle rain from heaven upon the place beneath, and how mercy was a double blessing, it blessed him that gave and him that received it, and how it became monarchs better than their crowns being an attribute of God himself, and that earthly power came nearest to God's in proportion as mercy tempered justice. And she bade Shylock remember that as we all pray for mercy that same prayer should Shylock only answered her by desiring to have the penalty forfeited in the bond. Is he not able to pay the money? asked Portia. Bessanio then offered the Jew the payment of the three thousand ducats as many times over as he should desire, which Shylock refusing and still insisting upon having a pound of Antonio's flesh, Bessanio begged the learned young councillor would endeavour to rest the law a little to save Antonio's life. But Portia gravely answered that laws, once established, never be altered. Hearing Portia say that the law might not be altered it seemed to him that she was pleading in his favour, and he said, a Daniel has come to judgment. Oh, wise young judge, how I do honour you. How much elder are you than your looks? Portia now desired Shylock to let her look at the bond, and when she had read it she said, this bond is forfeited, and by this the Jew may lawfully claim a pound of flesh to be by him cut off nearest Antonio's heart. Then she said to Shylock, be merciful. Take the money and bid me tear the bond. But no mercy would the cruel Shylock show, and he said, by my soul I swear there is no power in the tongue of man to alter me. Why, then, Antonio, said Portia, you must prepare your bosom for the knife. And while Shylock was sharpening a long knife with great eagerness to cut off the pound of flesh, Portia said to Antonio, have you anything to say? Antonio with a calm resignation replied that he had but little to say, he had no mind for death. Then he said to Bassanio, give me your hand, Bassanio, fare you well. Grieve not that I am fallen into this misfortune for you. Commend me to your honourable wife and tell her how I have loved you. Bassanio in the deepest affliction replied, Antonio I am married to a wife who is as dear to me as life itself, but life itself, my wife and all the world are not esteemed with me above your life. Hearing this, though the kind-hearted lady was not at all offended with her husband for expressing the love he owed to so true a friend as Antonio in these strong terms, yet could not help answering, your wife would give you little thanks if she were present to hear you make this offer. And then Grasiano, who loved to copy what his lord did, thought he must make a speech like Bassanio's and he said, in Orissa's hearing, who was writing in her Clark's dress by the side of Portia, I have a wife whom I protest I love. She could but entreat some power there to change the cruel temper of this courage Jew. It is well you wish this behind her back, else you would have but an unquiet house, said Orissa. Shylock now cried out impatiently, with trifle time, I pray, pronounce the sentence. And now all was awful expectation in the court, and every heart was full of grief for Antonio. Portia asked if the scales were ready to weigh the flesh, and she said to the Jew, Shylock, you must have some surgeon by lest he bleed to death. Shylock, whose whole intent was that Antonio should bleed to death, said, it is not so named in the bond. Portia replied, it is not so named in the bond, but what of that? It were good you did so much for charity. To this all the answer Shylock would make was, I cannot find it, it is not in the bond. Then, said Portia, a pound of Antonio's flesh is thine. The law allows it, and the court awards it, and you may cut this flesh from the breast, the law allows it, and the court awards it. Again, Shylock exclaimed, oh, wise and upright judge, a Daniel has come to judgment. And then he sharpened his long knife again, and looking eagerly on Antonio he said, come, prepare. Terry, a little Jew, said Portia, there is something else. This bond here gives you no drop of blood. The words expressly are a pound of flesh. If in the cutting off of the pound in blood, your lands and goods are by the law to be confiscated to the state of Venice. Now, as it was utterly impossible for Shylock to cut off the pound of flesh without shedding some of Antonio's blood, this wise discovery of Portia's that it was flesh and not blood that was named in the bond, saved the life of Antonio, and all admiring the wonderful sagacity of the young counsellor, who had so happily thought of this expedient, plaudits resounded from every part of the Senate House, and Shylock had used, oh, wise and upright judge, mark, Jew, a Daniel has come to judgment. Shylock, finding himself defeated in his cruel intent, said with a disappointed look that he would take the money, and Bassanio, rejoiced beyond measure at Antonio's unexpected deliverance, cried out, here is the money. But Portia stopped him, saying, softly, there is no haste. The Jew shall have nothing but the penalty. Therefore, prepare, Shylock, to cut off the flesh, but mind you, shed it, nor do not cut off more nor less than just a pound, be it more or less by one poor scruple. Nay, if the scale turned but by the weight of a single hair, you are condemned by the laws of Venice to die, and all your wealth is forfeited to the state. Give me my money and let me go, said Shylock. I have it ready, said Bassanio, here it is. Shylock was going to take the money when Portia again stopped him, saying, tarry, Jew, I have yet another hold upon you. By the laws of Venice your wealth is forfeited to the state for having conspired against the life of one of its citizens, and your life lies at the mercy of the Duke. Therefore down on your knees and ask him to pardon you. The Duke then said to Shylock, that you may see the difference of our Christian spirit, I have pardoned you your life before you ask it. Half your wealth belongs to Antonio, the other half comes to the state. The generous Antonio then said that he would give up his son a deed to make it over at his death to his daughter and her husband, for Antonio knew that the Jew had an only daughter who had lately married against his consent a young Christian named Lorenzo, a friend of Antonio's, which had so offended Shylock that he had disinherited her. The Jew agreed to this, and being thus disappointed in his revenge and dispoiled of his riches he said, I am ill, let me go home, send the deed after me and I will sign over half my riches to my daughter. Get thee gone then, said the Duke, and if you repent your cruelty and turn Christian the state will forgive you the fine of the other half of your riches. The Duke now released Antonio and dismissed the court. He then highly praised the wisdom and ingenuity of the young counselor and invited him home to dinner. Portia, who meant to return to Belmont before her husband, replied, I humbly thank your grace, but I must away directly. The Duke said he was sorry he had not leisure to stay and dine with him, and turning to Antonio he added, reward him, for in my mind you are much indebted to him. The Duke and his senators left the court, and then Bassanio said to Portia, most worthy gentleman, I and my friend Antonio have by your wisdom been this day acquitted of grievous penalties, and I beg you will accept of the three thousand ducats due unto the Jew. And we shall stand indebted to you over and above, said Antonio, in love and service ever more. Portia could not be prevailed upon to accept the money, but upon Bassanio still pressing her to accept she said, Give me your gloves. I will wear them for your sake. And then, Bassanio taking off his gloves, she aspired the ring which she had given him upon his finger. Now it was the ring the wily lady wanted to get from him to make a merry jest when she saw her Bassanio again, that made her ask him for his gloves. And she said when she saw the ring, and for your love I will take this ring from you. Bassanio was sadly distressed that the counselor should ask him for the only thing he could not part with, and he could not give him that ring, because it was his wife's gift and he had vowed never to part with it. But that he would give him the most valuable ring in Venice and find it out by proclamation. On this Portia reflected to it be affronted, and left the court saying, You teach me, sir, how a beggar should be answered. Dear Bassanio, said Antonio, let him have the ring. Let my love and the great service he has done for me be valued against your wife's displeasure. Bassanio ashamed to appear so ungrateful yielded the ring. And then the clerk, Narissa, who had also given Bassanio a ring, begged his ring, and Bassanio, not choosing to be outdone in generosity by his lord, gave it to her. And there was laughing among these ladies to think when they got home, how they would tax their husbands with giving away their rings, and swear that they had given them as a present to some woman. Portia, when she returned, was in that happy temper of mind which never fails to attend the consciousness of having performed a good action. Her soul. The moon never seemed to shine so bright before, and when that pleasant moon was hid behind a cloud, then a light which she saw from her house at Belmont as well pleased her charmed fancy, and she said to Narissa, That light we see is burning in my hall. How far that little candle throws its beams. So shines a good deed in a naughty world. And hearing the sound of music from her house, she said, Me thinks that music sounds much sweeter than by day. And now Portia and Narissa entered the house, addressing themselves in their own apparel, they awaited the arrival of their husbands, who soon followed them with Antonio. And Bassanio, presenting his dear friend, the Lady Portia, the congratulations and welcomings of that lady were hardly over when they perceived Narissa and her husband quarrelling in the corner of the room. A quarrel already, said Portia, what is the matter? Graciano replied, Lady, it is about a poultry guilt ring that Narissa gave me with words upon it, like the poetry on the value of the ring's signify, said Narissa. You swore to me, when I gave it to you, that you would keep it till the hour of death, and now you say you gave it to the lawyer's clerk. I know you gave it to a woman. By this hand, replied Graciano, I gave it to a youth, a kind of boy, a little scrubbed boy, no higher than yourself. He was clerked to the young counsellor that by his wise pleading saved Antonio's life. This prating boy begged it for a fee, and I could not for my life deny him. You were to blame Graciano to part with your wife's first gift. I gave my Lord Bassanio a ring, and I am sure he would not part with it for all the world. Graciano, an excuse for his fault, now said, my Lord Bassanio gave his ring away to the counsellor, and then the boy, his clerk, that took some pains in writing he begged my ring. Portia, hearing this, seemed very angry, and reproached Bassanio for giving away her ring, and she said Narissa had taught her what to believe, and that she knew some lady, and he said with great earnestness, no by my honour, no woman had it, but a civil doctor who refused three thousand ducats of me and begged the ring, which when I denied him he went displeased away. What could I do, sweet Portia? I was so beset with shame for my seeming ingratitude, that I was forced to send the ring after him. Pardon me, good lady, had you been there, I think you would have begged the ring of me to give the worthy doctor. Ah, said Antonio, I am the unhappy cause of these things, Antonio, not to grieve at that, for that he was welcome not withstanding, and then Antonio said, I once did lend my body for Bassanio's sake, and but for him to whom your husband gave the ring I should have now been dead, I dare be bound again, my soul upon the forfeit, your lord will never more break his faith with you. Then you shall be his surety," said Portia, give him this ring, and bid him keep it better than the other. When he was dead, and then Portia told him how she was the young counselor, and Narissa was her clerk, and Bassanio found to his unspeakable wandering delight that it was by the noble courage and wisdom of his wife that Antonio's life was saved. And Portia again welcomed Antonio, and gave him letters which by some chance had fallen into her hands, which contained an account of Antonio's ships that were supposed lost, being safely arrived in the harbor. The unexpected good fortune which ensued, and there was leisure to laugh at the comical adventure of the rings and the husbands that did not know their own wives, Bassanio merrily swearing in a sort of rhyming speech that, while he lived, he'd fear no other thing, so sore as keeping safe Narissa's ring. End of story. Org. Read by Karen Savage, Waco, Texas, May 2007. Lamb's Tales from Shakespeare By Charles and Mary Lamb Symboline During the time of Augustus Caesar, Emperor of Rome, there reigned in England, which was then called Britain, a king whose name was Symboline. Symboline's first wife died when his three children, two sons and a daughter, were very young. Imogen, the oldest of these daughters, was brought, but by a strange chance the two sons of Symboline were stolen out of their nursery when the eldest was but three years of age and the youngest quite an infant, and Symboline could never discover what was become of them or by whom they were conveyed away. Symboline was twice married. His second wife was a wicked, plotting woman and a cruel stepmother to Imogen, Symboline's daughter by his first wife. She also having been twice married, for by this means she hoped upon the death of Symboline to place the crown of Britain upon the head of her son Clotin, for she knew that if the king's sons were not found the princess Imogen must be the king's heir. But this design was prevented by Imogen herself, who married without the consent or even the knowledge of her father or the queen. Postumus, for that was the name of Imogen's husband, was the mother died fighting in the wars for Symboline, and soon after his birth his mother died also for grief at the loss of her husband. Symboline, pitying the helpless state of this orphan, took Postumus, Symboline having given him that name because he was born after his father's death, and educated him in his own court. Imogen and Postumus were both taught by the same masters and were play-fellows from their infancy. They loved each other tenderly when they were children, and their children grew up they privately married. The disappointed queen soon learned this secret, for she kept spies constantly and watch upon the actions of her step-daughter, and she immediately told the king of the marriage of Imogen with Postumus. Nothing could exceed the wrath of Symboline when he heard that his daughter had been so forgetful of her high dignity as to marry a subject. He commanded Postumus to leave Britain and banished him from his native country forever. The woman, using her husband, offered to procure them a private meeting before Postumus set out on his journey to Rome, which place he had chosen for his residence in his banishment. This seeming kindness she showed the better to succeed in her future designs in regard to her son, Clotin, for she meant to persuade Imogen, when her husband was gone, that her marriage was not lawful being contracted without the consent of the king. Imogen and Postumus took a most never-depart with the ring, and he fastened a bracelet on the arm of his wife, which he begged she would preserve with great care as a token of his love. They then bade each other farewell with many vows of everlasting love and fidelity. Imogen remained a solitary and dejected lady in her father's court, and Postumus arrived at Rome, the place he had chosen for his banishment. Postumus fell into company at Rome with some gay young men of different nations who were talking freely of ladies, each one with his own mistress. Postumus, who had ever his own dear lady in his mind, affirmed that his wife, the fair Imogen, was the most virtuous, wise and constant lady in the world. One of those gentlemen whose name was Yakimo, being offended that a lady of Britain should be so praised above the Roman ladies, his countrywoman, provoked Postumus by seeming to doubt the constancy of his so highly praised wife, and at length, after much altercation, Postumus consented to a proposal that he, Yakimo, should go to Britain and endeavour to gain the love of the married Imogen. They then laid a wager that if Yakimo did not succeed in his wicked design, he was to forfeit a large sum of money. But if he could win Imogen's favour and prevail upon her to give him the bracelet which Postumus had so earnestly desired she would keep as a token of his love, then the wager was to terminate, with Postumus giving to Yakimo, the ring which was Imogen's love present when she parted with her husband. Such firm faith in Imogen, that he thought he ran no hazard in this trial of her honour. Yakimo, on his arrival in Britain, gained admittance and a courteous welcome from Imogen as a friend of her husband. But when he began to make professions of love to her she repulsed him with disdain and he soon found that he could have no hope of succeeding in his dishonourable design. The desire Yakimo had to win the wager made him now have recourse to a stratagem to impose upon Postumus and for this purpose he bribed some of Imogen's attendance, and was by him conveyed into her bed-chamber, concealed in a large trunk, where he remained shut up till Imogen was retired to rest and had fallen asleep. And then, getting out of the trunk, he examined the chamber with great attention, and wrote down everything he saw there, and particularly noticed a mould which he observed upon Imogen's neck, and then, softly unloosing the bracelet from her arm, which Postumus had given to her, he retired into the chest again, and the next day he set off for Rome with great expedition, and boasted to Postumus the bracelet, and likewise permitted him to pass a night in her chamber. And in this manner Yakimo told his false tale. Her bed-chamber, said he, was hung with tapestry of silk and silver. The story was the proud Cleopatra when she met her Anthony, a piece of work most bravely wrought. This is true, said Postumus, but this you might have heard spoken of without seeing. Then the chimney, said Yakimo, is south of the chamber, and the chimney piece is Diana bathing. Never saw I figures lively or expressed. This is a thing you might likewise have heard," said Postumus, for it is much talked of. Yakimo, as accurately described the roof of the chamber, and added, I had almost forgot her andions. They were two winking cupids made of silver, each on one foot standing. He then took out the bracelet and said, Know you this jewel, sir? She gave me this. She took it from her arm. I see her yet. Her pretty action did outsell her gift, and yet enriched it too. She gave it me, and said, She advised it once. He last of all described the mole he had observed upon her neck. Postumus, who had heard the whole of this artful recital in an agony of doubt, now broke out into the most passionate exclamations against Imogen. He delivered up the diamond ring to Yakimo, which he had agreed to forfeit to him if he obtained the bracelet from Imogen. Postumus then in a jealous rage, wrote to Pisannio, a gentleman of Britain who was one of Imogen's attendants, and had long been a faithful friend to Postumus, and had of his wife's disloyalty, he desired Pisannio would take Imogen to Milford Haven, a seaport of Wales, and there kill her. And at the same time he wrote a deceitful letter to Imogen, desiring her to go with Pisannio, for that finding he could live no longer without seeing her, though he was forbidden upon pain of death to return to Britain, he would come to Milford Haven at which place he begged she would meet him. She, good, unsuspecting lady who loved her husband above all things, and desired more than her life to see Pisannio, and the same night she received the letter she set out. When their journey was nearly at an end, Pisannio, who, though faithful to Postumus, was not faithful to serve him in an evil deed, disclosed to Imogen the cruel order he had received. Imogen, who instead of meeting a loving and beloved husband, found herself doomed by that husband to suffer death, was afflicted beyond measure. Pisannio persuaded her to take comfort and wait with patient fortitude for the time when Postumus should see and see her. In the meantime, as she refused in her distress to return to her father's court, he advised her to dress herself in boys' clothes for more security in travelling, to which advice she agreed, and thought in that disguise she would go over to Rome and see her husband, whom, though he had used her so barbarously, she could not forget to love. When Pisannio had provided her with new apparel, he left her to her uncertain fortune, being obliged to return to court, but before he departed he gave her a vial of cordial which he said had given him as a sovereign remedy in all disorders. The queen, who hated Pisannio because he was a friend to Imogen in Postumus, gave him this vial which she supposed contained poison, she having ordered her physician to give her some poison, to try its effects, as she said, upon animals. But the physician, knowing her malicious disposition, would not trust her with real poison, but gave her a drug which would do no other mischief than causing a person to sleep with every appearance of death for a few years before the king's arrival. When he was in the capital in St. George's, he gave to Imogen, desiring her, if she found herself ill upon the road, to take it. And so, with blessings and prayers for her safety and happy deliverance from her undeserved troubles, he left her. Providence strangely directed Imogen's steps to the dwelling of her two brothers, who had been stolen away in their infancy. Bilarius, who stole them away, was a lord in the court of Cymbeline, in a forest, where he lived concealed in a cave. He stole them through revenge, but he soon loved them as tenderly as if they had been his own children, educated them carefully, and they grew up fine youths, their princely spirits leading them to bold and daring actions. And as they subsisted by hunting, they were active and hardy, and were always pressing their supposed father to let them seek their fortune in the wars. At the cave where these youths dwelt, it was Imogen's her road lay to Milford Haven, from which she meant to embark for Rome. And being unable to find any place where she could purchase food, she was with weariness and hunger almost dying, for it is not merely putting on a man's apparel that will enable a young lady tenderly brought up to bear the fatigue of wondering about lonely forests like a man. Seeing this cave, she entered, hoping to find someone within of whom she could procure food. She found the cave empty, but looking about, she discovered some cold meat, and her so pressing that she could not wait for an invitation, but sat down and began to eat. Ah, said she, talking to herself, I see a man's life is a tedious one. How tired am I? For two nights together I have made the ground my bed. My resolution helps me, or I should be sick. When Pizzagno showed me Milford Haven from the mountaintop, how near it seemed. Then the thoughts of her husband and his cruel mandate came across her, and she said, my dear posthumous thou art a false one. The two brothers of Imogen, who had been hunting with their reputed father, Bilarius, were by this time returned home. Bilarius had given them the names of Polidor and Cadwall, and they knew no better, but supposed that Bilarius was their father. But the real names of these princes were Guderius and Arvoragus. Bilarius entered the cave first, and seeing Imogen stopped them, saying, Come not in yet. It eats our victuals, or I should think it was a fairy. What is the matter, sir? said the young men. Said Bilarius again. There is an angel in the cave, or if not an earthly paragon. So beautiful did Imogen look in her boy's apparel. She, hearing the sound of voices, came forth from the cave and addressed them in these words, Good Masters, do not harm me. Before I entered your cave I had thought to have begged or bought what I have eaten. Indeed I have stolen nothing, nor would I, though I had found gold strewed on the floor. Here is money for my meat, which I would have left on the board when I had made my meal here. They refused her money with great earnestness. I see you are angry with me," said the timid Imogen, but, sirs, if you kill me for my fault know that I should have died if I had not made it. Where are you bound? asked Bilarius, and what is your name? Fidele is my name," answered Imogen. I have a kinsman who is bound for Italy. He embarked at Milford Haven, to whom being going almost spent with hunger I am fallen into this offence. Pretty fair youth," said old Bilarius, do not think us churls, nor measure our good minds by this rude place we live in. You are well encountered. It is almost night. You shall have better cheer before you depart, and thanks to stay and eat it. Boys, bid him welcome. The gentle youths, her brothers, then welcomed Imogen to their cave with many kind expressions, saying they would love her, or, as they said, him, as a brother, and they entered the cave where, they having killed Venison when they were hunting, Imogen delighted them with her preparing their supper. For though it is not the custom now for young women of high birth to understand cookery, it was then, and Imogen excelled in this useful art, and as her brothers prettily expressed it, Fidele cut their roots in characters and sourced their broth as if Juno had been sick and Fidele were her dieter. And then, said Polydor to his brother, how angel-like he sings! They also remarked to each other that though Fidele smiled so sweetly, yet so sad a melancholy did overcloud his as if grief and patience had together taken possession of him. For these her gentle qualities, or perhaps it was their near relationship though they knew it not, Imogen, or as the boys called her Fidele, became the doting-piece of her brothers, and she scarcely less loved them. Thinking that but for the memory of her dear posthumous, she could live and die in the cave with these wild forest youths, and she gladly consented to stay with them till she was enough rested from the fatigue they had taken. When the venison they had taken was all Eden, and they were going out to hunt for more, Fidele could not accompany them, because she was unwell. Sorrow, no doubt, for her husband's cruel usage, as well as the fatigue of wandering in the forest was the cause of her illness. They then bid her farewell and went to their hunt, praising all the way the noble parts and graceful demeanor of the youth, Fidele. Imogen was no sooner left alone than she recollected the cordial sound in deathlike sleep. When Belarius and her brothers returned from hunting, Polydor went first into the cave, and supposing her asleep, pulled off his heavy shoes that he might tread softly and not awake her, so did true gentleness spring up in the minds of these princely foresters. But he soon discovered that she could not be awakened by any noise, and concluded her to be dead, and Polydor lamented over her with dear and brotherly regret as if they had never from their infancy been parted. Belarius also proposed to the forest, and there celebrate her funeral with songs and solemn dirges, as was then the custom. Imogen's two brothers then carried her to a shady covert, and there, laying her gently on the grass, they sang repose to her departed spirit, and covering her over with leaves and flowers, Polydor said, While summer lasts and I live here Fidele, I will daily strew thy grave. The pale primrose, that flower most like thy face, the blue bell like thy clear veins, and the leaf of Eglantine, which is not sweet of flowers thy breath. All these will I strew over thee. Yay, and the third moss in winter, when there are no flowers to cover thy sweet corpse. When they had finished their funeral obsequies, they departed, very sorrowful. Imogen had not been long left alone when the effect of the sleepy drug going off, she awaked, and easily shaking off the slight covering of leaves and flowers they had thrown over her, she arose, and imagining she had been dreaming, she said, I thought I was a cave-keeper, and cooked to honest creatures. How came I here covered with flowers? Not being able to find her way back to the cave and seeing nothing of her new companions she concluded it was certainly all a dream, and once more Imogen set out on her weary pilgrimage, hoping at last she could find her way to Milford Haven and then get a passage in some ship bound for Italy, for all her thoughts were still with her husband Postumus, whom she intended to seek in the disguise of a page. But great events were happening at this time, of which Imogen knew for a war had suddenly broken out between the Roman Emperor Augustus Caesar and Cymbeline, the King of Britain, and a Roman army had landed to invade Britain and was advanced into the very forest over which Imogen was journeying. With this army came Postumus. Though Postumus came over to Britain with the Roman army he did not mean to fight on their side against his own countrymen, but intended to join the army of Britain and fight in the cause of his King who had banished him. He still believed Imogen false to him, yet the death of her he had so fondly in his own orders too, Pisannio having ridden him a letter to say he had obeyed his command and that Imogen was dead, sat heavy on his heart, and therefore he returned to Britain, desiring either to be slain in battle or to be put to death by Cymbeline for returning home from banishment. Imogen, before she reached Milford Haven, fell into the hands of the Roman army, and her presence and deportment recommending her she was made a page to Lucius, the Roman general. Cymbeline's army now advanced to meet at this forest, Polydor and Cadwal joined the King's army. The young men were eager to engage in acts of valor, though they little thought they were going to fight for their own royal father, and O'Ballarius went with them to the battle. He had long since repented of the injury he had done to Cymbeline in carrying away his sons, and having been a warrior in his youth, he gladly joined the army to fight for the King he had so injured. And now a great battle commenced between the two armies and the Britons would have been defeated both killed, but for the extraordinary valor of Posthumus and O'Ballarius and the two sons of Cymbeline. They rescued the King and saved his life, and so entirely turned the fortune of the day that the Britons gained the victory. When the battle was over, Posthumus, who had not found the death he sought for, surrendered himself up to one of the officers of Cymbeline, willing to suffer the death which was to be his punishment if he returned from banishment. Imogen and the master she served were taken prisoners and the old enemy, Yachimo, who was an officer in the Roman army. And when these prisoners were before the King, Posthumus was brought in to receive his sentence of death. And at this strange juncture of time, Ballarius with Polydor and Cadwal were also brought before Cymbeline to receive their rewards due to the great services they had by their valour done for the King. Pisannio, being one of the King's attendants, was likewise present. Therefore, they were now standing in the King's presence, but her new master the Roman general, the faithful servant Pisannio and the false friend Yachimo, and likewise the two lost sons of Cymbeline with Ballarius, who had stolen them away. The Roman general was the first who spoke, the rest stood silent before the King, though there was many a beating heart among them. Imogen saw Posthumus and knew him, though he was in the disguise of a peasant, but he did not know her in her male attire. And she knew Yachimo and she saw a ring on his finger and did not know him as yet to have been the author of all her troubles, and she stood before her own father, a prisoner of war. Pisannio knew Imogen, for it was he who had dressed her in the garb of a boy. It is my mistress, thought he, since she is living, let the time run on to good or bad. Ballarius knew her, too, and softly said to Cadwal, is not this boy revived from death? One sand, replied Cadwal, does not more resemble another than that sweet rosy lad is like the day. The same dead thing alive, said Polidor. Peace, peace, said Ballarius. If it were he, I am sure he would have spoken to us. But we saw him dead, again whispered Polidor. Be silent, replied Ballarius. Posthumus waited in silence to hear the welcome sentence of his own death, and he resolved not to disclose to the King that he had saved his life in the battle, lest that should move Cymbaline to pardon him. Lucius, the Roman general, who had taken his first, as has been before said, too spoke to the King. He was a man of high courage and noble, and this was his speech to the King. I hear you take no ransom for your prisoners, but doom them all to death. I am a Roman, and with a Roman heart will suffer death. But there is one thing for which I wouldn't treat. Then, bringing image in before the King, he said, this boy is a Britain born. Let him be ransomed. He is my page. Never master had a page so kind, so duteous, so diligent on all sides, so true, so nurselike. He have done no Britain wrong, though he had served a Roman. Save him if you spare no one beside." Cymbaline looked earnestly on his daughter Imogen. He knew her not in that disguise, but it seemed that an all-powerful nature spake in his heart, for he said, I have surely seen him. His face appears familiar to me. I know not why, or wherefore I say, live, boy. But I give you your life. And ask of me what boon you will give to you, yea, even though it be the life of the noblest prisoner I have. I humbly thank your highness," said Imogen. What was then called granting a boon was the same as a promise to give any one thing, whatever it might be, that the person on whom that favour was conferred chose to ask for. They were all attentive to hear what thing the page would ask for, and Lucius, her master, said to her, I do not beg for my life, good lad. But I know that is what you will ask for. Work in hand, good master. Your life I cannot ask for. This seeming want of gratitude in the boy astonished the Roman general. Imogen, then fixing her eye on Yakemo, demanded no other boon than this, that Yakemo should be made to confess whence he had the ring he wore on his finger. Symbeline granted her this boon, and threatened Yakemo with the torture if he did not confess how he came by the diamond ring on his finger. Yakemo then made a full acknowledgement of all his villainy, in telling, as has been before related, the whole story of his wager with posthumous, and how he had succeeded in imposing upon his gratulity. What posthumous felt at hearing this proof of the innocence of his lady cannot be expressed. He instantly came forward and confessed to Symbeline the cruel sentence which he had enjoined Pisannio to execute upon the princess, exclaiming wildly, oh, Imogen, my queen, my life, my wife, oh, Imogen, Imogen, Imogen! Imogen could not see her beloved husband in this distress without discovering herself to the unutterable joy of posthumous who was thus relieved from a weight of guilt and woe, and restored to the good graces of the dear lady he had so cruelly treated. Symbeline, almost as much overwhelmed as he with joy at finding his lost daughter so strangely recovered, received her to a former place in his fatherly affection, and not only gave her husband posthumous his life, but consented to acknowledge him for his son-in-law. The larriest chose this time of joy and reconciliation to make his confession. He presented Polydor and Cadwell to the king, telling him they were his two lost sons, Guderius, and Gidarius, and Gidarius, and Gidarius, and Gidarius and Gidarius, and Gidarius and Gidarius, and Gidarius and Arviragus. Symbeline forgave old Valarius, for who could think of punishments at a season of such universal happiness? To find his daughter living and his lost sons in the persons of his young deliverers, that he had seen so bravely fight in his defense, was unlooked for joy indeed. Imogen was now at leisure to perform good services for her late master, the Roman general Lucius, whose life the king, her father, readily granted at her request, and by the mediation of the same Lucius a peace was concluded between the Romans and the Britons, which was kept inviolate. And by the mediation of the same Lucius a peace was concluded between the Romans, which was kept inviolate many years. How Symbeline's wicked queen, through despair of bringing her projects to pass, had touched with the remorse of conscience, sickened and died, having first lived to see her foolish son Clotin slain in a quarrel which he had provoked, are events too tragical to interrupt this happy conclusion by more than merely touching upon. It is sufficient that all were made happy who were deserving, and even the treacherous Yakimo, in consideration of his villainy having missed its final aim, was dismissed end of story.