 In the city of Vienna there once rained a duke of such a mild and gentle temper that he suffered his subjects to neglect the laws with impunity, and there was in particular one law, the existence of which was almost forgotten, the duke never having put it in force during his whole reign. This was a law dooming any man to the punishment of death, who should live with a woman that was not his wife. And this law, through the lenity of the duke, being utterly disregarded, the holy institution of marriage became neglected, and complaints were made every day to the duke by the parents of the young ladies in Vienna, that their daughters had been seduced from their protection, and were living as the companions of single men. The good duke perceived with sorrow this growing evil among his subjects, but he thought that a sudden change in himself from the indulgence he had hitherto shown to the strict severity requisite to check this abuse, would make his people, who had hitherto loved him, consider him a tyrant. Therefore he determined to absent himself a while from his dukedom, and depute another to the full exercise of his power, that the law against these dishonourable lovers might be put in effect, without giving offence by an unusual severity in his own person. Angelo, a man who bore the reputation of a saint in Vienna for his strict and rigid life, was chosen by the duke as a fit person to undertake this important charge, and when the duke imparted his design to the Lord Iscalus, his chief counsellor, Iscalus said, If any man in Vienna be of worth to undergo such ample grace and honour, it is Lord Angelo. And now the duke departed from Vienna under pretense of making a journey into Poland, leaving Angelo to act as the Lord Deputy in his absence. But the duke's absence was only a feigned one, for he privately returned to Vienna, habited like a friar, with the intent to watch unseen the conduct of the saintly seeming Angelo. It happened just about the time that Angelo was invested with his new dignity that a gentleman, whose name was Claudio, had seduced a young lady from her parents, and for this offence, by command of the new Lord Deputy, Claudio was taken up and committed to prison, and by virtue of the old law which had been so long neglected, Angelo sentenced Claudio to be beheaded. Great interest was made for the pardon of young Claudio, and the good Lord Iscalus himself interceded for him. Alas! said he, this gentleman whom I would save had an honourable father, for whose sake I pray you pardon the young man's transgression. But Angelo replied, we must not make a scarecrow of the law, setting it up to frighten birds of prey till custom, finding it harmless, makes it their perch, and not their terror. Sir, he must die. Lucio, the friend of Claudio, visited him in prison, and Claudio said to him, I pray you Lucio, do me this kind service. Go to my sister Isabel, who this day proposes to enter the convent of St. Clair. Acquaint her with the danger of my state, implore her that she make friends with the strict deputy. Bid her go herself to Angelo. I have great hopes in that, for she can discourse with prosperous art, and well she can persuade. Besides, there is a speechless dialect in youthful sorrows such as moves men. Isabel, the sister of Claudio, had, as he said, that day entered upon her novitiate in the convent, and it was her intent, after passing through her probation as a novice, to take the veil, and she was inquiring of a nun concerning the rules of the convent, when they heard the voice of Lucio, who, as he entered that religious south, said, Peace be in this place. Who is it that speaks? said Isabel. It is a man's voice, replied the nun. Gentle Isabel, go to him and learn his business. You may, I may not. When you have taken the veil, you must not speak with men but in the presence of the prioress. Then if you speak, you must not show your face, or if you show your face, you must not speak. And have you nuns no further privileges? said Isabel. Are these not large enough? replied the nun. Yes, truly, said Isabel. I speak not as desiring more, but rather wishing a more strict restraint upon the sisterhood, the voterists of St. Clair. Again they heard the voice of Lucio, and the nun said, He calls again. I pray you answer him. Isabel then went out to Lucio, and in answer to his salutations said, Peace and prosperity. Who is it that calls? Then Lucio, approaching her with reverence, said, Hail Virgin, if such you be, as the roses on your cheeks proclaim you are no less. Can you bring me to the sight of Isabel, a novice of this place, and the fair sisterhood to her unhappy brother Claudio? Why, her unhappy brother, said Isabel, let me ask, for I am that Isabel and his sister. Fair and gentle lady, he replied, Your brother kindly greets you by me. He is in prison. Who is me? For what? said Isabel. Lucio then told her Claudio was imprisoned for seducing a young maiden. Ah! said she. I fear it is my cousin Juliet. Juliet and Isabel were not related, but they called each other cousin in remembrance of their school-day's friendship, and as Isabel knew that Juliet loved Claudio, she feared she had been led by her affection for him into this transgression. She it is, replied Lucio. Why, then, let my brother marry Juliet, said Isabel. Lucio replied that Claudio would gladly marry Juliet, but that the Lord Deputy had sentenced him to die for his offence—unless, said he, you have the grace by your fair prayer to soften Angelo, and that is my business between you and your poor brother. Alas! said Isabel, what poor ability is there in me to do him good? I doubt I have no power to move Angelo. Our doubts are traitors, said Lucio, and make us lose the good we might often win by fearing to attempted. Go to Lord Angelo! When maidens sue and kneel and weep, men give like gods. I will see what I can do, said Isabel. I will but stay to give the priorest notice of the affair, and then I will go to Angelo. Commend me to my brother. Soon at night I will send him word of my success. Isabel hastened to the palace and threw herself on her knees before Angelo, saying, I am a woeful suitor to your honour, if it will please your honour to hear me. Well, what is your suit? said Angelo. She then made her petition in the most moving terms for her brother's life. But Angelo said, Maiden, there is no remedy. Your brother is sentenced, and he must die. Oh, just but severe law! said Isabel. I had a brother then. Then keep your honour." And she was about to depart. But Lucio, who had accompanied her, said, Give it not over so. Return to him again, and treat him. Kneel down before him, hang upon his gown. You are too cold. If you should need a pin, you could not with a more tame tongue desire it. Then again Isabel on her knees implored for mercy. He is sentenced, said Angelo. It is too late. Too late, said Isabel. Why no! I, that do speak a word, may call it back again. Give this, my lord. No ceremony that to great ones belongs, not the king's crown, nor the deputed sword, the marshal's truncheon, nor the judge's robe, becomes them with one half so good a grace as mercy does. Pray you be gone, said Angelo. But still Isabel entreated, and she said, If my brother had been as you, and you as he, you might have slipped like him, but he, like you, would not have been so stern. I would to heaven I had your power, and you were Isabel. Should it then be thus? No, I would tell you what it were to be a judge in what a prisoner. Be content, fair maid, said Angelo. It is the law, not I, condemns your brother. Were he my kinsman, my brother, or my son, it should be thus with him. He must die to-morrow. To-morrow! said Isabel. Oh! that is sudden. Spare him! Spare him! He is not prepared for death. Even for our kitchens we kill the foul in season. Shall we serve heaven with less respect than we minister to our gross selves? Good, good, my lord, but think you, none have died for my brother's offence, though many have committed it. So you would be the first that gives this sentence, and he the first that suffers it. Go to your own bosom, my lord. Knock there, and ask your heart what it does know that is like my brother's fault. If it confess a natural guiltiness such as his is, let it not sound a thought against my brother's life. Her last words more moved Angelo than all she had said before, for the beauty of Isabel had raised a guilty passion in his heart, and he began to form thoughts of dishonourable love such as Claudio's crime had been, and the conflict in his mind made him turn away from Isabel. But she called him back, saying, Gentle, my lord, turn back! Hark how I will bribe you! Good, my lord, turn back! How? Bribed me? said Angelo, astonished that she should think of offering him a bribe. I, said Isabel, with such gifts that heaven itself shall share with you, not with golden treasures or those glittering stones whose price is either rich or poor as fancy values them, but with true prayers that shall be up to heaven before sunrise, prayers from preserved souls, from fasting maids, whose minds are dedicated to nothing temporal. Well, come to me to-morrow, said Angelo. And for this short respite of her brother's life, and for this permission that she might be heard again, she left him with the joyful hope that she should at last prevail over his stern nature. And as she went away she said, Heaven keep your honour safe, heaven save your honour, which, when Angelo heard, he said within his heart, Amen, I would be saved from thee and from thy virtues. And then, affrighted at his own evil thoughts, he said, What is this? What is this? Do I love her that I desire to hear her speak again and feast upon her eyes? What is it I dream on? The cunning enemy of mankind, to catch a saint with saints, does bait the hook. Never could an immodest woman once stir my temper, but this virtuous woman seduced me quite. Even till now, when men were fond, I smiled and wondered at them. In the guilty conflict in his mind, Angelo suffered more that night than the prisoner he had so severely sentenced, for in the prison Claudio was visited by the good Duke, who in his friar's habit, taught the young man the way to heaven, preaching to him the words of penitence and peace. But Angelo felt all the pangs of a resolute guilt now wishing to seduce Isabel from the paths of innocence and honour, and now suffering remorse and horror for a crime as yet but intentional. But in the end his evil thoughts prevailed, and he who had so lately started at the offer of a bribe, resolved to temp this maiden with so high a bribe as she might not be able to resist, even with the precious gift of her dear brother's life. When Isabel came in the morning, Angelo desired she might be admitted alone to his presence, and being there he said to her, if she would yield to him her virgin honour, and transgress even as Juliet had done with Claudio, he would give her her brother's life. For, said he, I love you, Isabel. My brother, said Isabel, did so love Juliet, and yet you tell me he shall die for it. But, said Angelo, Claudio shall not die if you will consent to visit me by stealth at night, even as Juliet left her father's house at night to come to Claudio. In amazement at his words, that he should tempt her to the same fort for which he passed sentence upon her brother, said, I would do as much for my poor brother as for myself, that is, were I under sentence of death, the impression of keen whips I would wear as rubies, and go to my death, as to a bed that longing I had been sick for, ere I would yield myself up to this shame. And then she told him she hoped he only spoke these words to try her virtue. But he said, Believe me, on my honour my words express my purpose. Isabel, angered to the heart to hear him use the word honour to express such dishonourable purposes, said, Ha! Little honour to be much believed, and most pernicious purpose. I will proclaim the Angelo, look for it, sign me a present pardon for my brother, or I will tell the world aloud what man thou art. Who will believe you, Isabel, said Angelo? My unsoiled name, the austereness of my life, my word vouched against yours, will outweigh your accusation. Redeem your brother by yielding to my will, or he shall die to-morrow. As for you, say what you can, my force will overweigh your true story. Answer me to-morrow. To whom should I complain? Did I tell this, who would believe me, said Isabel, as she went toward the dreary prison where her brother was confined. When she arrived there her brother was in pious conversation with the duke, who in his friar's habit had also visited Juliet, and brought both these guilty lovers to a proper sense of their fault, and unhappy Juliet, with tears and a true remorse, confessed that she was more to blame than Claudio, in that she willingly consented to his dishonourable solicitations. As Isabel entered the room where Claudio was confined, she said, Peace be here, grace and good company. Who is there? said the disguised duke. Come in, the wish deserves a welcome. My business is a word or two with Claudio, said Isabel. Then the duke left them together, and desired the provost, who had the charge of the prisoner, to place him where he might overhear their conversation. Now, sister, what is the comfort, said Claudio? Isabel told him he must prepare for death on the morrow. Is there no remedy, said Claudio? Yes, brother, replied Isabel. There is. But such a one as if you consented to it would strip your honour from you and leave you naked. Let me know the point, said Claudio. Oh, I do fear you, Claudio, replied his sister, and I quake lest you should wish to live and more respect the trifling term of six or seven winters added to your life than your perpetual honour. Do you dare to die? The sense of death is most in apprehension, and the poor beetle that we tread upon feels a pang as great as when the giant dies. Why do you give me this shame, said Claudio? Think you I can fetch a resolution from flowery tenderness? If I must die, I will encounter darkness as a bride and hug it in my arms. There spoke my brother, said Isabel. There my father's grave did utter forth a voice. Yes, you must die. Yet would you think it, Claudio, this outward-sainted deputy, if I would yield to him my virgin honour would grant your life? Oh, were it but my life, I would lay it down for your deliverance as frankly as a pin. Thanks, dear Isabel, said Claudio. Be ready to die to-morrow, said Isabel. Death is a fearful thing, said Claudio. And shamed light, a hateful, replied his sister. But the thoughts of death now overcame the constancy of Claudio's temper and terrors such as the guilty only at their deaths do know assailing him. He cried out, Sweet sister, let me live! The sin you do to save a brother's life, nature dispenses with the deed so far that it becomes a virtue. Oh, faithless coward, oh dishonest wretch, said Isabel. Would you preserve your life by your sister's shame? Oh, five, five, five, I thought, my brother, you had in you such a mind of honour that had you twenty heads to render up on twenty blocks, you would have yielded them all up before your sister should stoop to such dishonour. Nay, hear me, Isabel, said Claudio. But what he would have said in defence of his weakness in desiring to live by the dishonour of his virtuous sister was interrupted by the entrance of the Duke who said, Claudio, I have overheard what is passed between you and your sister. Angelo had never the purpose to corrupt her. What he said has only been to make trial of her virtue. She having the truth of honour in her has given him that gracious denial which he is most ill-glad to receive. There is no hope that he will pardon you. Therefore, pass your hours in prayer and make ready for death. Then Claudio repented of his weakness and said, Let me ask my sister's pardon. I am so out of love with life that I will sue to be rid of it. And Claudio retired, overwhelmed with shame and sorrow for his fault. The Duke being now alone with Isabel commended her virtuous resolution, saying, The hand that made you fair has made you good. Oh, said Isabel, how much is the good Duke deceived in Angelo? If ever he return and I can speak to him, I will discover his government. Isabel knew not that she was even now making the discovery she threatened. The Duke replied, That shall not be much amiss. Yet as the matter now stands, Angelo will repel your accusation. Therefore lend an attentive ear to my advisings. I believe that you may most righteously do a poor wronged lady a merited benefit, redeem your brother from the angry law, do no stain to your own most gracious person, and much please the absent Duke, if per adventure he shall ever return to have notice of this business. Isabel said she had a spirit to do anything he desired, provided it was nothing wrong. Virtue is bold and never fearful, said the Duke, and then he asked her if she had ever heard of Marianna, the sister of Frederick, the great soldier who was drowned at sea. I have heard of the lady, said Isabel, and good words went with her name. This lady, said the Duke, is the wife of Angelo, but her marriage dowry was on board the vessel in which her brother perished, and mark how heavily this befell to the poor gentlewoman. For besides the loss of a most noble and renowned brother who in his love toward her was ever most kind and natural, in the wreck of her fortune she lost the affections of her husband, the well-seeming Angelo, who pretending to discover some dishonour in this honourable lady, though the true cause was the loss of her dowry, left her in her tears and dried not one of them with his comfort. His unjust unkindness, that in all reason should have quenched her love, has, like an impediment in the current, made it more unruly, and Marianna loves her cruel husband with the full continuance of her first affection. The Duke then more plainly unfolded his plan. It was that Isabel should go to Lord Angelo, and seemingly consent to come to him as he desired at midnight, that by this means she would obtain the promised pardon, and that Marianna should go in her stead to the appointment, and pass herself upon Angelo in the dark for Isabel. Nor gentle-daughter, said the feigned friar, fear you to this thing, Angelo is her husband, and to bring them thus together is no sin. Isabel, being pleased with this project, departed to do as he directed her, and he went to apprise Marianna of their intention. He had before this time visited this unhappy lady in his assumed character, giving her religious instruction and friendly consolation, at which times he had learned her sad story from her own lips, and now she, looking upon him as a holy man, readily consented to be directed by him in this undertaking. When Isabel returned from her interview with Angelo to the house of Marianna, where the Duke had appointed her to meet him, he said, well met, and in good time, what is the news from this good deputy? Isabel related the manner in which she had settled the affair. Angelo said she, has a garden surrounded with a brick wall, on the western side of which is a vineyard, and to that vineyard is a gate. And then she showed to the Duke and Marianna two keys that Angelo had given her, and she said, this bigger key opens the vineyard gate, this other a little door which leads from the vineyard to the garden. There I have made my promise at the dead of the night to call upon him, and have got from him his word of assurance for my brother's life. I have taken a due and wary note of the place, and with whispering and most guilty diligence he showed me the way twice over. Are there no other tokens agreed upon between you that Marianna must observe? said the Duke. No, none, said Isabel, only to go when it is dark. I have told him my time can be but short, for I have made him think a servant comes along with me, and that this servant is persuaded I come about my brother. The Duke commended her discreet management, and she, turning to Marianna, said, little have you to say to Angelo when you depart from him, but soft and low, remember now my brother. Marianna was that night conducted to the appointed place by Isabel, who rejoiced that she had, as she supposed, by this device preserved both her brother's life and her own honour. But that her brother's life was safe, the Duke was not well satisfied, and therefore at midnight he again repaired to the prison, and it was well for Claudio that he did so, else would Claudio have that night been beheaded. For soon after the Duke entered the prison, an order came from the cruel deputy commanding that Claudio should be beheaded, and his head sent to him by five o'clock in the morning. But the Duke persuaded the provost to put off the execution of Claudio, and to deceive Angelo by sending him the head of a man who died that morning in the prison, and to prevail upon the provost to agree to this, the Duke, whom still the provost suspected not to be anything more or greater than he seemed, showed the provost a letter written with the Duke's hand, and sealed with his seal, which when the provost saw, he concluded this friar must have some secret order from the absent Duke, and therefore he consented to spare Claudio, and he cut off the dead man's head, and carried it to Angelo. Then the Duke in his own name wrote to Angelo a letter, saying that certain accidents had put a stop to his journey, and that he should be in Vienna by the following morning, requiring Angelo to meet him at the entrance of the city, there to deliver up his authority. And the Duke also commanded it to be proclaimed that if any of his subjects craved redress for injustice, they should exhibit their petitions in the street on his first entrance into the city. Early in the morning, Isabel came to the prison, and the Duke, who there awaited her coming, for secret reasons thought it good to tell her that Claudio was beheaded. Therefore when Isabel inquired if Angelo had sent the pardon for her brother, he said, Angelo has released Claudio from this world. His head is off and sent to the deputy. The much-grieved sister cried out, Oh unhappy Claudio! Vegid Isabel, injurious world, most wicked Angelo! The seeming friar bid her take comfort, and when she was become a little calm, he acquainted her with the near prospect of the Duke's return, and told her in what manner she should proceed in preferring her complaint against Angelo. And he bade her not fear if the cause should seem to go against her for a while. Leaving Isabel sufficiently instructed, he next went to Marianna, and gave her counsel in what manner she also should act. Then the Duke laid aside his friar's habit, and in his own royal robes, amid a joyful crowd of his faithful subjects, assembled to greet his arrival, entered the city of Vienna, where he was met by Angelo, who delivered up his authority in the proper form. And there came Isabel, in the manner of a petition of her redress, and said, What is this most royal Duke? I am the sister of one Claudio, who for the seducing of a young maid was condemned to lose his head. I made my suit to Lord Angelo for my brother's pardon. It were needless to tell your grace how I prayed and kneeled, how he repelled me, and how I replied. For this was of much length. The vile conclusion I now begin with grief and pain to utter. Angelo would not, but by my yielding to his dishonorable love, release my brother. And after much debate within myself, my sisterly remorse overcame my virtue, and I did you to him. But the next morning, but times, Angelo, forfeiting his promise, sent a warrant for my poor brother's head. The Duke affected to disbelieve her story, and Angelo said that grief for her brother's death, who had suffered by the due course of the law, had disordered her senses. And now another suitor approached, which was Mariana, and Mariana said, Noble Prince, as there comes light from heaven and truth from breath, as there is sense in truth and truth and virtue, I am this man's wife, and, my good Lord, the words of Isabel are false. For the night she says she was with Angelo, I pass that night with him in the garden-house. As this is true, let me in safety rise, or else forever be fixed here a marble monument. Then did Isabel appeal for the truth of what she had said to Friar Lodawik, that being the name the Duke had assumed in his disguise. Isabel and Mariana had both obeyed his instructions in what they said, the Duke intending that the innocence of Isabel should be plainly proved in that public manner before the whole city of Vienna. But Angelo little thought that it was from such a cause that they thus differed in their story, and he hoped from their contradictory evidence to be able to clear himself from the accusation of Isabel, and he said, assuming the look of offended innocence, I did but smile till now. But good my Lord, my patience here is touched, and I perceive these poor distracted women up at the instruments of some greater one who sets them on. Let me have way, my Lord, to find this practice out. I, with all my heart, said the Duke, and punished them to the height of your pleasure. You, Lord Iscalus, sit with Lord Angelo, lend him your pains to discover this abuse. The Friar is sent for that set them on, and when he comes, do with your injuries as may seem best in any chastisement. I for a while will leave you, but stir not you, Lord Angelo, till you have well determined upon this slander. The Duke then went away, leaving Angelo well pleased to be deputed judge and umpire in his own cause. But the Duke was absent only while he threw off his royal robes, and put on his Friar's habit, and in that disguise again he presented himself before Angelo and Iscalus, and the good old Iscalus, who thought Angelo had been falsely accused, said to the supposed Friar, Come, sir, did you set these women on to slander Lord Angelo? He replied, Where is the Duke? It is he who should hear me speak. Iscalus said, The Duke is in us, and we will hear you. Speak justly. Boldly, at least, retorted the Friar, and then he blamed the Duke for leaving the cause of Isabel in the hands of him she had accused, and spoke so freely of many corrupt practices he had observed while, as he said, he had been a looker on in Vienna, that Iscalus threatened him with the torture for speaking words against the State, and for censuring the conduct of the Duke, and ordered him to be taken away to prison. Then to the amazement of all present, and to the utter confusion of Angelo, the supposed Friar threw off his disguise, and they saw it was the Duke himself. The Duke first addressed Isabel. He said to her, Come hither, Isabel. Your Friar is now your Prince, but with my habit I have not changed my heart. I am still devoted to your service. Oh, give me pardon, said Isabel, that I, your vassal, have employed and troubled your unknown sovereignty. He answered that he had most need of forgiveness from her, for not having prevented the death of her brother. For not yet would he tell her that Claudio was living, meaning first to make a further trial of her goodness. Angelo now knew that the Duke had been a secret witness of his bad deeds, and he said, O my dread lord, I should be guiltier than my guiltiness to think that I can be undisernable, when I perceive your grace, like power divine, has looked upon my actions. Then good Prince, no longer prolong my shame, but let my trial be my own confession. Great sentence and death is all the grace I beg. The Duke replied, Angelo, thy faults are manifest. We do condemn thee to the very block where Claudio stooped to death, and with like haste away with him, and for his possessions, Marianna, we do in state and widow you with all, to buy you a better husband. O my dear lord, said Marianna, I crave no other, nor no better man. And then, on her knees, even as Isabel had begged the life of Claudio, did this kind wife of an ungrateful husband beg the life of Angelo, and she said, Gentle my liege, O good my lord, sweet Isabel, take my part, lend me your knees, and all my life to come, I will lend you all my life to do you service. The Duke said, Against all sense you importune her. Should Isabel kneel down to beg for mercy, her brother's ghost would break his paved bed, and take her hence in horror. Still Marianna said, Isabel, sweet Isabel, do but kneel by me, hold up your hand, say nothing, I will speak all. They say best men are molded out of faults, and for the most part became much the better for being a little bad. So may my husband, O Isabel, will you not lend me a knee? The Duke then said, He dies for Claudio. But much pleased was the good Duke when his own Isabel, from whom he expected all gracious and honorable acts, kneeled down before him and said, Most bounteous sir, look if it please you on this man condemned as if my brother lived. I partly think a due sincerity governed his deeds till he did look on me. Since it is so, let him not die. My brother had but justice in that he did the thing for which he died. The Duke, as the best reply he could make to this noble petitioner for her enemy's life, sending for Claudio from his prison-house, where he lay doubtful of his destiny, presented to her this lamented brother living, and he said to Isabel, Give me your hand, Isabel, for your lovely sake I pardon Claudio. Say you will be mine, and he shall be my brother too. By this time Lord Angelo perceived he was safe, and the Duke, observing his eye to brighten up a little, said, Well, Angelo, look that you love your wife. Her worth has obtained your pardon. Joy to you, Marianna. Love her, Angelo. I have confessed her, and know her virtue. Angelo remembered, when dressed in little brief authority, how hard his heart had been, and felt how sweet his mercy. The Duke commanded Claudio to marry Juliet, and offered himself again to the acceptance of Isabel, whose virtuous and noble conduct had won her prince's heart. Isabel not having taken the veil was free to marry, and the friendly offices, while hid under the disguise of a humble friar, which the noble Duke had done for her, made her with grateful joy except the honour he offered her. And when she became Duchess of Vienna, the excellent example of the virtuous Isabel, worked such a complete reformation among the young ladies of that city, that from that time none ever fell into the transgression of Juliet, the repentant wife of the reformed Claudio. And the mercy-loving Duke long reigned with his beloved Isabel, the happiest of husbands and of princes. Charles and Mary Lamb Twelfth Night Or What You Will Sebastian and his sister Viola, a young gentleman and lady of Messaline, were twins, and, which was accounted a great wonder, from their birth they so much resembled each other, that, but for the difference in their dress, they could not be known apart. They were both born in one hour, and in one hour they were both in danger of perishing, for they were shipwrecked on the coast of Illyria, as they were making a sea voyage together. The ship on board of which they were split on a rock in a violent storm, and a very small number of the ship's company escaped with their lives. The captain of the vessel, with a few of the sailors that were saved, got to land in a small boat, and with them they brought Viola safe on shore, where she, poor lady, instead of rejoicing at her own deliverance, began to lament her brother's loss. But the captain comforted her with the assurance that he had seen her brother when the ship split, farsen himself to a strong mast, on which, as long as he could see anything of him for the distance, he perceived him born up above the waves. Viola was much consoled by the hope this account gave her, and now considered how she was to dispose of herself in a strange country so far from home. And she asked the captain if he knew anything of Illyria. "'I very well, madam,' replied the captain, for I was born not three hours' travel from this place. "'Who governs here?' said Viola. The captain told her Illyria was governed by Orsino, a duke noble in nature as well as dignity. Viola said she had heard her father speak of Orsino, and that he was unmarried then. "'And he is so now,' said the captain, or was so very late, for but a month ago I went from here, and then it was the general talk, as you know what great ones do the people will prattle of, that Orsino sought the love of fair Illyria, a virtuous maid, the daughter of a count who died twelve months ago, leaving Illyria to the protection of her brother, who shortly after died also, and for the love of this dear brother, they say, she has abjured the sight and company of men. Viola, who was herself in such a sad affliction for her brother's loss, wished she could live with this lady who so tenderly mourned a brother's death. She asked the captain if he could introduce her to Illyria, saying she would willingly serve this lady. But he replied that this would be a hard thing to accomplish, because the lady Illyria would admit no person into her house since her brother's death, not even the duke himself. Then Viola formed another project in her mind, which was, in a man's habit, to serve the duke Orsino as a page. It was a strange fancy in a young lady to put on mail a tire and pass for a boy, but the forlorn and unprotected state of Viola, who was young and of uncommon beauty, alone and in a foreign land, must plead her excuse. She, having observed a fair behaviour in the captain, and that he showed a friendly concern for her welfare, entrusted him with her design, and he readily engaged to a sister. Viola gave him money, and directed him to furnish her with suitable apparel, ordering her clothes to be made of the same colour, and in the same fashion her brother Sebastian used to wear. And when she was dressed in her manly garb, she looked so exactly like her brother, that some strange errors happened by means of their being mistaken for each other, for as well afterward appear, Sebastian was also saved. Viola's good friend the captain, when he had transformed this pretty lady into a gentleman, having some interest at court, got her presented to Orsino under the famed name of Cesario. The duke was wonderfully pleased with the address and graceful deportment of his handsome youth, and made Cesario one of his pages, that being the office Viola wished to obtain, and she so well fulfilled the duties of her new station, and showed such a ready observance and faithful attachment to her lord, that she soon became his most favoured attendant. To Cesario Orsino confided the whole history of his love for the Lady Olivia. To Cesario he told the long and unsuccessful suit he had made to one who, rejecting his long services and despising his person, refused to admit him to her presence. And for the love of this lady who had so unkindly treated him, the noble Orsino, forsaking the sports of the field, and all manly exercises in which he used to delight, passed his hours in ignoble sloth, listening to the effeminate sounds of soft music, gentle airs, and passionate love-songs, and neglecting the company of the wise and learned lords with whom he used to associate, he was now all day long conversing with young Cesario. Unmeet companion, no doubt his grave courteous thought Cesario was for their once noble master, the great Duke Orsino. It is a dangerous matter for young maidens to be the confidance of handsome young Dukes, which Viola too soon found, to her sorrow. For all that Orsino told her he endured for Olivia, she presently perceived she suffered for the love of him, and much it moved her wonder that Olivia could be so regardless of this her peerless lord in master, whom she thought no one could behold without the deepest admiration, and she ventured gently to hint to Orsino that it was a pity he should affect a lady who was so blind to his worthy qualities, and she said, if a lady were to love you, my lord, as you love Olivia, and perhaps there may be one who does, if you could not love her in return, would you not tell her that you could not love, and must she not be content with this answer? But Orsino would not admit of this reasoning, for he denied that it was possible for any woman to love as he did. He said no woman's heart was big enough to hold so much love, and therefore it was unfair to compare the love of any lady for him to his love for Olivia. Now though Viola had the utmost deference for the Duke's opinions, she could not help thinking this was not quite true, for she thought her heart had full as much love in it as Orsino's had. And she said, ah, but I know, my lord. What do you know, Cesario? said Orsino. Too well I know, replied Viola. What love women may owe to men. They are as true of heart as we are. My father had a daughter loved a man. As I, perhaps, were a woman, should love your lordship. And what is her history? said Orsino. A blank, my lord, replied Viola. She never told her love, but let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on her damask cheek. She pined in thought, and with a green and yellow melancholy she sat like patients on a monument, smiling at grief. The Duke inquired if this lady died of her love. But to this question Viola returned an evasive answer, as probably she had feigned the story to speak words expressive of the secret love and silent grief she suffered for Orsino. While they were talking, a gentleman entered whom the Duke had sent to Olivia, and he said, so please you, my lord, I might not be admitted to the lady, but by her handmaid she returned you this answer. Until seven years hence the element itself shall not behold her face. But like a cloystress she will walk veiled, watering her chamber with her tears for the sad remembrance of her dead brother. On hearing this, the Duke exclaimed, oh, she that has a heart of this fine frame to pay this debt of love to a dead brother, how will she love when the rich golden shaft has touched her heart? And then he said to Viola, you know, Cesario, I have told you all the secrets of my heart. Therefore, good youth, go to Olivia's house, be not denied access, stand at her doors, and tell her there your fixed foot shall grow till you have audience. And if I speak to her, my lord, what then? said Viola. Oh, then! replied Orsino, unfold to her the passion of my love. Take a long discourse to her of my dear faith. It will well become you to at my woes. For she will attend more to you than to one of graver aspect. Away then went Viola. But not willingly did she undertake this courtship, for she was to woo a lady to become a wife to him she wished to marry. But having undertaken the affair she performed it with fidelity, and Olivia soon heard that a youth was at her door, who insisted upon being admitted to her presence. I told him, said the servant, that you were sick. He said he knew you were, and therefore he came to speak with you. I told him that you were asleep. He seemed to have a foreknowledge of that, too, and said that therefore he must speak with you. What is to be said of him, lady, for he seems fortified against all denial, and will speak with you whether you will or no. Olivia, curious to see who this peremptory messenger might be, desired he might be admitted, and throwing her veil over her face, she said she would once more hear Orsino's embassy. Not doubting, but that he came from the duke by his importunity. Viola, entering, put on the most manly air she could assume, and affecting the fine courtier language of great men's pages, she said to the veiled lady, most radiant, exquisite, and matchless beauty, I pray you tell me if you are the lady of the house, for I should be sorry to cast away my speech upon another, for besides that it is excellently well penned, I have taken great pains to learn it. Whence come you, sir?" said Olivia. I can say little more than I have studied," replied Viola, and that question is out of my part. Are you a comedian?" said Olivia. No," replied Viola, and yet I am not that which I play, meaning that she, being a woman, feigned herself to be a man. And again she asked Olivia if she were the lady of the house. Olivia said she was, and then Viola, having more curiosity to see her rival's features, and haste to deliver her master's message, said, Good madam, let me see your face. With this bold request Olivia was not a verse to comply, for this haughty beauty, whom the Ducor Sino had loved so long in vain, at first sight conceived a passion for the supposed page, the humble Cesario. When Viola asked to see her face, Olivia said, Have you any commission from your lord and master to negotiate with my face? And then, forgetting her determination to go veiled for seven long years, she drew aside her veil, saying, But I will draw the curtain and show the picture. Is it not well done? Viola replied, It is beauty truly mixed. The red and white upon your cheeks is by nature's own cunning hand laid on. You are the most cruel lady living, if you lead these graces to the grave, and leave the world no copy. Oh, sir, replied Olivia, I will not be so cruel. The world may have an inventory of my beauty. As item, two lips, indifferent red, item, two grey eyes with lids to them, one neck, one chin, and so forth, were you sent here to praise me? Viola replied, I see what you are. You are too proud, but you are fair. My lord and master loves you. Oh, such a love could but be recompensed, though you were crowned the queen of beauty, for Orsino loves you with adoration and with tears, with groans that thunder love and sighs of fire. Your lord, said Olivia, knows well my mind. I cannot love him, yet I doubt not he is virtuous. I know him to be noble and of high estate, of fresh and spotless youth. All voices proclaim him learned, courteous, and valiant, yet I cannot love him. He might have taken his answer long ago. If I did love you as my master does, sir Viola, I would make me a willow cabin at your gates, and call upon your name. I would write complaining sonnets on Olivia, and sing them in the dead of the night. Your name should sound among the hills, and I would make echo, the babbling gossip of the air, cry out, Olivia. Oh, you should not rest between the elements of earth and air, but you should pity me. You might do much, said Olivia. What is your parentage? Viola replied, above my fortunes, yet my state is well. I am a gentleman. Olivia now reluctantly dismissed Viola, saying, go to your master and tell him I cannot love him. Let him send no more, unless for chance you come again to tell me how he takes it. And Viola departed, bidding the lady farewell by the name of fair cruelty. When she was gone, Olivia repeated the words, above my fortune, yet my state is well, I am a gentleman. And she said aloud, I will be sworn he is. His tongue, his face, his limbs, action, and spirit plainly show he is a gentleman. And then she wished Caesarea was the duke, and perceiving the fast hold he had taken on her affections, she blamed herself for her sudden love. But the gentle blame which people lay upon their own faults has no deep root, and presently the noble lady Olivia so far forgot the inequality between her fortunes and those of this seeming page, as well as the maidenly reserve, which is the chief ornament of a lady's character, that she resolved to court the love of young Caesarea, and sent a servant after him with a diamond ring, under the pretense that he had left it with her as a present from Orsino. She hoped by thus artfully making Caesarea a present of the ring, she should give him some intimation of her design. And truly it did make Viola suspect. For knowing that Orsino had sent no ring by her, she began to recollect that Olivia's looks and manner were expressive of admiration, and she presently guessed her master's mistress had fallen in love with her. Alas! said she, the poor lady might as well have a dream. Disguise, I see, is wicked, for it has caused Olivia to breathe as fruitless size for me as I do for Orsino. Viola returned to Orsino's palace, and related to her lord the ill success of the negotiation, repeating the command of Olivia that the duke should trouble her no more. Yet still the duke persisted in hoping that the gentle Caesarea would in time be able to persuade her to show some pity, and therefore he bade him he should go to her again the next day. In the meantime, to pass away the tedious interval, he commanded a song which he loved to be sung. And he said, My good Caesarea, when I heard that song last night, me thought it did relieve my passion much. Market Caesarea, it is old and plain. The spinsters and the knitters, when they sit in the sun, and the young maids that weave their thread with bone, chant this song. It is silly. For it tells of the innocence of love in the old times. Song. Come away, come away death, and in sad cypress let me be laid. Fly away, fly away breath, I am slain by a fair cruel maid. My shroud of white stuck all with you, O prepare it. My part of death, no one so true, did share it. Not a flower, not a flower sweet, on my black coffin let there be strewn. Not a friend, not a friend greet. My poor corpse where my bones shall be thrown. A thousand thousand sighs to save, lay me aware, sad true lover never find my grave to weep there. Viola did not fail to mark the words of the old song, which in such true simplicity described the pangs of unrequited love, and she bore testimony in her countenance of feeling what the song expressed. Her sad looks were observed by Osino, who said to her, My life upon its Caesarea, though you are so young, your eye has looked upon some face that it loves. Has it not, boy? A little, with your leave, replied Viola. And what kind of woman, and of what age is she? said Osino. Of your age and of your complexion, my lord, said Viola, which made the duke smile to hear this fair young boy loved a woman so much older than himself, and of a man's dark complexion. But Viola secretly meant Osino, and not a woman like him. When Viola made her second visit to Olivia, she found no difficulty in gaining access to her. Servants soon discover when their ladies delight to converse with handsome young messengers, and the instant Viola arrived, the gates were thrown wide open, and the duke's page was shown into Olivia's apartment with great respect. And when Viola told Olivia that she was come once more to plead in her lord's behalf, this lady said, I desired you never to speak of him again. But if you would undertake another shoot, I had rather hear you solicit than music from the spheres. Viola's was pretty plain speaking. But Olivia soon explained herself still more plainly, and openly confessed her love, and when she saw displeasure with perplexity expressed in Viola's face, she said, Oh, what a deal of scorn looks beautiful in the contempt and anger of his lip! Cesario, by the roses of the spring, by maidhood, honour, and by truth, I love you so that, in spite of your pride, I have neither wit nor reason to conceal my passion. But in vain the lady wooed. Viola hastened from her presence, threatening never more to come to plead Orsino's love, and all the reply she made to Olivia's fond solicitation was a declaration of a resolution never to love any woman. No sooner had Viola left the lady than a claim was made upon her valor. A gentleman, a rejected suitor of Olivia, who had learned how that lady had favoured the duke's messenger, challenged him to fight a duel. What should poor Viola do, who, though she carried a man like outside, had a true woman's heart and fear to look on her own sword? When she saw her formidable rival advancing towards her with his sword drawn, she began to think of confessing that she was a woman. But she was relieved at once from her terror, and the shame of such a discovery by a stranger that was passing by, who made up to them, and as if he had been long known to her, and were her dearest friend said to her opponent, If this young gentleman has done a fence, I will take the fort on me, and if you offend him I will for his sake defy you. Before Viola had time to thank him for his protection, or to inquire the reason of his kind interference, her new friend met with an enemy where his bravery was of no use to him, for the officers of justice coming up in that instant apprehended the stranger in the duke's name to answer for an offence he had committed some years before, and he said to Viola, This comes with seeking you. And then he asked her for a purse, saying, Now my necessity makes me ask for my purse, and it grieves me much more for what I cannot do for you than for what befalls myself. You stand amazed, but be of comfort. His words did indeed amaze Viola, and she protestant she knew him not, nor had ever received a purse from him. But for the kindness he had just shown her she offered him a small sum of money, being nearly the whole she possessed. And now the stranger spoke severe things, charging her within gratitude and unkindness. He said, This youth whom you see here I snatched from the jaws of death, and for his sake alone I came to Illyria, and have fallen into this danger. But the officers cared little for harkening to the complaints of their prisoner, and they hurried him off, saying, What is that to us? And as he was carried away he called Viola by the name of Sebastian, reproaching the supposed Sebastian for disowning his friend as long as he was within hearing. When Viola heard herself called Sebastian, though the stranger was taken away too hastily for her to ask an explanation, she conjectured that this seeming mystery might arise from her being mistaken for her brother, and she began to cherish hopes that it was her brother, whose life this man said he had preserved. And so indeed it was. The stranger, whose name was Antonio, was a sea-captain. He had taken Sebastian up into his ship when, almost exhausted with fatigue, he was floating on the mast to which he had fastened himself in the storm. Antonio conceived such a friendship for Sebastian that he resolved to accompany him with a so-ever he went, and when the youth expressed a curiosity to visit Orsino's court, Antonio, rather than part from him, came to Illyria, though he knew if his person should be known there his life would be in danger, because in a sea-fight he had once dangerously wounded the Duke Orsino's nephew. This was the offence for which he was now made a prisoner. Antonio and Sebastian had landed together but a few hours before Antonio met Viola. He had given his purse to Sebastian, desiring him to use it freely if he saw anything he wished to purchase, telling him he would wait at the inn while Sebastian went to view the town. But Sebastian, not returning at the time appointed, Antonio had ventured out to look for him, and Viola, being dressed the same and in face so exactly resembling her brother, Antonio drew his sword, as he thought, in defense of the youth he had saved. And when Sebastian, as he supposed, disowned him and denied him his own purse, no wonder he accused him of ingratitude. Viola, when Antonio was gone, fearing a second invitation to fight, slunk home as fast as she could. She had not been long gone when her adversary thought he saw her return. But it was her brother Sebastian who happened to arrive at this place, and he said, Now, sir, have I met with you again? There's for you! And struck him a blow. Sebastian was no coward. He returned the blow with interest and drew his sword. A lady now put a stop to this duel, for Olivia came out of the house, and she, too, mistaking Sebastian for Cesario, invited him to come into her house, expressing much sorrow at the rude attack he had met with. Though Sebastian was as much surprised at the courtesy of this lady as at the rudeness of his unknown foe, yet he went very willingly into the house, and Olivia was delighted to find Cesario, as she thought him, become more sensible of her attentions. For though their features were exactly the same, there was none of the contempt and anger to be seen in his face, which she had complained of when she told her love to Cesario. Sebastian did not at all object to the fondness of the lady lavished on him. He seemed to take it in very good part, yet he wondered how it had come to pass, and he was rather inclined to think Olivia was not in her right senses. But perceiving that she was mistress of a fine house, and that she ordered her affairs and seemed to govern her family discreetly, and that in all that her sudden love for him she appeared in the full possession of her reason, he well approved of the courtship. And Olivia, finding Cesario in this good humour, and fearing he might change his mind, proposed that, as she had a priest in the house, they should be instantly married. Sebastian assented to this proposal, and when the marriage ceremony was over, he left his lady for a short time, intending to go and tell his friend Antonio the good fortune that he had met with. In the meantime, Orsino came to visit Olivia, and at the moment he arrived before Olivia's house, the officers of justice brought their prisoner, Antonio, before the duke. Viola was with Orsino her master, and when Antonio saw Viola, whom he still imagined to be Sebastian, he told the duke in what manner he had rescued this youth from the perils of the sea, and after fully relating all the kindness he had really shown to Sebastian, he ended his complaint with saying that for three months, both day and night, this ungrateful youth had been with him. But now, the lady Olivia coming forth from her house, the duke could no longer attend to Antonio's story, and he said, Here comes the Countess. Now heaven walks on earth. But for thee, fellow, thy words are madness. Three months has this youth attended on me. And then he ordered Antonio to be taken aside. But Orsino's heavenly counters soon gave the duke cause to accuse Cesario as much of ingratitude as Antonio had done, for all the words he could hear Olivia speak were words of kindness to Cesario, and when he found his page had obtained this high place in Olivia's favour, he threatened him with all the terrors of his just revenge, and as he was going to depart, he called Viola to follow him, saying, Come, boy, with me! My thoughts are ripe for mischief. Though it seemed in his jealous rage he was going to doom Viola to instant death, yet her love made her no longer a coward, and she said she would most joyfully suffer death to give her master ease. But Olivia would not so lose her husband, and she cried, Where goes my Cesario? Viola replied, After him I love more than my life. Olivia, however, prevented their departure by loudly proclaiming that Cesario was her husband, and sent for the priest, who declared that not two hours had passed since he had married the lady Olivia to this young man. In vain Viola protested she was not married to Olivia. The evidence of that lady and the priest made Orsino believe that his page had robbed him of the treasure he prized above his life. But thinking it was past recall he was bidding farewell to his faithless mistress and the young dissembler, her husband, as she called Viola, warning her never to come in his sight again, when, as it seemed to them, a miracle appeared. For another Cesario entered and addressed Olivia as his wife. This new Cesario was Sebastian, the real husband of Olivia, and when their wonder had a little ceased at seeing two persons with the same face, the same voice, and the same habit, the brother and sister began to question each other. For Viola could scarce be persuaded that her brother was living, and Sebastian knew not how to account for the sister he supposed drowned being found in the habit of a young man, but Viola presently acknowledged that she was indeed Viola and his sister under that disguise. When all the errors were cleared up which the extreme likeness between this twin brother and sister had occasioned, they laughed at the lady Olivia for the pleasant mistake she had made in falling in love with a woman, and Olivia showed no dislike to her exchange when she found she had wedded the brother instead of the sister. The hopes of Orsina were for ever at an end by this marriage of Olivia, and with his hopes all his fruitless love seemed to vanish away, and all his thoughts were fixed on the event of his favourite young Cesario being changed into a fair lady. He viewed Viola with great attention, and he remembered how very handsome he had always thought Cesario was, and he concluded she would look very beautiful in a woman's attire, and then he remembered how often she had said she loved him, which at the time seemed only the dutiful expressions of a faithful page, but now he guessed that something more was meant, for many of her pretty sayings which were like riddles to him came now into his mind, and he no sooner remembered all these things than he resolved to make Viola his wife, and he said to her, he still could not help calling her Cesario and boy, boy, you have said to me a thousand times that you should never love a woman like to me, and for the faithful service you have done for me so much beneath your soft and tender breeding, and since you have called me master so long, you shall now be your master's mistress, and Orsino's true duchess. Olivia, perceiving Orsino was making over that heart which she had so ungraciously rejected to Viola, invited them to enter her house, and offered the assistance of the good priest who had married her to Sebastian in the morning, to perform the same ceremony in the remaining part of the day for Orsino and Viola. Thus the twin brother and sister were both wedded on the same day. The storm and shipwreck which had separated them being the means of bringing to pass their high and mighty fortunes. Viola was the wife of Orsino, the Duke of Illyria, and Sebastian the husband of the rich and noble Countess, the Lady Olivia. End of story. Timon of Athens, 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. Timon of Athens. Timon, a lord of Athens, in the enjoyment of a princely fortune, affected a humour of liberality which knew no limits. His almost limitless wealth could not flow in so fast, but he poured it out fast upon all sorts and degrees of people. Not the poor only tasted of his bounty, but great lords did not disdain to rank themselves among his dependents and followers. His table was resorted to by the all the luxurious feasters, and his house was open to all comers and goers at Athens. His large wealth, combined with his free and prodigal nature, to subdue all hearts to his love. Men of all minds and dispositions tended their services to Lord Timon, from the glass-faced flatterer whose face reflects as in a mirror the present humour of his patron, to the rough and unbending cynic who, affecting a contempt of men's persons and an indifference to worldly things, yet could not stand out against the gracious manners and munificent soul of Lord Timon, but would come, against his nature, to partake of his royal entertainments and return most rich in his own estimation, if he had received a nod or a salutation from Timon. If a poet had composed a work which wanted a recommendatory introduction to the world, he had no more to do but to dedicate it to Lord Timon, and the poem was sure of sale, besides the present purse from the patron, and daily access to his house and table. If a painter had a picture to dispose of, he had only to take it to Lord Timon and pretend to consult his taste as to the merits of it. Nothing more was wanting to persuade the liberal-hearted Lord to buy it. If a jeweler had a stone of price, or a Mercer, rich, costly stuff, which for their costliness lay upon his hands, Lord Timon's house was a ready mart always open, where they might get off their wares or their jewellery at any price, and the good-natured Lord would thank them into the bargain, as if they had done him a piece of courtesy in letting him have the refusal of such precious commodities. So that by this means his house was thronged with superfluous purchases, of no use but to swell uneasy and ostentatious pomp, and his person was still more inconveniently beset with the crowd of these idle visitors, lying poets, painters, sharking tradesmen, lords, ladies, lady-cortiers, and expectants who continually filled his lobbies, reigning their fulsome flatteries and whispers in his ears, sacrificing to him with adulation as to a god, making sacred the very stirrup by which he mounted his horse, and seeming as though they drank the free air but through his permission and bounty. Some of these daily dependents were young men of berth, who, their means not answering to their extravagance, had been put imprisoned by creditors, and redeemed thence by Lord Timon. These young prodigals thence forward fastened upon his lordship, as if by common sympathy he were necessarily endeared to all such spendthrits and loose livers, who, not being able to follow him in his wealth, found it easier to copy him in prodigality and copious spending of what was their own. One of these flesh flies was Ventidius, for whose debts unjustly contracted, Timon but lately had paid down the sum of five talents. But among this confluence, this great flood of visitors, none were more conspicuous than the makers of presents and givers of gifts. It was fortunate for these men, if Timon took a fancy to a dog or a horse, or any piece of cheap furniture which was theirs. The things so praised, whatever it was, were sure to be sent to the next morning with the compliments of the giver for Lord Timon's acceptance and apologies for the unworthiness of the gift, and this dog or horse, or whatever it might be, did not fail to produce from Timon's bounty, who would not be outdone in gifts, perhaps twenty dogs or horses, certainly presents of far richer worth, as these pretended donors knew well enough, and that their forced presents were but the putting out of so much money at large and speedy interest. In this way Lord Lucius had lately sent to Timon a present of four milk-white horses, trapped in silver, which this cunning Lord had observed Timon upon some occasion to commend. And another Lord, Luculus, had bestowed upon him in the same pretended way of free gift, a brace of greyhounds whose make and fleetness Timon had been heard to admire. His presence the easy-hearted Lord accepted without suspicion of the dishonest views of the presenters, and the givers, of course, were rewarded with some rich return, a diamond or some jewel of twenty times the value of their force and mercenary donation. Sometimes these creatures would go to work in a more direct way, and with gross and palpable artifice, which yet the credulous Timon was too blind to see, would affect to admire and praise something that Timon possessed, a bargain that he had bought, or some late purchase which was sure to draw from this yielding and soft-hearted Lord a gift of the thing commended, for no service in the world done for it but the easy expense of a little cheap and obvious flattery. In this way, Timon but the other day had given to one of these main Lords the bay Corsa which he himself rode upon, because his Lordship had been pleased to say that it was a handsome beast and went well, and Timon knew that no man ever justly praised what he did not wish to possess. For Lord Timon weighed his friend's affection with his own, and so fond was he of bestowing, that he could have dealt kingdoms to these opposed friends, and never have been weary. Not that Timon's wealth all went to enrich these wicked flatterers. He could do noble and praiseworthy actions, and when a servant of his once loved the daughter of a rich Athenian, but could not hope to obtain her by reason that in wealth and rank the weight was so far above him, Lord Timon freely bestowed upon his servant three Athenian talents, to make his fortune equal with the dowry which the father of the young maid demanded of him who should be her husband. But for the most part, knaves and parasites had the command of his fortune, false friends whom he did not know to be such, but because they flocked around his person, he thought they must needs love him, and because they smiled and flattered him, he thought surely that his conduct was approved by all the wise and good. And when he was feasting in the midst of all these flatterers and mock friends, when they were eating him up and draining his fortune's dry with large draughts of the richest wines drunk to his health and prosperity, he could not perceive the difference of a friend from a flatterer, but to his deluded eyes made proud with the sight. It seemed a precious comfort to have so many like brothers commanding one another's fortunes, though it was his own fortune which paid all the costs, and with joy they would run over at the spectacle of such as it appeared to him truly festive and fraternal meeting. But while he thus outwent the very heart of kindness, and poured out his bounty as if Plutus, the God of Gold, had been but his steward, while thus he proceeded without care or stop, so senseless of expense that he could neither inquire how he could maintain it, nor cease his wild flow of riot, his ridges which were not infinite must needs melt away before a prodigality which knew no limits. But who should tell him so? His flatterers? They had an interest in shutting his eyes. In vain did his honest steward Flavius try to represent to him his condition, laying his accounts before him, begging of him, praying of him with an importunity that on any other occasion would have been unmanally in a servant, beseeching him with tears to look into the state of his affairs. Timon would still put him off, and turn the discourse to something else, for nothing is so deaf to remonstrance as riches turn to poverty, nothing is so unwilling to believe its situation, nothing so incredulous to its own true state, and hard to give credit to a reverse. Often had this good steward, this honest creature, when all the rooms of Timon's great house had been choked up with riotous feeders at his master's cost, when the floors had wept with drunken spilling of wine, and every apartment blazed with lights and resounded with music and feasting, often had he retired by himself to some solitary spot, and wept faster than the wine ran from the wasteful casks within, to see the mad bounty of his lord, and to think, when the means were gone which brought him praises from all sorts of people, how quickly the breath would be gone of which the praise was made. Because one in feasting would be lost in fasting, and at one cloud of winter showers these flies would disappear. But now the time was come that Timon could shut his ears no longer to the representations of this faithful steward. Money must be had, and when he ordered Flavius to sell some of his land for that purpose, Flavius informed him what he had in vain endeavored at several times before to make him listen to, that most of his land was already sold or forfeited, and that all he possessed at present was not enough to pay the one half of what he owed. Struck with wonder at this presentation, Timon hastily replied, �My lands extend from Athens to Lassidormon!� �Oh, my good lord!� said Flavius. �The world is but a world, and has bounds. Were it all yours to give in a breath, how quickly were it gone?� Timon consoled himself that no villainous bounty had yet come from him, that if he had given his wealth away unwisely, it had not been bestowed to feed his vices but to cherish his friends. And he bade the kind-hearted steward who was weeping, to take comfort in the assurance that his master could never lack means while he had so many noble friends, and this infatuated lord persuaded himself that he had nothing to do but to send and borrow, to use every man's fortune that had ever tasted his bounty in this extremity as freely as his own. Then with a cheerful look, as if confident of the trial, he severally dispatched messengers to Lord Lucius, to Lord Lacullus and Sampronius, men upon whom he had lavished his gifts in past times without measure or moderation, and to Ventidius, whom he had lately released out of prison by paying his debts, and who, by the death of his father, was now come into the possession of an ample fortune and well-enable to required Timon's courtesy. To request to Ventidius the return of those five talents which he had paid for him, and of each of those noble lords the loan of fifty talents, nothing doubting that their gratitude would supply his ones, if he needed it, to the amount of five hundred times fifty talents. Lacullus was the first applied to. This mean lord had been dreaming overnight of a silver basin and cup, and when Timon's servant was announced, his sordid mind suggested to him that this were surely a making out of his dream, and that Timon had sent him such a present. But when he understood the truth of the matter, and that Timon wanted money, the quality of his faint and watery friendship showed itself, for with many protestations he vowed to the servant that he had long foreseen the ruin of his master's affairs, and many a time had he come to dinner to tell him of it, and had come again to supper to try to persuade him to spend less, but he would take no counsel nor warning by his coming. And true it was that he had been a constant attender, as he said at Timon's feasts, as he had in greater things tasted his bounty. But that he ever came with that intent, or gave good counsel a reproof to Timon, was a base unworthy lie, which he suitably followed up with meanly offering the servant a bribe to go home to his master and tell him that he had not found Lacullus at home. As little success had the messenger who was sent to Lord Lucius. This lying Lord, who was full of Timon's meat, and enriched almost a bursting with Timon's costly presence, when he found the wind changed, and the fountain of so much bounty suddenly stopped, at first could hardly believe it. But on its being confirmed he affected great regret that he should not have it in his power to serve Lord Timon, for, unfortunately—which was a base falsehood—he had made a great purchase the day before, which had quite disfurnished him of the means at present, the more beast he he called himself, to put it out of his power to serve so good a friend, and he counted it one of his greatest afflictions that his abilities should fail him to pleasure such an honourable gentleman. Who can call any man friend that dips in the same dish with him? Just of this metal is every flatterer. In the recollection of everybody, Timon had been a father to this Lucius, had kept up his credit with his purse. Timon's money had gone to pay the wages of his servants, to pay the hire of the laborers who had sweat to build the fine houses which Lucius's pride had made necessary to him. Yet, oh, the monster which man makes himself when he proves ungrateful! This Lucius now denied to Timon as some which, in respect of what Timon had bestowed on him, was less than charitable men afford to beggars. St. Pronius, and every one of these mercenary lords to whom Timon applied in their turn, returned the same evasive answer or direct denial. Even Ventidius, the redeemed and now rich Ventidius, refused to assist him with the loan of these five talons which Timon had not lent, but generously given him in his distress. Now was Timon as much avoided in his poverty, as he had been courted and resorted to in his riches. Now the same tongues which had been loudest in his praises, extolling him as bountiful, liberal, and open-handed, were not ashamed to censure that very bounteous folly, that liberality is profuseness, though it had shown itself folly in nothing so truly as in the selection of such unworthy creatures as themselves for its objects. Now was Timon's princely mansion forsaken, and become a shunned and hated place—a place for men to pass by, not a place as formally, where every passenger must stop and taste of his wine and good cheer. Now, instead of being thronged with feasting and tumultuous guests, it was beset with impatient and clamorous creditors, usurers, extortioners, fierce and intolerable in their demands, pleading bonds, interest, mortgages. Iron-hearted men that would take no denial nor putting off that Timon's house was now his jail, which you could not pass, nor go in nor out for them. One demanding his due of fifty talents, another bringing in a bill of five thousand crowns, which, if he would tell out of his blood by drops and pay them so, he had not enough in his body to discharge drop by drop. In this desperate and irremediable state, as it seemed, of his affairs, the eyes of all men were suddenly surprised at a new and incredible lustre which this setting sun put forth. Once more, Lord Timon proclaimed a feast, to which he invited his accustomed guests, lords, ladies, all that was great or fashionable in Athens. Lord Lucius and LaCullus came, Ventidius, Sampronius and the rest, whom are sorry now than these forning wretches when they found, as they thought, that Lord Timon's poverty was all pretense, and had been only put on to make trial of their loves, to think that they should not have seen through the artifice at the time and have had the cheap credit of obliging his lordship. Yet whom are glad to find the fountain of that noble bounty which they had thought dried up, still fresh and running? They came dissembling, protesting, expressing deepest sorrow and shame, that when his lordship sent to them, they should have been so unfortunate as to want the present means to oblige so honourable a friend. But Timon begged them not to give such trifles a thought, for he had altogether forgotten it. And these base, forning lords, though they had denied him money in his adversity, yet could not refuse their presence at this new blaze of his returning prosperity. For the swallow follows not summer more willingly than men of these dispositions follow the good fortunes of the great, nor more willingly leaves winter than these shrink from the first appearance of a reverse. Such summer birds are men. But now, with music and state, the banquet of smoking dishes was served up, and when the guests had a little done admiring, whence the bankrupt Timon could find means to furnish so costly a feast, some doubting whether the scene which they saw was real, as scarce trusting their own eyes, at a signal given the dishes were uncovered, and Timon's drift appeared. Instead of those varieties and far-fetched dainties which they expected, that Timon's Epicurean table in past times had so liberally presented, now appeared under the covers of these dishes a preparation more suitable to Timon's poverty. Nothing but a little smoke and lukewarm water. Fit feast for this knot of mouth-friends whose professions were indeed smoke, and their hearts lukewarm and slippery as the water with which Timon welcomed his astonished guests, bidding them uncovered dogs and lap, and before they could recover their surprise, sprinkling it in their faces that they might have enough, and throwing dishes and all after them, who now ran huddling out, lords, ladies, with their caps snatched up in haste, a splendid confusion, and Timon pursuing them, still calling them what they were, smooth smiling parasites, destroyers under the mask of courtesy, affable wolves, meek bears, fools of fortune, feast-friends, time-flies. They, crowding out to avoid him, left the house more willingly than they had entered it, some losing their gowns and caps, and some their jewels in the hurry, all glad to escape out of the presence of such a mad lord, and from the ridicule of his mock banquet. This was the last feast which ever Timon made, and in it he took farewell of Athens and the society of men, for after that he betook himself to the woods, turning his back upon the hated city and upon all mankind, wishing the walls of that detestable city might sink, and the houses fall upon their owners, wishing all plagues which infest humanity. War, outrage, poverty, diseases, might fasten upon its inhabitants, praying that just gods to confound all Athenians, both young and old, high and low, so wishing, he went to the woods, where he said he should find the unkindest beast much kinder than mankind. He stripped himself naked, that he might retain no fashion of a man, and dug a cave to live in, and lived solitary in the manner of a beast, eating the wild roots and drinking water, flying from the face of his kind, and choosing rather to herd with wild beasts as more harmless and friendly than man. What a change from Lord Timon the rich, Lord Timon the delight of mankind, to Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater. Where were his flatterers now? Where were his attendants in retinue? Would the bleak air, that boisterous servitor, be his chamberlain, to put his shirt on warm? Would those stiff trees, that had outlived the eagle, turn young and airy pages to him, to skip on his errands when he bade them? Would the cool brook, when it was iced with winter, administer to him warm broths and caudals, when sick of an overnight surfeit? Or would the creatures that lived in those wild woods come, and lick his hand, and flatter him? Here on a day when he was digging for roots, his poor sustenance, his spade struck against something heavy, which proved to be gold, a great heap which some miser had probably buried in a time of alarm, thinking to have come again and taken it from its prison, but died before the opportunity had arrived without making any man privy to the concealment. So it lay, doing neither good nor harm, in the bowels of the earth, its mother, as if it had never come thence, till the accidental striking of Timon's spade against it once more brought it to light. Here was a mass of treasure which, if Timon had retained his old mind, was enough to have purchased in friends and flatterers again. But Timon was sick of the false world, and the sight of gold was poisonous to his eyes, and he would have restored it to the earth, but that, thinking of the infinite calamities which by means of gold happened to mankind, how the lucre of it causes robbery, suppression, injustice, bribery, violence, and murder among men, he had a pleasure in imagining, such a rooted hatred did he bear to his species, that out of this heap, which in digging he had discovered, might arise some mischief to plague mankind. And some soldiers passing through the woods near to his cave at that instant, which proved to be a part of the troops of the Athenian captain Alcibiades, who, upon some disgust taken against the senators of Athens, the Athenians were ever noted to be a thankless and ungrateful people, giving disgust to their generals and best friends, was marching at the head of the same triumphant army which he had formerly headed in their defence, to war against them. Timon, who liked their business well, bestowed upon their captain the gold to pay his soldiers, requiring no other service from him, than that he should with his conquering army lay Athens level with the ground, and burn, slay, kill all her inhabitants, not sparing the old men for their white beards, for, he said, they were usurious, nor the young children for their seeming innocent smiles, for those, he said, would live if they grew up to be traitors. But to steal his eyes and ears against any sights or sounds that might awaken compassion, and not to let the cries of virgins, babes, or mothers, hinder him from making one universal massacre of the city, but to confound them all in his conquest, and when he had conquered, he prayed that the gods would confound him also, the conqueror. So thoroughly did Timon hate Athens, Athenians, and all mankind. While he lived in this forlorn state, leading a life more brutal than human, he was suddenly surprised one day with the appearance of a man standing in an admiring posture at the door of his cave. It was Flavius, the honest steward, whom love and zealous affection to his master had led to seek him out at his wretched dwelling and to offer his services. And the first sight of his master, the once noble Timon, in that abject condition, naked as he was born, living in the manner of a beast among beasts, looking like his own sad ruins, and a monument of decay, so affected this good servant that he stood speechless, wrapped up in horror and confounded. And when he found utterance at last to his words, they were so choked with tears that Timon had much ado to know him again, or to make out who it was that had come, so contrary to the experience he had had of mankind, to offer him service in extremity. And being in the shape and form of a man, he suspected him for a traitor, and his tears for false. But the good servant, by so many tokens, confirmed the truth of his fidelity, and made it clear that nothing but love and zealous duty to his once dear master had brought in there, that Timon was forced to confess that the world contained one honest man. Yet, being in the shape and form of a man, he could not look upon this man's face without abhorrence, or hear words uttered from his man's lips without loathing. And this singly honest man was forced to depart, because he was a man, and because, with a heart more gentle and compassionate than is usual to man, he bore man's detested form and outward feature. But greater visitants than a poor steward were about to interrupt the savage quiet of Timon's solitude. For now the day was come when the ungrateful lords of Athens sorely repented the injustice which they had done to the noble Timon. For Elcibiades, like an incensed wild war, was raging at the walls of their city, and with his hot siege, threatened to lay fair Athens in the dust. And now the memory of Lord Timon's former prowess and military conduct came fresh into their forgetful minds, for Timon had been their general in past times, and a valiant and expert soldier, who alone of all the Athenians was deemed able to cope with a besieging army, such as then threaten them, or to drive back the furious approaches of Elcibiades. A deputation of the senators was chosen in this emergency to wait upon Timon. To him they came in their extremity, to whom, when he was in extremity, they had shown but small regard, as if they presumed upon his gratitude whom they had disabliged, and had derived a claim to his courtesy from their own most discertious and impiteous treatment. Now they earnestly beseech him, implore him with tears to return and save that city from which their ingratitude had so lately driven him. Now they offer him riches, power, dignities, satisfaction for past injuries and public honours, and the public love, their persons, lives and fortunes to be at his disposal, if he will but come back and save them. But Timon the naked, Timon the man-hater, was no longer Lord Timon, the Lord of Bounty, the Flower of Valar, their defence in war, their ornament in peace. If Elcibiades killed his countrymen, Timon cared not. If he sacked fair Athens and slew her old men and her infants, Timon would rejoice. So he told them. And that there was not a knife in the unruly camp which he did not prize above the reverendest throat in Athens. This was all the answer he vouchsafed to the weeping, disappointed senators. Only at parting he bade them commend him to his countrymen, and tell them that to ease them of their griefs and anxieties, and to prevent the consequence of fierce Elcibiades wrath, there was yet a way left, which he would teach them. For he had yet so much affection left for his dear countrymen as to be willing to do them a kindness before his death. These words a little revived the senators, who hoped that his kindness for their city was returning. Then Timon told them that he had a tree, which grew near his cave, which he would shortly have occasion to cut down, and he invited all his friends in Athens, high or low, of whatsoever degree, who wished to shun affliction, to come and take a taste of his tree before he cut it down, meaning that they might come and hang themselves on it and escape affliction that way. And this was the last courtesy, of all his noble bounties, which Timon showed to mankind. And this the last sight of him which his countrymen had. For not many days after, a poor soldier passing by the sea-beach, which was at a little distance from the woods which Timon frequented, found a tomb on the verge of the sea, with an inscription upon it, purporting that it was the grave of Timon the man-hater, who, while he lived, did hate all living men, and dying, wished a plague might consume all catalyphs left. Whether he finished his life by violence, or whether mere distaste of life and the loathing he had for mankind, brought time unto his conclusion, was not clear. Yet all men admired the fitness of his epitaph, and the consistency of his end, dying as he had lived, a hater of mankind. And some there were, who fancied a conceit in the very choice which he had made of the sea-beach for his place of burial, where the vast sea might weep forever upon his grave, as in contempt of the transient and shallow tears of hypocritical and deceitful mankind. The two chief families in Verona were the rich Capulets and the Montagues. There had been an old quarrel between these families which was grown to such a height, and so deadly was the enmity between them, that it extended to the remotest kindred, to the followers and retainers of both sides, in so much that a servant of the house of Montague could not meet a servant of the house of Capulet, nor a Capulet encounter with a Montague by chance, but fierce words and sometimes bloodshed ensued, and frequent were the brawls from such accidental meetings which disturbed the happy quiet of Verona's streets. Old Lord Capulet made a great supper, to which many fair ladies and many noble guests were invited. All the admired beauties of Verona were present, and all comers were made welcome, if they were not of the house of Montague. At this feast of Capulets, Rosaline, beloved of Romeo, son to the old Lord Montague, was present, and though it was dangerous for a Montague to be seen in this assembly, yet Benvolio, a friend of Romeo, persuaded the young Lord to go to this assembly in the disguise of a mask, that he might see his Rosaline, and, seeing her, compare her with some choice beauties of Verona, who, he said, would make him think his swan a crow. Romeo had small faith in Benvolio's words. Nevertheless, for the love of Rosaline he was persuaded to go. For Romeo was a sincere and passionate lover, and one that lost his sleep for love and fled society to be alone, thinking on Rosaline, who disdained him, and never required his love with the least show of courtesy or affection, and Benvolio wished to cure his friend of this love by showing him the diversity of ladies and company. To this feast of Capulets, then, young Romeo, with Benvolio and their friend Mercutio, went masked. Old Capulet bid them welcome and told them that ladies who had their toes unplegged with horns would dance with them, and the old man was light-hearted in merry, and said that he had worn a mask when he was young, and could have told a whispering tale in a fair lady's ear. And they felt a dancing, and Romeo was suddenly struck with the exceeding beauty of a lady who danced there, who seemed to him to teach the torches to burn bright, and her beauty to show by night like a rich jewel worn by a blackamore, beauty too rich for use, too dear for earth, like a snowy dove trooping with crows, he said, so richly did her beauty and perfection shine above the lady's companions. While he uttered these praises, he was overheard by Tybalt, a nephew of Lord Capulet who knew him by his voice to be Romeo, and this Tybalt, being of a fiery and passionate temper, could not endure that a Montague should come under cover of a mask to fleer and scorn, as he said, at their solemnities. And he stormed enraged exceedingly, and would have struck young Romeo dead. But his uncle, the old Lord Capulet, would not suffer him to do any injury at that time, both out of respect to his guests, and because Romeo had borne himself like a gentleman, and all tongues in Verona bragged of him to be a virtuous and well-governed youth. Tybalt, forced to be patient against his will, restrained himself, but swore that this vile Montague should at another time pay dearly for his intrusion. The dancing being done, Romeo watched the place where the lady stood, and under favour of his masking habit, which might seem to excuse him part the liberty, he presumed in the gentlest manner to take her by the hand, calling it a shrine which, if he profaned by touching it, he was a blushing pilgrim and would kiss it for atonement. "'Good pilgrim,' answered the lady, your devotion shows by far too manily and too courtly. Saints have hands which pilgrims may touch, but kiss not." "'Have not saints' lips and pilgrims, too?' said Romeo. "'I,' said the lady, lips which they must use in prayer. "'Oh, then, my dear saint,' said Romeo, hear my prayer, and grant it lest I despair.' In such like illusions and loving conceits they were engaged when the lady was called away by her mother, and Romeo, inquiring who her mother was, discovered that the lady whose peerless beauty he was so much struck with was young Juliet, daughter and heir to the Lord Capulet, the great enemy of the Montagues, and that he had unknowingly engaged his heart to his foe. This troubled him, but it could not dissuade him from loving. As little rest had Juliet when she found that the gentleman that she had been talking with was Romeo and a Montague, for she had been suddenly smitten with the same hasty and inconsiderate passion for Romeo which he had conceived for her, and a prodigious berth of love it seemed to her, that she must love her enemy, and that her affection should settle there, and her family consideration should induce her chiefly to hate. It being midnight, Romeo with his companions departed, but they soon missed him, for unable to stay away from the house where he had left his heart, he leapt to the wall of an orchard which was at the back of Juliet's house. Here he had not been long, ruminating on his new love, when Juliet appeared above at a window through which her exceeding beauty seemed to break like the light of the sun in the east, and the moon, which shone in the orchard with a faint light, appeared to Romeo as if sick and pale with grief at the superior lustre of this new sun, and she, leaning her cheek upon her hand, he passionately wished himself a glove upon that hand, that he might touch her cheek. She all this while, thinking herself alone, fetched a deep sigh, and exclaimed, Ah, me! Romeo, enraptured to hear her speak, said softly, and unheard by her, Oh, speak again, bright angel, for such you appear, being over my head like a winged messenger from heaven, who mortals fall back to gaze upon. She, unconscious of being overheard, and full of the new passion which that night's adventure had given birth to, called upon her lover by name, whom she supposed absent. Oh, Romeo! Romeo! She said, Wherefore art thou Romeo? Deny thy father, and refuse thy name, for my sake, or if thou wilt not, be but sworn my love, and I no longer will be a capulet. Romeo, having this encouragement, would feign have spoken, but he was desirous of hearing more, and the lady continued her passionate discourse with herself, as she thought, still chiding Romeo for being Romeo and a Montague, and wishing him some other name, or that he would put away that hated name, and for that name which was no part of himself he should take all herself. At this loving word, Romeo could no longer refrain, but taking up the dialogue as if her words had been addressed to him personally, and not merely in fancy. He made her call him Love, or by whatever other name she pleased, for he was no longer Romeo, if that name was displeasing to her. Juliet, alarmed to hear a man's voice in the garden, did not at first know who it was that by favour of the night and darkness had thus stumbled upon the discovery of her secret. But when he spoke again, though her ears had not yet drunk a hundred words of that tongue's uttering, yet so nice is a lover's hearing that she immediately knew him to be young Romeo, and she expostulated with him on the danger to which he had exposed himself by climbing the altered walls, for if any of her kinsmen should find him there, it would be death to him, being a Montague. Alack, said Romeo, there is more peril in your eye than in twenty of their swords. Do you but look kind upon me, lady, and I am proof against their enmity. Better my life should be ended by their hate, than that hated life should be prolonged to live without your love. How came you into this place, said Juliet, and by whose direction? Love directed me, answered Romeo. I am no pilot, yet work thou as far apart from me as that vast shore which is washed with the farthest sea I should venture for such merchandise. A crimson blush came over Juliet's face, yet unseen by Romeo by reason of the night, when she reflected upon the discovery which she had made, yet not meaning to make it, of her love to Romeo. She would fain have recalled her words, but that was impossible. Fain would she have stood upon form, and have kept her lover at a distance, as the custom of discrete ladies is, to frown and to be perverse, and give their suitors harsh denials at first, to stand off and affect a coyness or indifference where they most love, that their lovers may not think them too lightly or too easily won, for the difficulty of attainment increases the value of the object. But there was no room in her case for denials or puttings off, or any of the customary arts of delay and protracted courtship. Romeo had heard from her own tongue, when she did not dream that he was near her, a confession of her love. So with an honest frankness, which the novelty of her situation excused, she confirmed the truth of what he had before heard, and addressing him by the name of Fair Montague, love can sweeten a sour name. She begged him not to impute her easy yielding to levity or an unworthy mind, but that he must lay the fault of it, if it were a fault, upon the accident of the night which had so strangely discovered her thoughts. And she added that though her behaviour to him might not be sufficiently prudent, measured by the custom of her sex, yet that she would prove more true than many whose prudence was dissembling, and their modesty artificial cunning. Romeo was beginning to call the heavens to witness that nothing was farther from his thoughts than to impute a shadow of dishonour to such an honoured lady, when she stopped him, begging him not to swear. For although she joyed in him, yet she had no joy of that night's contract. It was too rash, too unadvised, too sudden. But he being urgent with her to exchange a vow of love with him that night, she said that she already had given him hers before he requested it, meaning when he overheard her confession. But she would retract what she then bestowed for the pleasure of giving it again, for her bounty was as infinite as the sea and her love as deep. From this loving conference she was called away by her nurse, who slept with her, and thought it time for her to be in bed, for it was near to daybreak. But hastily returning, she said three or four words more to Romeo, the purpose of which was that if his love was indeed honourable, and his purpose marriage, she would send a message to him to-morrow, to a pointed time for their marriage, when she would lay all her fortunes at his feet, and follow him as her Lord through the world. While they were settling this point, Juliet was repeatedly called for by her nurse, and went in and returned, and went and returned again, for she seemed as jealous of Romeo going from her as a young girl of her bird, which she will let hop a little from her hand, and pluck it back with a silken thread. And Romeo was as loath to part as she, for the sweetest music to lovers is the sound of each other's tongues at night. But at last they parted, wishing mutually sweet sleep and rest for that night. The day was breaking when they parted, and Romeo, who was too full of thoughts of his mistress and that blessed meeting to allow him to sleep, instead of going home, bent his course to a monastery hard by to find Friar Lawrence. The good Friar was already up at his devotions, but seeing young Romeo abroad so early, he conjectured rightly that he had not been a bed that night, but that some distemper of youthful affection had kept him waking. He was right in impusing the causes of Romeo's wakefulness to love, but he made a wrong guess at the object, for he thought that his love for Rosalind had kept him waking. But when Romeo revealed his new passion for Juliet, and requested the assistance of the Friar to marry them that day, the holy man lifted up his eyes and hands in a sort of wonder at the sudden change in Romeo's affections, for he had been privy to all Romeo's love for Rosalind and his many complaints of her disdain, and he said that young men's love lay not truly in their hearts but in their eyes. But Romeo, replying that he himself had often chidden him for doting on Rosalind, who could not love him again, whereas Juliet both loved and was beloved by him, the Friar assented in some measure to his reasons, and thinking that a matrimonial alliance between young Juliet and Romeo might happily be the means of making up the long breach between the Capulets and the Montagues, which no one more lamented than this good Friar who was a friend to both the families, and had often interposed his mediation to make up the quarrel without effect, partly moved by policy, and partly by his fondness for young Romeo, to whom he could deny nothing, the old man consented to join their hands in marriage. Now was Romeo blessed indeed, and Juliet, who knew his intent from a messenger which she had dispatched according to promise, did not fail to be early at the cell of Friar Lawrence, where their hands were joined in holy marriage, the good Friar praying the heavens to smile upon that act, and in the union of this young Montague and young Capulet, to bury the old strife and long dissensions of their families. The ceremony being over, Juliet hastened home where she stayed, impatient for the coming of night, at which time Romeo promised to come and meet her in the orchard, where they had met the night before, and the time between seemed as tedious to her as the night before some great festival seems to an impatient child that has got a new finery which it may not put on till the morning. That same day, about noon, Romeo's friends Benvolio and Mercutio, walking through the streets of Verona, were met by a party of the Capulets, with the impetuous Tybald at their head. This was the same angry Tybald who would have fought with Romeo at old Lord Capulet's feast. He, seeing Mercutio, accused him bluntly of associating with Romeo a Montague. Mercutio, who had as much fire and youthful blood in him as Tybald, replied to this accusation with some sharpness, and in spite of all Benvolio could say to moderate their wrath, a quarrel was beginning when, Romeo himself passing that way, the fierce Tybald turned from Mercutio to Romeo, and gave him the disgraceful appellation of villain. Romeo wished to avoid a quarrel with Tybald above all men, because he was the kinsman of Juliet, and much beloved by her. Despite this young Montague had never thoroughly entered into the family quarrel, being by nature wise and gentle, and the name of a Capulet, which was his dear lady's name, was now rather a charm to a lay resentment than a watchword to excite fury. So he tried to reason with Tybald, whom he saluted mildly by the name of Good Capulet, as if he, though a Montague, has some secret pleasure in uttering that name. But Tybald, who hated all Montague's as he hated Hell, would hear no reason but drew his weapon, and Mercutio, who knew not of Romeo's secret motive for desiring peace with Tybald, but looked upon his present forbearance as a sort of calm, dishonorable submission, with many disdainful words, provoked Tybald to the prosecution of his first quarrel with him, and Tybald and Mercutio fought till Mercutio fell, receiving his death's wound while Romeo and Benvolio were vainly endeavouring to part the combatants. Mercutio being dead, Romeo kept his temper no longer, but returned the scornful appellation of villain which Tybald had given him, and they fought till Tybald was slain by Romeo. This deadly broil falling out in the midst of Verona at Noonday, the news of it quickly brought a crowd of citizens to the spot, and among them the Lord's Capulet and Montague were their wives, and soon after arrived the Prince himself, who being related to Mercutio, whom Tybald had slain, and having had the peace of his government often disturbed by these brawls of Montague's and Capulet's, came determined to put the law in strictest force against those who should be found to be offenders. Benvolio, who had been eyewitness to the fray, was commanded by the Prince who relayed the origin of it, which he did, keeping as near the truth as he could without injury to Romeo, softening and excusing the part which his friends took in it. Lady Capulet, whose extreme grief for the loss of her kinsmen Tybald, made her keep no bounds at her revenge, exhorted the Prince to do strict justice upon his murderer, and to pay no attention to Benvolio's representation, who, being Romeo's friend and the Montague, spoke partially. Thus she pleaded against her new son-in-law, but she knew not yet that he was her son-in-law and Juliet's husband. On the other hand was to be seen Lady Montague pleading for her child's life, and arguing with some justice that Romeo had done nothing worthy of punishment in taking the life of Tybald, which was already forfeited to the law by his having slain Mercutio. The Prince, unmoved by the passionate exclamations of these women, on a careful examination of the facts, pronounced his sentence, and by that sentence Romeo was banished from Verona. Heavy news to young Juliet, who had been but few hours a bride, and now by this decree seemed everlastingly divorced. When the tidings reached her, she at first gave way to rage against Romeo, who had slain her dear cousin. She called him a beautiful tyrant, a fiend angelical, a ravenous dove, a lamb with a wolf's nature, a serpent heart hid with a flowering face and other, like contradictory names, which denoted the struggles in her mind between her love and her resentment. But in the end, love got the mastery, and the tears which she shed for grief that Romeo had slain her cousin turned to drops of joy that her husband lived whom Tybald would have slain. Then came fresh tears, and they were altogether of grief for Romeo's banishment. That word was more terrible to her than the death of many Tybalds. Romeo, after the fray, had taken refuge in Friar Laurence's cell, where he was first made acquainted with the Prince's sentence, which seemed to him far more terrible than death. To him it appeared there was no world out of Verona's walls, no living out of the sight of Juliet. Heaven was there where Juliet lived, and all beyond was purgatory, torture, hell. The good friar would have applied the consolation of philosophy to his griefs, but this frantic young man would hear of none, but like a madman he tore his hair and threw himself all along upon the ground, as he said, to take the measure of his grave. From this unseemly state he was roused by a message from his dear lady, which a little revived him. And then the friar took the advantage to expostulate with him on the unmanly weakness which he had shown. He had slain Tybald, but would he also slay himself, slay his dear lady, who lived but in his life? The noble form of man, he said, was but a shape of wax, when it wanted the courage which should keep it firm. The law had been lenient to him that instead of death, which he had incurred, had pronounced by the Prince's mouth only banishment. He had slain Tybald, but Tybald would have slain him. There was a sort of happiness in that. Juliet was alive and, beyond all hope, had become his dear wife. Therein he was most happy. All these blessings, as the friar made them out to be, did Romeo put from him like a sullen, misbehaved wench. And the friar made him beware, for such as disbared, he said, died miserable. Then when Romeo was a little calmed, he counseled him that he should go that night and secretly take his leave of Juliet, and thence proceed straightway to Mantua, at which place he should sojourn till the friar found fit occasion to publish his marriage, which might be a joyful means of reconciling their families. And then he did not doubt, but the Prince would be moved to pardon him, and he would return with twenty times more joy than he went forth with grief. Romeo was convinced by these wise counsels of the friar, and took his leave to go and seek his lady, proposing to stay with her that night, and by daybreak pursue his journey alone to Mantua, to which place the good friar promised to send him letters from time to time, acquainting him with the state of affairs at home. That night Romeo passed with his dear wife, gaining secret admission to her chamber from the orchard in which he had heard her confession of love the night before. That had been a night of unmixed joy and rapture. But the pleasures of this night, and the delight which these lovers took in each other's society, were sadly allayed with the prospect of parting and the fatal adventures of the past day. The unwelcome daybreak seemed to come too soon, and when Juliet heard the morning song of the lark, she would have persuaded herself that it was the nightingale which sings by night. But it was too truly the lark which sang, and a discordant and unpleasing note it seemed to her, and the streaks of day in the east too certainly pointed out that it was time for these lovers to part. Romeo took his leave of his dear wife with a heavy heart, promising to write to her from Mantua every hour in the day, and when he had descended from her chamber window, as he stood below her on the ground in that sad, foreboding state of mind in which she was, he appeared to her eyes as one dead in the bottom of a tomb. Romeo's mind misgave him in like manner, for now he was forced hastily to depart, for it was death for him to be found within the walls of Verona after daybreak. This was but the beginning of the tragedy of this pair of star-crossed lovers. Romeo had not been gone many days before the old Lord Capulet proposed a match for Juliet. The husband he had chosen for her, not dreaming that she was married already, was Count Paris, a gallant, young and noble gentleman, no one worthy suitor to the young Juliet if she had never seen Romeo. The terrified Juliet was in a sad perplexity at her father's offer. She pleaded her youth unsuitable to marriage, the recent death of Tybalt which had left her spirits too weak to meet a husband with any face of joy, and how indecorous it would show for the family of the Capulets to be celebrating a nuptial feast when his funeral solemnities were hardly over. She pleaded every reason against the match but the true one, namely, that she was married already. But Lord Capulet was deaf to all her excuses, and in a peremptory manner ordered her to get ready, for by the following Thursday she should be married to Paris. And having found her a husband, rich, young and noble, such as the proudest maid in Verona might joyfully accept, he could not bear that out of an affected coiness, as he construed her denial, she should oppose obstacles to her own good fortune. In this extremity Juliet applied to the friendly friar, always a counselor in distress, and he, asking her if she had resolution to undertake a desperate remedy, and she answering that she would go into the grave alive rather than marry Paris, her own dear husband living, he directed her to go home and appear merry and give her consent to marry Paris, according to her father's desire, and on the next night, which was the night before the marriage, to drink off the contents of a vial which he then gave her, the effect of which would be that for two and forty hours after drinking it she should appear cold and lifeless, and when the bridegroom came to fetch her in the morning he would find her to appearance dead. That then she would be born as the manner in that country was, then covered on a beer, to be buried in the family vault. That if she could put off womanish fear and consent to this terrible trial, in forty-two hours after swallowing the liquid, such was its certain operation, she would be sure to awake, as from a dream, and before she should awake he would let her husband know their drift, and he should come in the night and bear her thence to Mantua. Love and the dread of marrying Paris gave young Juliet's strength to undertake this horrible adventure, and she took the vial of the friar, promising to observe his directions. Going from the monastery she met the young Count Paris, and modestly dissembling promised to become his bride. This was joyful news to the Lord Capulet and his wife. It seemed to put youth into the old man, and Juliet, who had displeased him exceedingly by her refusal of the Count, was his darling again, now she promised to be obedient. All things in the house were in a bustle against the approaching nuptials. No cost was spared to repair such festival-rejoicings as Verona had never before witnessed. On the Wednesday night, Juliet drank off the potion. She had many misgivings lest the friar, to avoid the blame which might be imputed to him for marrying her to Romeo, had given her poison. But then he was always known for a holy man. Then lest she should awake before the time that Romeo was to come for her, whether the terror of the place, a vault full of dead Capulet's bones, and where tibbled, or bloody, lay festering in his shroud, she would not be enough to drive her distracted. Then she thought of all the stories she had heard of spirits haunting the places where their bodies were bestowed. But then her love for Romeo, and her aversion for Paris, returned, and she desperately swallowed the draught, and became insensible. When young Paris came early in the morning with music to awaken his bride, instead of a living Juliet, her chamber presented the dreary spectacle of a lifeless corpse. What death to his hopes! What confusion then reigned through the whole house! Before Paris, lamenting his bride, whom most detestable death had beguiled him of, had divorced from him even before their hands were joined. But still more piteous it was to hear the mornings of the old Lord and Lady Capulet, who having but this one, one poor loving child to rejoice in solace in, cruel death had snatched her from their sight, just as these careful parents were on the point of seeing her advanced, as they thought, by a promising and advantageous match. Now all things that were ordained for the festival were turned from their properties to do the office of a black funeral. The wedding-chair served for a sad burial-feast. The bridal hymns were changed for sullen dirges, the sprightly instruments to melancholy bells, and the flowers that should have been strewed in the bride's path now served but to strew her corpse. Now instead of a priest to marry her, a priest was needed to bury her. And she was born to church indeed, not to augment the cheerful hopes of the living, but to swell the dreary numbers of the dead. That news, which always travels faster than good, now brought the dismal story of his Juliet's death to Romeo at Mantua, before the messenger could arrive, who was sent from Friar Lawrence to apprise him, that these were mock funerals only, and but the shadow and representation of death, and that his dear lady lay in the tomb but for a short while, expecting when Romeo would come to release her from that dreary mansion. Just before, Romeo had been unusually joyful and light-hearted. He had dreamed in the night that he was dead, a strange dream, that gave a dead man leave to think, but that his lady came and found him dead, and breathed such life with kisses in his lips that he revived and was an emperor. And now that a messenger came from Verona, he thought surely it was to confirm some good news which his dreams had presaged. But when the contrary to this flattering vision appeared, and that it was his lady who was dead in truth, whom he could not revive by any kisses, he ordered horses to be got ready, for he determined that night to visit Verona and to see his lady in her tomb. And as mischief is swift to enter into the thoughts of desperate men, he called to mind a poor apothecary, whose shop in Mantua he had lately passed, and from the beggarly appearance of the man, who seemed famished, and the wretched show in his show of empty boxes ranged on dirty shelves, and other tokens of extreme wretchedness, he had said at the time, perhaps having some misgivings that his own disastrous life might happily meet with a conclusion so desperate, if a man were to need poison, which by the law of Mantua it is death to sell, here lives a poor wretch who would sell at him. These words of his now came into his mind, and he sought out the apothecary, who after some pretended scruples, Romeo offering him gold, which his poverty could not resist, sold him a poison which, if he swallowed, he told him, if he had the strength of twenty men, would quickly dispatch him. With this poison he set out for Verona, to have a sight of his dear lady in her tomb, meaning, when he had satisfied his sight, to swallow the poison and be buried by her side. He reached Verona at midnight, and found the churchyard in the midst of which was situated the ancient tomb of the Capulets. He had provided a light, and a spade, and wrenching iron, and was proceeding to break open the monument, when he was interrupted by a voice, which by the name of Vile Montague, bade him desist from his unlawful business. It was the young Count Paris, who had come to the tomb of Juliet at that unseasonable time of night, to strew flowers, and to weep over the grave of her that should have been his bride. He knew not what an interest Romeo had in the dead, but knowing him to be a Montague, and as he supposed, a sworn foe to all the Capulets, he judged that he was come by night to do some villainous shame to the dead bodies. Therefore, in an angry tone, he bade him desist, and as a criminal, condemned by the laws of Verona to die if he were found within the walls of the city, he would have apprehended him. Romeo urged Paris to leave him, and warned him by the fate of Tybald, who lay buried there, not to provoke his anger or to draw down another sin upon his head by forcing him to kill him. But the Count in scorn refused his warning, and laid hands on him as a felon, which, Romeo resisting, they fought, and Paris fell. When Romeo, by the help of a light, came to see who it was that he had slain, that it was Paris, who he learned in his way from Mantua should have married Juliet, he took the dead youth by the hand, as one whom Miss Fortune had made a companion, and said that he would bury him in a triumphal grave, meaning in Juliet's grave, which he now opened. And there lay his lady, as one whom death had no power upon to change a feature or complexion in her matchless beauty. Or as if death were amorous, and the lean, abhorred monster kept her there for his delight, for she lay yet fresh and blooming, as she had fallen to sleep when she swallowed that benumbing potion. And near her lay Tybald, in his bloody shroud, whom Romeo seeing begged pardon of his lifeless corpse, and for Juliet's sake called him Cousin, and said that he was about to do him a favour by putting his enemy to death. Here Romeo took his last leave of his lady's lips, kissing them, and here he shook the burden of his cross-stars from his weary body, swallowing that poison which the apothecary had sold him, whose operation was fatal and real, not like that dissembling potion which Juliet had swallowed, the effect of which was now nearly expiring, and she about to awake to complain that Romeo had not kept his time, or that he had come too soon. For now the hour was arrived at which the friar had promised that she should awake, and he, having learned that his letters which he had sent to Mantua by some unlucky detention of the messenger had never reached Romeo, came himself, provided with a pickaxe and lantern, to deliver the lady from her confinement. But he was surprised to find a light already burning in the Capulet's monument, and to see swords and blood near it, and Romeo and Paris lying breathless by the monument. Before he could entertain a conjecture to imagine how these fatal accidents had fallen out, Juliet awoke out of her trance, and seeing the friar near her, she remembered the place where she was, and the occasion of her being there, and asked for Romeo. But the friar, hearing a noise, bade her come out of that place of death and of unnatural sleep, for a greater power than they could contradict had thwarted their intents. And being frightened by the noise of people coming, he fled. But when Juliet saw the cup closed in her true love's hands, she guessed that poison had been the cause of his end, and she would have swallowed the dregs if any had been left, and she kissed his still warm lips to try if any poison yet did hang upon them. Then, hearing a nearer noise of people coming, she quickly unsheathed a dagger which she wore, and stabbing herself died by her true Romeo's side. The watch by this time had come up to the place. A page belonging to Count Paris, who had witnessed the fight between his master and Romeo, had given the alarm, which had spread among the citizens, who went up and down the streets of Orona, confusedly exclaiming, a Paris, a Romeo, a Juliet, as the rumour had imperfectly reached them, till the uproar brought Lord Montague and Lord Capulet out of their beds, with the Prince, to inquire into the causes of the disturbance. The friar had been apprehended by some of the watch, coming from the churchyard, trembling, sighing, and weeping in a suspicious manner. A great multitude being assembled at the Capulet's monument, the friar was demanded by the Prince to deliver what he knew of these strange and disastrous accidents. And there, in the presence of the old Lord's Montague and Capulet, he faithfully related the story of their children's fatal love, the part he took in promoting their marriage, in the hope in that union to end the long quarrels between their families. How Romeo, their dead, was husband to Juliet, and Juliet, their dead, was Romeo's faithful wife. How before he could find a fit opportunity to divulge their marriage, another match was projected for Juliet, who, to avoid the crime of a second marriage, swallowed the sleeping draught, as he advised, and all thought her dead. How meantime he wrote to Romeo to come and take her events when the force of the potion should cease, and by what unfortunate miscarriage of the messenger the letters never reached Romeo. Further than this the friar could not follow the story, nor knew more than that, coming himself to deliver Juliet from that place of death, he found the Count Paris and Romeo slain. The remainder of the transactions was supplied by the narration of the page, who had seen Paris and Romeo fight, and by the servant who came with Romeo from Verona, to whom this faithful lover had given letters to be delivered to his father in the event of his death, which made the good friar's words, confessing his marriage with Juliet, imploring the forgiveness of his parents, acknowledging the buying of the poison of the poor apothecary, and his intent in coming to the monument to die and lie with Juliet. All these circumstances agreed together to clear the friar from any hand he could be supposed to have in these complicated slaughters, further than as the unintended consequences of his own, well-meant, yet too artificial and subtle contrivances. And the prince, turning to these old lords, Montague and Capulet, rebuked them for their brutal and irrational enmities, and showed them what a scourge heaven had laid upon such offences, that it had found means even through the love of their children to punish their unnatural hate. And these old rivals, no longer enemies, agreed to bury their long strife in their children's graves, and Lord Capulet requested Lord Montague to give him his hand, calling him by the name of brother, as if in acknowledgment of the union of their families by the marriage of the young Capulet and Montague, and saying that Lord Montague's hand, in token of reconcilement, was all he demanded for his daughter's jointure. But Lord Montague said he would give him more, for he would raise her a statue of pure gold, that, while Verona kept its name, no figure should be so esteemed for its richness and workmanship as that of the true and faithful Juliet. And Lord Capulet, in return, said that he would raise another statue to Romeo. So did these poor old lords, when it was too late, strive to outgo each other in mutual courtesies, while so deadly had been their rage and enmity in times past, that nothing but the fearful overthrow of their children, poor sacrifices to their quarrels and dissensions, could remove the rooted hates and jealousies of the noble families. End of story