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Whilst I was big in clamour, came there a man,
Who having seen me in my worst estate,
Shunn'd my abhori 'd society; but then, finding
Who 'twas that so endur'd, with his strong arms
He fasten'd on my neck, and bellow'd out
As he'd burst heaven; threw him on my father;
Told the most piteous tale of Lear and him,
That ever ear receiv'd: which in recounting
His grief grew puissart, and the strings of life
Bezan to crack. Twice then the trumpet sounded,

And there I left him tranc'd.

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What kind of help?
Speak, man.

Kent.

O my good master!

'Tis hot, it smokes

;

[Kneeling.

Lear. Pr'ythee, away.

Edg. What means that bloody knife?"
Gent.

It came even from the heart of-
Alb.
Who, man? speak.
Gent. Your lady, sir, your lady and her sister
By her is poison'd; she confesses it.

Edm. was contracted to them both; all three

Now marry in an instant.

Alb. Produce their bodies, be they alive or dead! This judgment of the heavens, that makes us tremble,

Touches us not with pity.

Enter Kent.

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[Exit Gentleman.

Edg.

'Tis noble Kent, your friend. Lear. A plague upon you, murderers, traitors

all!

I might have sav'd her; now she's gone for ever!-
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha!

What is't thou say'st -Her voice was ever soft,
Gentle, and low; an excellent thing in woman :-
I kill'd the slave that was a hanging thee.
Offi. 'Tis true, my lords, he did.
Lear.

Did I not, fellow?
I have seen the day, with my good biting faulchion
I would have made them skip: I am old now,

Here comes Kent, sir. And these same crosses spoil me.—Who are you?
Mine eyes are none o'the best :-I'll tell you straight.
Kent. If fortune brag of two she lov'd and hated
One of them we behold.

The time will not allow the compliment,
Which very manners urges.

Kent.

I am come

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Lear. This is a dull sight: Are you not Kent?
Kent.

The same,
Your servant Kent: Where is your servant Caius ?
Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that;

Speak, Edmund, where's the king? and where's He'll strike, and quickly too:-He's dead and

Great thing of us forgot!

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Kent. No, my good lord; I am the very man;-
Lear. I'll see that straight.

Kent. That, from your first of difference and
decay,

Yet Edmund was belov'd; Have follow'd your sad steps.
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herself.

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Lear.
You are welcome hither.
Kent. Nor no man else; all's cheerless, dark
and deadly.-

Your eldest daughters have fore-doom'd themselves
And desperately are dead.

Lear.

Ay, so I think.

Alb. He knows not what he says; and vain it is That we present us to him.

Edg.

Very bootless.

Enter an Officer.

Offi. Edmund is dead, my lord.
Alb.

That's but a trifle here.-
You lords, and noble friends, know our intent.
What comfort to this great decay may come,
Shall be applied: For us, we will resign,
During the life of this old majesty,
To him our absolute power:-You, to your rights,
[To Edgar and Kent

(4) . e. Die; Albany speaks to Lear.
(5) Useless. (6) . e. Lear.

With boot,' and such addition as your honours
Have more than merited.-All friends shall taste
The wages of their virtue, and all foes
The cup of their deservings.-O, see, see!

Lear. And my poor fool' is hang'd! No, no, no
life:

Why should a dog, a horse, a rat, have life,

nicely disc.minates, and so minutely describes the characters of men, he commonly neglects and confounds the characters of ages, by mingling customs ancient and modern, English and foreign.

My learned friend Mr. Warton, who has in The Adventurer very minutely criticised this play, remarks, that the instances of cruelty are too savage

And thou no breath at all? O, thou wilt come no and shocking, and that the intervention of Edmund

more,

Never, never, never, never, never!

Pray you, undo this button: Thank you, sir.

Edg

He faints!-My lord, my lord,
Kent. Break, heart; I pr'ythee, break!
Edg.

destroys the simplicity of the story. These objectiors may, I think, be answered by repeating, that the cruelty of the daughters is an historical fact, to

Do you see this? Look on her,-look,-her lips,-which the poet has added little, having only drawn Look there, look there![He dies. it into a series by dialogue and action. But I am not able to apologize with equal plausibility for the extrusion of Gloster's eyes, which seems an act too horrid to be endured in dram ic exhibition, and such as must always compel the mind to relieve its distress by incredulity. Yet let it be remembered that our author well knew what would please the audience for which he wrote.

Look up, my lord. Kent. Vex not his ghost:-0, let him pass! hates him,

That wold upon the rack of this tough world
Stretch him out longer.

Edg

he

O, he is gone, indeed. Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long: He but usurp'd his life.

Alb. Bear them from hence.-Our present busi

ness

Is general wo. Friends of my soul, you twain

[To Kent and Edgar.
Rule in this realm, and the gor'd state sustain.
Kent. I have a journey, sir, shortly to go;
My master calls, and I must not say, no.
Alb. The weight of this sad time we must
obey;

Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say.
The oldest hath borne most: we, that are young,
Shall never see so much, nor live so lor.g.
[Exeunt, with a dead march.

The injury done by Edmund to the simplicity of the action is abundantly recompensed by the addition of variety, by the art with which he is made to co-operate with the chief design, and the opportanity which he gives the poet of combining perfidy with perfidy, and connecting the wicked son with the wicked daughters, to impress this important moral, that villany is never at a stop, that crimes lead to crimes, and at last terminate in ruin.

But though this moral be incidentally enforced, Snakspeare has suffered the virtue of Cordelia to perish in a just cause, contrary to the natural ideas of justice, to the hope of the reader, and what is yet more strange, to the faith of chronicles. Yet this conduct is justified by The Spectator, who blames Tate for giving Cordelia success and happiness in his alteration, and declares, that in nis opinion, the tragedy has lost half its beauty. Dennis has remarked, whether justly or not, that, to secure the favourable reception of Cato, the town was poisoned with much false and abominable The tragedy of Lear is deservedly celebrated criticism, and that endeavours had been used to among the dramas of Shakspeare. There is perhaps discredit and decry poetical justice. A play in no play which keeps the attention so strongly fixed; which the wicked prosper, and the virtuous miswhich so much agitates our passions, and interests carry, may doubtless be good, because it is a just our curiosity. The artful involutions of distinct in-representation of the cominon events of human life: terests, the striking oppositions of contrary charac- but since all reasonable beings naturally love justers, the sudden changes of fortune, and the quick tice, I cannot easily be persuaded, that the obser succession of events, fill the mind with a perpetual vation of justice makes a play worse; or that, if tamult of indignation, pity, and hope. There is no other excellencies are equal, the audience will not scere which does not contribute to the aggravation always rise better pleased from the final triumph of of the distress or conduct to the action, and scarce persecuted virtue. a line which does not conduce to the progress of the In the present case the public has decided. CorSo powerful is the current of the poet's delia, from the time of Tate, has always retired imagination, that the mind, which once ventures with victory and felicity. And, if my sensations within it, is hurried irresistibly along. could add any thing to the general suffrage, I might On the seeming improbability of Lear's conduct, relate, I was many years ago so shocked by Corit may be observed, that he is represented accord-delia's death, that I know not whether I ever ening to histories at that time vulgarly received as dured to read again the last scenes of the play, till true. An, perhaps, if we turn our thoughts upon I undertook to revise them as an editor. the barbarity and ignorance of the age to which There is another controversy among the critics this story is referred, it will appear not so unlikely concerning this play. It is disputed whet'ior the as while we estimate Lear's manners by our own. prominent image in Lear's disordered mind be the Such preference of one daughter to another, or re-loss of his kingdom or the cruelty of his daughters. signation of dominion on such conditions, would Mr. Murphy, a very judicious er tic, has evinced be vet credible, if told of a petty prince of Guinea by induction of particular passages, that the cruelor Madagascar. Shakspeare, indeed, by the men-ty of his daughters is the primar so tree of his dis tion of his earls and dukes, has given us the idea tress, and that the loss of rovalty affects him only of times more civilized, and of life regulated by as a secondary and subordinate evil. He observes, softer manners; and the truth is, that though he so with great justness, that Lear would move our compassion but little, did we not rather consider the injured father than the degraded king.

scene.

(1) Benefit.

(2) Titles.

(3) Poor fool in the time of Shakspeare, was an expression of endearment.

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The story of this play, cept the episode of Ed- that it follows the chronicle; it has the rudiments mund, which is derived, I think, from Sidney, is of the play, but none of its amplifications: it first taken originally from Geoffry of Monmouth, whom hinted Lear's madness, but did not array it in cirHolinshed generally copied; but perhaps immedi- cumstances. The writer of the ballad added ately from an old historical ballad. My reason for something to the history, which is a proof that he believing that the play was posterior to the ballad, would have added more, if more had occurred to ather than the ballad to the play, is, that the bal- his mind; and more must have occurred if he had ad has nothing of Shakspeare's nocturnal tempest, seen Shakspeare. which is too striking to have been omitted," and |

JOHNSON.

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PROLOGUE.

Two households, both alike in dignity,
In fair Verona, where we lay our scene,
From ancient grudge break to new mutiny,
Where civil blood makes civil hands unclean.
From forth the fatal loins of these two foes

A pair of star-cross'd lovers take their life;
Whose misadventur'd, piteous overthrows

Do, with their death, bury their parents' strife. The fearful passage of their death-mark'd love, And the continuance of their parents' rage, Which, but their children's end, nought could re

move,

Is now the two hours' traffic of our stage; The which if you with patient ears attend, What here shall miss, our toil shall strive to mend.

ACT I.

SCENE 1-A public place. Enter Sampson and Gregory, armed with swords and bucklers.

Sampson.

GREGORY, o'my word, we'll not carry coals.' Gre. No, for then we should be colliers. Sam. I mean, an we be in choler, we'll draw. Gre. Ay, while you live, draw your neck out of the collar.

Sam. I strike quickly, being moved.

Gre. But thou art not quickly moved to strike. Sam. A dog of the house of Montague moves

me.

Nurse to Juliet.

Citizens of Verona; several Men and Women, te lations to both houses; Maskers, Guards, Watchmen, and Attendants.

Scene, during the greater part of the play, in Vero na: once, in the fifth act, at Mantua.

stand: I will take the wall of any man or maid of Montague's.

Gre. That shows thee a weak slave; for the weakest goes to the wall.

Sam. True; and therefore women, being the weaker vessels, are ever thrust to the wall:-therefore I will push Montague's men from the wall, and thrust his maids to the wall.

Gre. The quarrel is between our masters, and us their men.

Sam. 'Tis all one, I will show myself a tyrant: when I have fought with the men, I will be cruel with the maids; I will cut off their heads.

Gre. The heads of the maids?

Sam. Ay, the heads of the maids, or their maidenheads; take it in what sense thou wilt.

Gre. They must take it in sense, that feel it. Sam. Me they shall feel, while I am able to stand: and, 'tis known, I am a pretty piece of flesh.

Gre. 'Tis well, thou art not fish; if thou hadst, thou hadst been poor John.2 Draw thy tool; here comes two of the house of the Montagues.'

Enter Abram and Balthazar.

Sam. My naked weapon is out; quarrel, 1 will back thee.

Gre. How? turn thy back, and run?
Sam. Fear me not.

Gre. No, marry: I fear thee!

Sam. Let us take the law of our sides; let them begin.

Gre. I will frown, as I pass by; and let thein take it as they list.

Sam. Nay, as they dare. I will lite my thumb at them; which is a disgrace to them, if they

Gre. To move, is-to stir; and to be valiant, is-bear it. to stand to it: therefore, if thou art moved, thou runn'st away.

Sam. A dog of that house shall move me to

(1) A phrase formerly in use to signify the bearing injuries.

VOL. 11.

Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?
Sam. I do bite my thumb, sir.
Abr. Do you bite your thumb at us, sir?

(2) Poor John is hake, dried and salted.
(3) The disregard of concord is in character.
SQ

Sam. Is the law on our side, if I say-ay?
Gre. No.

Sam. No, sir, I do not bite my thumb at you, sir; but I bite my thumb, sir.

Gre. Do you quarrel, sir?
Abr. Quarrel, sir? no, sir.

Sam. If you do, sir I am for you; I serve as good a man as you.

Abr. No better.

Sam. Well, sir.

Enter Benvolio, at a distance.

For this time, all the rest depart away:
You, Capulet, shall go along with me;
And, Montague, come you this afternoon,
To know our further pleasure in this case,
To old Free-town, our common judgment-place.
Once more, on pain of death, all men depart.

[Exe. Prince, and Attendants; Capulet, Lady
Capulet, Tybalt, Citizens, and Servants,
Mon. Who set this ancient quarrel new abroach?
Speak, nephew, were you by, when it began?
Ben. Here were the servants of your adversary
And yours, close fighting ere I did approach:

Gre. Say-better; here comes one of my mas- I drew to part them; in the instant came 'er's kinsmen.

Sam. Yes, better, sir.

Abr. You lie.

Sam. Draw, if you be men.-Gregory, remember thy swashing blow. [They fight. Ben. Part, fools; put up your swords; you know not what you do. [Beats down their swords. Enter Tybalt.

Tyb. What, art thou drawn among these less hinds?

The fiery Tybalt, with his sword prepar'd;
Which, as he breath'd defiance to my ears,
He swung about his head, and cut the winds,
Who, nothing hurt withal, hiss'd him in scorn.
While we were interchanging thrusts and blows,
Came more and more, and fought on part and part,
Till the prince came, who parted either part.

La. Mon. O, where is Romeo?-saw you him
to-day?

heart-Right glad I am, he was not at this fray.

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As I hate hell, all Montagues, and thee:
Have at thee, coward.
[They fight.
Enter several Partizans of both houses, who join the
fray; then enter Čitizens, with clubs.

1

1 Cil. Clubs, bills, and partizans! strike! beat them down!

Down with the Capulets! down with the Montagues!

Enter Capulet, in his gown; and Lady Capulet. Cap. What noise is this?-Give me my long sword, ho!

La. Cap. A crutch, a crutch! Why call you for

a sword?

Cap. My sword, I say!-Old Montague is come,
And flourishes his blade in spite of me.

Enter Montague and Lady Montague.
Mon. Thou villain Capulet,-Hold me not, let

me go.

La. Mon. Thou shalt not stir one foot to seek a foc.

Enter Prince, with Attendants.
Prince. Rebellious subjects, enemies to peace,
Profaners of this neighbour-stained steel,
Will they not hear?-what ho! you men, you beasts,
That quench the fire of your pernicious rage
With purple fountains issuing from your veins,
On pain of torture, from those bloody hands
Throw your mistemper'd' weapons to the ground,
And near the sentence of your moved prince.-
Three civil brawls, bred of an airy word,
By thee, old Capulet and Montague,
Have thrice disturb'd the quiet of our streets;
And made Verona's ancient citizens
Cast by their grave beseeming ornaments,
To wield old partizans, in hands as old,
Canker'd with peace, to part your canker'd hate :
If ever you disturb our streets again,
Your lives shall pay the forfeit of the peace.

(1) Clubs! was the usual exclamation at an afGray in the streets, as we now call Watch!

Ben. Madam, an hour before the worshipp'd sun
Peer'd' forth the golden window of the east,
A troubled mind drave me to walk abroad
Where,-underneath the grove of sycamore,
That westward rooteth from the city's side,-
So early walking did I see your son:
Towards him I made; but he was 'ware of me,
And stole into the covert of the wood:
That most are busied when they are most alone,
I, measuring his affections by my own,-
Pursu'd my humour, not pursuing his,
And gladly shunn'd who gladly fled from me.

Mon. Many a morning hath he there been seen,
With tears augmenting the fresh morning's dew,
Adding to clouds more clouds with his deep sighs:
But all so soon as the all-cheering sun
Should in the furthest east begin to draw
The shady curtains from Aurora's bed,
Away from light steals home my heavy son,
And private in his chamber pens himself;
Shuts up his windows, locks fair day-light out,
And makes himself an artificial night:
Black and portentous must this humour prove,
Unless good counsel may the cause remove.

Ben. My noble uncle, do you know the cause?
Mon. I neither know it, nor can learn of him.
Ben. Have you impórtun'd him by any means?
Mon. Both by myself, and many other friends:
But he, his own affections' counsellor,
Is to himself-I will not say, how true-
But to himself so secret and so close,
So far from sounding and discovery,
As is the bud bit with an envious worm,
Ere he can spread his sweet leaves to the air,
Or dedicate his beauty to the sun.
Could we but learn from whence his sorrows grow
We would as willingly give cure, as know.

Enter Romeo, at a distance.

Ben. See, where he comes: So please you, step
aside;

I'll know his grievance, or be much denied.
Mon. I would, thou wert so happy by thy stay
To hear true shrift.-Come, madam, let's away.
[Exeunt Montague and Lady

Ben. Good morrow, cousin.
Rom.
Is the day so young.
Ben. But new struck nine.
Rom.
Ah me! sad hours seem long.

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