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Scambling, out-facing, fashion-mong'ring boys,
That lie, and cog, and flout, deprave, and slander,
Go anticly, and show outward hideousness,
And speak off half a dozen dangerous words,
How they might hurt their enemies, if they durst;
And this is all.

Leon. But, brother Antony,-
Ant.

Come, 'tis no matter; Do not you meddle; let me deal in this.

D. Pedro. Gentlemen both, we will not wake your patience.

My heart is sorry for your daughter's death;
But, on my honour, she was charg'd with nothing
But what was true, and very full of proof.
Leon. My lord, my lord,-
D. Pedro.
Leon.

I will not hear you.

Come, brother, away :-I will be heard ;Ant.

Or some of us will smart for it.

No?

And shall, [Exeunt LEON. and ANT. Enter BENEDICK.

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she, "a great gross one :" "Nay," said I, “a good wit:" "Just," said she, "it hurts nobody:" Nay,” ," said I, "the gentleman is wise:" "Certain," said she, "a wise gentleman:" "Nay," said I, "he hath the tongues:" "That I believe," said she, "for he swore a thing to me on Monday night, which he forswore on Tuesday morning: there's a double tongue; there's two tongues." Thus did she, an hour together, trans-shape thy particular virtues; yet, at last, she concluded with a sigh, thou wast the properest man in Italy. Claud. For the which she wept heartily, and said, she cared not.

D. Pedro. Yea, that she did; but yet, for all that, an if she did not hate him deadly, she would love him dearly: the old man's daughter told us all.

Claud. All, all.

D. Pedro. But when shall we set the savage bull's horns on the sensible Benedick's head? Claud. Yea, and the text underneath, "Here dwells Benedick the married man?"

Bene. Fare you well, boy; you know my mind;

D. Pedro. See, see; here comes the man we I will leave you now to your gossip-like humour: went to seek.

Claud. Now, signior! what news!
Bene. Good day, my lord.

D. Pedro. Welcome, signior: You are almost come to part almost a fray.

Claud. We had like to have had our two noses snapped off with two old men without teeth.

D. Pedro. Leonato and his brother: What think'st thou ? Had we fought, I doubt, we should have been too young for them.

Bene. In a false quarrel there is no true valour. I came to seek you both.

Claud. We have been up and down to seek thee; for we are high-proof melancholy, and would fain have it beaten away: Wilt thou use thy wit?

Bene. It is in my scabbard; Shall I draw it? D. Pedro. Dost thou wear thy wit by thy side? Claud. Never any did so, though very many have been beside their wit.-I will bid thee draw, as we do the minstrels; draw, to pleasure us.

D. Pedro. As I am an honest man, he looks pale-Art thou sick, or angry ?

Claud. What! courage, man! What though care killed a cat, thou hast mettle enough in thee to kill care.

Bene. Sir, I shall meet your wit in the career, an you charge it against me:-I pray you, choose another subject.

Claud. Nay, then give him another staff; this last was broke cross.

D. Pedro. By this light, he changes more and more; I think he be angry indeed. [girdle. Claud. If he be, he knows how to turn his Bene. Shall I speak a word in your ear? Claud. Heaven bless me from a challenge! Bene. You are a villain;-I jest not:-I will make it good how you dare, with what you dare, and when you dare:-Do me right, or I will protest your cowardice. You have killed a sweet lady, and her death shall fall heavy on you: Let me hear from you. [good cheer. Claud. Well, I will meet you, so I may have D. Pedro. What, a feast? a feast? Claud. I' faith, I thank him; he hath bid me to a calf's head and a capon; the which if I do not carve most curiously, say, my knife's naught. -Shall I not find a woodcock too?

Bene. Sir, your wit ambles well; it goes easily. D. Pedro. I'll tell thee how Beatrice praised thy wit the other day. I said, thou hadst a fine wit: "True," says she, "a fine little one:" "No," said I, "a great wit:" "Right," says

you break jests as braggarts do their blades, which hurt not.-My lord, for your many courtesies I thank you: I must discontinue your company: your brother, the bastard, is fled from Messina: you have, among you, killed a sweet and innocent lady: For my lord Lackbeard, there, he and I shall meet; and till then, peace be with him. [Exit BENE.

D. Pedro. He is in earnest. Claud. In most profound earnest; and, I'll warrant you, for the love of Beatrice. D. Pedro. And hath challenged thee? Claud. Most sincerely.

D. Pedro. What a pretty thing man is, when he goes in his doublet and hose, and leaves off his wit.

Enter DOGBERRY, VERGES, and the Watch, with CONRADE and BORACHIO.

Claud. He is then a giant to an ape: but then is an ape a doctor to such a man.

D. Pedro. But, soft you; let me be: pluck up, my heart, and be sad! Did he not say, my brother was fled?

Dogb. Come, you, sir; if Justice cannot tame you, she shall ne'er weigh more reasons in her balance: nay, an you be a cursing hypocrite once, you must be looked to.

D. Pedro. How now! two of my brother's men bound? Borachio one?

Claud. Hearken after their offence, my lord. D. Pedro. Officers, what offence have these men done?

Dogb. Marry, sir, they have committed false report; moreover, they have spoken untruths; secondarily, they are slanders; sixth and lastly, they have belied a lady; thirdly, they have verified unjust things: and, to conclude, they are lying knaves.

D. Pedro. First, I ask thee what they have done? thirdly, I ask thee what's their offence! sixth and lastly, why they are committed? and, to conclude, what you lay to their charge?

Claud. Rightly reasoned, and in his own division; and, by my troth, there's one meaning well suited.

D. Pedro. Whom have you offended, masters, that you are thus bound to your answer? this learned constable is too cunning to be understood: What's your offence?

Bora. Sweet prince, let me go no further to mine answer; do you hear me, and let this count

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kill me.

I have deceived even your very eyes: what your wisdoms could not discover, these shallow fools have brought to light; who, in the night, overheard me confessing to this man, how Don John your brother incensed me to slander the Lady Hero; how you were brought into the orchard, and saw me court Margaret in Hero's garments; how you disgraced her, when you should marry her: my villainy they have upon record; which I had rather seal with my death, than repeat over to my shame: the lady is dead upon mine and my master's false accusa tion; and, briefly, I desire nothing but the reward of a villain. [through your blood? D. Pedro. Runs not this speech like iron Claud. I have drunk poison, whiles he utter'd it. [this? D. Pedro. But did my brother set thee on to Bora. Yea, and paid me richly for the practice of it. [chery; D. Pedro. He is compos'd and fram'd of treaAnd fled he is upon this villainy. [pear Claud. Sweet Hero! now thy image doth apIn the rare semblance that I loved it first. Dogb. Come, bring away the plaintiffs; by this time our Sexton hath reformed Signior Leonato of the matter: And masters, do not forget to specify, when time and place shall serve, that I

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;

Leon. No, not so, villain; thou beli'st thyself; Here stand a pair of honourable men, A third is fled, that had a hand in it :I thank you, princes, for my daughter's death; Record is with your high and worthy deeds: 'Twas bravely done, if you bethink you of it. Claud. I know not how to pray your patience, Yet I must speak: Choose your revenge yourself; Impose me to what penance your invention Can lay upon my sin: yet sinn'd I not, But in mistaking.

D. Pedro.

By my soul, nor I;

And yet, to satisfy this good old man,
I would bend under any heavy weight
That he'll enjoin me to.

Leon. I cannot bid you bid my daughter live;
That were impossible; but, I pray you both,
Possess the people in Messina here
How innocent she died; and, if your love
Can labour aught in sad invention,
Hang her an epitaph upon her tomb,
And sing it to her bones: sing it to-night:-
To-morrow morning come you to my house;
And since you could not be my son-in-law,
Be yet my nephew: my brother hath a daughter,
Almost the copy of my child that's dead,
And she alone is heir to both of us; [cousin,
Give her the right you should have given her
And so dies my revenge.
Claud.

* Acquaint.

O, noble sir,

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Your over-kindness doth wring tears from me.
I do embrace your offer; and dispose
From henceforth of poor Claudio.

Leon. To-morrow, then, I will expect your coming.

To-night I take my leave. This naughty man
Shall face to face be brought to Margaret,
Who, I believe, was pack'd+ in all this wrong,
Hir'd to it by your brother.
Bora.
No, by my soul, she was not;
Nor knew not what she did, when she spoke to me;
But always hath been just and virtuous,
In any thing that I do know by her.

Dogb. Moreover, sir, (which, indeed, is not under white and black,) this plaintiff here, the offender, did call me ass: I beseech you, let it be remembered in his punishment: And also, the watch heard them talk of one Deformed: they say, he wears a key in his ear, and a lock hanging by it; and borrows money; the which he hath used so long, and never paid, that now men grow hard-hearted, and will lend nothing. Pray you, examine him upon that point.

Leon. I thank thee for thy care and honest pains.

Dogb. Your worship speaks like a most thankful and reverend youth.

Leon. There's for thy pains. Go; I discharge thee of thy prisoner, and I thank thee.

Dogb. I leave an arrant knave with your worship; which, I beseech your worship, to correct yourself, for the example of others. I wish your worship well: I humbly give you leave to depart.-Come, neighbour.

[Exeunt DoGB., VERG., and Watch. Leon. Until to-morrow morning, lords, farewell. Ant. Farewell, my lords; we look for you to

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SCENE II.-LEONATO's Garden. Enter BENEDICK and MARGARET, meeting. Bene. Pray thee, sweet Mistress Margaret, deserve well at my hands, by helping me to the speech of Beatrice.

Marg. Will you then write me a sonnet in praise of my beauty?

Bene. In so high a style, Margaret, that no man living shall come over it; for, in most comely truth, thou deservedst it."

Marg. Well, I will call Beatrice to you. [Exit MARG.

Bene. [Singing].

The god of love,

That sits above,

And knows me, and knows me,

How pitiful I deserve,

I mean, in singing; but in loving,-Leander the good swimmer, Troilus, the first employer of panders, and a whole book full of these quondam carpet-mongers, whose names yet run smoothly in the even road of a blank verse, why, they were never so truly turned over and over as my poor self, in love: Marry, I cannot show it in rhyme; I have tried; I can find out no rhyme to lady but baby, an innocent rhyme; for scorn, horn, a hard rhyme; for school, fool, a babbling rhyme; very ominous endings: No, I was not born under a rhyming planet, nor I cannot woo in festival terms.

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Beat. Foul words are but foul breath, and foul breath is noisome; therefore I will depart unkissed.

Bene. Thou hast frighted the word out of his right sense, so forcible is thy wit: But, I must tell thee plainly, Claudio undergoes my challenge; and either I must shortly hear from him, or I will subscribe him a coward. And, I pray thee now, tell me, for which of my bad parts didst thou first fall in love with me?

Beat. For them all together; which maintained so politic a state of evil, that they will not admit any good part to intermingle with them. But for which of my good parts did you first suffer love for me?

Bene. "Suffer love!" a good epithet. I do suffer love, indeed, for I love thee against my will. Beat. In spite of your heart, I think; alas! poor heart! If you spite it for my sake, I will spite it for yours; for I will never love that which my friend hates.

Bene. Thou and I are too wise to woo peaceably. Beat. It appears not in this confession: there's not one wise man among twenty that will praise himself.

Bene. An old, an old instance, Beatrice, that lived in the time of good neighbours; if a man do not erect in this age his own tomb ere he dies, he shall live no longer in monument than the bell rings and the widow weeps.

Beat. And how long is that, think you? Bene. Question ?-Why, an hour in clamour, and a quarter in rheum: Therefore it is most expedient for the wise, (if Don Worm, his conscience, find no impediment to the contrary,) to be the trumpet of his own virtues, as I am to myself: So much for praising myself, who, I myself will bear witness, is praise-worthy. And now tell me, how doth your cousin?

Beat. Very ill.

Bene. And how do you?
Beat. Very ill too.

Bene. Serve God, love me, and mend: there will I leave you too, for here comes one in haste.

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Upon the error that you heard debated: But Margaret was in some fault for this; Although against her will, as it appears In the true course of all the question.

[well.

Ant. Well, I am glad that all things sort so Bene. And so am I, being else by faith enforc'd To call young Claudio to a reckoning for it. [all,

Leon. Well, daughter, and you gentlewomen Withdraw into a chamber by yourselves : And, when I send for you, come hither mask'd: The prince and Claudio promis'd by this hour To visit me:-You know your office, brother; You must be father to your brother's daughter, And give her to young Claudio. [Exeunt Ladies. Ant. Which I will do with confirm'd counte

nance.

Bene. Friar, I must entreat your pains, I think. Friar. To do what, signior?

Bene. To bind me, or undo me; one of them.— Signior Leonato, truth it is, good signior, Your niece regards me with an eye of favour. Leon. That eye my daughter lent her; "Tis most true.

Bene. And I do with an eye of love requite her. Leon. The sight whereof, I think, you had from me, [will? From Claudio, and the prince; but what's your Bene. Your answer, sir, is enigmatical: But for my will, my will is, your good will May stand with ours, this day to be conjoin'd In the estate of honourable marriage; In which, good friar, I shall desire your help.

And my help.

Leon. My heart is with your liking. Friar. Here comes the prince, and Claudio. Enter DON PEDRO and CLAUDIO, with Attendants.

D. Pedro. Good morrow to this fair assembly. Leon. Good morrow, prince; good morrow, Claudio;

We here attend you; Are you yet determined
To-day to marry with my brother's daughter?
Cland. I'll hold my mind, were she an Ethiop.
Leon. Call her forth, brother, here's the friar
ready.
[Exit ANT.
D. Pedro. Good morrow, Benedick: Why, what's
the matter,

That you have such a February face,
So full of frost, of storm, and cloudiness?

Claud. I think he thinks upon the savage bull:Tush! fear not, man, we'll tip thy horns with gold.

Re-enter ANTONIO, with the Ladies masked. Claad. For this I owe you: here come other reckonings.

Which is the lady I must seize upon?

Ant. This same is she, and I do give you her. Claud. Why, then she's mine: Sweet, let me see your face. [hand Leon. No, that you shall not, till you take her Before this friar, and swear to marry her. Claud. Give me your hand before this holy I am your husband, if you like of me. [friar: Hero. And when I lived, I was your other wife : [Unmasking. And when you loved, you were my other husband. Claud. Another Hero? Hero.

Nothing certainer :
One Hero died defam'd; but I do live,
And, surely as I live, I am a maid.

D. Pedro. The former Hero! Hero that is dead! Leon. She died, my lord, but whiles her slander lived.

Friar. All this amazement can I qualify; When, after that the holy rites are ended, I'll tell you largely of fair Hero's death: Mean time, let wonder seem familiar, And to the chapel let us presently. Bene. Soft and fair, friar.-Which is Beatrice? Beat. I answer to that name;

What is your will?

Bene. Do not you love me?

[Unmasking.]

Beat. No, no more than reason. [and Claudio, Bene. Why, then your uncle, and the prince, Have been deceived; for they swore you did. Beat. Do you not love me!

Bene. No, no more than reason. [Ursula, Beat. Why, then my cousin, Margaret, and Are much deceived; for they did swear you did. Bene. They swore that you were almost sick for me.

Beat. They swore that you were well-nigh dead for me.

Bene. "Tis no such matter :--Then, you do not love me?

Beat. No, truly, but in friendly recompense. Leon. Come, cousin, I am sure you love the gentleman.

[her;

Claud. And I'll be sworn upon 't that he loves For here's a paper, written in his hand, A halting sonnet of his own pure brain, Fashion'd to Beatrice.

Hero. And here's another, Writ in my cousin's hand, stolen from her pocket, Containing her affection unto Benedick.

Bene. A miracle! here's our own hands against our hearts;-Come, I will have thee; but, by this light, I take thee for pity.

Beat. I would not deny you;-but, by this good day, I yield upon great persuasion; and, partly, to save your life, for I was told you were in a consumption.

Bene. Peace! I will stop your mouth.[Kissing her. D. Pedro. How dost thou, Benedick, the married man?

Bene. I'll tell thee what, prince; a college of wit-crackers cannot flout me out of my humour: Dost thou think I care for a satire, or an epigram? No: if a man will be beaten with brains, he shall wear nothing handsome about him: In brief, since I do purpose to marry, I will think nothing to any purpose that the world can say against it; and therefore never flout at me for what I have said against it; for a man is a giddy thing, and this is my conclusion.-For thy part, Claudio, I did think to have beaten thee; but in that thou art like to be my kinsman, live unbruised, and love my cousin.

Claud. I had well hoped thou wouldst have denied Beatrice, that I might have cudgelled thee out of thy single life, to make thee a double dealer; which, out of question, thou wilt be, if my cousin do not look exceeding narrowly to thee.

Bene. Come, come, we are friends :-let's have a dance ere we are married, that we may lighten our own hearts, and our wives' heels.

Leon. We'll have dancing afterwards. [sic.Bene. First, o' my word; therefore, play, muPrince, thou art sad; get thee a wife, get thee a wife there is no staff more reverend than one tipped with horn.

Enter a Messenger.

Mess. My lord, your brother John is ta'en in flight,

And brought with armed men back to Messina. Bene. Think not on him till to-morrow; I'll devise thee brave punishments for him.-Strike up, pipers. [Dance.-Exeunt.

INTRODUCTION TO A MIDSUMMER-NIGHT'S DREAM.

As far as is at present known, the plot of the Midsummer-Night's Dream is one of the very few invented by Shakespeare himself. It is true that a few slight portions of the groundwork are Because.

derived from other sources, but the tale and its construction are believed to be original. The translation of Plutarch's life of Theseus, and Chaucer's Knight's Tale, appear to have furnished little more than the names of the characters; but it is just possible that a passage at the close of

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the latter, which has been overlooked by the commentators, may have suggested the introduction of the interlude of the clowns:

-"ne how the Grekes play The wake-plaies ne kepe I not to say: Who wrestled best naked with oile enoint, Ne who that bare him best in no disjoint. I woll not tellen eke how they all gon Hom till Athenes, when the play is don." Golding's translation of Ovid has better claims to the honour of having been used by Shakespeare in the construction of a part of his play, the similarities between the tale of Pyramus and Thisbe in that work, and the interlude, being sufficiently striking to warrant the belief of its being the original source of the latter.

The faint similarities to be traced between Chaucer and Golding, and Shakespeare's play, are important as tending to the conclusion, that the Midsummer-Night's Dream does not owe its existence to a more ancient drama, but was, properly speaking, the poet's own invention. It is mentioned by Meres in 1598; and two editions appeared in 1600; but it is generally supposed that the description of the seasons given by Titania in Act ii., Scene 1, refers to the winterly summer of 1594, in which the months of June and July, according to Dr. Forman, "were very wet and wonderfull cold like winter, that the 10. dae of Julii many did syt by the fyer, yt was so cold and soe was yt in Maye and June; and scarce too fair dais together all that tyme, but yt rayned every day more or lesse: yf yt did not raine, then was yt cold and cloudye." The coincidence is rather remarkable; and admitting the allusion, we may assign the date of the play to 1594 or 1595: but the more one examines this kind of evidence, the less real weight it possesses; and the drama is so highly finished, I am not inclined to place the date of its composition long before 1598, when the poet was in his thirtyfourth year.

The principle of the composition of A Midsummer-Night's Dream, has exercised the ingenuity of several critics; but it seems to me that the great difficulties which surround all æsthetic commentary on this play, arise in some measure from its unity of action and of purpose having been considered axiomatical. If, however, we approach the subject without any preconceived opinion formed upon the results of an examination of other plays of the great dramatist, and regard this play sui generis-an anomaly not regulated by ordinary laws-we shall find the discussion less intricate. In point of fact, our chief perplexity will consist in the necessity of disconnecting some particular action from the rest, and regarding it as a subsequent invention. The fairies, undoubtedly, constitute the main action. Remove them from the scene, and the play would be a mere skeleton adorned with a few narrow robes of exquisite poetry. How, or in what manner, the poet formed his frameworkand a beautiful and graceful frame it is-is a question accessible only to conjecture. The permutations of Shakespeare's fancy were infinite; and here, as elsewhere, they have resolved themselves into a systematic whole.

The Midsummer-Night's Dream contains the sweetest poetry ever composed in any language. It influenced the fancy of Fletcher and Milton;

and its production has become an era in the history of English poetical composition. Although a finished dramatic piece, it is unquestionably better fitted for the closet than the stage; yet the portion appropriated to the hard-handed men of Athens is, in itself, an admirable farce: joined with the action of the fairies, it becomes an artistic comedy. The play is adapted to the stage by the introduction of the clowns. Deprived of the latter, it would have partaken of the character of a masque; and, like Comus, would not have been appreciated by a common audience.

THE PLOT. The nuptials of Theseus, Duke of Athens, and of Hippolyta, Queen of the Amazons, are about to be celebrated. Egeus, waiting upon the duke, complains that his daughter Hermia has refused to espouse Demetrius, who has obtained his consent, and that she prefers Lysander. The duke remonstrates with Hermia upon her obstinacy in rejecting the man of her father's choice, and (in spite of Lysander's plea, that Demetrius, the favoured suitor of the father, by marrying Hermia would wrong Helena, the daughter of Heden) allows her but four days to reconsider her determination; on the expiration of which, she must either marry Demetrius, prepare to die, or be immured in a convent for life. The lovers, upon this, resolve to fly beyond the reach of the Athenian law. Helena, to whom this resolution has been imparted, communicates the flight of Lysander and Hermia, and their place of refuge, to Demetrius, her perjured lover, who, instigated by passion and jealousy, pursues them, followed by the adoring Helena. Oberon, King of the Fairies, overhears a conversation between these two, in the wood, during which the love of Helena is rejected by Demetrius with insulting scorn. He resolves that Demetrius shall return the love of his first mistress, which, by his art, he is enabled to effect. The juice of a certain flower sprinkled upon the lids of any mortal asleep, will cause him, when he awakes, to dote upon the first person he may chance to behold. He entrusts this commission to Puck, his favourite sprite, who, discovering Lysander and Hermia asleep, drops the juice by mistake upon the eyelids of the former; who, awaking, and first beholding Helena, pursues her, fired by a passion which the magic influence of Oberon had superinduced. In the meanwhile, Oberon discovering the error of his agent, dismisses him to anoint the lids of Demetrius; and after a game of cross-purposes, caused by the mistake of Puck, the antidote of another flower is called in aid, and Lysander becomes himself again. At this juncture, Theseus and his bride Hippolyta, hunting in the wood, on the morning of their intended marriage, discover the four lovers, and all is explained. Lysander receives his Hermia with the consent of her father, and Demetrius is made happy in the possession of Helena.

MORAL. It were altogether useless and unprofitable to endeavour to define the moral of this play. The interposition of a fairy machinery to bring about the required consummation, precludes the possibility of educing a definite moral. It is enough to say, that the conclusion is perfectly in accordance with the wishes of the reader, and that full poetical justice is dealt out to virtue and constancy.

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