Chapter CCXXI: Act V (1)

SCENE I. Sicilia. A Room in the palace of Leontes.

Enter Leontes, Cleomenes, Dion, Paulina and others.

CLEOMENES Sir, you have done enough, and have perform’d A saint-like sorrow: no fault could you make Which you have not redeem’d; indeed, paid down More penitence than done trespass: at the last, Do as the heavens have done, forget your evil; With them, forgive yourself.

LEONTES. Whilst I remember Her and her virtues, I cannot forget My blemishes in them; and so still think of The wrong I did myself: which was so much That heirless it hath made my kingdom, and Destroy’d the sweet’st companion that e’er man Bred his hopes out of.

PAULINA. True, too true, my lord. If, one by one, you wedded all the world, Or from the all that are took something good, To make a perfect woman, she you kill’d Would be unparallel’d.

LEONTES. I think so. Kill’d! She I kill’d! I did so: but thou strik’st me Sorely, to say I did: it is as bitter Upon thy tongue as in my thought. Now, good now, Say so but seldom.

CLEOMENES Not at all, good lady. You might have spoken a thousand things that would Have done the time more benefit and grac’d Your kindness better.

PAULINA. You are one of those Would have him wed again.

DION. If you would not so, You pity not the state, nor the remembrance Of his most sovereign name; consider little What dangers, by his highness’ fail of issue, May drop upon his kingdom, and devour Incertain lookers-on. What were more holy Than to rejoice the former queen is well? What holier than, for royalty’s repair, For present comfort, and for future good, To bless the bed of majesty again With a sweet fellow to ’t?

PAULINA. There is none worthy, Respecting her that’s gone. Besides, the gods Will have fulfill’d their secret purposes; For has not the divine Apollo said, Is ’t not the tenor of his oracle, That king Leontes shall not have an heir Till his lost child be found? Which that it shall, Is all as monstrous to our human reason As my Antigonus to break his grave And come again to me; who, on my life, Did perish with the infant. ’Tis your counsel My lord should to the heavens be contrary, Oppose against their wills. [_To Leontes._] Care not for issue; The crown will find an heir. Great Alexander Left his to th’ worthiest; so his successor Was like to be the best.

LEONTES. Good Paulina, Who hast the memory of Hermione, I know, in honour, O that ever I Had squar’d me to thy counsel! Then, even now, I might have look’d upon my queen’s full eyes, Have taken treasure from her lips,—

PAULINA. And left them More rich for what they yielded.

LEONTES. Thou speak’st truth. No more such wives; therefore, no wife: one worse, And better us’d, would make her sainted spirit Again possess her corpse, and on this stage, (Where we offenders now appear) soul-vexed, And begin “Why to me?”

PAULINA. Had she such power, She had just cause.

LEONTES. She had; and would incense me To murder her I married.

PAULINA. I should so. Were I the ghost that walk’d, I’d bid you mark Her eye, and tell me for what dull part in ’t You chose her: then I’d shriek, that even your ears Should rift to hear me; and the words that follow’d Should be “Remember mine.”

LEONTES. Stars, stars, And all eyes else dead coals! Fear thou no wife; I’ll have no wife, Paulina.

PAULINA. Will you swear Never to marry but by my free leave?

LEONTES. Never, Paulina; so be bless’d my spirit!

PAULINA. Then, good my lords, bear witness to his oath.

CLEOMENES You tempt him over-much.

PAULINA. Unless another, As like Hermione as is her picture, Affront his eye.

CLEOMENES Good madam,—

PAULINA. I have done. Yet, if my lord will marry,—if you will, sir, No remedy but you will,—give me the office To choose you a queen: she shall not be so young As was your former, but she shall be such As, walk’d your first queen’s ghost, it should take joy To see her in your arms.

LEONTES. My true Paulina, We shall not marry till thou bid’st us.

PAULINA. That Shall be when your first queen’s again in breath; Never till then.

Enter a Servant.

SERVANT. One that gives out himself Prince Florizel, Son of Polixenes, with his princess (she The fairest I have yet beheld) desires access To your high presence.

LEONTES. What with him? he comes not Like to his father’s greatness: his approach, So out of circumstance and sudden, tells us ’Tis not a visitation fram’d, but forc’d By need and accident. What train?

SERVANT. But few, And those but mean.

LEONTES. His princess, say you, with him?

SERVANT. Ay, the most peerless piece of earth, I think, That e’er the sun shone bright on.

PAULINA. O Hermione, As every present time doth boast itself Above a better gone, so must thy grave Give way to what’s seen now! Sir, you yourself Have said and writ so,—but your writing now Is colder than that theme,—‘She had not been, Nor was not to be equall’d’; thus your verse Flow’d with her beauty once; ’tis shrewdly ebb’d, To say you have seen a better.

SERVANT. Pardon, madam: The one I have almost forgot,—your pardon;— The other, when she has obtain’d your eye, Will have your tongue too. This is a creature, Would she begin a sect, might quench the zeal Of all professors else; make proselytes Of who she but bid follow.

PAULINA. How! not women?

SERVANT. Women will love her that she is a woman More worth than any man; men, that she is The rarest of all women.

LEONTES. Go, Cleomenes; Yourself, assisted with your honour’d friends, Bring them to our embracement.

[_Exeunt Cleomenes and others._]

Still, ’tis strange He thus should steal upon us.

PAULINA. Had our prince, Jewel of children, seen this hour, he had pair’d Well with this lord. There was not full a month Between their births.

LEONTES. Prithee no more; cease; Thou know’st He dies to me again when talk’d of: sure, When I shall see this gentleman, thy speeches Will bring me to consider that which may Unfurnish me of reason. They are come.

Enter Florizel, Perdita, Cleomenes and others.

Your mother was most true to wedlock, prince; For she did print your royal father off, Conceiving you. Were I but twenty-one, Your father’s image is so hit in you, His very air, that I should call you brother, As I did him, and speak of something wildly By us perform’d before. Most dearly welcome! And your fair princess,—goddess! O, alas! I lost a couple that ’twixt heaven and earth Might thus have stood, begetting wonder, as You, gracious couple, do! And then I lost,— All mine own folly,—the society, Amity too, of your brave father, whom, Though bearing misery, I desire my life Once more to look on him.

FLORIZEL. By his command Have I here touch’d Sicilia, and from him Give you all greetings that a king, at friend, Can send his brother: and, but infirmity, Which waits upon worn times, hath something seiz’d His wish’d ability, he had himself The lands and waters ’twixt your throne and his Measur’d, to look upon you; whom he loves, He bade me say so,—more than all the sceptres And those that bear them living.

LEONTES. O my brother,— Good gentleman!—the wrongs I have done thee stir Afresh within me; and these thy offices, So rarely kind, are as interpreters Of my behind-hand slackness! Welcome hither, As is the spring to the earth. And hath he too Expos’d this paragon to the fearful usage, At least ungentle, of the dreadful Neptune, To greet a man not worth her pains, much less Th’ adventure of her person?

FLORIZEL. Good, my lord, She came from Libya.

LEONTES. Where the warlike Smalus, That noble honour’d lord, is fear’d and lov’d?

FLORIZEL. Most royal sir, from thence; from him, whose daughter His tears proclaim’d his, parting with her: thence, A prosperous south-wind friendly, we have cross’d, To execute the charge my father gave me For visiting your highness: my best train I have from your Sicilian shores dismiss’d; Who for Bohemia bend, to signify Not only my success in Libya, sir, But my arrival, and my wife’s, in safety Here, where we are.

LEONTES. The blessed gods Purge all infection from our air whilst you Do climate here! You have a holy father, A graceful gentleman; against whose person, So sacred as it is, I have done sin, For which the heavens, taking angry note, Have left me issueless. And your father’s bless’d, As he from heaven merits it, with you, Worthy his goodness. What might I have been, Might I a son and daughter now have look’d on, Such goodly things as you!

Enter a Lord.

LORD. Most noble sir, That which I shall report will bear no credit, Were not the proof so nigh. Please you, great sir, Bohemia greets you from himself by me; Desires you to attach his son, who has— His dignity and duty both cast off— Fled from his father, from his hopes, and with A shepherd’s daughter.

LEONTES. Where’s Bohemia? speak.

LORD. Here in your city; I now came from him. I speak amazedly, and it becomes My marvel and my message. To your court Whiles he was hast’ning—in the chase, it seems, Of this fair couple—meets he on the way The father of this seeming lady and Her brother, having both their country quitted With this young prince.

FLORIZEL. Camillo has betray’d me; Whose honour and whose honesty till now, Endur’d all weathers.

LORD. Lay ’t so to his charge. He’s with the king your father.

LEONTES. Who? Camillo?

LORD. Camillo, sir; I spake with him; who now Has these poor men in question. Never saw I Wretches so quake: they kneel, they kiss the earth; Forswear themselves as often as they speak. Bohemia stops his ears, and threatens them With divers deaths in death.

PERDITA. O my poor father! The heaven sets spies upon us, will not have Our contract celebrated.

LEONTES. You are married?

FLORIZEL. We are not, sir, nor are we like to be. The stars, I see, will kiss the valleys first. The odds for high and low’s alike.

LEONTES. My lord, Is this the daughter of a king?

FLORIZEL. She is, When once she is my wife.

LEONTES. That “once”, I see by your good father’s speed, Will come on very slowly. I am sorry, Most sorry, you have broken from his liking, Where you were tied in duty; and as sorry Your choice is not so rich in worth as beauty, That you might well enjoy her.

FLORIZEL. Dear, look up: Though Fortune, visible an enemy, Should chase us with my father, power no jot Hath she to change our loves. Beseech you, sir, Remember since you ow’d no more to time Than I do now: with thought of such affections, Step forth mine advocate. At your request My father will grant precious things as trifles.

LEONTES. Would he do so, I’d beg your precious mistress, Which he counts but a trifle.

PAULINA. Sir, my liege, Your eye hath too much youth in ’t: not a month ’Fore your queen died, she was more worth such gazes Than what you look on now.

LEONTES. I thought of her Even in these looks I made. [_To Florizel._] But your petition Is yet unanswer’d. I will to your father. Your honour not o’erthrown by your desires, I am friend to them and you: upon which errand I now go toward him; therefore follow me, And mark what way I make. Come, good my lord.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE II. The same. Before the Palace.

Enter Autolycus and a Gentleman.

AUTOLYCUS. Beseech you, sir, were you present at this relation?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I was by at the opening of the fardel, heard the old shepherd deliver the manner how he found it: whereupon, after a little amazedness, we were all commanded out of the chamber; only this, methought I heard the shepherd say he found the child.

AUTOLYCUS. I would most gladly know the issue of it.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. I make a broken delivery of the business; but the changes I perceived in the king and Camillo were very notes of admiration. They seemed almost, with staring on one another, to tear the cases of their eyes. There was speech in their dumbness, language in their very gesture; they looked as they had heard of a world ransomed, or one destroyed. A notable passion of wonder appeared in them; but the wisest beholder, that knew no more but seeing could not say if th’ importance were joy or sorrow; but in the extremity of the one, it must needs be. Here comes a gentleman that happily knows more.

Enter a Gentleman.

The news, Rogero?

SECOND GENTLEMAN. Nothing but bonfires: the oracle is fulfilled: the king’s daughter is found: such a deal of wonder is broken out within this hour that ballad-makers cannot be able to express it. Here comes the Lady Paulina’s steward: he can deliver you more.

Enter a third Gentleman.

How goes it now, sir? This news, which is called true, is so like an old tale that the verity of it is in strong suspicion. Has the king found his heir?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Most true, if ever truth were pregnant by circumstance. That which you hear you’ll swear you see, there is such unity in the proofs. The mantle of Queen Hermione’s, her jewel about the neck of it, the letters of Antigonus found with it, which they know to be his character; the majesty of the creature in resemblance of the mother, the affection of nobleness which nature shows above her breeding, and many other evidences proclaim her with all certainty to be the king’s daughter. Did you see the meeting of the two kings?

SECOND GENTLEMAN. No.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Then you have lost a sight which was to be seen, cannot be spoken of. There might you have beheld one joy crown another, so and in such manner that it seemed sorrow wept to take leave of them, for their joy waded in tears. There was casting up of eyes, holding up of hands, with countenance of such distraction that they were to be known by garment, not by favour. Our king, being ready to leap out of himself for joy of his found daughter, as if that joy were now become a loss, cries “O, thy mother, thy mother!” then asks Bohemia forgiveness; then embraces his son-in-law; then again worries he his daughter with clipping her; now he thanks the old shepherd, which stands by like a weather-bitten conduit of many kings’ reigns. I never heard of such another encounter, which lames report to follow it, and undoes description to do it.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. What, pray you, became of Antigonus, that carried hence the child?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Like an old tale still, which will have matter to rehearse, though credit be asleep and not an ear open. He was torn to pieces with a bear: this avouches the shepherd’s son, who has not only his innocence, which seems much, to justify him, but a handkerchief and rings of his that Paulina knows.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. What became of his bark and his followers?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. Wrecked the same instant of their master’s death, and in the view of the shepherd: so that all the instruments which aided to expose the child were even then lost when it was found. But O, the noble combat that ’twixt joy and sorrow was fought in Paulina! She had one eye declined for the loss of her husband, another elevated that the oracle was fulfilled. She lifted the princess from the earth, and so locks her in embracing, as if she would pin her to her heart, that she might no more be in danger of losing.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. The dignity of this act was worth the audience of kings and princes; for by such was it acted.

THIRD GENTLEMAN. One of the prettiest touches of all, and that which angled for mine eyes (caught the water, though not the fish) was, when at the relation of the queen’s death (with the manner how she came to it bravely confessed and lamented by the king) how attentiveness wounded his daughter; till, from one sign of dolour to another, she did, with an “Alas,” I would fain say, bleed tears, for I am sure my heart wept blood. Who was most marble there changed colour; some swooned, all sorrowed: if all the world could have seen it, the woe had been universal.

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Are they returned to the court?

THIRD GENTLEMAN. No: the princess hearing of her mother’s statue, which is in the keeping of Paulina,—a piece many years in doing and now newly performed by that rare Italian master, Julio Romano, who, had he himself eternity, and could put breath into his work, would beguile Nature of her custom, so perfectly he is her ape: he so near to Hermione hath done Hermione that they say one would speak to her and stand in hope of answer. Thither with all greediness of affection are they gone, and there they intend to sup.

SECOND GENTLEMAN. I thought she had some great matter there in hand; for she hath privately twice or thrice a day, ever since the death of Hermione, visited that removed house. Shall we thither, and with our company piece the rejoicing?

FIRST GENTLEMAN. Who would be thence that has the benefit of access? Every wink of an eye some new grace will be born. Our absence makes us unthrifty to our knowledge. Let’s along.

[_Exeunt Gentlemen._]

AUTOLYCUS. Now, had I not the dash of my former life in me, would preferment drop on my head. I brought the old man and his son aboard the prince; told him I heard them talk of a fardel and I know not what. But he at that time over-fond of the shepherd’s daughter (so he then took her to be), who began to be much sea-sick, and himself little better, extremity of weather continuing, this mystery remained undiscover’d. But ’tis all one to me; for had I been the finder-out of this secret, it would not have relish’d among my other discredits.

Enter Shepherd and Clown.

Here come those I have done good to against my will, and already appearing in the blossoms of their fortune.

SHEPHERD. Come, boy; I am past more children, but thy sons and daughters will be all gentlemen born.

CLOWN. You are well met, sir. You denied to fight with me this other day, because I was no gentleman born. See you these clothes? Say you see them not and think me still no gentleman born: you were best say these robes are not gentlemen born. Give me the lie, do; and try whether I am not now a gentleman born.

AUTOLYCUS. I know you are now, sir, a gentleman born.

CLOWN. Ay, and have been so any time these four hours.

SHEPHERD. And so have I, boy!

CLOWN. So you have: but I was a gentleman born before my father; for the king’s son took me by the hand and called me brother; and then the two kings called my father brother; and then the prince, my brother, and the princess, my sister, called my father father; and so we wept; and there was the first gentleman-like tears that ever we shed.

SHEPHERD. We may live, son, to shed many more.

CLOWN. Ay; or else ’twere hard luck, being in so preposterous estate as we are.

AUTOLYCUS. I humbly beseech you, sir, to pardon me all the faults I have committed to your worship, and to give me your good report to the prince my master.

SHEPHERD. Prithee, son, do; for we must be gentle, now we are gentlemen.

CLOWN. Thou wilt amend thy life?

AUTOLYCUS. Ay, an it like your good worship.

CLOWN. Give me thy hand: I will swear to the prince thou art as honest a true fellow as any is in Bohemia.

SHEPHERD. You may say it, but not swear it.

CLOWN. Not swear it, now I am a gentleman? Let boors and franklins say it, I’ll swear it.

SHEPHERD. How if it be false, son?

CLOWN. If it be ne’er so false, a true gentleman may swear it in the behalf of his friend. And I’ll swear to the prince thou art a tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt not be drunk; but I know thou art no tall fellow of thy hands and that thou wilt be drunk: but I’ll swear it; and I would thou wouldst be a tall fellow of thy hands.

AUTOLYCUS. I will prove so, sir, to my power.

CLOWN. Ay, by any means, prove a tall fellow: if I do not wonder how thou dar’st venture to be drunk, not being a tall fellow, trust me not. Hark! the kings and the princes, our kindred, are going to see the queen’s picture. Come, follow us: we’ll be thy good masters.

[_Exeunt._]

SCENE III. The same. A Room in Paulina’s house.

Enter Leontes, Polixenes, Florizel, Perdita, Camillo, Paulina, Lords and Attendants.

LEONTES. O grave and good Paulina, the great comfort That I have had of thee!

PAULINA. What, sovereign sir, I did not well, I meant well. All my services You have paid home: but that you have vouchsaf’d, With your crown’d brother and these your contracted Heirs of your kingdoms, my poor house to visit, It is a surplus of your grace which never My life may last to answer.

LEONTES. O Paulina, We honour you with trouble. But we came To see the statue of our queen: your gallery Have we pass’d through, not without much content In many singularities; but we saw not That which my daughter came to look upon, The statue of her mother.

PAULINA. As she liv’d peerless, So her dead likeness, I do well believe, Excels whatever yet you look’d upon Or hand of man hath done; therefore I keep it Lonely, apart. But here it is: prepare To see the life as lively mock’d as ever Still sleep mock’d death. Behold, and say ’tis well.

Paulina undraws a curtain, and discovers Hermione standing as a statue.

I like your silence, it the more shows off Your wonder: but yet speak. First you, my liege. Comes it not something near?

LEONTES. Her natural posture! Chide me, dear stone, that I may say indeed Thou art Hermione; or rather, thou art she In thy not chiding; for she was as tender As infancy and grace. But yet, Paulina, Hermione was not so much wrinkled, nothing So aged as this seems.

POLIXENES. O, not by much!

PAULINA. So much the more our carver’s excellence, Which lets go by some sixteen years and makes her As she liv’d now.

LEONTES. As now she might have done, So much to my good comfort as it is Now piercing to my soul. O, thus she stood, Even with such life of majesty, warm life, As now it coldly stands, when first I woo’d her! I am asham’d: does not the stone rebuke me For being more stone than it? O royal piece, There’s magic in thy majesty, which has My evils conjur’d to remembrance and From thy admiring daughter took the spirits, Standing like stone with thee.

PERDITA. And give me leave, And do not say ’tis superstition, that I kneel, and then implore her blessing. Lady, Dear queen, that ended when I but began, Give me that hand of yours to kiss.

PAULINA. O, patience! The statue is but newly fix’d, the colour’s Not dry.

CAMILLO. My lord, your sorrow was too sore laid on, Which sixteen winters cannot blow away, So many summers dry. Scarce any joy Did ever so long live; no sorrow But kill’d itself much sooner.

POLIXENES. Dear my brother, Let him that was the cause of this have power To take off so much grief from you as he Will piece up in himself.

PAULINA. Indeed, my lord, If I had thought the sight of my poor image Would thus have wrought you—for the stone is mine— I’d not have show’d it.

LEONTES. Do not draw the curtain.

PAULINA. No longer shall you gaze on’t, lest your fancy May think anon it moves.

LEONTES. Let be, let be. Would I were dead, but that methinks already— What was he that did make it? See, my lord, Would you not deem it breath’d? And that those veins Did verily bear blood?

POLIXENES. Masterly done: The very life seems warm upon her lip.

LEONTES. The fixture of her eye has motion in ’t, As we are mock’d with art.

PAULINA. I’ll draw the curtain: My lord’s almost so far transported that He’ll think anon it lives.

LEONTES. O sweet Paulina, Make me to think so twenty years together! No settled senses of the world can match The pleasure of that madness. Let ’t alone.

PAULINA. I am sorry, sir, I have thus far stirr’d you: but I could afflict you further.

LEONTES. Do, Paulina; For this affliction has a taste as sweet As any cordial comfort. Still methinks There is an air comes from her. What fine chisel Could ever yet cut breath? Let no man mock me, For I will kiss her!

PAULINA. Good my lord, forbear: The ruddiness upon her lip is wet; You’ll mar it if you kiss it, stain your own With oily painting. Shall I draw the curtain?

LEONTES. No, not these twenty years.

PERDITA. So long could I Stand by, a looker on.

PAULINA. Either forbear, Quit presently the chapel, or resolve you For more amazement. If you can behold it, I’ll make the statue move indeed, descend, And take you by the hand. But then you’ll think (Which I protest against) I am assisted By wicked powers.

LEONTES. What you can make her do I am content to look on: what to speak, I am content to hear; for ’tis as easy To make her speak as move.

PAULINA. It is requir’d You do awake your faith. Then all stand still; Or those that think it is unlawful business I am about, let them depart.

LEONTES. Proceed: No foot shall stir.

PAULINA. Music, awake her: strike! [_Music._] ’Tis time; descend; be stone no more; approach; Strike all that look upon with marvel. Come; I’ll fill your grave up: stir; nay, come away. Bequeath to death your numbness, for from him Dear life redeems you. You perceive she stirs.

Hermione comes down from the pedestal.

Start not; her actions shall be holy as You hear my spell is lawful. Do not shun her Until you see her die again; for then You kill her double. Nay, present your hand: When she was young you woo’d her; now in age Is she become the suitor?

LEONTES. [_Embracing her._] O, she’s warm! If this be magic, let it be an art Lawful as eating.

POLIXENES. She embraces him.

CAMILLO. She hangs about his neck. If she pertain to life, let her speak too.

POLIXENES. Ay, and make it manifest where she has liv’d, Or how stol’n from the dead.

PAULINA. That she is living, Were it but told you, should be hooted at Like an old tale; but it appears she lives, Though yet she speak not. Mark a little while. Please you to interpose, fair madam. Kneel And pray your mother’s blessing. Turn, good lady, Our Perdita is found.

[_Presenting Perdita who kneels to Hermione._]

HERMIONE. You gods, look down, And from your sacred vials pour your graces Upon my daughter’s head! Tell me, mine own, Where hast thou been preserv’d? where liv’d? how found Thy father’s court? for thou shalt hear that I, Knowing by Paulina that the oracle Gave hope thou wast in being, have preserv’d Myself to see the issue.

PAULINA. There’s time enough for that; Lest they desire upon this push to trouble Your joys with like relation. Go together, You precious winners all; your exultation Partake to everyone. I, an old turtle, Will wing me to some wither’d bough, and there My mate, that’s never to be found again, Lament till I am lost.

LEONTES. O peace, Paulina! Thou shouldst a husband take by my consent, As I by thine a wife: this is a match, And made between ’s by vows. Thou hast found mine; But how, is to be question’d; for I saw her, As I thought, dead; and have in vain said many A prayer upon her grave. I’ll not seek far— For him, I partly know his mind—to find thee An honourable husband. Come, Camillo, And take her by the hand, whose worth and honesty Is richly noted, and here justified By us, a pair of kings. Let’s from this place. What! look upon my brother: both your pardons, That e’er I put between your holy looks My ill suspicion. This your son-in-law, And son unto the king, whom heavens directing, Is troth-plight to your daughter. Good Paulina, Lead us from hence; where we may leisurely Each one demand, and answer to his part Perform’d in this wide gap of time, since first We were dissever’d. Hastily lead away!

[_Exeunt._]

A LOVER’S COMPLAINT

From off a hill whose concave womb reworded A plaintful story from a sist’ring vale, My spirits t’attend this double voice accorded, And down I laid to list the sad-tun’d tale; Ere long espied a fickle maid full pale, Tearing of papers, breaking rings a-twain, Storming her world with sorrow’s wind and rain.

Upon her head a platted hive of straw, Which fortified her visage from the sun, Whereon the thought might think sometime it saw The carcass of a beauty spent and done; Time had not scythed all that youth begun, Nor youth all quit, but spite of heaven’s fell rage Some beauty peeped through lattice of sear’d age.

Oft did she heave her napkin to her eyne, Which on it had conceited characters, Laund’ring the silken figures in the brine That seasoned woe had pelleted in tears, And often reading what contents it bears; As often shrieking undistinguish’d woe, In clamours of all size, both high and low.

Sometimes her levell’d eyes their carriage ride, As they did batt’ry to the spheres intend; Sometime diverted their poor balls are tied To th’orbed earth; sometimes they do extend Their view right on; anon their gazes lend To every place at once, and nowhere fix’d, The mind and sight distractedly commix’d.

Her hair, nor loose nor tied in formal plat, Proclaim’d in her a careless hand of pride; For some untuck’d descended her sheav’d hat, Hanging her pale and pined cheek beside; Some in her threaden fillet still did bide, And, true to bondage, would not break from thence, Though slackly braided in loose negligence.

A thousand favours from a maund she drew, Of amber, crystal, and of beaded jet, Which one by one she in a river threw, Upon whose weeping margent she was set, Like usury applying wet to wet, Or monarchs’ hands, that lets not bounty fall Where want cries ‘some,’ but where excess begs ‘all’.

Of folded schedules had she many a one, Which she perus’d, sigh’d, tore and gave the flood; Crack’d many a ring of posied gold and bone, Bidding them find their sepulchres in mud; Found yet mo letters sadly penn’d in blood, With sleided silk, feat and affectedly Enswath’d, and seal’d to curious secrecy.

These often bath’d she in her fluxive eyes, And often kiss’d, and often gave to tear; Cried, ‘O false blood, thou register of lies, What unapproved witness dost thou bear! Ink would have seem’d more black and damned here!’ This said, in top of rage the lines she rents, Big discontent so breaking their contents.

A reverend man that grazed his cattle nigh, Sometime a blusterer, that the ruffle knew Of court, of city, and had let go by The swiftest hours observed as they flew, Towards this afflicted fancy fastly drew; And, privileg’d by age, desires to know In brief the grounds and motives of her woe.

So slides he down upon his grained bat, And comely distant sits he by her side, When he again desires her, being sat, Her grievance with his hearing to divide: If that from him there may be aught applied Which may her suffering ecstasy assuage, ’Tis promised in the charity of age.

‘Father,’ she says, ‘though in me you behold The injury of many a blasting hour, Let it not tell your judgement I am old, Not age, but sorrow, over me hath power. I might as yet have been a spreading flower, Fresh to myself, if I had self-applied Love to myself, and to no love beside.

‘But woe is me! Too early I attended A youthful suit; it was to gain my grace; O one by nature’s outwards so commended, That maiden’s eyes stuck over all his face, Love lack’d a dwelling and made him her place; And when in his fair parts she did abide, She was new lodg’d and newly deified.

‘His browny locks did hang in crooked curls, And every light occasion of the wind Upon his lips their silken parcels hurls, What’s sweet to do, to do will aptly find, Each eye that saw him did enchant the mind: For on his visage was in little drawn, What largeness thinks in paradise was sawn.

‘Small show of man was yet upon his chin; His phoenix down began but to appear, Like unshorn velvet, on that termless skin, Whose bare out-bragg’d the web it seemed to wear. Yet show’d his visage by that cost more dear, And nice affections wavering stood in doubt If best were as it was, or best without.

‘His qualities were beauteous as his form, For maiden-tongued he was, and thereof free; Yet if men mov’d him, was he such a storm As oft ’twixt May and April is to see, When winds breathe sweet, unruly though they be. His rudeness so with his authoriz’d youth Did livery falseness in a pride of truth.

‘Well could he ride, and often men would say That horse his mettle from his rider takes, Proud of subjection, noble by the sway, What rounds, what bounds, what course, what stop he makes! And controversy hence a question takes, Whether the horse by him became his deed, Or he his manage by th’ well-doing steed.

‘But quickly on this side the verdict went, His real habitude gave life and grace To appertainings and to ornament, Accomplish’d in himself, not in his case; All aids, themselves made fairer by their place, Came for additions; yet their purpos’d trim Piec’d not his grace, but were all grac’d by him.

‘So on the tip of his subduing tongue All kind of arguments and question deep, All replication prompt, and reason strong, For his advantage still did wake and sleep, To make the weeper laugh, the laugher weep: He had the dialect and different skill, Catching all passions in his craft of will.

‘That he did in the general bosom reign Of young, of old, and sexes both enchanted, To dwell with him in thoughts, or to remain In personal duty, following where he haunted, Consent’s bewitch’d, ere he desire, have granted, And dialogued for him what he would say, Ask’d their own wills, and made their wills obey.

‘Many there were that did his picture get To serve their eyes, and in it put their mind, Like fools that in th’ imagination set The goodly objects which abroad they find Of lands and mansions, theirs in thought assign’d, And labouring in moe pleasures to bestow them, Than the true gouty landlord which doth owe them.

‘So many have, that never touch’d his hand, Sweetly suppos’d them mistress of his heart. My woeful self that did in freedom stand, And was my own fee-simple (not in part) What with his art in youth, and youth in art, Threw my affections in his charmed power, Reserv’d the stalk and gave him all my flower.

‘Yet did I not, as some my equals did, Demand of him, nor being desired yielded, Finding myself in honour so forbid, With safest distance I mine honour shielded. Experience for me many bulwarks builded Of proofs new-bleeding, which remain’d the foil Of this false jewel, and his amorous spoil.

‘But ah! Who ever shunn’d by precedent The destin’d ill she must herself assay, Or force’d examples ’gainst her own content, To put the by-pass’d perils in her way? Counsel may stop a while what will not stay: For when we rage, advice is often seen By blunting us to make our wills more keen.

‘Nor gives it satisfaction to our blood, That we must curb it upon others’ proof, To be forbode the sweets that seems so good, For fear of harms that preach in our behoof. O appetite, from judgement stand aloof! The one a palate hath that needs will taste, Though reason weep and cry, “It is thy last.”

‘For further I could say, “This man’s untrue”, And knew the patterns of his foul beguiling; Heard where his plants in others’ orchards grew, Saw how deceits were gilded in his smiling; Knew vows were ever brokers to defiling; Thought characters and words merely but art, And bastards of his foul adulterate heart.

‘And long upon these terms I held my city, Till thus he ’gan besiege me: “Gentle maid, Have of my suffering youth some feeling pity, And be not of my holy vows afraid: That’s to ye sworn, to none was ever said, For feasts of love I have been call’d unto, Till now did ne’er invite, nor never woo.

‘“All my offences that abroad you see Are errors of the blood, none of the mind: Love made them not; with acture they may be, Where neither party is nor true nor kind, They sought their shame that so their shame did find, And so much less of shame in me remains, By how much of me their reproach contains.

‘“Among the many that mine eyes have seen, Not one whose flame my heart so much as warmed, Or my affection put to th’ smallest teen, Or any of my leisures ever charmed: Harm have I done to them, but ne’er was harmed; Kept hearts in liveries, but mine own was free, And reign’d commanding in his monarchy.

‘“Look here what tributes wounded fancies sent me, Of pallid pearls and rubies red as blood, Figuring that they their passions likewise lent me Of grief and blushes, aptly understood In bloodless white and the encrimson’d mood; Effects of terror and dear modesty, Encamp’d in hearts, but fighting outwardly.

‘“And, lo! behold these talents of their hair, With twisted metal amorously empleach’d, I have receiv’d from many a several fair, Their kind acceptance weepingly beseech’d, With th’ annexions of fair gems enrich’d, And deep-brain’d sonnets that did amplify Each stone’s dear nature, worth and quality.

‘“The diamond, why ’twas beautiful and hard, Whereto his invis’d properties did tend, The deep green emerald, in whose fresh regard Weak sights their sickly radiance do amend; The heaven-hued sapphire and the opal blend With objects manifold; each several stone, With wit well blazon’d smil’d, or made some moan.

‘“Lo, all these trophies of affections hot, Of pensiv’d and subdued desires the tender, Nature hath charg’d me that I hoard them not, But yield them up where I myself must render, That is, to you, my origin and ender: For these of force must your oblations be, Since I their altar, you empatron me.

‘“O then advance of yours that phraseless hand, Whose white weighs down the airy scale of praise; Take all these similes to your own command, Hallowed with sighs that burning lungs did raise: What me, your minister for you, obeys, Works under you; and to your audit comes Their distract parcels in combined sums.

‘“Lo, this device was sent me from a nun, Or sister sanctified of holiest note, Which late her noble suit in court did shun, Whose rarest havings made the blossoms dote; For she was sought by spirits of richest coat, But kept cold distance, and did thence remove To spend her living in eternal love.

‘“But O, my sweet, what labour is’t to leave The thing we have not, mast’ring what not strives, Planing the place which did no form receive, Playing patient sports in unconstrained gyves, She that her fame so to herself contrives, The scars of battle ’scapeth by the flight, And makes her absence valiant, not her might.

‘“O pardon me, in that my boast is true, The accident which brought me to her eye, Upon the moment did her force subdue, And now she would the caged cloister fly: Religious love put out religion’s eye: Not to be tempted would she be immur’d, And now to tempt all, liberty procur’d.

‘“How mighty then you are, O hear me tell! The broken bosoms that to me belong Have emptied all their fountains in my well, And mine I pour your ocean all among: I strong o’er them, and you o’er me being strong, Must for your victory us all congest, As compound love to physic your cold breast.

‘“My parts had pow’r to charm a sacred nun, Who, disciplin’d and dieted in grace, Believ’d her eyes when they t’assail begun, All vows and consecrations giving place. O most potential love! Vow, bond, nor space, In thee hath neither sting, knot, nor confine, For thou art all and all things else are thine.

‘“When thou impressest, what are precepts worth Of stale example? When thou wilt inflame, How coldly those impediments stand forth, Of wealth, of filial fear, law, kindred, fame! Love’s arms are peace, ’gainst rule, ’gainst sense, ’gainst shame, And sweetens, in the suff’ring pangs it bears, The aloes of all forces, shocks and fears.

‘“Now all these hearts that do on mine depend, Feeling it break, with bleeding groans they pine, And supplicant their sighs to your extend, To leave the batt’ry that you make ’gainst mine, Lending soft audience to my sweet design, And credent soul to that strong-bonded oath, That shall prefer and undertake my troth.”

‘This said, his wat’ry eyes he did dismount, Whose sights till then were levell’d on my face; Each cheek a river running from a fount With brinish current downward flowed apace. O how the channel to the stream gave grace! Who, glaz’d with crystal gate the glowing roses That flame through water which their hue encloses.

‘O father, what a hell of witchcraft lies In the small orb of one particular tear! But with the inundation of the eyes What rocky heart to water will not wear? What breast so cold that is not warmed here? O cleft effect! Cold modesty, hot wrath, Both fire from hence and chill extincture hath.

‘For lo, his passion, but an art of craft, Even there resolv’d my reason into tears; There my white stole of chastity I daff’d, Shook off my sober guards, and civil fears, Appear to him as he to me appears, All melting, though our drops this diff’rence bore: His poison’d me, and mine did him restore.

‘In him a plenitude of subtle matter, Applied to cautels, all strange forms receives, Of burning blushes, or of weeping water, Or swooning paleness; and he takes and leaves, In either’s aptness, as it best deceives, To blush at speeches rank, to weep at woes, Or to turn white and swoon at tragic shows.

‘That not a heart which in his level came Could ’scape the hail of his all-hurting aim, Showing fair nature is both kind and tame; And veil’d in them, did win whom he would maim. Against the thing he sought he would exclaim; When he most burned in heart-wish’d luxury, He preach’d pure maid, and prais’d cold chastity.

‘Thus merely with the garment of a grace, The naked and concealed fiend he cover’d, That th’unexperient gave the tempter place, Which, like a cherubin, above them hover’d. Who, young and simple, would not be so lover’d? Ay me! I fell, and yet do question make What I should do again for such a sake.

‘O, that infected moisture of his eye, O, that false fire which in his cheek so glow’d! O, that forc’d thunder from his heart did fly, O, that sad breath his spongy lungs bestow’d, O, all that borrowed motion, seeming owed, Would yet again betray the fore-betrayed, And new pervert a reconciled maid.’

THE PASSIONATE PILGRIM

I

When my love swears that she is made of truth, I do believe her, though I know she lies, That she might think me some untutor’d youth, Unskilful in the world’s false forgeries. Thus vainly thinking that she thinks me young, Although I know my years be past the best, I smiling credit her false-speaking tongue, Outfacing faults in love with love’s ill rest. But wherefore says my love that she is young? And wherefore say not I that I am old? O, love’s best habit is a soothing tongue, And age, in love, loves not to have years told. Therefore, I’ll lie with love, and love with me, Since that our faults in love thus smother’d be.

II

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair, That like two spirits do suggest me still; My better angel is a man right fair, My worser spirit a woman colour’d ill. To win me soon to hell, my female evil Tempteth my better angel from my side, And would corrupt my saint to be a devil, Wooing his purity with her fair pride. And whether that my angel be turn’d fiend, Suspect I may, yet not directly tell; For being both to me, both to each friend, I guess one angel in another’s hell: The truth I shall not know, but live in doubt, Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

III

Did not the heavenly rhetoric of thine eye, ’Gainst whom the world could not hold argument, Persuade my heart to this false perjury? Vows for thee broke deserve not punishment. A woman I forswore; but I will prove, Thou being a goddess, I forswore not thee: My vow was earthly, thou a heavenly love; Thy grace being gain’d cures all disgrace in me. My vow was breath, and breath a vapour is; Then, thou fair sun, that on this earth doth shine, Exhale this vapour vow; in thee it is; If broken then, it is no fault of mine. If by me broke, what fool is not so wise To break an oath, to win a paradise?

IV

Sweet Cytherea, sitting by a brook With young Adonis, lovely, fresh and green, Did court the lad with many a lovely look, Such looks as none could look but beauty’s queen. She told him stories to delight his ear; She show’d him favours to allure his eye; To win his heart, she touch’d him here and there; Touches so soft still conquer chastity. But whether unripe years did want conceit, Or he refus’d to take her figur’d proffer, The tender nibbler would not touch the bait, But smile and jest at every gentle offer. Then fell she on her back, fair queen, and toward: He rose and ran away; ah, fool too froward!

V

If love make me forsworn, how shall I swear to love? O never faith could hold, if not to beauty vowed. Though to myself forsworn, to thee I’ll constant prove; Those thoughts, to me like oaks, to thee like osiers bowed. Study his bias leaves, and makes his book thine eyes, Where all those pleasures live that art can comprehend. If knowledge be the mark, to know thee shall suffice; Well learned is that tongue that well can thee commend, All ignorant that soul that sees thee without wonder; Which is to me some praise, that I thy parts admire. Thine eye Jove’s lightning seems, thy voice his dreadful thunder, Which, not to anger bent, is music and sweet fire. Celestial as thou art, O do not love that wrong, To sing heaven’s praise with such an earthly tongue.

VI

Scarce had the sun dried up the dewy morn, And scarce the herd gone to the hedge for shade, When Cytherea, all in love forlorn, A longing tarriance for Adonis made Under an osier growing by a brook, A brook where Adon used to cool his spleen. Hot was the day; she hotter that did look For his approach, that often there had been. Anon he comes, and throws his mantle by, And stood stark naked on the brook’s green brim: The sun look’d on the world with glorious eye, Yet not so wistly as this queen on him. He, spying her, bounc’d in, whereas he stood, “O Jove,” quoth she, “why was not I a flood?”

VII

Fair is my love, but not so fair as fickle, Mild as a dove, but neither true nor trusty, Brighter than glass, and yet, as glass is, brittle, Softer than wax, and yet, as iron, rusty: A lily pale, with damask dye to grace her, None fairer, nor none falser to deface her.

Her lips to mine how often hath she joined, Between each kiss her oaths of true love swearing! How many tales to please me hath she coined, Dreading my love, the loss thereof still fearing! Yet in the midst of all her pure protestings, Her faith, her oaths, her tears, and all were jestings.

She burnt with love, as straw with fire flameth; She burnt out love, as soon as straw out-burneth; She fram’d the love, and yet she foil’d the framing; She bade love last, and yet she fell a-turning. Was this a lover, or a lecher whether? Bad in the best, though excellent in neither.

VIII

If music and sweet poetry agree, As they must needs, the sister and the brother, Then must the love be great ’twixt thee and me, Because thou lov’st the one and I the other. Dowland to thee is dear, whose heavenly touch Upon the lute doth ravish human sense; Spenser to me, whose deep conceit is such As passing all conceit, needs no defence. Thou lov’st to hear the sweet melodious sound That Phœbus’ lute, the queen of music, makes; And I in deep delight am chiefly drown’d Whenas himself to singing he betakes. One god is god of both, as poets feign; One knight loves both, and both in thee remain.

IX

Fair was the morn when the fair queen of love, * * * * * * Paler for sorrow than her milk-white dove, For Adon’s sake, a youngster proud and wild; Her stand she takes upon a steep-up hill; Anon Adonis comes with horn and hounds; She, silly queen, with more than love’s good will, Forbade the boy he should not pass those grounds. “Once,” quoth she, “did I see a fair sweet youth Here in these brakes deep-wounded with a boar, Deep in the thigh, a spectacle of ruth! See in my thigh,” quoth she, “here was the sore.” She showed hers: he saw more wounds than one, And blushing fled, and left her all alone.

X

Sweet rose, fair flower, untimely pluck’d, soon vaded, Pluck’d in the bud and vaded in the spring! Bright orient pearl, alack, too timely shaded! Fair creature, kill’d too soon by death’s sharp sting! Like a green plum that hangs upon a tree, And falls, through wind, before the fall should be.

I weep for thee, and yet no cause I have; For why thou left’st me nothing in thy will; And yet thou left’st me more than I did crave; For why I craved nothing of thee still. O yes, dear friend, I pardon crave of thee, Thy discontent thou didst bequeath to me.

XI

Venus, with young Adonis sitting by her Under a myrtle shade, began to woo him; She told the youngling how god Mars did try her, And as he fell to her, she fell to him. “Even thus,” quoth she, “the warlike god embrac’d me,” And then she clipp’d Adonis in her arms; “Even thus,” quoth she, “the warlike god unlaced me;” As if the boy should use like loving charms; “Even thus,” quoth she, “he seized on my lips,” And with her lips on his did act the seizure; And as she fetched breath, away he skips, And would not take her meaning nor her pleasure. Ah, that I had my lady at this bay, To kiss and clip me till I run away!

XII

Crabbed age and youth cannot live together: Youth is full of pleasance, age is full of care; Youth like summer morn, age like winter weather; Youth like summer brave, age like winter bare. Youth is full of sport, age’s breath is short; Youth is nimble, age is lame; Youth is hot and bold, age is weak and cold; Youth is wild, and age is tame. Age, I do abhor thee; youth, I do adore thee; O, my love, my love is young! Age, I do defy thee. O, sweet shepherd, hie thee, For methinks thou stay’st too long.

XIII

Beauty is but a vain and doubtful good, A shining gloss that vadeth suddenly; A flower that dies when first it ’gins to bud; A brittle glass that’s broken presently: A doubtful good, a gloss, a glass, a flower, Lost, vaded, broken, dead within an hour.